Updated: Dec 19, 2017
DECEMBER 10, 2014
There is an art to sitting in the waiting room of a cancer hospital. I prep with an early morning meditation to ground and balance. It’s painstakingly tedious today because fear decides to linger in my heart and wreak havoc with my mind playing out worst-case scenarios one right after the other.
Driving in I play upbeat music and keep the conversation light. We avoid the elephant in the room and just bask in being. I drop Chris off at the hospital entrance. Spiraling down four or five levels in the exhaust choked parking garage with him is not an option. We learned the hard way. Now a pink rectangular bucket resides within arms reach in the car. I park, take a few deep breaths and engage my armor, several layers of concentric energetic shields. In the elevator, I avoid direct eye contact with patients. Even a glimpse risks drowning in their haunting, hollow looks of despair that trigger my fears.
I quickly find my spouse, sit and bury my head in a book. All the while, trying not to notice the man who weighs 90 pounds in the wheelchair on oxygen, the women with the huge eggplant sized bulge protruding from her neck or the fact that no one has any hair. After a few hours, the morose pallor of the room starts to invade. It’s a constant, heavy pressure. A loud voice or slurp of water grates me to the core before I recognize my foe is infiltrating. I raise my vibration far above the level of the room, reboot my shields and surround them with the appropriate light. It’s a process that continues regularly throughout the day. It’s exhausting.