Nine cycles of heavy chemo behind me I sat quietly in the waiting room amongst my squadron of similar fate patients, all awaiting the heralded radiation beam. My wife sat to my left actively engaged with a seasoned cancer veteran proudly sharing his history of disease-ridden escapades and thankfully – the successful results. Sadly, he was there this day to support his youngest son who had the genetic misfortune of inheriting some bad science.

As I scanned the room I studied each individual, couple, or family – trying to guess who amongst them shared my situation and fate. For some it was easy and obvious, but some showcased no telling evidence on who may next to be called. I could smell no fear or despair and felt somewhat guilty for my own unsettling anxiety and unspecific mental angst. I just wanted to be home and under the comfort of my dark bedroom sanctuary. But many miles away, I knew I simply must tough it out. The regimen was medically understood and all made sense. I just longed for my personal cocoon.

Over the PA a voice announced a “Code Blue” followed by details of which building and room number. This announcement was then repeated. An elderly gentleman sitting with a friend chuckled and said that someone must’ve had a stroke or heart attack. He seemed amused.

I refused to look at him but instead returned to my smart phone and proceeded to take a selection of depressing self-portraits to theatrically highlight my mood and sensibilities. The show must go on.