When my high school friends were learning how to drive, I was sitting through hours of chemotherapy. While they attended Sadie Hawkins dances, I received blood transfusions. I was 16-years-old and I had just been diagnosed with cancer. But I was lucky. I had a favorable prognosis. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for several of the middle-aged and senior patients with whom I shared many conversations.
The chemotherapy administration room was like the proverbial office water cooler, that is if you add highly toxic medication, the scent of sterilized medical equipment, gaunt faces, and “bottomed-out” lab values. Instead of embellished stories of weekend adventures, I listened to life stories, saw pictures of children, grandchildren, and pets, and learned of dreams and regrets. To become friends with so many near the end of their lives leaves a lasting impression on a person, let alone a teenager.