Archives of The Cheerful Oncologist, Volume 2

The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea.

“Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.”

F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, 1925

If we think of a serious illness as a storm, pummeling our bodies with humiliating downpours of pain, pinning our arms and legs down with gusts of demoralizing fatigue and petrifying us with sudden claps of fear, then what happens if, by the grace of God and modern medical care, we get better?

The storm overcomes us, then the storm passes on. Whether it is a gradual withdrawal like a long spring shower or an explosion of sound and fury that hits fast and then just as quickly plows on toward the horizon, once the sickness passes we peek out from our hospital rooms, standing on steadier legs, perhaps anticipating a good meal for the first time in weeks. As we feel better our world becomes larger once again. The forecast reads bright.

The illness passes and the darkness parts in the distance. We come to the window as Daisy Buchanan does in the novel and see the transition unfolding before our eyes. The burden over our heads has moved on. The barrier that separated us from the giddy courage crouched within our hearts, that smothered the flashes of brazen, aching desire we cannot control, is gone, and now we move as if awakened from a deep sleep. We are released from the self-absorption of our symptoms, free to once again reach out as far as our arms can take us - all the way to the clouds if we dare.

If disease is a gray fog or a wailing bank of blackness driving us into hiding, then recovery is a lovely sunset swirling with pink and orange clouds, bringing us outdoors where the night breeze caresses faces leaning toward the west.

How wonderful it is to be well again. As the indigo of night drifts downward and crickets hiding in the grass stir to life, we suddenly yawn and rise, overcome with a yearning for sleep. Only a lone shadow remains on the veranda, silently watching the nothing that rules all once the sun is gone. His back is to the doorway as he settles in under the lattice of stars.

“How long are you going to wait?”
“All night, if necessary. Anyhow, till they all go to bed.”

Perhaps someone will approach him and politely inquire about his health: is he feeling better? Wouldn’t he like to turn in now?

“But I didn’t call to him, for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone - he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling.”

Why would anyone, after surviving the hardship of illness, refuse to get some well-deserved rest? What is in the night sky that tempts this weary one to stay on?

“Oh, I’m not one of the patients,” he replies. “I’m the doctor who cared for them throughout their illness.”

“But why are you still up?”

“I’m waiting for the next storm.”