The little victories

  It’s odd. The cheeriest person in the room is also the sickest. Her disposition seems as upbeat as the bright sunlight streaming through the window, lighting up the many flower baskets placed there. I’ve been coming to this room every day for two weeks with not much else to offer but a smile and friendly words of inquiry.

 

  Looking around the room, one would see a huge poster with photographs of her life. A photo with her daughter … both of them staring out at you and laughing joyously. There’s a picture of her at her graduation and I wonder what she studied. Her wedding photograph … a beautiful bride beside her smiling husband. I haven’t seen the man smile once over the two weeks.

 

It doesn’t look good. The cancer’s aggressive. The treatment’s palliative.  Time’s limited.

  But she’s perky. Upbeat. She always has a joke or two to tell me. I smile at her never sure if it’s appropriate to smile at her jokes. Her mother’s in an armchair, by the window, not smiling at her jokes. Her husband, well I can almost feel his silent grief intensify beside me with each attempt she makes to lighten the atmosphere. Can you blame them though? Because I can’t.  They won’t have her in a few months.

  I see something new. I’ve seen it before. In my own family.  It happens when you realize how frail you are. When you’ve been told there’s no cure.  I notice first the bottle of holy water tucked under her pillow. I see a rosary hanging off the bed.  They’re doing what we say medically. The cycles of chemo. But they’re also reaching out to the Infinite. They’re asking for a miracle. 

 We talk about the little things. How it was good that she walked the corridor twice today. How she’s able to keep food down better today. How awful hospital food is.

The little victories. They seem to be enough for now. Day by day.

 We chat for a little while longer and I take my leave wishing them a good day. Her mother looks over, smiles and thanks me for coming to spend time with them. She has a kind face. The lady herself says “Same time tomorrow?” “You can count on it,” I reply. “Thanks for coming doctor.”

  I turn to leave.  She’s done more for me than I for her. And all I can think is, it’s just not fair.