So here's the short of it,
Radiation was extremely emotional today.

And here's the long

Today one of the machines at radiation was broken, so all the patients had to be rotated through the one working machine.  That made for a much longer wait than usual.  When I arrived, the waiting room was especially cold since outside air rushes in every time someone comes in the door, so I went in to a small room that they have set up inside the hallway that's away from the wind. In the big waiting room the chairs and sofas are really spread out and it's big and not particularly inviting. Generally people smile and nod at one another, and maybe do a bit of small talk, but there's not lots of conversation.  This waiting room inside is just a small room with a TV and several chairs and is a much more intimate setting. 

There was a gentleman there when I arrived who was in quite a talkative mood.  He reminded me a whole lot of  some of the people I grew up around - kind, gentle folks with a bit of hillbilly ways. He seemed about my age. We chatted for a bit about our radiation and chemotherapy treatments, especially how bad Taxotere can be and some of it's horrible side effects;  then he asked me what kind of pain medication they were giving me.  I responded that I had been awfully sick from my chemotherapy, but that I really wasn't experiencing much pain.  He said that he had lung cancer and that he was in an awful lot of pain.  I was struck by my good fortune to not be having pain.  Then he told me he had just come from his pain doctor earlier.  He said the doctor told him that his cancer was going to kill him.  He had put it out of his mind and was not thinking of it and the doctor told him that he needed to talk with his family - that he could live for 5 or 6 more years or 5 or 6 more months, but that his cancer was going to kill him.  I don't remember what I said, but I was struck like someone punching me in the stomach. He talked for another 4 or 5 minutes as though he was reliving that moment in his doctor's office when he really realized that his cancer would be fatal.  He seemed like such a nice person.  Part of me wanted to reach over and touch him - just one human to another.  Maybe somehow he knew that. 

Then, a couple came in -  she sat down and her husband asked her if she wanted a coke.  He left to go to the vending area and she began to cry.  She said that she just didn't think she could take any more, that she had been married to him for 46 years and she just didn't think she could take any more. She seemed so angry and so distraught, and said that she just didn't care anymore.  She shared that her doctor had told her she could go back to work but that she just wasn't ready yet - that she needed more time.  Another patient in the room asked her how far along her treatments were, and she said, "Oh, I'm not the one with the cancer, it's my husband.  If I had cancer, I'd just have to lay down and die, I couldn't take it."  I know I didn't say anything.  I thought about my companion in the chair next to me who had just shared his horrible truth with a complete stranger.  And I wondered what kind of hardship it would take to make a person just give up.  I thought of my co-worker and chemo/radiation sister who just this morning reminded me how good this medicine is even though it is so hard - she is a many year survivor of two cancer episodes.  And I especially thought about how lucky I am to have so many things in my life that make me want to live!