If I Had a Dime...

The Cost of Healing, the Currency of Hope

If I had a dime for every hospital bracelet I’ve cut off and every visitor sticker I’ve ever peeled from my chest, I’d be rolling in it—or at least a little better off than I am now.

The hospital has become a second home to me, a maze of familiar corridors and sterile scents that I could navigate with my eyes closed. I follow my well-worn path: first, I glide into the parking garage, the cool concrete beneath my tires. Then, I make a gentle right turn and pause to take a ticket from the machine before continuing forward. I feel the subtle incline as I ascend the ramp, stopping once more to validate my ticket before the gate arm lifts, allowing me to proceed. This routine is etched into my memory.

With practiced ease, I cruise up to the fourth floor to park, pop in my AirPods, and let soothing music become my soundtrack. The automatic sliding doors part with a quiet whoosh as familiar sights and smells activate my senses. Instead of waiting for the elevator, I choose the stairs-each step is a small act of defiance against the fatigue threatening to drag me down.

As I stroll across the bridgeway, the reception desk comes into view. A friendly face greets me by name, her warmth and genuine joy reminiscent of an old friend. “Hey Lisa! So nice to see you! Do you know where you’re headed today?” she asks, pulling a visitor sticker from the backing and handing it to me. I return her smile, comforted by our exchange, like the cozy familiarity of my grandpa’s old flannel shirt. “Of course I do!” I reply, matching her friendly vibe. I affix the sticker to my chest and turn to walk away. “Great to see you. I’ll catch you later!” I say, feeling her presence wrap around me like a reassuring hug as I continue on my way.

As I weave through the hallway and take another right turn, my eyes are drawn to the ever-changing display of artwork adorning the walls. I instinctively slow down, maybe subconsciously procrastinating, captivated by the vibrant and informative exhibitions that enliven the otherwise long and ominous corridor. The paintings, especially those showcasing a colorful variety of flowers, transport me to happier places in my mind. I find myself drifting into thoughts of artistry, wishing I could possess even a fraction of the talent on display.

With a quick left at the end of the hall, I veer right to hop into the elevator, riding it down to the first floor.

After two more left turns, I arrive at the breast center, where yet another familiar face welcomes me from behind the desk, ready to affix a decorative hospital band to my wrist, completing the matching set with the visitor’s sticker on my chest.

“I ought to start collecting these to see just how many I accumulate,” I muse. Yet deep down, I know I likely won’t follow through with this idea; I don’t need any more reminders of how cancer has invaded my body and life.

After my oncologist appointment, I retrace my steps, heading back into the elevator, this time ascending to the 8th floor. Time for treatment.

Arriving at the end of the long corridor, I pause just inside the door, taking my place next to the sign that reads, “Wait Here to Be Called.”

Next to me, a mesmerizing fish tank overflows with color, with vibrant fish gliding effortlessly through the water. I scan the tank, spotting the elusive black and yellow eel emerge from his rocky hideout, which always brings a little thrill to my waiting mind.

“Next in line, please…”

I’m jolted back to the present; I’m not snorkeling in a serene tropical paradise but standing in the Multispecialty Center/Infusion waiting room.

As I step forward, I am met by another friendly face, though the warmth in her eyes contrasts sharply with the somber atmosphere. In this waiting room, one is engulfed by an overwhelming tide of sympathy and hope from the receptionists to the nurses. It is a place where unspoken fears linger, and each person bears the weight of their circumstances.

“I’m just coming from my doctor’s appointment and still have my other bracelet on,” I inform her, aware she’ll need to cut it off and replace it with a new one for the nurse to scan before I receive my medication.

Injection or infusion—infusion or injection? Which one do I choose first? Should I go with the right side or the left this time? Do I want to enjoy the soothing view by the window, or opt for a cozy corner chair that feels more secluded?

“See, I have some control over this,” I remind myself.

Nestled comfortably in the reclined chair, I watch as the nurse scans my bracelet, accepting the inevitable chill of the medication coursing through the IV in my arm. The warmth of the fresh blanket draped over me is a must. With about a day or so before the flu-like sensations settle in, I know I need to keep my schedule light over the next few days.

Afterward, it is time for my injection. She scans my bracelet once more before preparing to administer the thick, sludge-like medicine to my backside. She pushes the oil and powder mixture back and forth through the syringe, her thumbs tiring from the strain against the resistance until it reaches the desired consistency, much like concrete just before it hardens. As the medicine is slowly pushed into my body, I feel a sharp, stinging sensation that makes me wince, and I try not to jump. It leaves behind a marble-sized lump, serving as a reminder, that will gradually break down over the course of the following month.

After receiving my treatment, I navigate back through the labyrinth of hallways with more purpose and less dread. I hop in the elevator and press the button for the fourth floor. Turning left and then right, back down the ominous hallway, I briefly admire the vibrant artwork adorning the walls. This time, I don’t slow down, eagerly anticipating the fresh air and the promise of freedom that awaits just beyond the hospital doors. Passing the check-in desk, I toss a quick, cheerful “See you soon!” over my shoulder and continue down the bridgeway, descending the stairs and finally stepping out into the parking garage.

Arriving home, I make a beeline for the kitchen drawer, retrieving the scissors with a determined grip. With a swift snip, I sever the hospital band from my wrist and peel the blue visitor sticker from my chest. I step on the foot pedal, and the garbage can pops open. In that moment, I toss my metaphorical dimes into the trash, setting them free.

Until next time.