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Today was Cycle #5, Week 2. As I waited in the waiting room between the blood draw and infusion, there was a bit of a commotion at the front desk. And older woman with a strong Caribbean accent was screaming at the nice woman who was manning the desk today. "Talk to my daughter! Talk to my daughter!" Requests for her to wait until the reception person had finished entering something into the computer made no difference. The screaming continued. Her doctor came out and tried to calm her, explaining that the protocol was that a patient always needed to show ID to register. "Talk to my daughter! Talk to my daughter!" pushing the phone to Dr C. And Dr. C did talk to the daughter, but then this woman began to slump backwards like she was going to faint. Another staff member brought a wheelchair. And this person noticed that there was a license in the woman's wallet. Seventeen questions later and the patient handed over the license. She was registered and headed to the doctor's waiting room, but refused the wheelchair. She wanted to walk.

About 10 minutes later I heard her voice. "No, No" and then a primal scream. And I began to cry. She had collapsed. The intercom system confirmed what I had heard "Code Blue, Code Blue. Patient Response Team. Gawky 9. Waiting Room." White coats descended from my the infusion room, from the other floors, and Dr. C could be heard directing the response.

That is our reality. At any moment, that woman could be us. There will come a day when I am tired, or dehydrated, or sick, or responding poorly to treatment, and we will be the person on the floor needing the response team.

The fact that this woman was not a nice person doesn't change any of that.

I wept for this woman's moment of weakness and for all of us who will be that woman at some point in the future.