Observations from the Chemo room

For those that haven’t been lucky (eeer…maybe that’s not the right word??) enough to sit in a room, specifically designed for the masses to get chemotherapy, I thought I’d would enlighten you on what it’s like.

My cancer is triple negative breast cancer. Heading into my 8th of 24 treatments. But I’ve met folks with lung, colon and more breast cancer. All zero fun.

These are my observations from a typical Wednesday treatment.

  • I feel like I’m a Hilton Honors Diamond member again. Free snacks and drinks. Warm blankets and a warm cookie. Special parking spot just for me. Everyone knows your name and you see the cleaning staff more than you see your own kids.

  • You could hang meat in here. It’s a balmy -23 degrees in this room. Maybe that’s an exaggeration, but I did see a nurse with frozen boogers caking the perimeter of her nostrils and those hand warmer thingys poking out her Columbia Thermarator Omni-Heat fleece gloves. Assuming they’re trying to not let bacteria grow but maybe they’re also preparing for a life in the Yukon; auditioning for Life Below Zero or Alaskan Bush People. Discovery Channel, here we come.

  • My one approved support person is normally very helpful. Assuming he’s not chocking on his tongue from snoring with his head tilted back in the most uncomfortable position you’ve ever seen. Like a goose sucking on a baby bottle. Although, what he’s really choking on are all the stolen “patient-only” snacks he’s throwing back like Cookie Monster. Sorry, Crestwood Medical Center. Add that to my bill.

  • There’s a sign that says “Children Under 13 not allowed”. Which makes you realize there are only adults getting treatment in this room. Which then makes you realize that children with cancer are going to a different place for their chemo. Which then makes you super sad.

  • Every Enneagram Personality is represented. A 2 that’s trying to help everyone, even their own support person. A 4 that talks to anyone that will show the slightest interest. A 7 who is teaching all of us a TikTok dance. And a 6 who brought in homemade brownies that took her six hours to make for this close-knit group.

  • You can tell when that main-line dose of Benadryl hits a patient. They go from talking like the the Micro Machine guy from the 80s commercial to a participator at Woodstock. Peace and Love, man. Peace and Love. Namaste.

  • And remember that part in Wizard of Oz. The part where a Dorothy meets Glenda, the witch of the North, after she calls Glenda “old and ugly”? She then says about the sneaky Munchkins, “People come and go so quickly here.” Just like a Chemo room.
    You assume you’ll be with the same people each week. Like in the movies. Where two teenage cancer patients fall in love. But you’re not.


  • Some patients are just starting chemo. Some are done. Some were forced to skip chemo today because their bodies were not healthy enough to get it. And then they start again on a different day of the week. And I’m scared to think what’s happened to some.


  • Not a lot of match-making able to happen with a schedule like that. But it could be a story-line for a good RomCom (anyone know a director?).

It’s a slap in the face reality check in this room.  Absolutely nothing else matters. We’re all there for one goal. Does that make everyone a teammate? My sports-obsessed brain wants to imagine it that way.

Some teammates have good games and some need to have their weight pulled. I hope some of my new cancer friends feel like I pulled their weight some days, with a joke or a smile. I know my nurses have done that for me many times already.

Winning the championship means ringing a bell in the final game. I hope to be carrying the trophy on my shoulders, while one of the nurses throws Gatorade on me.

Until then, I’ll just keep chillin in my Hilton chemo recliner, snacking’ on my warm cookie and making observations of the room. Taking this journey all in.