More observations from the cancer waiting rooms and wards:
The friend, the husband, the daughter.
They come in all shapes and sizes, the people who come along with the cancer patient. There is usually a certain "match" with the person they are with. I have been as touched and intrigued by them as I have by my fellow patients.
Here we go, shamelessly stereotyping.
The elderly husband... He is as bewildered as she is, but both the husband and the wife sit quietly through their ordeal, side by side. They rarely speak; they don't need to. He doesn't leave her. He might have brought a newspaper, attempt a crossword, but you sense that his mind is really with his wife. He carefully puts away her walking stick. She looks vulnerable. So does he, but as you are sitting there looking at them both, you ponder that at least they have each other. They've managed to get through a lifetime of ups and downs together and now they find themselves here, in an alien world that is just about bearable because he is there, she is there. What will he do without her?
The just-about-to-retire husband... They have both worked hard all their lives and now they are on the cusp of retirement. But here he is, with his wife, in the breast clinic. He looks worried and she is trying not to. They had plans and breast cancer wasn't one of them. What is going to happen? They read the leaflets, get a take-away coffee. Once the treatments start and they get into a routine, he will do the crossword, focus on it, finish it. Or, more likely, she'll bring a friend.
(Hm. We're not quite ready to retire, but I think my husband fits this category nicely.)
The young husband... Of all husbands, he looks most shell-shocked. He holds her hand when they sit down. No crossword for him. What can you say?
The busy sons and daughters... They may be busy, have jobs and children of their own that need attention, but they are faithful. Here they are, waiting with their mother, sitting with her as she has her chemotherapy, because she needs them. She couldn't get here on her own, for starters. They have dropped everything. They may be on the phone to a sibling, giving updates. ("Still waiting.") They ask mum if she wants anything, they go off to the hospital shop, they return with a hospital sandwich and a bag of hospital crisps. Unless they come prepared with provisions. Halfway through, their sister comes in. They give a brief handover, and they're off. As I said: they have a job to go to and children to collect from school.
The daughters of the mother who doesn't speak English... These daughters (they are almost invariably daughters) warrant their own category. My South London hospital has a large Asian population in its catchment area, so I've seen enough of these daughters to be able to turn them into a stereotype. The elderly mother shuffles in with her long thin hair in a tight bun, a warm coat over her sari. The daughters come in twos or threes, or in shifts. They chat and chat (the daughters, that is. The mother only speaks when spoken to.) It can even be quite jolly at times. It's always touching, because they may have busy lives, but they don't let it show. Mother is ill: they give her all the time she needs.
The teenager... A rare breed in hospital, the teenage sons and daughters who sit with their. mother in waiting rooms and treatment areas. They are probably there to provide practical help rather than moral support. They don't speak or look around. For all you know, they could have been waiting at the airport or queueing at a bus stop, plugged into their iPods whilst playing games on their iPads. Love 'em.
I had a couple of these with me - although only one was true to stereotype; the other was reasonably chatty and brought her knitting instead of a gadget.
I had a couple of these with me - although only one was true to stereotype; the other was reasonably chatty and brought her knitting instead of a gadget.
The supportive friend... Where to start? The friend is less devastated and more practical than the family member. She (it's mostly a she) is equally focused on the patient, but the illness doesn't affect her life quite as much. Unlike the husbands and sons and daughters, she won't need to watch this patient go through the misery of side effects day after night after day after night. So it's easier for her, perhaps, to pull out the stops during this hospital session. If the environment is somewhat alien to her, she doesn't let it show or get her down. She gets on with it, she is helpful, she is kind, she occupies herself or talks quietly: whatever is needed. Marvellous.
I was lucky. I had several of these supportive friends. Thank you kindly.
The I-know-best friend... Thankfully, these are a rare breed too. I've seen a couple and it's enough. I always felt sorry for the patient. There he is, the weak-looking, defenseless patient, marooned in his chair and hooked up to a drip. There she is, the matronly friend, fussing over him, drowning his soft voice with her stern one. Has he eaten well? He must look after his diet you know. And not give up. Acupuncture is rather good, she has heard. Has he tried it? No? Why not? He must.
It's best to have your own supportive friend with you when there is an I-know-best friend about, so you can exchange looks and shake your head imperceptibly. If you're on your own, you just sit there brewing resentment.
The IKEA friend... This is the most puzzling breed of all. The I Know Everything About-this friend. The reason she Knows Everthing About-this is that she has been there herself. I am sure there are many people who have been there themselves and it turns them into a Supportive Friend as described above. The IKEA friend is different. She is determined to let everyone know that she has been there herself. She strides into the waiting room exuding confidence. She owns the place. Hey! says her body language. I am at ease here! I am a member!
What sets the IKEA friend apart is her determination to save not only her own friend (the patient) with her expertise-by-experience, but all the other patients too. Including me. When she talks to her friend, she talks to all of us in the waiting room. It won't be long before she lets us all know that she Knows Everything About-this, because she, too, has had breast cancer. (And she's not afraid to say it out loud. BREAST CANCER.)
The most perfect specimen of this breed was the friend who came along to the radiotherapy waiting room. I was sitting there minding my own business, hot and hat-less after my long walk to the hospital. I can't quite remember apropos of what exactly she started telling us all that she was an IKEA type of person. Apropos of nothing, probably. But there she was, holding forth, her friend (the patient) standing quietly by her side. And suddenly she whipped a photograph out of her handbag and put it under my nose. Look! she said. That was me, a couple of years ago! The photograph showed a group of people congregating around someone's front garden, and one of them was bald.
You see, this is what puzzles me. What is the IKEA friend trying to say, exactly? Don't you worry about your cancer/baldness/misery, look at me, I have been there, done that, and I've re-assembled myself, and so can you? Which assumes that I am worried about my cancer/baldness/etc, which I am not (well, actually yes, I am, but she is the last person I'd share that with). Or is she somehow missing the feeling of being special that comes with being a cancer patient? Does she feel she has to justify her presence in this place? Or does she genuinely feel that she is being helpful?
Whatever the reason, I am still wondering what the correct response is to a stranger who shoves a photograph of their previous bald self under your nose. Answers on a postcard please. (Or on this blog.)
If there are any IKEA friends reading this, let me tell you: it is not helpful to draw attention to yourself in the cancer waiting rooms and VIP lounges and wards. Because that requires the patients to focus on you, which is the last thing they need. Before you know it, you will turn into an I-Know-Best friend, and then where will we be?
The thought occurs that there is another type of IKEA friend, and I'm afraid I fit the bill. They are not IKEA customers, but IKEA staff members.
The I Knows Everything About-this staff member is also an expert, not through having been a cancer patient, but through having worked in the cancer world. They are doctors and nurses who speak the language. I hope that this only bothers the staff and not the patients. I have spotted them, sometimes, and they usually fall into the Supportive Friend category. You just notice that they know how to work the system and they know what questions to ask. The patient usually seems reassured by her friend's presence. When you get talking to her, she may even nod her head gratefully into the direction of the friend: She's a doctor, you know.
Here is evidence of my membership of this breed. A friend of mine once texted me to say that she had just been admitted to hospital. Her situation was distressing and I knew that her partner couldn't be there, so I hopped on my bike and went to find her. It was mid-morning. I did the confident stride onto the ward, Look, I Know Everything About-this, I'm a professional. It didn't quite stop the staff nurse from telling me sternly that visiting hours were in the afternoon, but I looked over her shoulder to the ward sister and asserted, Well, yes I know, but don't you agree that a woman needs her friend with her at a time like this? They conceded. Just as well. My friend was in no fit state to advocate for herself. "I'm soooo glad you were there," she said later. "I would just have gone along with the treatments they suggested even though I didn't really want them. I was scared and it would have been so much more awful if I had been on my own."
Which makes me think that there are merits in having an IKEA staff member around. I hope so, anyway.
This week, another friend told me she needs to have a shot or two of chemotherapy treatment.
Not for cancer, curiously, but to help with another long-term condition.
I was about to offer my company, as this was one of my Supportive Friends who has been to the VIP lounge with me. Wouldn't it be jolly? But as soon as I visualised it, I felt ill and vaguely nauseous. I have managed to sit through all my treatments with reasonable level-headedness, but boy, I don't even want to THINK about going anywhere near another VIP lounge any time soon.
And when I am ready to face that world again, in a couple of years' time perhaps, beware. If I'm not careful, I shall become part of a terrifying species. An IKEA staff member and IKEA customer rolled into one.
I KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS! I might say to everyone willing to hear it. And I really mean EVERYTHING. You know what? You should read my blog.
I was lucky. I had several of these supportive friends. Thank you kindly.
The I-know-best friend... Thankfully, these are a rare breed too. I've seen a couple and it's enough. I always felt sorry for the patient. There he is, the weak-looking, defenseless patient, marooned in his chair and hooked up to a drip. There she is, the matronly friend, fussing over him, drowning his soft voice with her stern one. Has he eaten well? He must look after his diet you know. And not give up. Acupuncture is rather good, she has heard. Has he tried it? No? Why not? He must.
It's best to have your own supportive friend with you when there is an I-know-best friend about, so you can exchange looks and shake your head imperceptibly. If you're on your own, you just sit there brewing resentment.
The IKEA friend... This is the most puzzling breed of all. The I Know Everything About-this friend. The reason she Knows Everthing About-this is that she has been there herself. I am sure there are many people who have been there themselves and it turns them into a Supportive Friend as described above. The IKEA friend is different. She is determined to let everyone know that she has been there herself. She strides into the waiting room exuding confidence. She owns the place. Hey! says her body language. I am at ease here! I am a member!
What sets the IKEA friend apart is her determination to save not only her own friend (the patient) with her expertise-by-experience, but all the other patients too. Including me. When she talks to her friend, she talks to all of us in the waiting room. It won't be long before she lets us all know that she Knows Everything About-this, because she, too, has had breast cancer. (And she's not afraid to say it out loud. BREAST CANCER.)
The most perfect specimen of this breed was the friend who came along to the radiotherapy waiting room. I was sitting there minding my own business, hot and hat-less after my long walk to the hospital. I can't quite remember apropos of what exactly she started telling us all that she was an IKEA type of person. Apropos of nothing, probably. But there she was, holding forth, her friend (the patient) standing quietly by her side. And suddenly she whipped a photograph out of her handbag and put it under my nose. Look! she said. That was me, a couple of years ago! The photograph showed a group of people congregating around someone's front garden, and one of them was bald.
You see, this is what puzzles me. What is the IKEA friend trying to say, exactly? Don't you worry about your cancer/baldness/misery, look at me, I have been there, done that, and I've re-assembled myself, and so can you? Which assumes that I am worried about my cancer/baldness/etc, which I am not (well, actually yes, I am, but she is the last person I'd share that with). Or is she somehow missing the feeling of being special that comes with being a cancer patient? Does she feel she has to justify her presence in this place? Or does she genuinely feel that she is being helpful?
Whatever the reason, I am still wondering what the correct response is to a stranger who shoves a photograph of their previous bald self under your nose. Answers on a postcard please. (Or on this blog.)
If there are any IKEA friends reading this, let me tell you: it is not helpful to draw attention to yourself in the cancer waiting rooms and VIP lounges and wards. Because that requires the patients to focus on you, which is the last thing they need. Before you know it, you will turn into an I-Know-Best friend, and then where will we be?
The thought occurs that there is another type of IKEA friend, and I'm afraid I fit the bill. They are not IKEA customers, but IKEA staff members.
The I Knows Everything About-this staff member is also an expert, not through having been a cancer patient, but through having worked in the cancer world. They are doctors and nurses who speak the language. I hope that this only bothers the staff and not the patients. I have spotted them, sometimes, and they usually fall into the Supportive Friend category. You just notice that they know how to work the system and they know what questions to ask. The patient usually seems reassured by her friend's presence. When you get talking to her, she may even nod her head gratefully into the direction of the friend: She's a doctor, you know.
Here is evidence of my membership of this breed. A friend of mine once texted me to say that she had just been admitted to hospital. Her situation was distressing and I knew that her partner couldn't be there, so I hopped on my bike and went to find her. It was mid-morning. I did the confident stride onto the ward, Look, I Know Everything About-this, I'm a professional. It didn't quite stop the staff nurse from telling me sternly that visiting hours were in the afternoon, but I looked over her shoulder to the ward sister and asserted, Well, yes I know, but don't you agree that a woman needs her friend with her at a time like this? They conceded. Just as well. My friend was in no fit state to advocate for herself. "I'm soooo glad you were there," she said later. "I would just have gone along with the treatments they suggested even though I didn't really want them. I was scared and it would have been so much more awful if I had been on my own."
Which makes me think that there are merits in having an IKEA staff member around. I hope so, anyway.
This week, another friend told me she needs to have a shot or two of chemotherapy treatment.
Not for cancer, curiously, but to help with another long-term condition.
I was about to offer my company, as this was one of my Supportive Friends who has been to the VIP lounge with me. Wouldn't it be jolly? But as soon as I visualised it, I felt ill and vaguely nauseous. I have managed to sit through all my treatments with reasonable level-headedness, but boy, I don't even want to THINK about going anywhere near another VIP lounge any time soon.
And when I am ready to face that world again, in a couple of years' time perhaps, beware. If I'm not careful, I shall become part of a terrifying species. An IKEA staff member and IKEA customer rolled into one.
I KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS! I might say to everyone willing to hear it. And I really mean EVERYTHING. You know what? You should read my blog.
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