You find yourself there one morning in the radiation oncology department, dressed in your jeans and a johnny.  Some part of you has a tumor that may respond well to radiation - may stop growing, even begin to shrink or may be made less painful and more tolerable. 

The first day, the nurse will lay you down on the table, work the accelerator using your x-rays and bone scan as a map to pinpoint where the tumor is so as to direct the radiation to the right place.  You have to lie very still and position is important.  Once the exact position has been established, points are drawn on your skin with a marker and out comes the needle and the bottle of India ink.  The points (three or four of them) are tattooed onto your skin.  It’s really rather ingenious - these are small, unobtrusive marks that won’t wash away and which will tell the nurse how to precisely line up the machine for your radiation treatments over the following weeks.

You are assigned a time to come in - every week day.

The next day, you’ll probably find the waiting room has several people in it.  Most of them are older and some are fairly frail.  You may discover (even though you really did know it) that you are not the only woman without hair and that at least one woman is considerably less shy and more courageous that you are about showing her noggin.  And you might feel a little silly because you were just thinking how hot and inconvenient your hat was and wishing you had the nerve to dispense with it - at least around people who are up the same creek!

A curious intimacy happens in the radiation oncology waiting room.  As treatment progresses and the days go by, you get to know some of these people who wait with you every morning.  You will learn what brought them there and sometimes the specifics of their treatment,  You might find out that Mr. T likes broccoli but hates gingerbread and that Ms C. has beautiful grandchildren and funny-looking cats.  Mr. S. is feeling hopeful because, between chemotherapy and radiation, the tumor in his throat has all but disappeared.  For some though, this is a more or less palliative thing; they have been here before and, if they’re lucky, may be here again in the future.

Over all, there is a very comradely feeling.  Whatever your backgrounds are, however diverse your origins, colors and beliefs, you are all here for the same reason.  Despite differing levels of education or success, for a little while every day, you are brothers and sisters of experience.  You come in every morning, and most sincerely wish each other well before you go to spend your few minutes on the table.

Eventually, the treatment reaches its end.  You have had as much radiation to the affected part as is needed (or as your body can tolerate).  You don’t have to get up early in the morning any more to rush to the hospital before you can do anything else with your day.

That last day is hard.  Your companions in the waiting room already know because you all count down each other’s days as a matter of course.  There will be hugs, maybe a few tears, and most heartfelt wishes for each other’s ongoing well being.  Being the time of year it is, there will probably be some holiday wishes sprinkled in there too.

And then you will go home and likely never see each other again.

But in your heart, there’s a room where you hang a picture of each of them.  And every so often, you go and look at the pictures and say prayers.