A Room of Hope

This past week I finally had the opportunity to join my father during his chemotherapy sessions. It really bothered me that I've never had the chance to be with him right there, at the very place where his treatment takes place. It doesn't get any closer to cancer that to visit that room.

I arrived earlier than expected to Caracas last Tuesday, so I went directly to the hospital and joined him for his last hour of treatment. The room was full of people, all ages. There were very comfortable leather seats where the patients were seated while IVs hanging from the roof where "feeding" them. Some of the patients were reading, busy with their laptops, engaged in conversations, watching TV or just sleeping. They all seemed to know eachother and a team of nurses were going back and forth talking and taking care of everybody.

I arrived like I had been there a thousand times, I said Hi to my Mom and Dad and just started talking. It was just that.

The next day, we had to go very early in the morning, as my Dad is also taking an antibiotic treatment. We were there before the place was even open and there were a few people waiting outside. Everybody knew the drill, so when a new person arrived, everybody made sure to let her know who the last person before her was. That determines some kind of order when the seats are chosen.

That day, an old man arrived with his daughter. He was very distressed and he looked like it was probably his first day of treatment. He kept saying: "what are you going to do? what am I supposed to do?", he kept repeating those words as he looked around as he was lost. The next time he said it, he pointed his finger up to the ceiling, as if he was saying that it was God's will. My Dad looked at him and said: "Yes, He is with us, but don't look for him that far up, he is just seating right here". The man looked at him and nodded, but he was still very nervous.

Later, he kept complaining, as we all entered the room. This time, my father looked at him in the eye and told him: "Sir, this is a Room of Hope".

I don't know if it was my father's words, but the next day, the man was there and he looked more relaxed. That day, we sat next to another older man that just had 6 cm of his Colon removed and was telling us all about it.

It was an experience, one that I will never forget. Cancer patients develop over time an aura of security and wisdom. My father is the strongest person I know and the kindest at the same time.

Losing hope is the last resort, and thank god there is a whole room full of it.