Years later, when someone asked me, “How are you today?”, they would have responded “fine” or “great.” But that automatic response feels false in a time of pandemics, hurricanes and disappointing politics. But I am always looking for a happy shelter where I can express my joyous self.
This may surprise you.
Think about all the times and places that are thrown into the door with strangers – in supermarkets, in elevators, in the automotive department.
Most of the time, we go silently, protecting our own boundaries and respecting other boundaries.
These isolated behaviors are magnified when sitting in the clinic’s waiting room and fall into higher power when in a cancer treatment clinic.
But there’s a magical moment when an emotionally-free assembly line turns into a small community, and when a chemotherapy parlor suddenly looks like an old-fashioned beauty salon.
Come to St. Anthony’s Hospital in St. Pete for a moment. We will bring an elevator to the fifth floor where Florida cancer experts live.
There are about 20 chairs in the waiting room, most of which are filled. Sitting are cancer patients, and by age, hair loss, and illness pall, you can know who they are. They are waiting to be called for blood tests, consultations with a doctor, or injected with chemotherapy or other treatments. My wife Karen hopes that her favorite easy chair will be available in the parlour.
Chemotherapy is a type of e-music expression of the word poison. Karen injects poison into a harbor near her collarbone. It aims to target cancer cells in her body and kill them. It’s a serious business.
Karen’s blood work seems good on this day, and consultations with the doctor are positive and compatible. I kiss her with the promise to pick her up in a few hours. I promise to have dinner for us that night.
On my way out, I can’t help but notice the line of elderly patients sitting in succession. He stares at the aquarium, smiling and refers to the fish’s antics.
(I happen to know that workers check fish tanks daily to make sure that random dead fish do not recall the patient’s mortality rate.)
Right now I have a problem. To get to the elevator, you will have to walk in front of the fish girder.
I wanted to avoid being rude, like walking in front of cinema screens or ducking in front of predicted computer screens in the meeting room.
“Sorry,” I said. Six or seven members of the audience headed towards me. I can’t explain why I did what I did next. I crouched forward. I sucked my lips like a fish. He shook his elbow like a chick. I made the burling sound: “brlup, brlup, brlup.”
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I turned around and saw the woman sitting at the edge of the line. She sported the distinctive shade of red hair that Octorserarians like. Her eyes were wide.
“I’m a clown fish!” I spewed.
“I love you!” she said.
If we can find moments of peace and joy in places like this, we may have hope in all of us in our daily lives.
