Land of the Ill

(Or, suspended between floors)

The elevator took forever. Long enough for me to really notice.

There were three of us inside: two who had just stepped in and one already standing there. She was holding a small white sticker with a printed code. I knew immediately what it meant. Parking validation.

Patients receiving infusions, whether chemo, immunotherapy, or radiation, do not pay for parking. Scans, follow-ups, side effects, and everything else are on us. But on treatment days, the cost of being kept alive is not measured in dollars. It’s an appreciated mercy in a time that can feel merciless.

I was wearing a mask. Not because of the cancer, but because my kid brought home a respiratory infection. It’s not COVID, not flu, not strep. Just something that sits heavy in my chest, making breathing and being more difficult than usual.

The woman with the sticker looked both frail and strong. That particular combination is one I know well. She could not see my face behind the mask, but she could see the smile in my eyes.

“Did you just finish an infusion?” I asked.

She nodded.

I reached into my bag and handed her a Cancer Sharks card. “This is something I made. A reminder to keep swimming. I have Stage IV melanoma.”

Her face lit up.

It was a small thing. A simple, quiet exchange in a steel box suspended between hospital floors. But it felt like more than that.

Because in the land of the ill, nothing we do will ever make it forever go away. Not the treatments. Not the conversations. Not even the smiles. But we do it anyway.

And I choose to believe that every small, positive something matters, especially when everything else feels impossibly insurmountable.