A week after chemo, I am back at the cancer care for my check-up. I walk in and the receptionist behind the counter recognizes me–that can’t be good.  “Hi, Ms. Scott.”  I convey that I am surprised she remembers me and joke that it probably isn’t good; she is seeing me too often.  No longer any need to explain who I am and why I am there.

Parking lot full. Waiting room about 1/2 full.  Driving in today my mind is flooded with thoughts. I got sober and clean in a 12-step program, have been clean and sober over 25 years.  I have seen people from all walks of life.  Alcoholism does not discriminate; all are welcome–doctors, lawyers, musicians, presidents, beggars, homeless people, and people just like you and me.  There is no charge for meetings; all that is needed is a desire to stop drinking.

Sitting here in the waiting room, I realize that is just the way cancer is: it does not discriminate. But you know what? Treating cancer is not free. I am lucky; I have pretty good insurance, and most of my care is covered under my policy.  But what about others?

I look around and I can tell some of the people here cannot afford care.  What then?  Not only do they have to worry about the cancer but about how in the hell to pay for treatment.  Stress is not good for recovery.  Hard to keep your armor up with all these outside forces clinging and pulling constantly.

I eavesdrop on conversations going on in the room.  There is an old warrior, around 60, not far from me.  She grew up around Folly Beach but now lives in this area–“landlocked”–jokes about the beach at Fort Yargo.  She is talking to another woman who is also in her 60’s.

This woman’s hair is starting to grow back and it looks like her granddaughter is with her.  The granddaughter never stops rubbing the woman’s head.  I totally understand–I like rubbing my bald head also.  The two women are talking and other people are listening; I can tell because I see others nodding their heads as the first woman speaks.  She had lung cancer, and now the cancer is in the lymph nodes in her chest.  Terminal.  But she says no. “I have grandchildren to raise and God knows it.  He knows what he is doing.”  She believes that everyone’s days are numbered and only God knows how long we each have.  God took a 10-year-old but look at her, 60 and still here. Why?

The ladies drift in and out of different conversations.  Paula Deen’s name is mentioned and I just about fall out of my chair.  The waiting room is full of people of all colors and I am sure all religions.  These are two Southern women who feel that Deen is getting a raw deal.  Thankfully that subject passes quickly and we are back talking about cancer.

I am trying to write all this stuff down when a couple takes the chairs next to me.  These two are great. He is wearing blue jean shorts, a polo shirt, and a cowboy hat.  She looks scared and nervous. I can tell he is the one there for treatment. He is pale but looks at me and I say, “What’s up, dude?”

She is handling all the paperwork and walks away to discuss it with someone.  He smiles at her and says, “You take care of that and I’ll talk to her.”  He smiles and says, “Tell me about the chemo.”

I am like, “It’s not good.”  Then I feel bad for saying it so I just tell him about the fatigue.  We laugh. He had to have radiation first, then chemo.  Starts chemo tomorrow; he has lung cancer and cancer in his hip.  He asks about mine. “Breast cancer.” He says, “At least you can lick that. Mine is terminal.”  I say, “But you are alive today.”

He is a guy who has always worked hard, probably construction.  He started feeling more fatigued than normal. Lost 30 lbs., started worrying.  His wife took him to the hospital.  He told me the doctor almost cried when he told him he thought it was cancer.  Of course, his wife broke down and he tells me she is still having problems, crying and upset today.  He said–to both of them–no use crying over spilled milk.  We talk more and just enjoy helping each other get through the day.

His wife walks up and says, “They are going to charge us $15 to fill out the paperwork.”  She says, “I will find $15 somehow.  I borrowed money from my sisters to pay the last two bills.”  I look at her and say, “I will pay it.”  She starts crying. He says, “You don’t have to do that.”  I walk to the counter and give them the $15.  The receptionist says, “That is very nice, Ms. Scott.”

I don’t know; it just felt like the right thing to do.  I spent the morning drive thinking about people without insurance and the universe put them right in front of me.  Cancer, like alcoholism, is an equalizer.  It is just unfair that medical treatment puts so many people in debt so they not only have to struggle with the disease but also the financial burden that is placed on them.

I go back and sit down with this couple and we continue to talk.  They live in Walton County, have been married 18 years, have two children, live in a trailer park, and have no insurance.  I tell them about my morning drive in. They show me pictures of their kids.  We exchange phone numbers. He talks about God and how he cannot understand how he ended up with cancer.  He knows guys who smoke five packs a day – he only smoked one.  How did he get it and not them?

I do not have an answer.  I know that the God I believe in did not give me cancer.  I believe that bad things happen sometimes.  I do not think God sends hurricanes, floods, tornadoes, cancer, AIDS, or any other horrible thing.  Bad things just happen.

There is an Iris Dement song I love called “The Night I Learned How Not to Pray.” Part of the lyrics are:

“That was the night I learned how not to pray
God does what God wants to anyway”

I love that song, but that is not how I feel.  I think bad things happen and God gives us the people and the things in our lives that we need at the time.  We just have to be open and willing to receive them.  I am not a religious person at all, but I do believe in something bigger than me. Call it God or call it nature or call it the universe, or maybe it is just the goodness and kindness of humankind.