I have spent quite a bit of time trying to understand the life altering shift of 2009. To say we have all felt emotionally stunned and debilitated for the past eight months is a dramatic understatement. The pain from watching someone you love suffer is inexplainable. This year has been filled with challenge upon challenge--pivotal moments that have struck so many chords, disrupting so many rhythms of our lives. Our dad has been our bedrock. His sweet solitude in spite of his intense suffering has been a vision to behold, to say the least. I cannot begin to describe the raw, intense, and remarkably satisfying love I feel for this man who has given me my life and perspective as I know it. The thought of his sacrifices for his children, each of us, never ceases to amaze me. My deep appreciation for him grows and grows with each moment I spend with him. And I am learning now that the time, while daunting and depressing in practice, is so beautiful. I cannot even begin to articulate the satisfaction I have felt with this bittersweet time spent with him.
I am continually trying to understand how it is that he has affected me so, why my connection to him is so palpable, and why I have embraced the fight against this disease with such fierceness and unconditional passion. I know I have a chip on my shoulder in defense of my dad's condition, similar in some ways to his own continued disbelief. I know I am still particularly angry and profoundly hurt that God has chosen this path for my sweet, harmless, God-fearing, sacrificing, incredibly good father. Logic escapes me when I think of it all--even as I accept, despite his nonsmoking adult life, his experiences and his history as sensible conclusions for this punishment.
I do find that I can admit I am learning there are sweet surprises hidden within this time too. I appreciate, with surprise and delight, that with the pain of walking daily through this struggle is the joy of knowing the absolute depth of my love and adoration of him. Our time together has become time I completely cherish. I look forward to our miserable Mondays in the Oncology Waiting Room, where we wait, at minimum, 90 minutes every single visit prior to being seen. I look forward to our days in the chemo clinic (obviously not because of where we are) because I am able to be near him, for as short as a one hour infusion or as long as an eight hour one, even if it means we sit beside each other in complete silence. His quiet presence is incredibly powerful to me. Through all of this, I cannot begin to express the manner in which my love of him has multiplied with each second I share with him. It has truly felt like a ripple effect, widening of love.
I now think and spend a lot of time contemplating suffering. I wonder, is it true, the deeper the pain one experiences, the more intense the joy? And if this is true, what--and where--is the joy?
Friday, October 23, 2009
October 14, 2009 A Wonderful, Delightful, and Very Happy Birthday
The entire lot of us Pattis spent a wonderful Sunday with our dad, celebrating a truly cherishable birthday. We celebrated him with our "small" group of 20, and he was kind enough to share his day with 4 of his grandchildren and his son Tony too. Our dad seemed particularly chipper throughout the day: he arrived with a smile, snacked with an appetite we haven't seen in quite a while, and involved himself in meal prep--stirring and sampling, adding his own touches. Seeing our dad hang out in the kitchen again was a significant moment for me, as he has always seemed to enjoy cooking and "feeding" us all with our traditional Sunday family dinners. These pasta dinners have become understandably scarce this year. Lethargy, depression, and the other effects of disease and chemotherapy have kept our dad far from the kitchen. In addition, our time together as a great big family unit, as our parents love to see, has become limited by the busyness of life.
But today we all genuinely seemed to enjoy each other. Our generally unpredictable togetherness pleasantly surprised us all, I think. And most important, our dad really seemed altogether content. One year ago, we celebrated his 70th birthday with similar, but small, fanfare. I was constantly reminded of the loveliness of last year as I watched my dad interact with each of us today, one year later, with so much change in such a short time and how that same short time feels like an agonizing eternity. Every minute today, to me, felt a a bit sweeter than the year before. On this happy family celebration, life felt uncluttered, uncomplicated, and unblemished. It felt normal once again, if only just for the day.
But today we all genuinely seemed to enjoy each other. Our generally unpredictable togetherness pleasantly surprised us all, I think. And most important, our dad really seemed altogether content. One year ago, we celebrated his 70th birthday with similar, but small, fanfare. I was constantly reminded of the loveliness of last year as I watched my dad interact with each of us today, one year later, with so much change in such a short time and how that same short time feels like an agonizing eternity. Every minute today, to me, felt a a bit sweeter than the year before. On this happy family celebration, life felt uncluttered, uncomplicated, and unblemished. It felt normal once again, if only just for the day.
October 2009, Wanting to Quit the Study, Finding Leslie through the wonderful Dr. Krishnan
We have reached the 6 month mark post-surgery. Our dad, while thankfully cancer-free, still feels the enormity of his diagnosis, as well as the unalterably excruciating physical change. On his lastest round of oncology checkups, he expresses, again, the discomfort in the area of his large incision, and an additionally questionable left shoulder pain. Dr. Treisman examines our dad, and this time, instead of speculating on muscular-skeletal pain post-surgery, decides our dad should undergo a series of scans to be certain no further disease is present. Our dad undergoes a shoulder xray, chest CT, and bone scan. He (and we) endures the difficult week-long wait before learning, with much relief, that all images show no disease process.
With disease ruled-out, our dad visits his thoracic surgeon, Dr. Krishnan, again. Dr. Krishnan and our dad discuss the acute pain our dad experiences with regular arm-shoulder movement. Because of the chest wall involvement in our dad's lung tumor growth, in addition to the removal of his upper left lobe, Dr. Krishnan removed portions of four ribs that could, too, have had cancerous cell growth. With the absence of these upper ribs, and the presence of his remaining ribs, he has experienced extremely painful "catching" of his scapula within these lower ribs. From time to time, the scapula falls within the lower rib cavity, rubs against them, and our dad must, by raising his shoulder pull the scapula up and out from within this cavity. The pain is unbearable, he says. In his visit with Dr. Krishnan, he is told he could undergo another surgery where Dr. Krishnan would shave off a portion of his scapula so that it would not "catch" within the ribcage. He additionally suggests adding a "screen" of sorts to the area where the ribs were removed. The caveat for this procedure, Dr. Krishnan explains, is the fact that our dad would have to drop himself out of the clinical trial for a period of almost 2 months, based on the nature of the drug being researched in his lung cancer study.
Our dad, at first, does not want to endure the pain of an additional surgery. However, the severity of the pain from these periodic episodes is incredibly great for him. He decides, that on his next oncology MD visit, he is going to ask to remove himself from the study for a period so that he may have the surgery. I am, personally, very opposed to the idea. I do not share my feelings, but as I listen to my dad explain to the oncology nurse practitioner, Kelly, the pain he feels, and I cannot help but understand his desire to do anything to "fix" what is ultimately a now life condition. Kelly explains that while oncologists would prefer and recommend his continued participation in the E1505 Study, she recognizes the importance of Quality of Life. She further expresses that his decision must be a personal one and both she and Dr. Treisman would agree that his personal assessment on what he can bear as he continues to lead his life is what will determine his final decision.
I suggest to our dad that we make another visit to Dr. Krishnan so that we may ask clarifying questions before he drops out of the E1505 Study. I really, really do not want to see him leave the Study. The drug being tested on our dad is a drug that is currently approved for patients with later staged disease in a variety of cancers, and has been determined to have varying degrees of promise, depending up on the cancer. It is my own personal feeling that abating the cancer is our number one priority, in spite of the physical pain he is experiencing and the difficulty of the physical recovery. I know my view is somewhat detached and very selfish. I am not the person suffering daily.
Dr. Krishnan and his nurse both explain to our dad that the issues he is facing, both with chronic post-surgical pain and the acute pain from the scapula-rib "catching" problem, are the realities of his post-surgical life. The chronic pain from the thoracotomy is enormous: he has lost bone, muscle, tissue, and organ. His incision extends the entire upper portion of his left back and crosses the midline side up to his chest. The amount of scar tissue alone that has developed from such an incision is incredibly great. The added acute pain from the loss of ribs just compounds his troubles. Dr. Krishnan explains that the surgery he had recently suggested would only address the acute pain, not the chronic day-to-day suffering. He recommends additional physical therapy. While our dad has already participated in both general physical and occupational therapy at St. Luke's, Dr. Krishnan suggests our dad see a new physical therapist--one who specializes in treatment and rehabilitation of patients with cancer. He recommends Leslie Watke, and helps to schedule his appointment with her that same week.
Our dad meets Leslie and undergoes his consultation and evaluation a few days later. Leslie has quite an impressive presence. She is professional, strong, interested, compassionate, and solid...my own personal impression within the 5 minutes I had from meeting her myself. I can tell my dad immediately likes her. She tells our dad that he has so much scar tissue buildup it is no surprise whatsoever that he is miserable...miserable. She touches his incision and moves her fingers across his scar and explains the enormity of it as well as the complete comprosition of mobility from the area that had been touched. Yet she follows this with a confidence that compels both my dad and I in believing in her. She tells our dad that she will work with him to work out the bulk from his scar tissue buildup, and will help him to feel "at minimum 75% improvement overall." As a result of our dad's meeting Leslie, he decides to postpone his desire for surgery and proceed with physical therapy. I cannot feel more grateful to Dr. Krishnan for his recommending Leslie. I quietly wonder why, in all of this time, the Oncology doctor has no such logical and sensible recommendations for our dad...
I strongly believe that Leslie is an angel: a sturdy, confident, believable new presence in our dad's life. I see her as a small but essential element to helping to make him feel alive-useful-present in his own life once again. He continues his participation in the E1505 Study, which I hope with all of my being is beneficial for him. An added bonus: we, his family, get to reap the benefits of our dad having hope once again.
With disease ruled-out, our dad visits his thoracic surgeon, Dr. Krishnan, again. Dr. Krishnan and our dad discuss the acute pain our dad experiences with regular arm-shoulder movement. Because of the chest wall involvement in our dad's lung tumor growth, in addition to the removal of his upper left lobe, Dr. Krishnan removed portions of four ribs that could, too, have had cancerous cell growth. With the absence of these upper ribs, and the presence of his remaining ribs, he has experienced extremely painful "catching" of his scapula within these lower ribs. From time to time, the scapula falls within the lower rib cavity, rubs against them, and our dad must, by raising his shoulder pull the scapula up and out from within this cavity. The pain is unbearable, he says. In his visit with Dr. Krishnan, he is told he could undergo another surgery where Dr. Krishnan would shave off a portion of his scapula so that it would not "catch" within the ribcage. He additionally suggests adding a "screen" of sorts to the area where the ribs were removed. The caveat for this procedure, Dr. Krishnan explains, is the fact that our dad would have to drop himself out of the clinical trial for a period of almost 2 months, based on the nature of the drug being researched in his lung cancer study.
Our dad, at first, does not want to endure the pain of an additional surgery. However, the severity of the pain from these periodic episodes is incredibly great for him. He decides, that on his next oncology MD visit, he is going to ask to remove himself from the study for a period so that he may have the surgery. I am, personally, very opposed to the idea. I do not share my feelings, but as I listen to my dad explain to the oncology nurse practitioner, Kelly, the pain he feels, and I cannot help but understand his desire to do anything to "fix" what is ultimately a now life condition. Kelly explains that while oncologists would prefer and recommend his continued participation in the E1505 Study, she recognizes the importance of Quality of Life. She further expresses that his decision must be a personal one and both she and Dr. Treisman would agree that his personal assessment on what he can bear as he continues to lead his life is what will determine his final decision.
I suggest to our dad that we make another visit to Dr. Krishnan so that we may ask clarifying questions before he drops out of the E1505 Study. I really, really do not want to see him leave the Study. The drug being tested on our dad is a drug that is currently approved for patients with later staged disease in a variety of cancers, and has been determined to have varying degrees of promise, depending up on the cancer. It is my own personal feeling that abating the cancer is our number one priority, in spite of the physical pain he is experiencing and the difficulty of the physical recovery. I know my view is somewhat detached and very selfish. I am not the person suffering daily.
Dr. Krishnan and his nurse both explain to our dad that the issues he is facing, both with chronic post-surgical pain and the acute pain from the scapula-rib "catching" problem, are the realities of his post-surgical life. The chronic pain from the thoracotomy is enormous: he has lost bone, muscle, tissue, and organ. His incision extends the entire upper portion of his left back and crosses the midline side up to his chest. The amount of scar tissue alone that has developed from such an incision is incredibly great. The added acute pain from the loss of ribs just compounds his troubles. Dr. Krishnan explains that the surgery he had recently suggested would only address the acute pain, not the chronic day-to-day suffering. He recommends additional physical therapy. While our dad has already participated in both general physical and occupational therapy at St. Luke's, Dr. Krishnan suggests our dad see a new physical therapist--one who specializes in treatment and rehabilitation of patients with cancer. He recommends Leslie Watke, and helps to schedule his appointment with her that same week.
Our dad meets Leslie and undergoes his consultation and evaluation a few days later. Leslie has quite an impressive presence. She is professional, strong, interested, compassionate, and solid...my own personal impression within the 5 minutes I had from meeting her myself. I can tell my dad immediately likes her. She tells our dad that he has so much scar tissue buildup it is no surprise whatsoever that he is miserable...miserable. She touches his incision and moves her fingers across his scar and explains the enormity of it as well as the complete comprosition of mobility from the area that had been touched. Yet she follows this with a confidence that compels both my dad and I in believing in her. She tells our dad that she will work with him to work out the bulk from his scar tissue buildup, and will help him to feel "at minimum 75% improvement overall." As a result of our dad's meeting Leslie, he decides to postpone his desire for surgery and proceed with physical therapy. I cannot feel more grateful to Dr. Krishnan for his recommending Leslie. I quietly wonder why, in all of this time, the Oncology doctor has no such logical and sensible recommendations for our dad...
I strongly believe that Leslie is an angel: a sturdy, confident, believable new presence in our dad's life. I see her as a small but essential element to helping to make him feel alive-useful-present in his own life once again. He continues his participation in the E1505 Study, which I hope with all of my being is beneficial for him. An added bonus: we, his family, get to reap the benefits of our dad having hope once again.
Catching Up, Chemo May 5, 2009-July 2009-Initial Session
Chemotherapy began May 5. Without a doubt, this first day brought us to the clinic anxious, apprehensive, and afraid of the weeks to come. We sat in the holding area waiting to be taken back behind "door #2", the door to the ominous chemo clinic on the opposite end of the Oncologist's office, marked only by a very small narrow walkway, a "please ask receptionist for entry" sign, and a solid, locked door. A very kind face opened the scary door and compassionately called out "Antonio" for our dad. She introduced herself to us as Melanie and then took us back into the clinic.
The clinic is a simple, somber, medicinal, cold room. The solid, center Alice in Wonderland-esque mystery door opens to another small, narrow hallway. A giant closet on the right contains an arsenal of drugs; on the left, a wall shelf overflows with informational pamphlets on the many different cancers being treated in the clinic. Within a few steps, the passageway opens up to a giant nurses' station in the center of the room. This nurses' pod is flanked by two patient areas: to the right, a small, intimate section of 4 dull blue vinyl recliners, and to the left, a bigger patient area with identical recliners lined along a wall of windows. This side feels brighter because of the natural light streaming in from the windows. On this side, too, there is a tiny kitchenette with a dated fountain drink area, a water station, a faucet and a fridge. Atop the fridge sits a very small and old television. On both sides of the room, separating each recliner is a patient ledge or counter, for each patient's plastic shoebox of drugs du jour. For reading pleasure, extremely outdated magazines sit in the slips attached to the personal counters. To my surprise at first, my dad chose to sit on the far side of the room, the side without the windows and the tv. As I think back on it now, it seems completely natural that he chose this side--knowing him--the side that is further away, quieter, smaller, and more private. In all of our visits, we have rarely meandered away from our "usual" corner spot in the clinic.
We are overwhelmed and intimidated as Melanie explains the processes and procedures of the clinic. Before we begin, she explains the typical protocol for each infusion day. Protocol includes the initial blood draw to check white and red blood counts as well as platelet levels. No infusions are administered until the nurses are certain that each of these levels falls within normal range. There is also the typical monitoring of heart rate, temperature, and blood pressure, as well as an informal nurse-patient interview to note general physical and mental wellness. For our dad, an added element to each infusion day is the nurse who keeps notes for the E1505 study. She is present each visit as it is her job to keep careful and copious notes of his well-being and all of the chemotherapy and E1505 related side-effects. Our dad and I have already met and talked at length with this nurse, Pam, and are aware that she will remain a permanent person on this journey.
Before the first infusion begins, Melanie tries to put our dad at ease. She empathizes that no one wants to ever be in a place such as the chemo clinic, but adds that it really is not as scary as it seems. She assures him that while the day will be scary for him, he will be pleasantly surprised at the end of the day. She covers a large host of side effects: nausea, fatique, loss of appetite, constipation, diarrhea, numbness/tingling, changes in heart rate, etc., etc. She tells him assuredly that he will lose his hair. Once the laundry list of side effects is complete, she inserts the needle in the port in his chest to begin his day. Today, he will have his three infusions: the first, a 90 minute infusion, then fluid, then a 60 minute infusion, then fluid, and then his final infusion, a 90 minute infusion. His day will begin and end with even more fluid. From start to finish, his first day took us almost 7 hours in the clinic.
For obvious reasons, the first day in the chemo clinic is an extremely vivid one. My dad and I tried to be as light-hearted as possible on Day 1. I tried my best to keep him talking and distracted. We were armed and ready with a Wall Street Journal and a computer. But my dad, being the quiet and contemplative person that he is, seemed to desire just the time to sit and rest his eyes and...be still.
Aside from the sterility of the clinic, the most significant take-away for me on Day 1 was the belief that our dad should never be alone on his infusion days. The visions of all of the people were too powerful, too memorable, too impressionable. We spent at least the first half of the first day in our own little pod, only talking and chuckling with each other. Then, it seemed almost like a light switch, we opened our eyes around us and began chatting with nearby patients. Later my dad and I joked that introducing oneself in the chemo clinic was like being in a bar, eager to meet new people. We cracked up together later as we recounted our day to my mom and Tony, joking of our original pickup line: "What's your cancer?", and how the Big question inevitably opened up to an amazingly quick and rich process of discovery with complete strangers. Nothing seemed to break the ice better than this common bond. And every single person seemed thrilled just to have the chance to tell his or her story....even, surprisingly, my dad.
That first day, I remember two people quite clearly: Colleen and Sammy*. Colleen sat in the clinic with a colleague, while Sammy was there alone. Colleen and her colleague chatted continually throughout her infusion, until we began to listen to her story. Colleen's cancer was clearly in Stage IV...kidneys, colon, lungs. She looked like a woman who, in her younger years, would have been extremely meticulous and well-kept. Now she sat in the clinic with a coiffed blond wig, full-makeup, and crisp clothes. She recounted her latest bout in her fight, with poor blood counts and and inability to withstand infections, and how she had spent the last 28 days in the Lombardi Cancer Center fighting to regain her strength to resume chemo again. Yet while she sat with her bag of fluid, she learned that yet again, she would have to be admitted to the hospital for more observation, as her equilibrium was altogether off and her white blood count was out of range. My dad and I only met Colleen once, and I believe we both secretly wonder whether she is still with us today.
Sammy was another character altogether. His presence was intimidating and gruff as he entered the clinic. His voice, so deep and imposing, seemed to startle the patients and the nurses alike. He appeared aged and curmudgeonly, and initially sat directly across from us and immediately closed his eyes to sleep. When he opened them, we made eye contact and I smiled gently to him. He had a book, Born A Healer, on his lap; so I carefully inquired about it. Sweet Sammy's floodgates opened to an enormously huge-hearted character. I was immediately smitten with him. He shared with my dad and I and enormous effervesence, pleasing even to my sweet, private dad. Sammy had a jubiliant and incredibly positive attitude toward life. He told us of his first wife, who tragically died of cancer; then, of his second wife who also died. He shared his belief that no other love of his life was going to die on him and how now, he chooses to share his life with his 4! "lady friends." He shared with us his daily routines, his 4 "lady friend" caretakers who shuffle him to and from doctor appointments and chemo, cook wonderful meals for him, and spend time enjoying life with him. My dad and I immediately liked him. Sammy continued by sharing his joy of playing cribbage at the Wilson Park Senior Center, and how our dad should join him sometime. And he ended by talking with us of his absolute love of dance. He lit up as he shared his fun with dancing and even stood up and invited me to have a spin around the somber chemo dance floor to flaunt his moves. I am smiling ear to ear thinking of the adorable Sammy. Sammy left us with such a powerful impression of optimism with his attitude, despite his condition--kidney cancer with metastases-Stage IV. He told us after our impromptu dance that the only time he has cancer is the time he enters the chemo clinic. Outside of the clinic, he is just Sammy who loves his life, Sammy who loves Wilson Park, Sammy who loves the company of his lady friends, and Sammy who loves to dance. His message was so powerful. And every visit to the clinic thereafter, my dad and I have been greeted by Sammy with the warmth of an old family friend--full embraces, check-ins on how we are doing, and his own medical reports too. He, and all of the people we have met really, makes me believe so strongly in the power of human connection in the face of life's challenges.
The clinic is a simple, somber, medicinal, cold room. The solid, center Alice in Wonderland-esque mystery door opens to another small, narrow hallway. A giant closet on the right contains an arsenal of drugs; on the left, a wall shelf overflows with informational pamphlets on the many different cancers being treated in the clinic. Within a few steps, the passageway opens up to a giant nurses' station in the center of the room. This nurses' pod is flanked by two patient areas: to the right, a small, intimate section of 4 dull blue vinyl recliners, and to the left, a bigger patient area with identical recliners lined along a wall of windows. This side feels brighter because of the natural light streaming in from the windows. On this side, too, there is a tiny kitchenette with a dated fountain drink area, a water station, a faucet and a fridge. Atop the fridge sits a very small and old television. On both sides of the room, separating each recliner is a patient ledge or counter, for each patient's plastic shoebox of drugs du jour. For reading pleasure, extremely outdated magazines sit in the slips attached to the personal counters. To my surprise at first, my dad chose to sit on the far side of the room, the side without the windows and the tv. As I think back on it now, it seems completely natural that he chose this side--knowing him--the side that is further away, quieter, smaller, and more private. In all of our visits, we have rarely meandered away from our "usual" corner spot in the clinic.
We are overwhelmed and intimidated as Melanie explains the processes and procedures of the clinic. Before we begin, she explains the typical protocol for each infusion day. Protocol includes the initial blood draw to check white and red blood counts as well as platelet levels. No infusions are administered until the nurses are certain that each of these levels falls within normal range. There is also the typical monitoring of heart rate, temperature, and blood pressure, as well as an informal nurse-patient interview to note general physical and mental wellness. For our dad, an added element to each infusion day is the nurse who keeps notes for the E1505 study. She is present each visit as it is her job to keep careful and copious notes of his well-being and all of the chemotherapy and E1505 related side-effects. Our dad and I have already met and talked at length with this nurse, Pam, and are aware that she will remain a permanent person on this journey.
Before the first infusion begins, Melanie tries to put our dad at ease. She empathizes that no one wants to ever be in a place such as the chemo clinic, but adds that it really is not as scary as it seems. She assures him that while the day will be scary for him, he will be pleasantly surprised at the end of the day. She covers a large host of side effects: nausea, fatique, loss of appetite, constipation, diarrhea, numbness/tingling, changes in heart rate, etc., etc. She tells him assuredly that he will lose his hair. Once the laundry list of side effects is complete, she inserts the needle in the port in his chest to begin his day. Today, he will have his three infusions: the first, a 90 minute infusion, then fluid, then a 60 minute infusion, then fluid, and then his final infusion, a 90 minute infusion. His day will begin and end with even more fluid. From start to finish, his first day took us almost 7 hours in the clinic.
For obvious reasons, the first day in the chemo clinic is an extremely vivid one. My dad and I tried to be as light-hearted as possible on Day 1. I tried my best to keep him talking and distracted. We were armed and ready with a Wall Street Journal and a computer. But my dad, being the quiet and contemplative person that he is, seemed to desire just the time to sit and rest his eyes and...be still.
Aside from the sterility of the clinic, the most significant take-away for me on Day 1 was the belief that our dad should never be alone on his infusion days. The visions of all of the people were too powerful, too memorable, too impressionable. We spent at least the first half of the first day in our own little pod, only talking and chuckling with each other. Then, it seemed almost like a light switch, we opened our eyes around us and began chatting with nearby patients. Later my dad and I joked that introducing oneself in the chemo clinic was like being in a bar, eager to meet new people. We cracked up together later as we recounted our day to my mom and Tony, joking of our original pickup line: "What's your cancer?", and how the Big question inevitably opened up to an amazingly quick and rich process of discovery with complete strangers. Nothing seemed to break the ice better than this common bond. And every single person seemed thrilled just to have the chance to tell his or her story....even, surprisingly, my dad.
That first day, I remember two people quite clearly: Colleen and Sammy*. Colleen sat in the clinic with a colleague, while Sammy was there alone. Colleen and her colleague chatted continually throughout her infusion, until we began to listen to her story. Colleen's cancer was clearly in Stage IV...kidneys, colon, lungs. She looked like a woman who, in her younger years, would have been extremely meticulous and well-kept. Now she sat in the clinic with a coiffed blond wig, full-makeup, and crisp clothes. She recounted her latest bout in her fight, with poor blood counts and and inability to withstand infections, and how she had spent the last 28 days in the Lombardi Cancer Center fighting to regain her strength to resume chemo again. Yet while she sat with her bag of fluid, she learned that yet again, she would have to be admitted to the hospital for more observation, as her equilibrium was altogether off and her white blood count was out of range. My dad and I only met Colleen once, and I believe we both secretly wonder whether she is still with us today.
Sammy was another character altogether. His presence was intimidating and gruff as he entered the clinic. His voice, so deep and imposing, seemed to startle the patients and the nurses alike. He appeared aged and curmudgeonly, and initially sat directly across from us and immediately closed his eyes to sleep. When he opened them, we made eye contact and I smiled gently to him. He had a book, Born A Healer, on his lap; so I carefully inquired about it. Sweet Sammy's floodgates opened to an enormously huge-hearted character. I was immediately smitten with him. He shared with my dad and I and enormous effervesence, pleasing even to my sweet, private dad. Sammy had a jubiliant and incredibly positive attitude toward life. He told us of his first wife, who tragically died of cancer; then, of his second wife who also died. He shared his belief that no other love of his life was going to die on him and how now, he chooses to share his life with his 4! "lady friends." He shared with us his daily routines, his 4 "lady friend" caretakers who shuffle him to and from doctor appointments and chemo, cook wonderful meals for him, and spend time enjoying life with him. My dad and I immediately liked him. Sammy continued by sharing his joy of playing cribbage at the Wilson Park Senior Center, and how our dad should join him sometime. And he ended by talking with us of his absolute love of dance. He lit up as he shared his fun with dancing and even stood up and invited me to have a spin around the somber chemo dance floor to flaunt his moves. I am smiling ear to ear thinking of the adorable Sammy. Sammy left us with such a powerful impression of optimism with his attitude, despite his condition--kidney cancer with metastases-Stage IV. He told us after our impromptu dance that the only time he has cancer is the time he enters the chemo clinic. Outside of the clinic, he is just Sammy who loves his life, Sammy who loves Wilson Park, Sammy who loves the company of his lady friends, and Sammy who loves to dance. His message was so powerful. And every visit to the clinic thereafter, my dad and I have been greeted by Sammy with the warmth of an old family friend--full embraces, check-ins on how we are doing, and his own medical reports too. He, and all of the people we have met really, makes me believe so strongly in the power of human connection in the face of life's challenges.
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