Onco Waiting Room

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I see you.
But like you, you won't see me noticing you as you notice me.
We won't talk.
We're scared.
We're not brave.
But they can't tell.
We need to be quiet to pretend we are not scared, that this is normal and okay.
Are you here for chemo?
Are you going to get better or die soon?
Am I?
Sorry if you're in pain but I won't say that.
We do this alone. Even if somebody is with us.
The others don't understand. Some of them try. But they don't.
We allow them to say senseless words. Meaningless advice. Ignorant nonsense. But they seem to need to utter.
So for those of us doing the waiting, we grant each other the absence of language.
But I see you.
You can't read that book.
Your leg is bouncing.
That coffee won't get finished.
You keep looking at the door both wishing it would open with your name announced and also for it to remain forever closed.
What if you left? Simply walked around outside? Got pizza? We've all thought it. But we wait. We won't leave.
Wait for the poison that makes you sick in hopes that it makes your sickness die but lets you live longer.
We wait for that slow poison that will be worse than last time.
Are they running late? Aren't they always?
But I'm here. They told me to be on time. Really?
Always new reasons for the delays leaving spaces for fear to squeeze through.
Your gray skin scares me.
I'm sorry.
I see you. I feel you. I am you.
Call my name. Don't.
Look. Look away.