She walked into the clinic, looking gorgeous and fit. New there, I wasn’t sure if she was an employee or patient, until she settled into the infusion chair.
Sleek top knot, glistening sunglasses, artful makeup, she looked glamorous and well, a year shy of her 50th birthday.
Sleek top knot, glistening sunglasses, artful makeup, she looked glamorous and well, a year shy of her 50th birthday.
I pulled up a chair and introduced myself.
“Hi! I’m new to the clinic and I’m making sure to meet everyone so I can be familiar with all of the patients.”
She smiled through her mask. “I’ve been treated here for 4 years, the staff is wonderful. They’re my family.”
“Hi! I’m new to the clinic and I’m making sure to meet everyone so I can be familiar with all of the patients.”
She smiled through her mask. “I’ve been treated here for 4 years, the staff is wonderful. They’re my family.”
I smiled back as I mentally calculated her illness beginning at age 45. Not having had a chance to review her chart, I asked her what she’s being treated for at our clinic.
“MBC,” she replied calmly.
My heart sank.
“MBC,” she replied calmly.
My heart sank.
She had already surpassed the 2-3 year survival time that is expected of metastatic breast cancer, which kills 40,000 women annually.
She waited patiently for her blood work to result, and, finding out her white count was too low for treatment, she nodded,
She waited patiently for her blood work to result, and, finding out her white count was too low for treatment, she nodded,
unsurprised, and walked out into the hot sun.
Next week she will return again, hoping for her immune system to be strong enough for more chemotherapy.
Next week she will return again, hoping for her immune system to be strong enough for more chemotherapy.
• • •
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