If
a writer keeps his eyes and ears open he/she can find story material
anywhere.
For
the past month my wife has been going five days per week to the
cancer center forty miles from our home. Her cancer showed up early
on the mammogram, and the doctors think that lumpectomy and
radiation treatments will probably take care of it. I often accompany
her, sitting in the small waiting room provided for family members
during the ten or fifteen minutes the patient is under the big X-ray
machine.
I
see other patients come and go, get to recognize some of them who are
scheduled before and after my wife. Some are gaunt, resigned,
chronically ill appearing. Others are matter of fact or cheerful. One
morning, even before entering the room, I could see a middle-aged
woman writhing in agony, standing by one of the chairs, leaning on it
for support. As we entered, she staggered into one of the dressing
cubicles “Do you need help?” my wife asked. Half reclining on
the little bench in the cubicle, she gave a wan smile and said no.
The
radiology tech called my wife into the corridor to the treatment room
just then; I kept a concerned eye on the half-open curtain where the
lady was still reclining but apparently resting. I wondered what kind
of malignancy would cause such an event, but I was reluctant to
appear nosy. Presently a man entered the waiting room, and the woman
said, “In here.” He turned to her and calmly reported that the
doctor said he was making good progress. It was he who had the
cancer. She got up and they left. My wife and I speculated on a
diagnosis of panic attack about her husband's condition.
On
another morning, my curiosity was aroused when a young woman who
appeared to be six or seven months pregnant came in and sat down.
Why would she be getting radiation treatments during pregnancy? I
wondered. A few minutes later, the elderly man who is usually ahead
of my wife on the schedule came back from his treatment and started a
conversation with the girl, apparently his granddaughter. Not
wanting to appear nosy, I kept my eyes on the book I was reading, but
I couldn't fail to notice the big plastic frame he had set on the floor by his chair. It looked like it would fit snugly over the
front half of his head and chest.
The
granddaughter, apparently an intern at a nearby law firm, was about
to take him with her while she monitored the trial of a young man who
was charged with murdering two family members. She had no part in the
trial, except to observe her law firm in action. "You have to be sure
to sit in the prosecution's side of the balcony,” she cautioned her
granddad, “If you take a seat on the defense's side, you'll make me
look bad to my boss.”
She
got up to go down the hall for a few minutes, and I took the
opportunity to ask the elderly man about the plastic wire frame on
the floor. “Oh, this is my last day of treatment, and they let me
take it home. It fits over me on the X-ray table, reminds me to
stay still, and these little holes on each side of the neck show the
technician exactly where to direct the beam.
“And
what will you do with it at home?” I asked.
“Gonna
put it in my scrap book!”
He
had came up here from California to visit his daughter two months
ago, got sick here, and found he had cancer of the tongue.
My
wife had returned from treatment and was ready to go. But if a writer
pays attention to what's going on around him, he can find the
beginnings of a story almost anywhere.
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