At the Oncologist’s Waiting Room

It’s Monday again The start of a new week. One of the many Mondays of 2026.

The earth has completed another round around the sun. Days have gone by swiftly; weeks have felt stacked one upon another. Overall, the year has passed quicker than expected. Scientifically, the units of time remain constant. Yet each year, we find ourselves saying aloud, “Wow, this year went by quickly.”

While the cycle of the earth remains unchanged, moving steadily each day, humans too go about the motions of routine, hoping that a new year brings newness. Yet, some things never change.

And here I am, yet again, every third Monday, at the oncologist’s waiting room. A routine that began three years ago — being the dutiful daughter, accompanying my mother for her oncological treatment. If only scanning the human body were as quick as scanning a document with an app on my phone.

The ritual remains unchanged: packing a goody bag of snacks for a long day at the Cancer Care Center; rearranging daily tasks around the appointment; calling a taxi to take us 40 kilometers across the city. The structure stays the same. 2026 — a new year, they say.

As we arrive at the doctor’s office, I notice the squeaky-clean white marble floors, ceilings as tall as concert halls, windows polished to a shine, and the constant movement of people all around. A buzzing silence — perhaps the only way to describe the scene.

In the waiting room, I see humans with different faces, at different phases of their cancer treatment journey.

At the Oncologist’s Waiting Room

A young woman in her early thirties, a face packed with foundation and blush. Her eyes betray fear and helplessness, while she’s trying to keep it all hush hush. What am I doing here with the old and the aged, I am so young!

An old man — just sticks and bones — barely able to walk few steps, quite resigned on his wheelchair, a patient’s throne. His family offer him some chai. He sips on it, with blanking thoughts. Physical pain numbs the brain.

A wife, awaits her results, the future waits with no answers. What will the doctor say? Will I live another year? How do I tell my kids at play?

The husband on the phone, sorting office woes. Trying to be present for his wife’s ill health and tears — a balancing act of sorts. I need this job, he thinks, for the hefty bills it must pay.

In the corner, reading a book, sipping lemon juice, a single woman waits to be called in. Three sessions of chemo done. The braids are gone. Chemo caps with some designs offer some cover. Buried in words and stories, forgetting the world around, a momentarily sigh of relief. The next round of havoc soon begins.

A mother and daughter chat on the side. The daughter has taken off work to accompany her mom for her scans. In an otherwise hurried world, the waiting room gives them space to bond. Clothes, accessories, gossip of close circles and not-so-close ones. Laughs and giggles keep them afloat, thinking of simpler threads of life.

A man in his mid-fifties, cannot hold back his tears, watching this scene with quiet disgust. How can they laugh in a place so sombre? At least they have each other. I have everything! The cushioned life. The big house. The Tesla. Respect at work, promotions once I dreamt of — all mine. Yet my health has abandoned me. What use is anything else?

An old lady, wrinkles lining her hands, her face serene in the light of her calm. Surrendering fully to the Almighty, she moves her fingers in machine-like rhythm around her rosary. He will take care, as He wishes. I accept His will and all that He bestows.

An anxious relative scrolls endlessly on his phone. WebMD teaches him medical jargon. He crams his mind, trying to understand, searching for positives between the lines. Another relative nearby prefers not to know — ignorance can be bliss, they say.

A mother in the corner, with her legs shaking, eyes fixed on her watch, with just one thought lingering. Can we make this fast — my child will be home from school soon. Checked out from the situation around, noodles or a sandwich, what can I make quickly when this is done?

The nurses walk back and forth. Calling one person in as another is sent out. Blood pressure check. Blood glucose check. Is this one good to go? The IV cannula fitted. Liquid health injected. Repeated too many times today. Different humans, same routine. This feels like a factor of tasks. Yet each one carries a different ask.

Doctors in pristine white coats, years of experience on their shoulder. How will I break this news to that soul? Trying to see the human behind the charts, a fragile hope. Another cake with candles, may be just one last.

A large family in the lobby, surrounding a pale figure at the center. “Cancer free,” that’s all they hear. Tears of joy mixed with months of pain, as they huddle, hug, and hold.

And at the registration desk sit three humans, checking in lives as they roll through. Medical registration numbers logged. Bills settled for the day. The system moves on.

The new year or the same old one. Here, time is marked differently — before cancer and after cancer. That’s the new benchmark of life hereafter.

The symptoms, the pain, the anxiety, the tears, the little joys, the love, the calm, the rush, the whirl of thoughts.

Yet in the Oncologist’s waiting room, we’re all but one and the same.