BLAST-OFF!

AUGUST 23, 2022 – Blogger’s note: Wife is a sweetie. And I apologize for blowing way past my self-imposed daily word quota (of yore).

(Cont.) Late Sunday evening my wife and I were still in the throes of preparing our abode for “cancer con”—short for “convalescence from the effects of cancer chemo treatment.” She had her list (food and wood-floor departments), and I had mine (laundry and tile-floor departments). None of the commotion threatened our marriage.

I slept like a rock and found helpful distraction in my characteristic all-over-the-map-dreams, ending with a scene in which the framed facsimile of a composition by J. S. Bach (I could tell, not by the manuscript but by its label) hung on the wall of a spartan room at a rustic resort. Go figure. Or maybe don’t.

This morning we woke to a gorgeous day, but to keep outside spores at bay, our house had to stay closed up. As I admired the view of early sunshine flashing off the dew-covered lawn, I imagined an alternative scenario: instead of a rendezvous with cancer treatment, a day on the sunny shores of Grindstone Lake—a long hike through woods under the gaze of eagle eyes, spiraling atop thermals of a warm August day.

I seemed to have a choice between self-pity and celebration. Here I am, about to be knocked for a loop, made to look and feel like an aged man, unable to enjoy for days, weeks, a couple of months, even longer perhaps, the active, outdoor life to which I’m accustomed. Yet, how blessed I am to find motivation in the desire to reclaim that life!

As Beth repaired to the porch with her coffee, book (Invisible Child by Andrea Elliot), and breakfast, I mopped up (literally) outstanding items on my clean-up list. I finished a bathroom floor just in time for Beth to drop a bottle of nail polish on the unforgiving floor and made a royal mess of things—in bright red-orange.

With the day closing in on 10:00 a.m., I dressed, pulled out a new K95 mask, rushed downstairs, rushed back upstairs in search of Genghis Kahn (see 8/15 post); couldn’t find him, then remembered—“he” was downstairs; flew back downstairs, captured him then raced out the door  and jumped—yes, jumped—into the car (pilot’s side) to drive to the cancer “chemo-blast” launchpad.

Luck was with us, and I happily seized it: Directly across the street from the clinic we found a parking spot. I shut down “the plane” and opened the door a second after Beth had opened hers and alighted. As I pivoted on my seat and put my left foot down on the curb I noticed . . .“Yikes!” I yelled

“What?” said Beth.

“I forgot to put on socks and shoes!” (I was still wearing my in-the-house green fluorescent CROGS.)

When Beth saw what I was wearing, she burst into hysterical laughter. I did too. As I adjusted my “PARIS” visor cap over my DYI haircut (my pre-emptive attack on a classic side effect of the chemo-blast), I said to Beth, “Hey, did I tell you I’m a cancer patient?”

But just then I thought people were likely to judge from my appearance that I’d confused the University’s Cancer Center with the University’s Psychology Department.  The biggest clue, I joked to myself, was the “est. 1889” under “PARIS” on the cap, since the City of Light was founded in 259 B.C.E.—Le Tour Eiffel was erected in 1889.

To her credit, Beth, far more sensible about appearances than I am, let me off the hook. Her laughter was music to my soul.

For the next several hours, I was the subject of . . . chemo treatment. During the preliminaries, Beth agreed to drive home to pick up socks and shoes, meds I’d forgotten—plus the Invisible Child. What transpired, however, was nearly non-stop interaction with staff—nurses, pharmacist, chemo-doc, whose specialty is my specific disease. I read fewer than three pages of Genghis Kahn, and I didn’t give a thought to the TV in my private room.

Again, everyone was a star on a championship team. For nurses, I won the daily lottery. Each woman was named “Lauren”—for the benefit of patients who aren’t good at name-recall, I suppose, and for efficiency, I know: After they performed a redundancy protocol (data entry) and were still in the room together, I addressed them as “Laurens.”

Lauren One was young—a year into her job; six years into nursing. She spoke clearly, directly, projecting a well-ordered mind, and demonstrated complete mastery of the tasks at hand. Before prepping all the bags and lines that would fuel the “chemo-blast” and accompanying medications, she asked me how I was “feeling about everything.”

Her question invited more than a “fine” or “not so fine” response. I gave her a couple of long paragraphs, as I’m wont to do because—in my defense—every healthcare worker who’s cared for me along this entire expedition has signaled that they genuinely care about me. I’ve observed this aplenty too in how they interact with other patients—of all stripes. This time, though, I kind of, well, broke down—from the perspective of much of the world. That is to say, I laid my emotions open and expressed deep gratitude for the care I was receiving. She responded with great empathy and unusual insight.

Lauren Two was slightly more senior, and whereas Lauren One had the reserve that often accompanies Swedish lineage, “Two” was effervescent. I asked how she’d gotten into nursing, whereupon she revealed her place of origin and rearing: Pittsburgh.

Of course, this invited the question, “How did you wind up as a nurse in Minnesota?”

“Ha!” she said. “Long story, but I’ll give you a shorter—but still long version.” Turns out, she’d had a friend who was in the Pittsburgh Marathon. After seeing him somewhere along the course, she drove to the finish area to greet him when he arrived. According to plan, she got herself there, and checked the posted printout to see if his name had yet appeared—it had—then searched the crowd of runners who’d completed the race. Only later would she learn that he’d crossed the finish line, alright, but on an EMS gurney—an ankle chip having triggered the finish-line laser.

It was a cardio-emergency that had dropped him to the ground only 600 feet from the finish. He was whisked to a local ER, where a group of angels brought him back to life. And that’s what inspired Lauren Two to become a nurse. She didn’t get to the Minnesota connection, but since the Laurens will be on my case for a while, I’ll collect the rest of her story.

Backing up “Laurens” was the physician who specializes in my disease. He was a brainiac who could also communicate clearly, succinctly, and with reassuring command of his work. He was simultaneously serious and personable, and possessed a wry sense of humor.

Another critical hour was spent with the nurse coordinator—Sondra, a theater major in college, whose specialty was costume design, with a sub-specialty featuring hats. “There aren’t many jobs making hats for theater productions,” she said with a laugh, “and I’d always liked science, so after nursing school, here I am!” A huge fan of the performing arts—and arts funding, education, and appreciation—she has a child who is a conservatory-track student of the harp. Sondra is golden, blending her broad education, experience, and personality to provide technical and morale support. She’s the go-to person in the chain of command.

The hardest part of the day for me was chewing on ice. Background information: the chemo-blast can cause terrible mouth sores, which can be alleviated or avoided in part by cryo-means (certain meds are built for this job, as well). It was explained that the chemo would be in my system for only six hours, and thus, to optimize the mitigative effect of the ice, I could choose to be a polar bear for the whole six hours (if I had the endurance) instead of the recommended two-to-three hours (most patients, apparently, can’t tolerate more than three hours). I went for the six. My strategy: in a context in which much lies outside my control, I should max out on what I can control. Besides, I’m a long-distance skier.

Speaking of skiing, the one big downer, as in downhill skiing, is that the good doctor cautioned against it—ever again. Say wha-a-a-a-t?! I should note that he knows whereof he speaks. Having grown up in Brookline, MA with a dad who’s a “fanatical skier,” this Harvard man is himself a life-long skier. He said that the multiple myeloma has compromised my bones—though the harm can continue to be repaired—and that I “don’t want to suffer broken bones from a bad crash on skis.”

“I go for style not speed,” I said. “Think post-War Austrian style centered around the wedeln.” But I knew that he knew my statement wouldn’t alter his admonition. And I’m betting he had no idea what I was talking about with regard to “post-War Austrian.”

“You can x-c ski,” he said in encouragement.

“Do you x-c ski?” I asked.

“No; never have.”

I then knew he’d never catch me over in “Little Switzerland,” skiing the downhill slopes—on x-c skis.

At that moment, an idea popped into my head. I haven’t yet told my wife, who, by the way, hates cold, snow, and winter altogether . . . Stay tuned.

I concluded the day by watching the end-to-end video of the funeral of my long-time friend, John “Jack” G. Hoeschler (see 6/23 post). He’d been under the care of the same oncology group that had pulled me out of my nosedive and restored me to the point of optimizing my stem cell transplant. As I watched the video, I recalled the day Jack and I rode the elevator together to our shared offices. He’d recently turned 58, and broached the subject of longevity genes—mine being ostensibly better than his. He predicted that he’d surely be a goner by 75 and couldn’t contemplate suffering some awful medical fate beyond that age.

“What I plan to do,” he said, “is go on a Caribbean cruise and while at sea, slide off the highest stern deck into the deep.”

As it turned out, Jack never took the cruise. Instead, from 75 to 80 he continued his rich, robust, enriching life. He suffered plenty during his last year, but he did so with inspirational aplomb.

The service was replete with sublime music and words—including a most memorable eulogy by Linda, his wife, delivered with the inimitable love, power, grace and poise that define her—privately and publicly. (Cont.)

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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson