“Rawr, rawr, rawr, rawr, rawr.” The sliding glass door’s
reverberations transport me to this scene in Crocodile Dundee II: Mick Dundee—chased by Colombian drug lords
through Australia’s Northern Territory—swings a bullroarer through the air like
a lasso, making an emergency “telephone call” to his aboriginal mates for help.
This familiar whirring noise pulls me into a place that no one really wants to go
to—the Southeast Nebraska Cancer Center; however, despite the name and the
services rendered, the place still emits a good vibe, and I am comfortable here.
As often as I step through the threshold, it is nice to know that I have “mates”
waiting for me on the other side of the automated door. And, there are also
legal drug dealers here, too.
Lori usually checks me in; Lori is the person you want
greeting you upon arrival, anywhere. She always addresses us by name; she is
bubbly and warm; she usually has a comment about my Sharpie or henna art (I also
made her jump out of her seat the day I handed her a plastic “I can. I will!” crocodile).
I do feel a little pressure to come dressed as the “cancer center mascot.” I
see disappointment when I come in with a marker or animal-free head. It is
getting harder to be original when I come here every week, but I’ll keep trying
to keep entertaining my followers.
I get my clipboard—with a symptoms’ checklist—and grab a
flower pen out of its rock garden holder. The flower pen is really an ingenious
idea. I suspect that most cancer patients—including myself—have significant
memory loss. I’m fairly certain that every person checking in would
inadvertently steal the pens if they weren’t so blatantly obnoxious. It is also
easy to get a prescription filled, and to waltz out of the “bullroaring” doors
without stopping by the pharmacy to pick up the medication. The staff combats
this by making the patients carry a giant, florescent laminated sign that says,
“Please stop by the pharmacy for your prescription.” Sadly, totally necessary. Aside:
When my principal, Sue Cassata, broke her leg—while pregnant, and I was
undergoing chemo for the first round with breast cancer, I drove her to school
a few days. I left a giant florescent pink note propped on my steering wheel
that read, “Don’t forget to pick up your boss; you don’t want to get fired.” I
didn’t forget Sue either. We were a pathetic rag-tag team.
I quickly glance over the “symptoms” sheet, and usually I
don’t have anything to check off. Granted, I sometimes have strange side
effects, but, most of the time, I don’t have anything big to complain about, so
I leave the boxes empty. At the top of the sheet, there is a space to write
down three concerns that I want to address with the doctor. Last fall, I put
“skydiving” down on one of the blanks, as I wanted to acquire a note to clear
me for that bucket list experience. I might be the only person who has obtained
a prescription for skydiving. Today, I put down “Africa” as a concern.
Usually, I get through the waiting room in a timely fashion.
This is good, because I’ve decided that 100% of my life’s stress comes from
three things: waiting in lines, waiting for a restroom stall, and waiting for
food. Occasionally, I get stuck waiting, if there’s a full house, but I find a
delay is always an opportunity to make a new friend. I am generally my own conversation starter. Patients
and staff members can’t help but stare at my head art canvas or my crocheted
animal—crocodile and shark—hats. For some weird reason, my head art draws
people to me. One man I talked to commented on my crocodile hat. He used to be
a ski lift operator, and he reminisced about wearing similar earflap hats to
stay warm on the mountain. The ski resort he worked for provided down coats,
which employees had to turn back in order to get their last paycheck—he
regretted returning his parka when he quit this job.
I get my labs drawn, and then I wait for my doctor’s visit.
I have to think that Dr. Green and his P.A., Jill, appreciate my twisted humor.
For example, after getting the diagnosis of metastatic breast cancer in August,
Dr. Green showed me a picture of something scientific (maybe a tissue stain—is
that even a thing?); the box showed I was at a 94%--this was not a good
score—and I replied, “At least I got an A.” Yeah, that’s my M.O. Dr. Green
tells me about the treatment plan, and I try to change the subject. I ask: “Can
I go to South Africa this summer?” He says, “Yes.”
I get escorted back to infusion, and it’s hard not to gravitate
to the same chair. The territorial crocodile in me likes the same recliner. Apparently,
I’m not the only patient who feels this way. Recently, an older man commented,
after seeing me in “his” spot: “Hey, someone’s in my chair!” I had Brian send
over a crocodile and an “I can. I will!” card to him in his new spot. I can’t
see myself sitting in one of the “private” rooms; there is something soothing
about sharing the experience with others. I look down the row of brown, red,
and tan leather recliners; I see several other souls in the same predicament. IV
poles separate us from each other. However,
our shared illnesses and predicaments bind us together. I try to always hand
out plastic crocodiles to the patients I talk to. I should have given the woman
I talked to today one; I forgot.
The chairs are comfortable (although Sharpie inked heads will
stick to the leather surface). Like the gym, there are TVs and noise reduction
headphones available, but I don’t want to disconnect from my supporters
(parents, friends, and nurses). Drinks flow from the Pepsi machine—it only has
Diet Mountain Dew (just water and no ice for me)—and snacks are carted around
in a brown, wicker basket. Usually, I go for the non-cherry fruit snacks—the
medicine people have ruined the “cherry” flavor for me.
“Andrea Kabourek; 9-1-77” is my full name. I find myself
rattling off my birthdate during any introduction, in the medical world or not.
I have two regular nurses that pump me full of pre-meds and chemo—one nurse is
one of my former Creative Writing students (I made sure she earned an “A” before
I let her stab me with a needle). Since I sit out in the open infusion room, in
order to keep my eyes on all the action, I eavesdrop on the nurse’s
conversations. Today, I overheard a nurse (another former East High student)
talking about how she signed up for the Lincoln Half Marathon—we talking
running for a while, and I didn’t even realize that I was completely finished
with chemo, and my mom and I could roll out of there. I would, of course, rather
not go through the door at the cancer center on a 60-degree January afternoon;
however, if I have to endure the routine of chemo, I wouldn’t want to be
anywhere else. “Rawr, rawr, rawr, rawr, rawr.”
English 9 Period 5 Head Art 1/16/15
