I stood in line with my husband at the pharmacy in the Subway level of Mayo Clinic. It was Tuesday, which means we survived a week of worry and wondering if our insurance was going to cooperate so that I could continue the doctor’s recommended path for proton radiation to treat the cancer that has grown back outside of my esophagus. I could spend some time here describing how derailing and mentally defeating it was to get news that puts you completely out of control of your healthcare plan even though you’ve done all the right things to be prepared by way of paying plenty of our paycheck for insurance, but I don’t want to dwell and you can about imagine. It was awful and frustrating and distracting. But when I got the call on Thursday that the third appeal was the charm, I couldn’t help but laugh at the fact that my definition of a reason to celebrate has come down to getting the radiation treatment I wanted. It’s like I won the lottery. Everyone in the room with me at work had to be interrupted to hear the news, and they all cheered too. 

Life is weird. 

And so anyway, there I was in line at the pharmacy after we packed up that Jeep again, made the mental preparations and care preparations for our daughters, again, and drove the eleven hours to Rochester to start the process. The first dose of radiation went easier than I thought, despite the fact I made it awkward by having them play a podcast over the system that turned inappropriate for mixed company. But the radiation team didn’t seem phased at all by the detailed conversation about prostate checks coming through the loudspeakers, and in hindsight I was so focused on my poor entertainment choice and my sweaty armpits that maybe it was a good distraction. And so, we moved on to the next day’s appointments of blood draws and MRIs and a long conversation about chemo treatment that I wasn’t prepared for. By the time I was in line to pick up a second round of medication that included three different prescriptions for anti-nausea medication before my first round of weekly chemo started, I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for myself.

But among the many life lessons and gifts that time spent at the Mayo Clinic gives you, maybe the most important one is to put your circumstances in context—or to put you in your place, so to speak. Which is exactly what happened when a mom pulled in line behind us pushing her seven-year-old son in a wheelchair with a little chicken fuzz of blond, balding hair coming out of his beanie, holding a stuffed cat, wearing a mask. My throat tightened for him instead of me as I walked up to the counter to get my lesson in nausea care, which I’m glad to report, I haven’t needed to be implemented thus far. 

So that’s where we are on the details of it all. I wanted to catch you up, so many of you have expressed so much kindness and concern. But this brings me to the sentiment I really wanted to share, and I’m not sure if I’m going to articulate it the way it deserves to be articulated, but I’ll try. 

My husband drove me eleven hours to Rochester and back, and Rochester again. He made arrangements for his business and to be home for the kids when I’m gone and kept his duties as soccer coach and goat wrangler so the girls don’t have to miss out on a thing. He sat with me in every waiting room so far, which in just these last two days totaled nearly twenty hours. He makes sure we have a plan for our meals and navigates construction and parking garages and helps me stay out of my head by annoying me just the right amount on purpose. And he has never complained once, only that he wishes it was happening to him instead (And also at our GPS).  But all around us in one of the best clinics in the country, thousands and thousands of people are caring for the ones they love in similar ways, day in and day out. They push a wheelchair, they hold a hand, they write down questions and listen for the answers, they read the maps and park the cars and ask for a blanket and push the call buttons and worry but try not to show it. They buy the lunch and deliver the lunch and don’t get frustrated if only a few bites are taken. They tell jokes and read things out loud that they find funny. They say, “It’s ok. You’re going to be ok,” and “What can I do for you?” and “I’ll get this.”   I’ve heard kind and soothing words spoken in every corner of this facility, except for that one lady in the surgery waiting room who told her husband to shut up, but that was fair. He was talking on speaker phone and everyone agreed, quietly chuckling to themselves in total understanding. 

We’re all so vulnerable here, in varying states of worry, panic, grief and relief. To be surrounded by it every day is a lesson in humanity and humility, and I want to declare that I notice it. Your world is on fire the same as the hundreds of other fires sitting with you in the waiting room, passing you by in the halls, pushing the elevator button…standing in line for medication with their baby.

I dropped my husband off at the airport this morning. He’s flying home to drive the girls back to me for Easter, so for a couple days I’ll be alone in a house that a generous couple offered me as a place to stay during my treatment. There are fire-fighters everywhere. 

Thank you for reading and tending to this flame. If you need me, I’ll be here setting up a more appropriate listening choice for my treatment tonight.