Neverending

For a moment I hated my doctor today. I hated that he wouldn't tell me this was my last chemo dose, or even second to last. He told me he was encouraged, but he offered no words committing himself.

Maybe he was in a bad mood, maybe he was having an off day. Doesn't he know that I'm riding on his words, waiting for the one key sentence "You're done!"

How many longing eyes He must look into, those searching for the glimmer of hope that He bares.

Then I closed my eyes for a moment, and let things shift back:

• This dreadful room that made no attempt to be anything but a medical establishment is unexpectedly peaceful.
• The frightening drugs are not as scary with my loved one always next to me.
• The needles, syringes, and IV blur into the background as my nurse waits on me. No matter how many other people she is dealing with at the same time, she always makes me feel special.
• And the patients. We hardly exchange words, we know how much the other suffers. But underneath it all there is an unspoken affection that makes us acknowledge one another, if only by an exchange of smiles.
  

Almost as soon as I hated my doctor, I loved him again. He is given the difficult task of seeing me all the way through the treatment, even though my weary eyes always beg him to stop. He possess to the objective clarity that I completely lack. This is a man that not only really wants me to get well again, but he still believes I can.

We have an agreement Him and I, we're not going to give up on each other - no matter what.