I Go Where the Sick & Dying Go...

I go where the sick and dying go.

I hold doors—and space—for those just like me.

Where paper bracelets verify names and birthdays, quietly connected to life-changing diagnoses for reasons we will never understand.

Where everyone looks so different on the outside, but beneath the surface, we are all waging the same war.

I go to a place full of broken dreams, messed up plans, and worry for what the future will bring.

Where the answers we search for are seemingly contaminated by the truth of what it really is.

I go to a place where elevator doors open and close in corridors filled with people engulfed in battle— holding the hands of their loved ones, yet completely alone at 3 a.m. when the darkness creeps in.

I go to a place where numbers on a screen measure the condition of your life and your health—numbers that create expectations of expiration, shaped by bad statistics and good experience.

Where people pass by and their eyes meet mine—some full of hope that the medicine is working, others full of pain and defeat that it is not.

I go to a place where silence is deafening and joy is only found in how well the poison works at killing monsters, evaluated by state-of-the-art technology.

I go to a place where the warm welcome at the door is as wholesome as a friend inviting you in, but the reality of why you’re here is as cold and dark as a winter day in January.

I go to a place where gorgeous young girls hide their sickness and their weakness behind wigs and hats— but when her piercing blue eyes meet mine, I just know.

And I want to scream to her, because I know—she feels the same as me.

Cheated. Robbed. Lied to.

Her bright future hanging in the balance of what could or should be.

But I stay quiet and reserved, because we both know the story is the same—and I can’t fix or change that for her or for me.

We are connected by the voyage, and exhausted by the hills and the valleys.

I visit a place with people whose years are measured with wisdom and success, but here— none of that matters.

I go to a place where you’re lumped into two categories: the sick or the not—despite the inclusion and kindness the staff tries so hard to provide.

We know the raw truth in the ever-changing face of discovery.

I go to a place where even the most educated couldn’t take away the misery that fills the rooms—harsh reminders that life is short, and bodies are just vessels for the soul. Fragile, yet powerful doesn’t come close to describing them.

I walk hallways filled with all walks of life, all sharing one common, life-threatening denominator— one that has taken thousands before us without discrimination.

Eventually, we all will, in fact, pay the ultimate price—one way or another.

I go to a place where I am classified as the unhealthy to the “lucky ones”—where whispers are as loud as screams, and smirks feel as fake as the smiles returned with unspoken thoughts always heard:“better you than me.”

I go to a place I would beg to never go back to—but I know that’s not possible.

For this is the lifeline. The protection I must carry.

And I know that without these visits—I will die.

We all share the same tale.

We are cancer patients.

We show up. We give the blood. We take the antidote. We abide by the rules.

And we look forward to healing and the promises of tomorrow.

We believe in the power of God and the universe, and eventually understand that this doesn’t define who we are.

It doesn’t measure the content of our character.

This is something that happened to us—not something we did in negligence.

Even when we are too weak to stand, we rise with fire in our bones, wearing a suit of armor we had to learn to strap on while the ground was crumbling beneath us.

We are the warriors. The misfits. The bent but not broken.

The test dummies. The sacrifice in the name of science.

We are the ones who pave the way for the children.

We know that each day earthside is one step closer to breakthroughs for generations that will come long after us.

We are bold. We are fearless—but by force, not by choice.

And there are people in this place who know and believe that the power we hold is unmatched.

I go to a place where the sick and dying go, and I visit there with steadfast loyalty and optimism.

It is a place I would love to never walk through again— but I am thankful for those very same doors that willingly open when I step forward.

I visit here with grace and honor for those who can’t, because I know the blessings before me have allowed for this.

With a diagnosis of uncertainty, I became cultivated in a subject that brings so much sadness and despair to others.

I have learned that fighting for yourself is the only option—and that choosing love is the only way.

I’ve reinvented myself over and over again in my head, imagining different paths, wanting so much more out of life as fast as it can happen.

I hate it here in this cancer-soaked hospital—but I’ve never been more thankful for it at the same time.

For I know and have seen firsthand the wounds that become permanent scars on the hearts of the families of the less fortunate.

Each day, I remember and honor those who didn’t—or couldn’t—make it here due to money, insurance, or circumstance.

I have answered life’s hardest questions and placed my faith, my hope, and even my victories into the hands of others.

In the suspense of results, I have felt the rawness of the human condition and witnessed what happens when fear wins.

For so many, this place is not just a test or a season—

So while you’ve been busy worrying about tomorrow, wearing brand-name, rose-colored glasses—

I’ve been sitting in a cold hallway, praying that tomorrow will even come.

—Dana English