Its been a while! I stopped updating this blog a couple of years ago because once chemo was over and things had returned mostly to normal I figured I could put it all behind me. My journey was over, right?

Wrong! I have come to realize that as a cancer survivor, your journey is never really over. It changes who you are inside. It is an experience I have come to appreciate after a couple of years just how much so. You may not think about it for a few days or so, but then someone mentions that they or someone they know has cancer, or has lost the battle with cancer, and it brings it all back. Wham! I still can have a bowel movement on occasion and the toxic chemotherapy chemical odor will be there, which means that even after more than two years after finishing chemo, the chemicals are still affecting my body. My balance is seriously messed up still, and is a constant reminder of what has been. But, on the positive side, I get so many people ask about how I am doing or say they are still praying for me. And that makes it all worthwhile!

Two Ordinary, Extraordinary Chairs

The other day, while awaiting the results of my latest CT scan, I let my eyes wander around the small exam room in my oncologist’s office. Everything was clean. There were tissues, sanitizer, the disposable paper on the table on which I sat awaiting the arrival of the doctor. Heck, even the computer monitor looked recently dusted. Then, my eyes became drawn to the two ordinary chairs directly across from me. In contrast to all of the brightness, these two chairs were a bit on the worn side. They were clean enough, I suppose, but they were definitely a little threadbare. Yet, it struck me then how extraordinary these two ordinary chairs were.

Why? Because these were the chairs of the care givers. I was a patient, so I was on the table. These, though – these chairs had been used by thousands of husbands, wives, mothers and fathers to support them as they were supporting their loved ones who sat on the table. The backs of these chairs were not very worn, mainly the bottom. These people were not relaxed and at ease, sitting with their backs pressed to the rear cushion. Instead, it was clear that most were leaning forward, soaking up the words of the oncologist as he or she shared with them information about the cancer patient they cared about. How many, if not sitting in the chairs for support, would have fainted in grief at being told there was nothing more to be done, or practically passed out with relief as good news washed over them?

Cancer affects the patient, of course, but I often think it is harder on the ones in those chairs. Personally, I thank God with all of my heart that I am the one there on the table and not my wife or daughter, my Mom or Dad or Brother. There again, though, I am positive that they would all change places with me without a second thought. Such is the circle of suffering for many cancer patients and their families. Yet, these two chairs quietly lend their sturdy, unfailing support to those loving supporters that share our burdens with us. That is what makes these ordinary chairs quite extraordinary.