Beep, beep, beep.

Photo from “1 in 8 women - breast cancer diary”

Beep, beep, beep.

I walk in the main hall and I get a laminated piece of paper from the worn out paper box. It's my number for the day: 2, 7, 8, 3, 12... I was always one of the first ones.

The rush to get this done. Beep, beep, beep.
You could hear the beeping coming from the last door on the right.

They call my number. I get my blood test done. I leave, walking along the narrow corridor, yellow walls, green chairs. I walk through the physiotherapy department asking myself when I can exercise. I walk, all the way to the cafe. Can’t exercise, but I can get my hot “Prince of Wales” tea in a plain white cup. I can't bend my arm as it’s such a struggle to get that needle for the IV in! So here I am, with my right arm straight and my cup of tea in my left hand, I take a seat and I entertain myself by chatting with strangers until it’s time to get back in to that last door on the right.

I am now in oncology.

“It will take 5 hours the first one” they said - The rush to get this done, the rush to leave this place.
“We don’t know how the body reacts to the treatment.” they said - The rush to get back to normal, the rush to go out and be like everyone else.

Oh, 5 hours seem even longer when there’s air in the line and the IV pump starts beeping. Beep, beep, beep. 
“Someone will be there as soon as possible” - eventually the nurse comes to fix it.

Again, again and again. Air in the line. 
So many stops, “like 5 hours is not long enough” I think.

Beep, beep, beep.
“Can someone come here and fix this?” I’m getting bored.

I want to go home.

And among all these beeps, I learn each time that patience takes practice and waiting is ok.
Every single beep is a reminder that even when things go slow, or don’t go at all, we can still be the lucky ones who walk out that hospital 5 hours later.