Chemo Chronicles V5: What do you call this room?

What do you call a room with four women and no talking?

I’ve been thinking about it. It’s clearly the chemo room, but that doesn’t begin to cover it.

It might be a nap salon — where no one asked for a blow-out but we all left a little lighter.

Or maybe a spa for the terminally exhausted, featuring the latest in drip-infused “glow from within” technology.

Some days it feels like the quiet car on the Cancer Express — no loud talking, no snacks, and you’re not sure where you’ll end up, but everyone’s ticket cost too much.

The Waiting Room for the Brave, perhaps, except there’s no waiting. We’re doing the thing. Just quietly.

This week there were four of us. All women. All lined up in our recliners like power stations plugged into perseverance. Within minutes of the “pre-drug” drip, every single one of us was out cold. No chatter. No reality TV. Not even the usual IV-pole squeaks. Just four warriors in soft socks, drifting off under fluorescent halos.

I had about ten minutes before my own eyelids surrendered, so I took inventory:
– Chair 4 had really good hair and shoes. Definitely winning chemo couture.
– Chair 3 was already asleep—basically a blanket with a pulse.
– Chair 6 chatted with the nurse, then disappeared under her pillow. Relatable.

And then silence. The kind of deep, unbothered quiet you don’t get anywhere else.

When it was over, we rose like polite zombies—unplugged, gathered our stuff, and shuffled out with the reverence of churchgoers leaving midnight mass. No words necessary. We knew.

Whatever this room is—a sanctuary, a spa, a silent sorority—it’s ours.

Until next time—may your drips be steady, your naps restorative, and your IV poles never squeak at the wrong moment.