18. Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
A ngie managed the first round of chemotherapy, as well as the accompanying medications: steroids and nausea meds. She did as much as she could at work, washing her hands constantly and not spending too much time among the public, anxious not to catch anything. And when she did have to mix with crowds, she wore a mask. Despite all the support—and she knew how lucky she was to have that—no one close to her truly knew what she was going through. It was as if a thin wall had been thrown up separating her from the rest of the world. Cancer made her feel singled out, which made her feel alone, despite always being around other people.
Fed up with feeling depressed and needing to deal with it somehow, she finally opened the folder she’d received at the oncologist’s office. It had sat untouched on her kitchen table since she dropped it there the day she learned she had cancer. She leafed through it, reading all the information provided, until she found the page that listed the support group. It gave the day (Wednesdays), the time (six p.m.), and the location (a room on the second floor of the hospital).
She stared at it and sighed. Finally, she decided she’d give it a try. If she didn’t like it, if it was too depressing or made her feel worse, she wouldn’t go back. She’d try this first before asking Dr. Acker for antidepressants.
She arrived at the hospital fifteen minutes early, having not told anyone of her plans as she didn’t want them making a big fuss. And they were a family that loved to fuss over people and things. She loved them, but she needed to do this for herself, by herself.
The room was not far from the cafeteria. Her goal was to find a seat at the back where she could observe. As she stepped inside, she winced, disappointed to see the chairs were arranged in a circle. That formation suggested sharing and intimacy. She almost backed out of the room but a voice behind her said, “Are you coming or going?”
“Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” Angie said, stepping out of the way.
The person behind her was a middle-aged Black woman who wore a headscarf in bright shades of gold, red, and orange. She leaned heavily on a leopard-print cane and as she passed Angie, she said, “You’re new. Come on, you can sit next to me. I don’t bite.”
Dutifully, Angie followed her and took the seat next to her.
Once the woman settled in her chair, she turned to Angie and held out her hand. Her fingernails were acrylic and bright pink. “I’m Nena. Liver cancer.”
Angie shook her hand. “Angie. Breast cancer.”
“Welcome.”
Angie looked around. By the looks of it, it was an education room. Posters were tacked up on the wall, showcasing various diseases: heart disease, diabetes, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, and others. There was a table against the wall with a practice defibrillator and the CPR mannequin, Annie.
People began to file into the room, about ten or twelve in total. It was obvious to Angie that they were all at different stages of their disease. Some wore a head covering or a wig. And some had a full head of hair. She’d learned from Nena that she’d been doing well for three years but her cancer had returned. Angie didn’t know what to say to that. She hadn’t even thought about the possibility of cancer returning. But then she remembered Grammie’s oft-repeated advice about worry: Don’t borrow trouble .
An elderly man jauntily walked in and smiled when he spotted Nena. She patted the empty chair on the other side of her and he made his way to it. Once seated, he leaned past Nena and said to Angie, “A newcomer? First time here?” His voice was hoarse.
“It is,” she replied, swallowing hard.
“This is a lot of fun,” he said.
Angie thought the support group would be a lot of things, but fun wasn’t one of them.
Nena gestured toward the man and said, “This guy here with a head like an egg is Floyd.”
Floyd laughed, his shoulders shaking. He rubbed his hand over his bare head. “I lost all my hair one month into my treatment.”
Angie was about to murmur a sympathetic response when Nena let out a loud round of laughter, startling her. “Well, Floyd, you only had seven strands to begin with. So it wasn’t much of a loss, now, was it?”
Floyd laughed, scratching his head. “I suppose you’re right, Nena.”
“I’ll tell you what I tell my husband, Frank. I’m always right,” Nena said.
“You two are pretty cheery for cancer patients,” Angie blurted, immediately regretting her choice of words.
The smiles disappeared from their faces, but they appeared not to be offended.
“We’re farther into our journey than you are,” Nena explained.
“Colon cancer,” Floyd said, raising his hand.
“Why are you raising your hand, you old fool,” Nena said with a laugh. “This isn’t a classroom.”
“Old habits die hard,” he joked.
A smile emerged on Angie’s face.
“Ah, there it is, she can smile,” Nena said.
“I knew it! We haven’t scared her off yet.” Floyd chuckled.
Nena looked at Angie and said, “The two of us can be overwhelming to the newcomers.”
A woman stood up from one of the chairs. She had long blond hair and wore a figure-hugging black dress with black boots and a bright orange cardigan.
“For those of you who are new, I’m Katharine, and I’m the moderator of the support group.” She sat and crossed one leg over the other, setting a clipboard on her lap. “Why don’t we go around the room and introduce ourselves. I encourage everyone to contribute, but if you’re not yet ready to share, that’s okay too.” She looked at Angie and smiled.
It was like being called on in class and not knowing the answer.
Angie took a good look at the people that sat around the circle. They were of varying ages, and there was a woman who sat across from her, looking thin and pale, who Angie clocked as being younger than herself.
They did a quick round, telling everyone their names and adding anything they wanted to about themselves. More than half were retired and spoke about grandchildren. The young woman across from Angie was called Lisa, and she had two young children.
When her turn came, Angie simply said, “My name is Angie, and I own Coffee Girl.”
There came a chorus of “I knew you looked familiar,” “I love your pastry hearts,” and her favorite, “I love your dueling sandwich boards with Java Joe’s.”
One of the women in the group nodded to Angie and said, “I see you’re sitting with the troublemakers.” Everyone laughed.
“Maybe we’ll go around the circle again,” Katharine said, “and you can tell me what you think about your own personal journey with cancer.”
When it came time for Angie to speak, she said simply, “To be honest, in the beginning, I was more angry than scared. Angry at how it was going to interfere with my life and the job I love. But now I feel isolated. No one else in my orbit really understands what I’m going through.”
There was a round of understanding nods and sympathetic smiles.
Next to her, Nena spoke up. “Well then, it’s great that you’re here. Because we do understand what you’re going through.”
When it was Floyd’s turn, he leaned forward, hands on his knees, and in total seriousness said, “Well, to be honest, from the beginning, I’ve always thought if I could survive my wife’s cooking, I could beat cancer.”
Some snorted, others guffawed. Angie covered her face with her hand and shook with laughter.
As the meeting was winding down, Katharine reminded everyone that there’d be no meeting the following week due to Thanksgiving. The hour flew by as they spoke openly about their anger and frustration as well as their hopes, and as Angie walked out the door, she knew she’d return.
It was the first time since she was diagnosed that she didn’t feel so alone.