Treatment number 13 today. While we waited, for the first time, mum said she was getting afraid. The pain in her throat has reached a point where she doesn't want to talk too much. "Well, you can write, and tell me what you want!" I joked, even though deep down, the side-effects are worrying.
Having been to the hospital every (week)day since I arrived, I'm beginning to notice the 'regulars' who go at around the same time for their treatment. There is an elderly couple, the husband of which is doing the treatment. Both have gray hair, and look healthy (besides the obvious affliction of cancer the husband is under treatment for...). I see them everyday, and the lady would nod and smile at me every mum and I arrive in the waiting area. I look at how attentive the wife takes care of the husband, how she hands him water, pats his leg, and it is a beautiful sight. Beautiful not only because of the care and devotion on display, but also because they (seem) to still have that strong bond even in old age.
Usually around quarter past four, a man in his thirties or so would be wheeled in by a nurse and left to wait alone. He would fidget with his phone, and strapped on a pole behind him are usually bags of liquids that flow into him through thin tubes. I remember the first time I saw him, around a week ago, he was still on his feet, and dressed in a nicely pressed suit. But with every passing day, his complexion grows weaker, more tired, and his face grows darker from sadness and (seemingly) from the treatment. Nowadays he wears a blue patient's gown, and today he had a thick blanket that covered most of his body. I was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt.
A frail lady, dressed in a pink patient's gown would be rolled in on her bed at around the same time too. Her arm is so thin it looks like just bones and skin. And yet, every day, she seems to have a smile on her face, a glint in her eyes. Another lady, in her forties, or less, very skinny, would already be sitting there and waiting. She too would smile at us every day, as she anxiously waited her turn.
There was a patient who was already being treated when we arrived today, and she was in the radiation room for quiet some time, perhaps longer than usual. When the thick door opened, slowly a middle aged lady, with sunken eyes and a forlorn look, walked out in the standard pink patient's gown. She had a red bandana on, but I could tell that underneath her head was completely bald.
I turned to look at mum, and leaned in close to stroke her hand. "It's soon over, mum, just one more today, and you have the weekend off. And after that, only three more to go. It'll soon be over..."
"Thank you," she said, "Thank you for being with me..." Just then, her name was called. I replied with a pat on her back, as we slowly walked into the radiation room. I took her handbag, her glasses, her medical mask, and watched from behind a red line as the radiation specialist and nurses aided mum onto the platform. A rotating machine with mirrors and laser lights loomed over her, and the nurse gestured me to leave the premises.
I left the room, the nurses left the room, and the thick door closed behind us. The red and green warning lights came on, accompanied by a low rapid beeping. Treatment in progress.
Treatment number thirteen...
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