“Is it bad that I’m nervous? Does that mean I’m lacking in my faith?”
“No. It’d be weird if you weren’t nervous. This means your amygdala is working”.
It makes me sad that my 35-year-old fiancé has to drive me, his 31-year-old fiancée, to the cancer center every six months for scans. But what makes me sadder is the thought of the people who have to drive themselves. The ones who have to take an unpaid day off work to sit by themselves in the cold waiting room, devoid of any music or color, scrolling on their phones under the bright, fluorescent lights, bracing themselves for the dark room with the technician who will look at the screen and make small talk as they hold fate in their hands.
I am so grateful for my blessings.
I get a different technician every time I come to get my scans. She leads us to my room, and I get a small pang of anxiety when we pass my usual room—the one with the ceiling tiles painted with sheep roaming green hills. Today, she takes me to a new room. I am relieved to see this one also has painted ceiling tiles.
I ask for a warm blanket because I still have not gotten used to how cold the hospital is. Generic jazz music plays in the background, and I wish Evan could just play one of his playlists instead. My technician is nice, but she presses harder on my neck than I’d like, and the feeling is more uncomfortable than usual, which makes me more anxious.
This room’s ceiling tiles have an aquarium scene painted on them. I count eleven fish. Three coral. One hundred and seventeen bubbles.
Evan holds my hand, and I actively focus on not catching a glimpse of the screen with my ultrasound on it. I try not to think about why I’m there. About being the youngest person in the cancer center waiting room that day. About the what-ifs and what-could-be’s.
Instead, I count the fish again.
I start to think about how nice it would be if the hospital walls were covered in scenes like this—oceans, fields, skies. How the other people waiting in the waiting room could also count the fish, or at least be distracted by their bright colors.
Then I think about how the sweater I chose to wear today feels like a small act of defiance. Hand-knit. Green grass, blue sky, white clouds. Loud against the greige walls. Almost inappropriate.
Color and art feel like the last priority in a room such as the cancer center. But I argue it is as essential as the machines being used. Art may not be the medicinal cure to the illnesses in that hospital, but it gives you somewhere to place your fears and heartbreak. It gives your hope a shape and color.
And in rooms like this, hope—no matter how small—feels like everything.
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with love,
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