The following is a somewhat edited version of what I shared with the hospital staff that cared for me while I was in-patient for my chemotherapy and various infections/dramas over the past year or so. Names, room numbers, and identifiable details have been changed to protect the innocent.
 
Dear Nurses, CAPs, Social Workers, Chaplains, Custodial Staff, and everyone who chooses to work with oncology patients:
It was April 2nd last year when I arrived at for my first in-patient chemotherapy treatment. It was my second cycle, but my first that would be 5 days in a row and all as a patient at the hospital. I was entirely freaked out.
If I learned anything over 15 months of cancer, it’s that I prefer to be prepared for things. I’ll take a surprise here and there, but I like to have an idea of what is to come. My many questions to those who make the appointments about how in-patient would be different and what I should do to prepare were not enough for the over-planner in me. The only thing I had confirmed ahead of my arrival was that I could wear my own pajamas and I would probably want to bring my own toothbrush because the toothbrushes issued at the hospital were not very good.
So I arrived on the morning of April 2nd with a small suitcase packed with pajamas, my toothbrush, and some comfortable clothes.  Scared, tired (it was very early in the morning), and confused (read: cranky), it would take a dynamic duo to gently get me to a place of normalcy. It was Nurse#1 who got me settled into a room, accessed, and, after we talked with the doctor, she would try to explain to me the process and that there would be waiting before the infusion started. We waited mostly in silence, Kathy and I, there in what we would forever think of as: The worst. Room. Ever.  Room 111.  In silence, we each still had no confidence about knowing what was going to happen next. I wanted Kathy to be okay going to work, but I couldn’t speak to tell her. Every time I tried to say something I would just cry instead. Saying “I’m fine,” while tears run down your face isn’t very convincing.
Then the Nurse#2 popped in. She had met us during Chemo Class (staff know it as TLC). She offered more comfort and tried to get me to eat.  I would eventually form an internal habit where every time I see Nurse#2, I try to remember the last protein I’ve eaten. This continues to this day. Nurse#2 seemed to recognize my misery (I can’t imagine how pathetic I must have appeared at the time) and somehow got me switched to the Best. Room. Ever. (Room 222) after another patient was discharged. By the time we moved, I had eaten chicken tenders (thanks, Nurse#2), calmed down to a reasonable blood pressure, and Kathy went to work for a bit.
I’m happy to say that arrivals in the many future visits would never be so gloomy. I always had anxiety before a treatment and I always had to arrive at unreasonable times in the morning. I apologize for any arrival crankiness on my part. No matter how disappointed I would be to not get back to the delish Room 222, I would always be grateful that my stay wasn’t long enough to warrant needing that room. And no matter who received my disappointment on those mornings, please know it was always more about the anxiety of a looming treatment (and a lack of caffeine) and never about you or the room.
My stays with you and my many visits to your department were a highlight of my chemotherapy. Yes, it sucks having cancer. Yes, chemotherapy sucks on a much greater level. But, if it’s something that has to be endured, you made up some of the best parts of the experience.
I eventually formed my in-patient routine. My small suitcase grew in its contents when I learned I could bring my own pillow and blanket. I turned every hospital room into my mobile office when I learned that I would feel fine DURING treatments — it’s after the treatments that were a bummer. I would enjoy 7am walks around the floor with my music watching the shift change on the days I had energy — those walks were all due to the dexamethasone (we called it DexamethaMagic in my house) as I assure you I’ve never taken a 7am walk at any other time in my life.
Over the year in which I received chemo, my family would celebrate every (local) family member’s birthday in my hospital room, except for my birthday, which made sense to all of us. We played cards, watched football, ate dinner using the bed as our dining table, and only got shushed once (that one was worth it, but we’re still sorry).
As crazy as it may sound, I will always treasure my time with you. I will carry with me the way night-shift nurses would peek in to make sure I was okay and the way you kindly helped me to prop my hands up when I slept so they wouldn’t swell (darn all that saline!). I will always laugh about the time I got stuck in the bathroom in the middle of the night (I couldn’t turn the doorknob) and a CAP saved me. And I’ll always tell my friends that there is a place where you can press a call button and someone will take care of a spider for you (thanks, CAPpy).
My chemo ended in March. It was decided to skip the final two cycles, which meant I wouldn’t get to have my final in-patient party. This may be for the best, because no one wants to be shushed twice.  If we could have that party, I’d fill the place with bright banners. They would be blank. You see, there are no words that can adequately describe the gratitude held by me and my family for all you have done for us over the past year.  Every member of your team is a part of the most magical healing force that humans can provide. It’s not just the clean rooms that keep us free of disease, the medicines to treat everything, and the words of comfort. It’s more than the lifting of spirits, the support, and many (many!) pink pitchers of water. What you do is the stuff of superheroes with amazing gifts used in support of others.
I will forever be grateful for the work you choose to do and humbled by the ways in which you all do it.