When I arrived at The Ottawa Hospital's Cancer Centre today for my monthly blood work, most of the chairs in the sitting area of the laboratory were taken. I spotted two empty chairs that were just outside the sitting area yet close enough for me to hear the lab personnel call my number when it came up.

I settled into one of the chairs and pulled out my phone. Moments later, an older gentleman who was looking for a place to sit eyed the empty seat beside me but seemed reluctant to sit down.

— "Would you like to sit here?" I asked, motioning to the empty seat. "I'll put on a mask."

I thought that the man, who was wearing a mask, might feel more comfortable if I were wearing one as well. After I had donned a mask and returned to my seat, he sat down beside me.

— "How are you doing today?" I continued.

— "Okay," he replied. "I'm feeling pretty tired."

He explained that his chemotherapy was causing considerable fatigue. Although the treatment seemed to be working (his tumours were shrinking), he missed having the energy to crawl under desks and fix people's computers. That sounded even more impressive when he revealed that he is 88 years old. He said that he had retired some 20 years ago, but continued to help others with their computer needs as a way of keeping busy.

— "Do you tell stories? Are you a good storyteller?" I probed, thinking that storytelling might be a different way for him to find meaning and purpose in his life even if he no longer had the physical energy to crawl under desks.

— "Nah," he said. "I'm not good at telling stories."

Nevertheless, he proceeded to tell me all sorts of stories. He had grown up on a farm south of Ottawa, in a home with no electricity, running water or central heating. (I said that this sounded just like my mom's experience.) He told me that he had left high school to work on the farm. Unfortunately, his father died when he was 18 (coincidentally the same age that my mom was when her father passed away). His mother, who had been a school teacher early in life, returned to education and sold the farm. The man moved to Ottawa and returned to school himself. He worked as a technician for the federal government and then, at about the age of 30, he got into computers—"when computers were the size of fridges," he said.

— "So you've been working with computers for 58 years," I marvelled. "That's a good story."

I asked if he had any children or grandchildren. He said that he did. I suggested that they would be interested in his stories—if not today then perhaps in the future. I showed him my blog post from yesterday (Cherished mementos), and told him about why and how I had written that story about objects that were meaningful to my mom.

I acknowledged that my own bout with cancer a few years ago has made me much more aware of the fragility of life and the privilege we have when our ancestors are still around to share tales about their lives.

I don't know whether he felt any better as a result of our conversation. I hope he left it feeling that there is always purpose to be found in life. We just need to be open to what new meaning can be derived within our current circumstances.

And then my number was called. My phlebotomist is one I've seen many times before, this being about the 50th time I've gone to the Cancer Centre's lab. A few months ago, I learned her name and have used it ever since. She seems slightly surprised when I use it.

— "How have you been, Tania?" I asked her when I was seated in one of the patient chairs in the lab.

— "Oh... good," she said. "How have you been?"

— "Very good."

I verified that I had remembered her name correctly (yes) and that I had pronounced it correctly (yes). That led to a conversation about an occasion when her brother had corrected a potential boyfriend on the pronunciation of Tania's name. It was a pleasant exchange.

Equally pleasant was the result of my CA125 blood test. When the results of my blood work started to appear in MyChart, I scanned the list for my CA125 test. I smiled when I saw that it was another 7.