(Original title: The Chamber of Secrets)

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. I’ve been going to a writing class on Wednesdays, and the last session is this week. I’ll be sad when I don’t have it to look forward to anymore, because I’ve really enjoyed learning different tricks to work through writers block and practising writing for solid lengths of time where your fingers aren’t allowed to stop typing (which usually means I end up writing stream of consciousness, which is a very interesting thing to witness). The great thing about the class is that we don’t have to share anything we’ve written in the class, which is good, because some of the things I write are reaaaaaally weird.

I’ve felt a little bit blocked since my last post, because I’ve been in a kind of a funk that I can’t break out of. That’s putting it very simply, because what I’m going through is quite complex and I’m not really ready to talk freely about it yet. My scans were clear, which throws up so many more questions. All you need to know is, I’m talking to the right people.

I’ve decided today I’m going to write about the Peter MacCallum Cancer Centre, because it’s a place I spend a lot of time at. A lot of people hate hospitals, and I get it. I hated hospitals up until I was symptomatic because the last time I had really stepped into a hospital was to keep my ex-best friend company after she popped out a bunch of kids, and before that to visit my grandmother very shortly before she passed away. I’m not a huge fan of them, but I at least tolerate them now.

I’d had a couple of falls off my bike in 2017, and fallen down a flight of stairs at a male strip club in 2014, ending up in the emergency department before, and became super familiar with the Women & Children’s Hospital in Adelaide due to the aforementioned children being removed from a uterus, but they don’t really count as “hospital experiences”. When you’re only seeing one department or a ward where happy things are happening that definitely doesn’t count as a hospital experience.

I have this memory in my head from 1998, of when we went to visit my grandmother after she began the steep decline into death from lung and brain cancer. Gran had been tired but coherent when we arrived, and the nurses had said that she’d have a handful of very good days before the end, and maybe the day after we arrived for Easter, she was a lot brighter and perky. This memory that I have is of standing in the hospital corridor, looking towards the room where my Gran was laying on white sheets with a white blanket, and so much light was in the room, and the family was standing all around her. I don’t know if I went in and held her hand for a little bit, but I remember that it was one of the most uncomfortable and painful experiences of my life. The sterility of the experience is what haunts me about that memory.

When I was diagnosed by my surgeon, he asked me where I wanted to be treated. He looked at my file and saw I was living in Footscray, and suggested I could be treated 800m down the road at Footscray Private Hospital, or at Sunshine, where he also had offices and saw patients. Since one of my friends was already being treated at the Peter Mac, and it was newish, I asked if I could be treated there. I hadn’t realised at that time that it was a public hospital – and in fact, Australia’s only public cancer-specific hospital – and asked about the cost of treatment as well. When he told me it would be free (because, public), I was immediately immensely relieved. I remember making a comment about wanting to be treated at the fancy new purple hospital, and I am so glad I spoke up and made that choice.

I really like where I’m being treated. I like the feeling that you get when you walk in the main entry. I love the open atrium in the middle of the building. I love the bright lights, and splashes of purple (did you know purple is the surgical colour for oncology?) and the clean white walls and wood panelling details. It just feels so very not like a hospital at all. Of course, there are parts of the hospital that do feel like a hospital. I’ve had surgery there, I’ve had an overnight stay in the short-stay ward, and those areas feel very much like a hospital, but one from a fancy high-budget American movie where the brightness and contrast have been turned up so high it’s blindingly white. The waiting rooms feel like a hospital, the consulting rooms feel like a hospital, but there’s no way they’re going to put in a room of recliners and blankets and fans (menopause is brilliant) to make you feel more at home while you wait to see your oncologist.

Hey, a girl can dream.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had my fair share of traumatic experiences at the Peter Mac, but it’s nice to know that when I’m feeling overwhelmed or just need a moment, I can head to the wellbeing centre and have a free cup of tea and sit in a quiet room. They have sleeping pods as well, but the problem with the sleeping pods is that they cater to people who can fall asleep on their backs in a reclined position. I’d like to see a soft, plush recliner armchair that a side-sleeper like myself can curl up on and sleep. The padded benches around the window are very comfortable though, I’ve had a nap there before after experiencing the disappointment of the sleeping pod.

This whole post sounds like an ad for the Peter Mac, but honestly, I wouldn’t get treated anywhere else. Yeah, the pharmacy is just ridiculously slow, you often have to wait over half an hour to see the oncologist, and the MRI is booked out a solid three months in advance, but it is a public hospital and there’s only so much they can do. I’m sure they have more patients than staff can handle, which makes me want to do my research and vote in the Federal election in May for a party that actually wants to increase healthcare and education funding, because you can’t have more staff without educating them first. I suggest you try to do the same.