New Daily Routine. Again it was time for chemical infusions. The silence of the day ward was repeatedly interrupted by a loud beeping noise. It indicated the completion of an infusion or just that a bubble of air had formed in the tube. Most patients silently sat in their grey treatment chairs. Without saying much, they endured their fate. A fellow patient happily shared that the therapy had shrunk his tumor. An older comrad-in-arms let us know that he had envisioned his retirement differently. A younger adult started to cry at the beginning of his treatment. Soon the situation was under control again. We all probably felt somewhat similar.
Compliments and Assurance. In a different environment, other compliments are exchanged. While in other circumstances we like to praise beautiful eyes, in hospital I overheard a new form of praise: "You have beautiful veins, has anyone already told you?" When I asked, how long it would take for the cell poison to get out of my system again, the doctor promptly corrected me. He pointed out that the same poison, as I called it, to me was a life-sustaining juice. Once and again I asked myself, whether, when, and how I would get out of this? "We'll get you through this," another physician comforted me.