The Kindness Factor

 My experiences with mammography has been short lived, but intense. Over the past six months I have had five mammograms and two breast MRIs. The mammogram area at Roswell Park is like a depressing spa. They try to make your wait time minimal and usher you into two types of waiting areas. First is a locker room where you change into a gown and wait to be called. A TV is usually blaring some sort of daytime talk show and women are pleasant to one another. I talked about the Barbie movie and paper dolls with a sweet woman. Then you are called back to either get your mammogram or biopsy, you are either squished or poked and then wait in another area for radiology to check on the images. 

At the end of July, when I was in full SCANXIETY mode, I was sitting in this second waiting room because the radiologist wanted to get a more detailed image. Every woman is either sitting or standing in their blue robes, some make eye contact and some are in their own world. I talked with another woman about how she thought radiation was the worst part of her treatment, the scary stories of skin peeling off or burning. We share half smiles and I wonder about each persons' story. Are they five years out of treatment? Have they just gotten a diagnosis? Are they only at the cancer center because they are high risk? 

 I don't know if it's my headscarf that draws people to talk to me, or reach out - but I've been stopped by more strangers recently than while I was actively in chemotherapy treatment. While I was sitting, ignorant of the next news I was going to be thrown into, a woman walked by me and stopped. She put her hand on my shoulder, kind of from behind my back. 

"It will be OK."

Because she was still touching me, it was hard to turn around and face her completely. But she continued to tell me, "It's going to be okay. I saw you in the waiting room and I'm praying for you."

"I promise, it will be ok."

Then she said, "I hope you don't mind that I talked to you" and I muttered something like, "Of course, I appreciate it." Then she was on her way. I hadn't seen her in the waiting room or come out of any of the offices - she really could have been a mirage. But her kindness broke me for the day. It wasn't until a stranger started to comfort me that I started to cry. All of the worry, the anticipation, the underlying current of misery. The thoughts of mortality, of all I cannot control. 

Sometimes the bad news gets me. I got through the news of my diagnosis until the word "Chemo" was stated. I got through most of my first appointment at Roswell until they talked about putting the port in my chest. I got through chemo without crying until the halfway point. I am generally holding it together... that is, until someone is kind. I've cried more over nice packages sent to my house than anything else. 

Whoever that stranger was, she found a way to burrow into my deep fears. Will any of this be okay? We certainly don't know that for sure. But I know that time will continue to unfold and I'll continue to work through every hurdle and setback and new information. 

All of this circles around the ideas of strength or bravery or "warrior" status. I am only trying to hold it together for the sake of sanity and for the sake of my family. I will be honest that most cancer patients do not enjoy this metaphor that we are fighting on a journey or that we are SO STRONG. I personally hate crying and feeling sad and will try any sort of mental rationale to tell myself why whatever fresh hell I'm in the middle of will sort itself out. I've been through a lot of garbage situations in my life and I think the concept of "strength" is a coping mechanism. I don't know how to not be calm or resolute because the alternative just feels like throwing more fuel into the chaos fire. 

That is, until someone goes out of their way to be kind. A kind word, an authentic show of compassion, acknowledgement of my fears. Then I'm a bit of mess. So just a warning: Please bring Kleenex if you are going to be nice to me.