The Waiting Room
The Waiting Room by Erin
The waiting room is likely one of the hardest parts of this cancer journey.
It is a room full of patients fighting a battle they did not choose — a disruption to their lives in every way — and full of the loved ones walking this journey beside them.
For the most part, everyone sits in silence, scrolling their phones.
But I’ve gotten into the habit of putting my phone away and looking around.
Occasionally, I’ll catch someone’s eyes, and we simply share an “I get it” look with each other.
The waiting room is also exactly that:
Waiting.
No action being taken.
Just a pause to ponder, to sit, and to let the reality of what is happening sink in.
The waiting is tough.
The action feels easier because at least we are moving the needle in the right direction.
But the waiting feels a bit like quicksand — an urgency of heart to do something, while feeling stuck inside a system that is too overrun to fully see you as a person, a mom, a wife, a daughter facing one of your worst nightmares.
And honestly, the waiting is likely the majority of this whole journey.
Waiting for a call back.
Waiting for results.
Waiting for a decision.
Waiting for treatment to start.
Waiting for treatment to complete.
Waiting for side effects to come.
Waiting for a scan to know if the treatment has worked.
Just waiting.
I see people of all ages, all races, all economic statuses, all stages of life.
No one chose this path.
No one would choose it again.
Yet here we are.
Here we sit again.
Sometimes I choose to numb the reality by sinking into my phone or my computer, or letting my mind wander to the kids’ schedule for the week.
And sometimes I let it sink in.
Undoubtedly, a tear will surface.
Then I go back to what I’ve learned over the past nine months:
I get to choose my outlook.
So I choose, one more time, to find God in the darkness.
To look for Him in the nurses.
And to welcome the forced pause in our lives, where the things that really matter come into focus once again.