Before I go to the college, I’ve been taking my MIL to the cancer clinic every morning for radiation treatment. She’s a newspaper reporter: a scrappy little fighter whose lifelong faith enables her to not fear death, but she has chosen to delay it as long as possible because she’s simply not finished living yet.
Today is the only day I won’t be taking her, because I’m, like, on the radio and stuff, but Belle took the morning off work to come down and take her grandmother for the treatment.
Everyone at the cancer clinic has been extraordinarily kind, and has treated my MIL like a queen when she is there. Someone is standing in the lobby waiting for her when we walk through the doors, and every step of each procedure has been explained to her thoroughly and patiently. She has never once been treated in any kind of brusque, clinical, hurried, or condescending manner.
The facility isn’t bone-chillingly cold, as hospitals so often are, and the magazines in the waiting room are up-to-date. Imagine!
She was desperately frightened, and naturally so, but now, much of the fright has gone and while it’s not something to look forward to at all, it’s at least lost its teeth and claws and can be faced calmly, know that this, too, shall pass.
After her treatment, she usually feels perky enough to spring for lunch, even. Bless her heart.
Mamacita, Scheiss Weekly