Not Yet

by Donna Poole

When life revolves around waiting rooms, infusions, clinical trials, tests, procedures, and doctor visits, you make your own fun.

I do it every time a medical person asks me the question they always ask. Said medical person has my records and has already been introduced to Morticia, my lung tumor.

“Do you smoke, Mrs. Poole?” They ask this elderly woman with cancer.

“Not yet.”

I wish I had photos of the shocked expressions. Then I laugh, they laugh, everyone laughs. Except John. My husband has heard it a few too many times, and he didn’t think it was funny the first time. I, however, find it more hilarious every time I say it.

Not yet!

I don’t always use that phrase in a humorous way.

“Do you want a wheelchair, honey?”

John looked at me with concern and motioned to the row of wheelchairs ready and waiting outside of the Rogel Cancer Center at University of Michigan Hospital. I was already short of breath and leaning hard on his arm, and we’d only walked from the parking lot to the entrance. We still had a long way to go to get to Star Ship Enterprise where I’d have my high-resolution chest CT scan.

I looked at the maize and blue wheelchairs and hesitated, tempted. Then I shook my head.

“Not yet.”

I didn’t have to say more; John knew what I meant. This “not yet” wasn’t joking.

I want to walk when I can as long as I can.

As usual, I regretted my decision half-way there, and there was no Scotty to beam me up. My legs felt like cooked elbow macaroni, and my vision blurred. I’m not sure why I’m so stubborn about the wheelchair, but I cling hard to the things I can still do.  

With unspoken gratitude to the person who’d invented handrails along hospital corridors, I finally arrived at my destination and collapsed into a chair.

How many times had I been to this room?

I was losing count.

In two years, I’d had twenty-six CT scans and twelve PET scans, but this would be my first high resolution CT. I fell in love with high resolution the moment I found out I didn’t have to drink the wonderful Kool-Aid—AKA barium. Not only that, but I didn’t even need a needle poke for contrast dye. This wonderful machine, in about three minutes, did a Dr. Leonard “Bones” McCoy worthy examination on my lungs. It saw things in minute detail a regular CT can only dream about.

The examination completed; we began making our way back to the parking lot. Stopping to catch my breath, I leaned against a handrail. A tall man with dark curly hair hesitated behind us. He was pushing a shiny metal cart with some boxes on it. He paused and looked at us with concern.

“You can go around us.” John laughed. “We’re slow.”

He nodded and steered his cart by us. When he got even with us, he stopped. Above the hospital required mask, the man’s blue eyes locked with mine.

“I hope everything will be okay,” he said.

His voice carried so much compassion. I looked at him, startled.

Are you an angel?

He was everyman. He was every good man and good woman who stops to show compassion to a stranger. Just six words, but tears stung my eyes, and still do when I remember him.

I’m not ready to give up on people. Not yet.