DAY 19: BEAUTY OF PLACE

SEPTEMBER 11, 2022 – (Cont.) After nurse Laura read my numbers from this morning’s lab report, she extended her hand and said, “Congratulations!” (“Don’t worry,” she added. “I’ve already washed my hands 5,000 times today, but there are plenty of hand sanitizers on your way out.”) She was one of the veterans of the BMT clinic, having worked there since 1989. While she conducted the blood draw and cleaned my lines, she gave me a short history of the miraculous progress in treatment protocols since the outset of her career.

Take-away tidbits: back in the day, transplants weren’t even attempted on anyone over the age of 35; “growth factor” hadn’t been developed, leaving transplant patients neutropenic—and completely vulnerable to infection—for many weeks; BMT was considered experimental, and thus, not insurable—to undergo treatment, you had to pay $25,000 cash up front ($57,000 in today’s dollars); 100% of patients had lengthy hospital stays; patient data was limited, whereas today, there are mountains of data that can better guide caregivers in anticipating and addressing side effects.

When my oncologist first mentioned “stem cell transplant” back in January, I felt queasy. When he added that it was the most aggressive way to treat my disease but that “it would be no picnic—I’m not going to sugar-coat it,” I nearly fainted. On February 21 (I’ll forever remember the date) when I first met with the BMT specialist and scheduling nurse at the U of MN, the information explosion nearly cut the oxygen supply to my brain. Me? Undergo . . . whatever the hell it was you explained? I staggered out of the place wondering how in the world I would endure such a Frankensteinian ordeal. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was scared and depressed.

“Congratulations!” now echoes like a clarion inside my ears—despite, or rather, especially, after five days aboard the “cruise ship.”

Yesterday, a good friend sent me a cache of photos of her recent trip to Vietnam, home of her father’s family, and Thailand. The pictures captured exotic, world-class scenery, the bind-bending development of a sophisticated tourist industry in a country ravaged by war now half a century ago, plus some of the finest architecture of SE Asia—the Buddhist temples of Bangkok.

As I pored over the images and looked up place names on the map, I was reminded how small my world has become these past few months and especially past three weeks. This narrowing was inevitable, I suppose, as I focused on sustaining my own little life amidst the grand, intricate, and infinitely diverse life of our precious planet. But my self-absorbed myopia has also produced a benefit: appreciation for the small, unsung beauty that lies within easy sight and touch.

Today, my neighborhood walk took me past many familiar trees and gardens, and I found myself admiring them with the same intensity that was once reserved for grand scenery—the Matterhorn, the Vale of Kashmir, Bryce and Zion, the Grand Canyon, the giant redwoods, the Norwegian fjords, the Great Barrier Reef, the Milford Sound in New Zealand, to name a few of few billion jewels that cover the earth. Along the way, I noticed a scene that with brush and palette, I would like to have transferred to a canvas. It was a simple scene—a neighbor’s picket fence rising between shrubs along its base and evergreen boughs overhead. The sight was mottled with morning sunlight.

I imagined how an accomplished painter would approach that scene; studying it carefully, then working for hours to capture it with an eye trained in light, lines, color, composition, perspective and a mind imbued with artistic talent. The result, I envisioned, would adorn a place on an art museum wall, with a nearby plaque describing the artist and the artist’s view. In my mind’s eye was a simple scene but one as beautiful as any other.

My expedition has brought me many treasures. Appreciation for what lies within strides of our doorstep is among those riches. (Cont.)

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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson