There isn’t a lot of humor to be found in the infusion suite of a cancer hospital. But there was last Christmas Eve Day. I was there for a twice-a-week infusion, lasting two hours. The infusion stations are separated only by curtains, so I overhear a good many conversations (whether I wish to or not).
An elderly couple arrives.
Nurse: “Do you have family?”
Mom: “Two daughters.”
Nurse: “Oh, how nice!”
Pop: (Snorts.) “You think so, do you? What would you think of a 16-year-old girl who tells you she’s going to the library, but goes to the beach with her boyfriend?”
Mom: (With a satisfied air.) “She learned! She didn’t get her driver’s license till she was 18.”
Nurse: “What about the other one?”
Pop: (Snorts.) “What would you think about a high school girl who comes home from a date tipsy?”
Mom: (An even more satisfied air.) “She learned! She spent prom night at home with us, crying her eyes out.”
Nurse: “Oh. Well! How old are they now?”
Mom: “In their thirties.”
Nurse: “Are you going to see them for Christmas?”
Pop: (Snorts.) “You think they have time for us? For all we see of’em, they might as well live in China.”
Mom: (Sniffling, near tears.) “It’s our own fault, Ray. We spoiled those girls.”
Merry Christmas!
If you’re afflicted, may 2018 be your year for a spontaneous, radical and miraculous remission! And if you’re a caregiver—I wish the same for your loved one, that your yoke will be lighter.
Godspeed.
God, Grit & Chemo 