LANDING IN A CROSSWIND AND AN INJECTION OF HOPE DIVINE

AUGUST 14, 2022 – (Cont.) This morning when I arrived at the clinic for my third of five injections in the run-up to the stem-cell “harvest,” street parking was wide open. I luxuriated first by pulling into the slot closest to the entrance to the five-story U of MN Masonic Cancer Care Center. I indulged myself further by pretending I had triskaidekaphobia and rolled the car from slot “43713” to “43715.” Based on yesterday’s 15-minute appointment, I signed up for the minimum parking time—30 minutes—and with time to spare, strolled leisurely into the Center.

Thirty-five minutes later—after I’d popped for another half-hour of parking time—I was still pacing in the unoccupied waiting area. So much for the “clockwork” that I reported yesterday. The time was well spent—or well-earned: On one of my traverses, I saw at the back of an empty seat, the ever shiniest, “heads-up” dime. To avoid any misperception that I might be odd, I waited for the receptionist to take a sip of her coffee before I lifted the coin. Once in hand, the lucky charm was easy to slip into my pocket.

Meanwhile, several other patients straggled in, mostly older folks escorted by younger folks, but another guy, about my age, was alone and looking more robust.

A few more minutes passed before I pulled out my phone. On my FB feed was a video of a Boeing 737 rockin’ and rollin’ and flying sideways in a fierce crosswind on final approach. Apparently, I realized, my omniscient phone had picked up a recent conversation with my skiing buddy, Mark, while he and his wife Phyllis visited with us on the porch.

In April, these long-time friends (unseen since the advent of Covid) had traveled to one of our favorite countries—Portugal.  Phyllis told Beth about one aspect of the trip while Mark described for me another: “On the approach to Lisbon,” he said, “I thought we were going to die.”  He  recounted how the plane had “crabbed” its way in through a strong crosswind. I knew the fear: years ago I’d experienced the same thing at LaGuardia and had been just as certain of death, as my side of the aircraft made a final, sudden dip before the wheels hit the runway. I’d never been aboard a flight when everyone screamed as if in a 50-story-free-fall aboard an elevator when the cable snaps.

Coincidentally—or maybe not—the hair-raising FB video featured a landing on Madeira, the windswept Portuguese island. But this morning there in the clinic waiting room, the video didn’t remind me of Portugal or even landing in a blustery crosswind. It triggered thoughts about the parallel of commercial aviation to my medical treatment.

My fear of the upcoming autologous stem-cell transplant is . . . similar to a fear of flying. Imagine, I tell myself, that I have extreme anxiety about boarding a large, metal cigar-shaped object fitted with wings, engines, and a constellation of baffling dials, buttons, and switches. I, as a first-time passenger, wholly unfamiliar with the science and engineering of modern aviation, am told by the confident crew that the plane will transport me from the runway in close view, into the blue yonder far above the clouds, then across a mighty ocean to a very specific runway thousands of miles away. Uh-huh. Sure.

“And not to worry,” an attendant says. “The plane is equipped with seatbelts.”

“Seatbelts!” I say. “Why would we need seatbelts?!”

“In case there’s turbulence,” says the attendant.

“Turbulence?!”

“A positive attitude is critical,” the attendant says, and I gulp.

From the crew’s perspective, planes do crash, of course, but given the engineering, the redundancies, the back-ups, the safeguards, the mathematical odds, commercial flying is far safer than getting to or from the airport. The analogy to my medical treatment is what will help me “chill” during the “flight.”

Right after the plane in the video had landed safely, a nursing assistant appeared to escort me in for my injection. Her cheerful greeting quashed any inclination I might’ve had to grouse about the delay.

She broke the ice by commenting on the weather. “Kinda gloomy out there today, isn’t it?” the young woman said in a tone filled with sunshine.

“A bit,” I said, “but years ago on a flight far above uninterrupted cloud cover, I was reminded that no matter how gloomy the surface of things might be, above it the sun is always shining.”

The assistant endorsed my observation as she led me to a scale. She then asked, “What are your plans for the rest of the day?” When I mentioned my list, including reading, she inquired what, and after telling her, I asked if she liked to read. “Yes,” she said. “Mostly non-fiction, but currently I’m reading fiction. My boyfriend read it and said I had to read it.”

“What?” I asked, whereupon, from nowhere she pulled out the actual book: Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro.

“I’ve read that!” I said. “It’s a great book. Tell your boyfriend that it speaks well of him that he recommended it to you—and it speaks just as well of you that you’re reading it.”

With sunny spontaneity, she said, “Why, thanks!” and proceeded efficiently to record my vitals.

The nurse then entered the room and apologized for the delay.

“That’s quite alright,” I said. “After all, I’m patient and therefore patient.  The nurse and the assistant laughed. Just before the needle, the nurse asked, “Are you feeling any discomfort from the injections so far? Any bone pain?”

“Nope. In fact, yesterday, I extended my daily one-hour power walk by nearly a half hour.”

“Where do you walk?” asked the assistant.

“Como Park,” I said. “The parts I call ‘Little Switzerland’ and ‘Little Italy,’ because of the hills and Lake Como.”

I noticed a sudden change in the nurse’s eyes as she administered the injection and the assistant stepped away.

“My cousin lost her son in Lake Como recently,” said the nurse. “Thirty-one years old. He had mental problems and took his life.”

Only a week ago a neighbor had told me about the tragedy. “I heard about that,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks,” she said. “A year ago my cousin had lost another son in an out-of-state motorcycle accident. He was the passenger.”

“Are you and your cousin close?” I asked.

“Yes, we are. And I’m helping her the best I can.”

“One thing I’m learning in this whole treatment process,” I said, “is how connected we are to one another—in ways that we often barely know and understand. Empathy is what should bind us.”

“Especially in these times,” she said, “more people need to see the humanity in humanity.” With that, she applied a band-aid to the pin-prick from which a few drops of my own humanity had appeared.

As I exited the center, I remembered it was Sunday, and however distant I might now be from “church” and “religion,” I felt as if I’d just been injected by hope divine. If God exists, it’s most certainly within . . . our humanity. (Cont.)

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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson