There’s a middle-aged guy who just sat down in the chairs in front of me. The chairs in this part of the waiting room are in rows, so his back is to me. He’s wearing a white baseball cap, a gray plaid button-up jacket, and dark blue jeans. His hair is just a little shaggy, and his face has a few days’ worth of stubble. I’ll guess – farmer, maybe electrician. Before sitting, I notice his eyes quickly dart around the room before finding this safe chair against the wall. He’s new here, I think.

Behind me is a mid-60s gentleman with sun-damaged skin reclining comfortably in one of the coveted recliners in the back. He is scrolling through his phone with the audio unashamedly on. His Mickey Mouse shirt seems out of place.

Then there’s the couple sitting next to each other in the other recliners. They speak in low voices, but clearly not in English. She wears a mask, a stocking cap, Crocs, and hollow eyes. He wears bright white Adidas sneakers, slicked-back black hair, and a well-fitting sweater.

Peacefully resting with closed eyes sits a middle-aged lady in her light brown sweatshirt and faded light denim jeans.

Near her sits a young man in Hey Dudes, AirPods, and tattoos on both forearms.

Further down is an older man wearing shorts and Keen sneakers despite the 40-degree, rainy Rochester weather. He holds a paper coffee cup and a purse undoubtedly not his own.

Also in the group is a tall, thin elderly man with white hair, a black baseball cap, glasses, and a permanent, yet oddly friendly, frown. He’s staring thoughtfully into space with his hand folded and lightly pressed to his chin. He reminds me of my grandpa – both of them.

By the entrance to the hallway, a middle-aged woman with a dark ponytail is slowly pacing as she shares her Florida vacation plans with the voice on the other end of her phone.

As I write, a middle-aged round woman with short cropped hair and a Lululemon shopping bag sits down. She continues the conversation with a 20-year-old, probable daughter, who is with her. They smile and laugh as they share Instagram Reels. When the radiation tech calls a name, I’m surprised to see the young one rise and follow.

A 50-year-old woman in a sweater as black as her wavy dark hair works diligently on the last few pieces of the puzzle as if it’s Thanksgiving and she’s around the puzzle table with family, a fireplace, and soft music. But there’s none of that here in Radiation Oncology.

Next to last, there’s a 41-year-old man with a scraggly beard in a worn baseball cap nearly hiding the newly formed bald spot on the back of his radiated scalp. He scrolls through Fantasy Football and occasionally makes eye contact with me. Then he smiles and winks.

Lastly, there’s me. Typing away on my laptop. Sipping it-will-do hospital coffee.

10 of the 14 of us wear black. Ironic, I think.

This could just as easily be a gate at the airport. A group of random strangers, quietly and temporarily, on a shared journey. In public, I could easily pass by these faces and never once think: Wonder what cancer they’re here for?

After all, we don’t wear “Hello. My name is: Brain Tumor” stickers. We all look just like normal people. We all are normal people. Yet, we’re all in this radiation waiting room for a reason. We’ve all gotten some degree of the same bad news.

And while Jason’s treatment led us to 6 weeks in a different city, in actuality, cancer doesn’t stop the world of real life from spinning for these real people. Instead, cancer treatment is a race you run while simultaneously running the race of “normal.” It’s a long, quiet marathon of one foot in cancer-life and one foot in real-life. If you’ve been there, then you know that it is as awkward as it seems.

Today, I pray for the twelve other people in this waiting room, and for the lives they go home to. May they be just normal today.

“But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength. They will soar high on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint.” Isaiah 40:31