DAY 16: REIGN OF HOPE

SEPTEMBER 8, 2022 – (Cont.) Today’s 6:15 a.m. appointment at the “combination clinic – positive reinforcement center” revealed a jump in my hemoglobin to 9.3 (two days ago it stood at 6.9), to which the P.A. remarked, “Are you trying to show off?” The all-important neutrophil count was up to 2.2 (from 1.9, yesterday; zero a week ago)—reaching close to the goal of 2.5. Elaine, the nurse whose middle name is “Positive,” administered my growth factor shot with such perfection, I felt nothing of the prick of the needle or the infusion that followed.

The highlight of this morning’s appointment, however, was a heart-to-heart conversation with my P.A., Tascha, about the highs and lows of my hospital stay, and, in fact, of my entire experience dating back to my diagnosis the first week of January. I told her about the “flutter of angel wings” that I described in yesterday’s post, when my nurse Kristie had entered the room. My voice quavered, then yielded to the deep-set emotions that fill my life—gratitude for all the heart, soul, skill, and expertise that have been afforded me throughout my expedition.

“As I told the angels at the hospital, Tascha,” I said, “—and throughout this process, you’re one of those angels too—when you leave work at the end of the day, know that in my life, you’ve made a huge difference.”

Tears welled up in Tascha’s eyes, as she took my hand in hers. Here, I thought, is another woman of science whose heart and soul are as deep as her brain. “That means a lot to me,” she said, “and to everyone who cares about you.” Only then did I learn that tomorrow, she’s taking time off to “say good-bye” to her mother-in-law.

My tears of gratitude became tears of empathy. “Godspeed,” I said. I held myself together enough to add, “One of so many things I’m learning is just how interconnected we are as humanity.” Tascha nodded in solid agreement.

When I exited the clinic and was waiting for Beth to pick me up, I felt the warm, sun-filled breeze dance around me. It reminded me of the same kind of late summer breeze I’ve experienced so many times up at the Red Cabin; the unbridled wind off the lake as we’re sitting on the dock in the early morning sun, sipping our coffee and contemplating the carefree day that awaits our whims, desires, imaginations.

I closed my eyes and transported myself to that place, to those worry-free times and smiled, as I relished all the beauty that colors that familiar space. I pictured the stalwart pine along the shore, the eagles floating on thermals and eyeing the lake for sustenance. I heard the mirthful sound of waves striking the rocks and the wind singing in the trees. I dreamed of days to come that will find me in that spot, my senses drinking deep from nature’s chalice.

Hours later, with the rest of the world, I learned of the Queen’s passing—at the same time a double rainbow appeared over Buckingham Palace. This intersection of a monarch’s departure and the traditional symbol of hope stirred me to ponder the bigger picture in which our lives play out. So much of what we see in life is beyond understanding.

After writing the foregoing paragraph, I closed my laptop, but not the thoughts expressed. They made me want to step outside to look at the stars, to make a wish. But then I worried: the forecast called for a drastic change from today’s high summer weather; a drop in temperature, clouds, rain. Was I too late? Had clouds moved in, obscuring all the diamonds in the sky? What of my wish? I donned my mask and shoes and exited the back of the house. I gazed upward but saw no stars. I turned my sight to the west and the lofty, silhouetted boughs of the neighbors’ wily white pine. Miracles of miracles! Sitting atop the very end of one of the upper boughs was a star. I made my wish.

I then stepped back for another look at heaven. As I cranked my head back as far as I could, I saw another star, this one brighter and straight overhead. The reigning monarch, I thought, of hope on earth. (Cont.)

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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson