Laughing it up in labs,
It's two small rooms. First, you have to check in at the reception desk with a woman who has never smiled once. She is in her late 40's and always looks as if she is just working for the weekend. She sees me sometimes three times a week and has never once remembered my name.
That's ok. I know her name.
Then, you sit on chairs until your name is called by one of four nurses. 3 women and 1 man. My favorite is a gum snapping one whom I will call Ginger. Because she is sassy. I like sassy.
All four nurses remember all of our names. I think that they remembered me at first because I was a notoriously hard stick and no one wanted to get stuck with me, except Ginger, who has previously worked in the pediatric oncology unit, so could find a thread sized vein in a toe if she had to do so.
Now, I have a port. We are all thankful. My port is even a good port. It never clogs. Never stutters. It's like turning a light on and off. It just works. Getting labs is easy with the exception that I am known as a bleeder. Once, after getting labs, I went through a Starbuck's drive thru for a coffee and the barista at the window squeemishly remarked that "Um...ma'am...your breast is bleeding." I looked down and damn if she was right. It was. So, I just make sure that I am bandaged up good and tight when I leave lab now.
I'm a regular, so I see the other regulars. Ray. Carole. Eve. Ben. Gus. Randy. Charles. Bonnie. We are all old. We all have cancer. We are all dying. We are all fighting to stay on our feet as long as we can. Charles can no longer drive himself. He has a home health aide now. Her name is Rusti and she talks to him as if he is five. He was a college professor previously. Now, she uses this sing song voice with him that sets my teeth on edge. Although, to be fair, he doesn't seem to mind. Maybe he is just so glad to be done being worried about having to muster up the energy to drive anywhere that he doesn't care how she talks.
Still. It bothers me. He used to teach math at a prestigious university. Now, he wears his slippers everywhere because, you know, those chemo side effects. He used to walk out of labs and say that he was going to go check on his vegetable garden. Now, he just nods when Rusti asks him if he wants to go get a "nice big ole cup of coffee for being so brave."
Ray is driven everywhere by his wife, Carole. Carole has fibromyalgia and says that for the last 20 years Ray has went out of his way to take care of her. Now, it is her turn to take care of him. She often looks near exhaustion, but she is right there. She wheels him around in his wheel chair. Ray's chemo gives him terrible diarrhea, so we get it when he leans towards his wife and says something and she springs up and sprints to the nearest restroom with him in his wheelchair.
We talk, not as candidly as we do in my women's cancer support group, but nearly so. We talk about our old lives. The lives we lived prior to cancer. Ray owned a liquor store. It's long sold. Eve was a hair stylist. ("I used to be on my feet from sun up to sundown and it never bothered me a bit. Now, I can't stand up long enough to unload my dishwasher.") Ben sold insurance. He's been married 4 times and none of his wives stay in touch. Gus worked at Rosenblatt for his whole life and when it fell, so did he. ("I found out that my fuckin' cancer....excuse my french, ladies....was back for the third time the day after we heard that old Rosenblatt was being taken away.") Bonnie was a home ec teacher for 40 years. She retired. She and her husband went on all those cruises they had saved for. He died and four years later, she moved out of the house they shared and raised all their kids in and moved in with her daughter and son in law and their newborn. ("So, it was like they had TWO newborns! I am too weak to even hold the baby much!") Randy isn't specific about what his old life was like, except that he "worked in carpentry and such."
What we all share is that we are no longer in those lives and we miss them. We watch others race walking through their days as we sit waiting for labs and miss the hubbub of well.....life. Now, our days are filled with labs. ("God, I hope my potassium is higher this time. Getting a bag of it takes almost two hours...") With side effects.
1) Diarrhea and/or constipation. ("Man, I used to take a shit at work every day at 10 a.m. sharp like clockwork. I miss those days. In and out. Shit coming out of me like a well trained diver. Done and done. One minute tops.")
2) Puking. ("I was watching a funny show the other day and it hurt to laugh. I have been throwing up so much that my ribs ached.")
3) Food tasting funny. ("People from my church keep bringing me food to eat but it all tastes metallic to me. I want to tell them to stop but that seems so ungrateful.")
4) Doctors who want to keep us alive at all costs. ("I want to be alive more than anything. But, is this LIFE? I feel like all I do is sleep or think about it.")
5) Worrying about germs. ("We went to a movie last night and the guy a few people down kept coughing. I thought that Carole was going to go punch him in the nose. But, when we go to visit our grandbaby, his mother acts like she shouldn't let me hold my grandson, like he might catch my cancer.")
6) Money. ("I have medicare. I thought it would be enough but it only covers 70% of cancer care. That would be okay if my meds were a few hundred dollars. They are thousands and thousands of dollars. Our bank account looked pretty healthy ten years ago. Now, I hope that I don't live long enough to put my husband in danger of having to go back to work at 71!")
7) How incredibly sweet life is. ("I look at the trees changing color and I can hardly stand it. And birds. My god, BIRDS are so pretty. How could I have lived this long and not noticed these things?")
We know each other. Look out for one another. Ask after each other. We all know that this is our last waltz and we are paying attention. We know that Gus is a natty dresser. How long that will last? We can't say. Charles used to be a natty dresser, too. Now, he just matches. We know that Eve has a sweet tooth....except for the ten days after she gets chemo. You can always see when she's had chemo because she isn't eating a Payday bar. Her face is gray. Her eyes far away. We all get it. Chemo takes you to that place. That place that you can't even properly describe to others. It is just the never ending sick.
"She's in it good today," we will say. And we all get it. Except it isn't good. Except that we hope that, along with everything else, it might be killing her cancer. That would be good. We talk a lot about tumor markers. We live from tumor marker test to tumor marker test. Most of us don't fare so well, but we keep trying. Sometimes there is a reprieve. Most times, no. But, we keep hoping. Hoping is all we have really. We cling to it.
Which brings me to God. Some of us are believers. Some of us are not. Actually, most of us are believers. Some of us practice a religion. Some of us just try to be good people. Others of us, like Charles, believe that this is all poppycock and that there is no magic man who lives in the sky.
I'm honest. I'm just not sure. I want to believe so badly. And I suspect that there IS something after death. I'm just not sure that it is the God that I was raised to believe in. Because if I believe in that God, I have to disavow other gods and other religions. I can't do that. I think that we all belong to something good. And that it is more complicated than we can ever know, so it is easier to just narrow it down to this religion or that one. I believe that all good people have merit and all have entrance to what I have come to believe is the good place. That Muslims, Buddhists, Jews, Christians, Atheists, Agnostics...we ALL get entrance. That our continued journey is based on what we did on earth, our good deeds, thoughts, and true beliefs. That just mouthing words means nothing if you don't follow up with good deeds. My God is not an easy God, and not one to name him or herself. It is simply pure good. And if we haven't allied ourselves with it, we must make amends.
Eve is a huge believer in prayers. I stand with her. I believe that any good wishes you send another, whether for strength or healing or whatever, is inanely good and accountable. What I don't believe in is that prayer can heal or convince God to heal you. If I believe in that, I must admit that all those who have died from cancer did not have enough prayers going for them and I know that this is not true. My mother died from cancer and I tell you this: IT WAS NOT BECAUSE NO ONE PRAYED HARD ENOUGH FOR HER. She died because her body could not fight cancer anymore.
I don't see God as some being who sits on a throne deciding if someone will live or die from cancer, will win a football game, or find true love. I think that prayer is useful because it generates love. And love helps give us strength and endurance. All love is good for us.
We don't sit around discussing God much. I do know that Ray and Carole are Catholics because when they talk, like most Catholics, they talk in terms of parishes. As in, "We used to live down by Our Lady of Lourdes. Now we live by St. Robert's." It is the way Catholics talk. I know that Eve belongs to a church and that she gets meals delivered every day by various members of her church. I know that Ben wants to be born again as a cocker spaniel, next time around. He has never met an unfriendly one.
We talk in labs. Sometimes, we will reach out and touch a hand as one of us walks by.
It helps. It all helps. We are all just humans trying to make our way home.
That's ok. I know her name.
Then, you sit on chairs until your name is called by one of four nurses. 3 women and 1 man. My favorite is a gum snapping one whom I will call Ginger. Because she is sassy. I like sassy.
All four nurses remember all of our names. I think that they remembered me at first because I was a notoriously hard stick and no one wanted to get stuck with me, except Ginger, who has previously worked in the pediatric oncology unit, so could find a thread sized vein in a toe if she had to do so.
Now, I have a port. We are all thankful. My port is even a good port. It never clogs. Never stutters. It's like turning a light on and off. It just works. Getting labs is easy with the exception that I am known as a bleeder. Once, after getting labs, I went through a Starbuck's drive thru for a coffee and the barista at the window squeemishly remarked that "Um...ma'am...your breast is bleeding." I looked down and damn if she was right. It was. So, I just make sure that I am bandaged up good and tight when I leave lab now.
I'm a regular, so I see the other regulars. Ray. Carole. Eve. Ben. Gus. Randy. Charles. Bonnie. We are all old. We all have cancer. We are all dying. We are all fighting to stay on our feet as long as we can. Charles can no longer drive himself. He has a home health aide now. Her name is Rusti and she talks to him as if he is five. He was a college professor previously. Now, she uses this sing song voice with him that sets my teeth on edge. Although, to be fair, he doesn't seem to mind. Maybe he is just so glad to be done being worried about having to muster up the energy to drive anywhere that he doesn't care how she talks.
Still. It bothers me. He used to teach math at a prestigious university. Now, he wears his slippers everywhere because, you know, those chemo side effects. He used to walk out of labs and say that he was going to go check on his vegetable garden. Now, he just nods when Rusti asks him if he wants to go get a "nice big ole cup of coffee for being so brave."
Ray is driven everywhere by his wife, Carole. Carole has fibromyalgia and says that for the last 20 years Ray has went out of his way to take care of her. Now, it is her turn to take care of him. She often looks near exhaustion, but she is right there. She wheels him around in his wheel chair. Ray's chemo gives him terrible diarrhea, so we get it when he leans towards his wife and says something and she springs up and sprints to the nearest restroom with him in his wheelchair.
We talk, not as candidly as we do in my women's cancer support group, but nearly so. We talk about our old lives. The lives we lived prior to cancer. Ray owned a liquor store. It's long sold. Eve was a hair stylist. ("I used to be on my feet from sun up to sundown and it never bothered me a bit. Now, I can't stand up long enough to unload my dishwasher.") Ben sold insurance. He's been married 4 times and none of his wives stay in touch. Gus worked at Rosenblatt for his whole life and when it fell, so did he. ("I found out that my fuckin' cancer....excuse my french, ladies....was back for the third time the day after we heard that old Rosenblatt was being taken away.") Bonnie was a home ec teacher for 40 years. She retired. She and her husband went on all those cruises they had saved for. He died and four years later, she moved out of the house they shared and raised all their kids in and moved in with her daughter and son in law and their newborn. ("So, it was like they had TWO newborns! I am too weak to even hold the baby much!") Randy isn't specific about what his old life was like, except that he "worked in carpentry and such."
What we all share is that we are no longer in those lives and we miss them. We watch others race walking through their days as we sit waiting for labs and miss the hubbub of well.....life. Now, our days are filled with labs. ("God, I hope my potassium is higher this time. Getting a bag of it takes almost two hours...") With side effects.
1) Diarrhea and/or constipation. ("Man, I used to take a shit at work every day at 10 a.m. sharp like clockwork. I miss those days. In and out. Shit coming out of me like a well trained diver. Done and done. One minute tops.")
2) Puking. ("I was watching a funny show the other day and it hurt to laugh. I have been throwing up so much that my ribs ached.")
3) Food tasting funny. ("People from my church keep bringing me food to eat but it all tastes metallic to me. I want to tell them to stop but that seems so ungrateful.")
4) Doctors who want to keep us alive at all costs. ("I want to be alive more than anything. But, is this LIFE? I feel like all I do is sleep or think about it.")
5) Worrying about germs. ("We went to a movie last night and the guy a few people down kept coughing. I thought that Carole was going to go punch him in the nose. But, when we go to visit our grandbaby, his mother acts like she shouldn't let me hold my grandson, like he might catch my cancer.")
6) Money. ("I have medicare. I thought it would be enough but it only covers 70% of cancer care. That would be okay if my meds were a few hundred dollars. They are thousands and thousands of dollars. Our bank account looked pretty healthy ten years ago. Now, I hope that I don't live long enough to put my husband in danger of having to go back to work at 71!")
7) How incredibly sweet life is. ("I look at the trees changing color and I can hardly stand it. And birds. My god, BIRDS are so pretty. How could I have lived this long and not noticed these things?")
We know each other. Look out for one another. Ask after each other. We all know that this is our last waltz and we are paying attention. We know that Gus is a natty dresser. How long that will last? We can't say. Charles used to be a natty dresser, too. Now, he just matches. We know that Eve has a sweet tooth....except for the ten days after she gets chemo. You can always see when she's had chemo because she isn't eating a Payday bar. Her face is gray. Her eyes far away. We all get it. Chemo takes you to that place. That place that you can't even properly describe to others. It is just the never ending sick.
"She's in it good today," we will say. And we all get it. Except it isn't good. Except that we hope that, along with everything else, it might be killing her cancer. That would be good. We talk a lot about tumor markers. We live from tumor marker test to tumor marker test. Most of us don't fare so well, but we keep trying. Sometimes there is a reprieve. Most times, no. But, we keep hoping. Hoping is all we have really. We cling to it.
Which brings me to God. Some of us are believers. Some of us are not. Actually, most of us are believers. Some of us practice a religion. Some of us just try to be good people. Others of us, like Charles, believe that this is all poppycock and that there is no magic man who lives in the sky.
I'm honest. I'm just not sure. I want to believe so badly. And I suspect that there IS something after death. I'm just not sure that it is the God that I was raised to believe in. Because if I believe in that God, I have to disavow other gods and other religions. I can't do that. I think that we all belong to something good. And that it is more complicated than we can ever know, so it is easier to just narrow it down to this religion or that one. I believe that all good people have merit and all have entrance to what I have come to believe is the good place. That Muslims, Buddhists, Jews, Christians, Atheists, Agnostics...we ALL get entrance. That our continued journey is based on what we did on earth, our good deeds, thoughts, and true beliefs. That just mouthing words means nothing if you don't follow up with good deeds. My God is not an easy God, and not one to name him or herself. It is simply pure good. And if we haven't allied ourselves with it, we must make amends.
Eve is a huge believer in prayers. I stand with her. I believe that any good wishes you send another, whether for strength or healing or whatever, is inanely good and accountable. What I don't believe in is that prayer can heal or convince God to heal you. If I believe in that, I must admit that all those who have died from cancer did not have enough prayers going for them and I know that this is not true. My mother died from cancer and I tell you this: IT WAS NOT BECAUSE NO ONE PRAYED HARD ENOUGH FOR HER. She died because her body could not fight cancer anymore.
I don't see God as some being who sits on a throne deciding if someone will live or die from cancer, will win a football game, or find true love. I think that prayer is useful because it generates love. And love helps give us strength and endurance. All love is good for us.
We don't sit around discussing God much. I do know that Ray and Carole are Catholics because when they talk, like most Catholics, they talk in terms of parishes. As in, "We used to live down by Our Lady of Lourdes. Now we live by St. Robert's." It is the way Catholics talk. I know that Eve belongs to a church and that she gets meals delivered every day by various members of her church. I know that Ben wants to be born again as a cocker spaniel, next time around. He has never met an unfriendly one.
We talk in labs. Sometimes, we will reach out and touch a hand as one of us walks by.
It helps. It all helps. We are all just humans trying to make our way home.
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