Corridor to the cure

Corridor to the Cure
My perspective on many things changed after I heard the word remission, and realized it was meant for me. A tear that would not be denied fell down on to my black wool jacket. A weight was lifted from my chest. I was suddenly able to focus on what was important... Living.
Now with my new perspective, I sit here in the corridor at 4240 waiting to have my port removed. A stainless steel vessel implanted in my arm and connected to my heart. An internal corridor of sorts that delivered the poison that eventually became my cure. It’s a button-size bump that protrudes from beneath my bicep. It’s one of the last physical, visible signs of my ordeal. A few scars remain, as do the tattooed targets for the nuclear burn.
Today I seem to be more focused on this larger corridor... The corridor here at 4240. Souls walk by, some dazed and shuffling as if they’re being drawn to the back room. The “Infusion Suite”. It almost sounds like a piece of hard bop music composed by Miles or Coltrane. But it’s far from musical and it’s far from sweet. It’s medicine – Hardcore.
Some walk this corridor with their heads held high and their companions in tow. It’s tough to tell who is the patient and who is not, but quickly you realize they are both desperate for the cure. I have become an expert observer implanted in this corridor. All I need do is look in their eyes, and it’s painfully clear to me who has the cancer. I could feel it in my eyes, but I always made contact with the people who lined the corridor as I walked to the back room.
I preferred to walk this corridor alone. With my head held high, and my Kufi slightly cocked, (overtly matching the rest of my outfit), I walked the walk. I realize now that faux confidence and chemo fashion was not enough to mask the reality of Me being the cancer patient... I know it showed in my eyes.
This corridor at 4240 ebbs and flows, at times congested with wheelchaired patients double parked, and other times traffic flowing freely with white coats flapping. Medical personnel move abruptly, identified by their stethoscope yokes and authoritative stride. In the morning the tragic traffic moves non-stop to the infusion suite. Conversation spills over cubicle walls. “How are you doing today? You’re looking good. Hop up here on the scale and then we’ll get your labs” – your labs, that’s code for poking and prodding for uncooperative veins overly stressed by the toxic cure.
In the afternoon the traffic in the corridor moves south... Patients weaving home. Most now need the assistance of their companions. On day two of my two-day treatments, I also walked the corridor with a companion. There was less energy in my step. I was on the verge of sickness and raging inside from hefty doses of steroids. The corridor seemed longer and I no longer made eye contact with its new inhabitants. I just followed Lauren out to the street, preparing myself with each step for the ensuing ordeal.
Today, my thoughts are not focused on me or the removal of my port, but focused on the people in the corridor at 4240. My eyes now scan the hallway for signs of hope. I have hope for the people like me who are forced to inhabit this narrow strip, this corridor that leads to discomfort, sickness, and just maybe their cure. I’m sure to make eye contact with the ones I know are sick, in the chance they can see the hope that now fills my eyes. Thom Jordan Hloden - Cancer Survivor