Chemo vs. Radiation

Since the Fall, I have been receiving treatments for Hodgkin's lymphoma, which is a treatable cancer for those of you that do not know. I got my chemo treatments at the Carol G. Simon Cancer Center at Morristown Memorial Hospital in Morristown, NJ and am currently receiving radiation at Long Island College Hospital in Brooklyn. The experience is quite different.

At the place in Jersey, I drive up to the front of a nice newly built state-of-the-art medical facility where a friendly valet takes my car and puts in a secured parking lot until I am through with my treatment. I then walk through the lobby where someone is usually playing the piano and go up to the second floor where I am greeted by friendly receptionists and sit in a well-appointed and comfortable waiting area with white professionals and retirees, reading a wide variety of magazines provided by the treatment center until I am called in by the nurse.

In Brooklyn, I ride the crowded B61 bus to the front of the dated hospital or drive up eight floors in a crowded, dilapidated parking lot where there are very few available spaces. I then walk into the dreary hospital where I take a rickety, slow elevator to the sub-basement where the radiation oncology department is and am greeted by a receptionist who clearly doesn't want to be there either and am told to sign in on a wrinkled sheet of paper. I proceed to the small waiting area where most of my fellow cancer patients appear to be dying and on medicaid. The only reading materials available are yesterday's copy of AM New York, a catalog of wigs and a children's story entitled When Mama Wore A Hat.

When it came time for chemotherapy, I went into a large sunny area and sat in a comfortable leather recliner with my iPod and more magazines where attractive nurses delicately administer the treatments. Volunteers come around with books and cookies and ask the patients and visitors if they want coffee or water. I had the option to bring DVDs and a laptop if I wanted to further entertain myself during my treatment.

When I go into radiation, I am led into a dark room in the back where I lay on a hard table with my neck on an even harder piece of plastic with a plastic mask over my face so I can't move. The man that usually gives me treatments resembles Jiminy Glick and has some weird tics. The other guy is a West Indian who is extremely impatient.

When it was time to leave chemo, the nurses made sure I was okay and reminded me to validate my parking. They are also flexible and try to work with patients to schedule appointments based on their needs and are happy to provide necessary documentation to employers.

When I leave radiation, I have to beg the receptionist to look up from her magazine to validate my parking. And if I need a note, that's going to be a problem because the printer is broken and the doctor has left for the day and can't sign it.

I thought radiation would be a cake walk after my eight chemo sessions (which were in two-week intervals), but it has proven not to be. I have to go get tortured for 15 minutes every week day for six weeks straight. I have no voice left and can barely swallow solid foods and am too weak to do anything pleasurable.

And finally, when I leave Long Island College Hospital in Brooklyn, I am usually asked for spare change from a black man with a cane. In Morristown, someone brought me my car and told me to have a nice day.