Brian's Journey

July 28, 2014: Brian's Journey

Elderly, so many elderly. Crooked, bent, hunched, walking with canes or hanging onto their spouses. Some have a blank look on their faces, some have smiles. So many, though are middle aged staring into the distance or at the ground; a lost look or the look of trying to gather their bearings; The sunken eyes in balding heads with lost empty looks - chemo brain, they call it.

Infusion tubes can be seen sticking out of their shirts and blouses; they are called Hickman ports. The men go about bald, a few wear baseball caps. Most of the women wear a bandana cap or a skull-like hat to cover their bare heads.

A young husband and wife sit a few seats in front of me. She has cancer, wears the cap. She has infusion tubes. They have a small baby in a  car carrier sitting on the floor before them. She rocks the baby gently; I can hear baby noises! He prepares a bottle. I see them later walking down the hall past our bay, she is holding his arm. He's carrying the little one in the carrier. Both of them smiling.

Nurses bustle in and out of the bays, hanging bags of chemicals onto the pumps and hooking up tubes to the infusion ports that snake into the patient's chests. Then the sound of the drip pumps begin, kisssh-chunk, like clocks.

Brian is on his back on his bed, about to drift off as he waits for his bags chemicals to come up from the pharmacy. One nurse has been in and taken his vitals and his primary nurse has stopped by to introduce herself and confirm his identity - Name - Date of Birth - a quick look around - a quick announcement that his drugs have been ordered and that she will be back soon to get things started. He lies on the bed quietly waiting and soon begins to snore as he drifts off.

The rooms are rooms where the practice of cancer treatment takes place. They are clean, decorated with boxes of gloves, a small shelf cluttered with wipes and a phone. There is a cabinet with blankets, a sink, a tube of hand sanitizer sitting on a cart full of medical stuff. A computer hangs from the wall. One small piece of art hangs on the wall, and of course there are the ubiquitous infusion pumps.

Soon the pharmacy delivery person comes in bringing Brian's chemicals, asks his name and date of birth, thanks him then leaves. I thank her as she leaves - tough job to see sickness all day. But they also have a good job, delivering the bags that help prolong and save lives.