She smiled at this ludicrous situation. Most revealing in her account was the plural usage. She and I and our two children were in it together. Cancer patients always need someone close by to help them negotiate the very difficult terrain, someone to care for the myriad problems as they arise. As families with cancer know, it is an enveloping situation that affects all areas of life: how do you break the news to loved ones, how to get a loan, where to buy a wig when chemotherapy kicks in, and how to face death. These are the kinds of social and psychological situations that come with cancer, often drag on for months and are very good reasons for having a cancer caring centre beside every major hospital. But there was not one next to the Western General Hospital in Edinburgh, the place where Maggie was to fight her cancer and go for weekly chemotherapy treatments for the next eight weeks. Instead, we encountered a new version of that ludicrous situation. On every visit to recharge her chemo-drip we had to wait in this windowless box and avert our eyes from the other possible victims on death row, sitting opposite, just six feet away. All one could do was hide behind a well-worn copy of Hello!, another version of penitential cheer and have a nice day. The weekly visit to this cramped cell became associated in Maggie's mind with the affliction and the chemotherapy. This was Architectural Aversion Therapy banged in by celebrity-tat, and it formed our resolve. As Maggie was later to write in A View from the Front Line: waiting in itself is not so bad it's the circumstances in which you have to wait that count. Overhead times even neon) lighting, interior spaces with no views out and miserable seating against the walls all contribute to extreme mental and physical enervation. Patients who arrive relatively hopeful soon start to wilt.
She smiled at this ludicrous situation. Most revealing in her account was the plural usage. She and I and our two children were in it together. Cancer patients always need someone close by to help them negotiate the very difficult terrain, someone to care for the myriad problems as they arise. As families with cancer know, it is an enveloping situation that affects all areas of life: how do you break the news to loved ones, how to get a loan, where to buy a wig when chemotherapy kicks in, and how to face death. These are the kinds of social and psychological situations that come with cancer, often drag on for months and are very good reasons for having a cancer caring centre beside every major hospital. But there was not one next to the Western General Hospital in Edinburgh, the place where Maggie was to fight her cancer and go for weekly chemotherapy treatments for the next eight weeks. Instead, we encountered a new version of that ludicrous situation. On every visit to recharge her chemo-drip we had to wait in this windowless box and avert our eyes from the other possible victims on death row, sitting opposite, just six feet away. All one could do was hide behind a well-worn copy of Hello!, another version of penitential cheer and have a nice day. The weekly visit to this cramped cell became associated in Maggie's mind with the affliction and the chemotherapy. This was Architectural Aversion Therapy banged in by celebrity-tat, and it formed our resolve. As Maggie was later to write in A View from the Front Line: waiting in itself is not so bad it's the circumstances in which you have to wait that count. Overhead times even neon) lighting, interior spaces with no views out and miserable seating against the walls all contribute to extreme mental and physical enervation. Patients who arrive relatively hopeful soon start to wilt.
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