V's Version

In the same way that I am grateful for being an incest survivor because it allows me to have empathy for all people in pain, I am grateful for being a drug addict so that the gray area of recreational using is removed entirely, leaving in its wake a clean and sober joi de vivre.

I am who I am as a direct result of the sum total of my experiences. I would not take any one of them away.

In that same vein, thank heavens that I have cancer! Cancer has brought people into my world that I otherwise would not know as intimately and my life is much richer for knowing them. This richness has texture, however, and it's not always smooth. It's not always easy.

But let me back up. Take, for example, The Chemo Experience. I have no idea how many hours I spent in those comfy brown lazy-girl recliners hooked up to some liquid or other. 2000 hours? 3200? Let's just say that fighting cancer and PNP was a full-time job for a few years and I spent a lot of time at the office along with my co-workers.

Sign-in was at 8:30 in the morning where I was almost always greeted with a bright smile from Sharon. She was the first line of compassion, noting some small improvement in me: had I gained a little weight? Was that a new hat? What a fun outfit! or meeting my weakness with witness: Oh, Dear, poor thing. I don't like it when I can't sleep either! Good for you for hanging in there... Sharon was like Every Mom - welcoming, business-oriented, efficient and consistent. I tried to check in before John (my fellow co-worker and a suspected former CIA Agent) because he had a needle phobia. In our new line of work, this was a time-consuming hazard and it was just easier to get there before John so that Cici or Anna could get me into through the lab first.

The Lab. The second line of compassion. These were the gals who knew each ounce of change, each point of movement in blood panel counts. They knew whether I was up or down or tired or happy or in pain or struggling. They saw, even if it was for the few minutes that it took to stick me with a needle, the roller coaster that is battling cancer. But it wasn’t a one-way street. I knew about them too – their commute, their families, their dreams, their weekends. The Lab was where I got my news, both medical and social.

After being weighed and poked and patched, I was sent on to The Chemo Room, my arms laden with the two-inch thick tome that was my charted battle progression. some days I was not strong enough to carry the chart but Anna brought it down for me. That's how it was there. Everyone pitched in and made my life just that little bit easier.

The Chemo Room was the very heart of Compassion. A 15 x 15 room of goodness, pain, laughter, tears, complaints, fear and hope comprised of a semi-circle of plush light brown recliners. The main features of the room were an over-sized handmade quilt made from hundreds of 2 inch square pieces of 1970s calico cotton fabrics and a large wall of windows. The windows overlooked the lush green garden below and trees that block any view of houses in the quiet residential neighborhood. If I had to be connected to a bag of poison (and I did), it was a bonus to have such a lovely view.

My co-workers filled the recliners as the morning progressed. Some of us were there for a short part of the day, some of us for longer. Eventually, we got to know each other and we all knew the nurses. We had our favorites and they were all so incredibly different. Ruth, who left early on in my career, was earnest and sympathetic, friendly and professional. Maria, who came late in my career, was honest and funny and more hard-working than most in the line of nurses who proceeded her.

Then there were the nurses who were there for the whole day in and day out ride, year after year. They are the ones who will always and forever be on my gratitude list. They were the angels, the listeners, the calm, knowledgeable sisters of kindness and chemicals. Becky wore her heart on her sleeve. She was quick to laugh and unafraid to cry at the appropriate times. She was always good for some tidbit of interesting news – the kind of stuff that made it worth showing up for our own reality show. Rita was the mother of 5 young boys and had the iron hand of an expert. She used big words and gave a more-details-are-better girl like me a run for my money. What would we have done without them?

I’ve spoken about the doctors in past posts. For better or for worse, I have never known such out-there rock and roll doctors. They gave out their cell phone numbers and celebrated every victory. They met us in the hospital and told us to never, ever give up. They openly supported causes worth supporting and opposed those who would take away civil liberties and funding for cancer research. They hugged patients and looked people in the eye and took Tamales and chickens for payment when that was all the payment there was. Tal and Jenny are the most unorthodox try-anything duo around.

But it wasn’t the doctors or the nurses or the lab clinicians or the hand-working staff that were the capital M Magic for me. Magic came in the form of the beautiful, crazy, brave souls sitting next to me. My co-workers.

And that is where I started with this post. Richness. Intimacy.
Gratitude. I will not forget the raunchy humor and boyish charm of Vern who showed up in his totaled Beemer, dressed in a jean jacket heavy with a twenty years worth of buttons and pins. He is gone now but I will not forget him. I will not forget the sheer courage and determination of Sue who inspired me to keep going when I did not want to go on. She modeled gratitude for me in poignant and understandable ways. She told me that so long as there was art to see and family to love, she wanted to fight. She is gone now, but I will not forget her.

Jim, who brought music mixes and the power of the pen to my life, was there with me every step of the way and continues to be. We started sitting in the chairs at about the same time and, although his cancer was in his throat and radiation was his demon, we lost pound after pound next to each other. We watched our clothing start to loosen and then bag. We took turns making each other laugh. We shared stories of our children and our wives. We shared experience, strength and hope. He gave me something no one else could: someone who discovered the journey right alongside of me.

Yesterday, Jim and I went to UCSF to see another of our co-workers who is back in the thick of it. Bob greeted us with a surprised smile and a weary look in his beautiful blue eyes. He doesn’t know how many genie wishes he has left, this being his second bone marrow transplant to beat leukemia. I used to say that I had to put on my Happy Mask to make it through the day. I can only imagine what it must take to tough out so many weeks in the hospital under lock-down, neutropenic conditions.

All I could offer were wild stories of sex parties and news of my cousin’s entry into the NFL and a foot massage to try to alleviate the numbness of neuropathy. Jim brought chocolates, a bag of goodies from Bob’s wife (who isn’t allowed in the room until her cold has passed) and news from the outside. We gave him a handmade Valentine that reminded him of love and light but I am not sure that it reached through the fog of his current physical weakness. The impending fight is going to take all of what he has and maybe even more than he has. Sometimes reserves are available to us and sometimes, they just aren’t. Only time will tell.

And that is where the richness and texture of my friendships are not always smooth and easy to touch. I am both inspired and raw with sadness. How is it that Jim and I get to drive away from the transplant unit and Bob doesn’t? How is it that I cannot take away this fight for him? Hasn’t he given enough dues? Will he be another one of my co-workers that I have to say “He is gone now but I will not forget him”?

Sigh. More will be revealed. All I can do is rub his feet and make him laugh and hear his fear. All I can do is be grateful that cancer brought us all together.