Originally written in 2014.
I’m in the cafeteria at MD Anderson Cancer Center. My mom is getting some tests done. To my left sits a group of Japanese doctors. They’re visitors. The only thing I know about them is that one of the female doctors gave up her chair so that our family could all be seated. I say, “Thank you.” She elegantly bows her head in acknowledgement.
To the right across the aisle is an Indian man with a bad comb-over. Next to him is a man who clearly has spent some time lifting weights. Just beyond him sits a black lady with a tube attached to her chest next to a clearly visible scar. She looks like she’s praying. Not too far from them is a teenage girl whose bald head announces the reason we are all here.
Some, like us, are here for an initial visit hoping for a diagnosis that doesn’t have the dreaded “c-word.” Some have been here long enough that their bodies have been weakened by the poison that is being used to fight the “c-word.” There are too many of them. A father and son sharing a tablet computer while they wait. A husband gently holding his wife’s hand. A teenage girl hanging out with her mom. Another bald man…sitting alone…staring off into the distance. A lady in green shirt that looked like a turtle shell whose smile and returning hair seemed to be saying, “There’s hope.” A Chinese lady whose eyes peer above a mask that covers the rest of her face. Our eyes met. I smiled. Her mask changed shape. I hope it was a smile.
You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that the “c-word” is no respecter of race or age. It doesn’t care if you have a bad comb-over or a perfect hair-style. It doesn’t notice if you have great muscles or if you’ve never been to a gym. It. Just. Strikes.
And so we wait. And wait. Some for a diagnosis. Some for the next treatment…linked together by the dreaded “c-word.”
The people who work here do what they can to make you feel comfortable. Nurses smile as they go about their work. Volunteers have conversations with patients that help to take your mind off of things. A lady comes by delivering free hot tea or coffee or hot chocolate. I’ll remember the happy nurse on the elevator who invited is in to a crowded elevator. “C’mon on in, honey, we’re all family here.” Yeah, let’s be linked together by that.
The tag line on the signs here at MD Anderson is “Making Cancer History.” May it be so. Until then, I pray. For the patients…for doctors and nurses and researchers…for my friends, Shannon and Amy…for my momma…
Right now, we wait…and pray.
>>>>>> April 24, 2025
Now, 11 years later, it’s Dad’s turn. We’re not in those same halls, but the waiting feels just as heavy. I catch myself thinking of those others like I did years ago—the ones I watched and quietly prayed for. Different place, different time, but the same questions, the same hoping. This time, it’s our family again, holding our breath, waiting for answers. Will you pray for him? For clarity in the treatment plan, for healing, and for the kind of peace that only God can give.
Steven Bradshaw 