AUGUST 25, 2022 – (Cont.) Roll back yesterday’s “video” of my LAX – LGA flight after take-off, climbing out of L.A. Having repeated my silent entreaty to the aviation gods for a “safe and uneventful take-off, a safe and uneventful flight, and a safe and uneventful landing” (four times, for extra efficacy–after all, airline safety is all about redundancies), I’m relaxed enough to strike up a conversation with the person next to me—a comedian who grew up in Boston, now lives in L.A. and is flying to New York for a big gig. I consider this good luck.
Since she’s a comedian, I assume she’s always on the look-out for material. I fantasize that if I tell her a really funny story about myself, she might incorporate part of it into her schtick, and when it goes viral, I can tell my family and friends that ’twas I who provided the material.
I tell her about my medical condition and its treatment, and when her face doesn’t suggest she’s thinking, “This is gonna be a long flight,” I progress toward the funny part, mindful that it’s all in the delivery.
I explain that in the morning of the “chemo-blast,” I was finishing up my last pre-lockdown task: mopping the kitchen floor. The bucket with Lysol and water was in position and the mop handle was in my grip, when my phone rang. “Unknown Caller,” I heard. I took one hand off the handle and picked up the phone from a nearby counter. “FAIRVIEW” read caller ID—the University medical system, including the cancer center.
“Eric Nilsson,” I answered with mop in hand.
The young woman on the other end wanted to schedule a slug of “cancer therapy sessions.” I was caught off guard. No one had recently mentioned “cancer therapy,” except . . . oh yeah, when Beth and I’d met with the social worker during my work-up, “therapy” of some kind had been offered, just like the chaplain idea. I must’ve said “sure” just as readily as I used to take free tchotchkes from vendor booths at the annual Real Estate Law Institute, stuff them into my satchel, thinking they’d be useful somehow, then forget all about them until I needed to clean out the bag.
“Usually we like to schedule these in advance of your treatment,” she said for openers after niceties.
“My treatment starts today,” I said. “Did I misbehave along the way? Was I supposed to have taken prior initiative?” Before she could answer, I wondered exactly what kind of “therapy” was involved—I’ve been under the helpful guidance of a psychological therapist for some months. But maybe the woman was calling about different therapy, such as techniques for dealing with the side effects of the chemo-blast.
“No, no, no,” the woman said. “You didn’t do anything wrong. We’ve just had some scheduling conflicts that prevented us from getting you on the chart sooner, and I do apologize.”
“That’s okay,” I said, as I hit the speaker button and placed the phone back on the counter. Time to get on with the mop job—we’d have to leave the house in less than a half hour. “Let’s go ahead and schedule,” I said.
“Perfect! I can get you in tomorrow morning at 9:30.”
“Uh, I have no idea how I’m going to feel after today’s chemo-session, and my transplant is scheduled for tomorrow at 12:30, but what the heck, let’s go for it!” Only later did I remember that I had an online (psychological) therapy session scheduled at 10:00.
As I swished the Lysol-water-soaked mop across the kitchen-floor tiles, the scheduler slowly arranged for subsequent therapy sessions. She was slow because the “computer was slow today.” Doubtless it was, but while we waited for a change of screens at her end, I was ripping back and forth with the mop. I was too rushed to inquire about the nature of the therapy, though I had my clue when the scheduler switched from “therapy” to “OT”—way out in November. “It all sounds fine,” I said, knowing full well I could sort things out later.
Early the next day—transplant day, but before the appointed procedure time—Beth and I drove to the “cancer therapy center” about two miles short of the cancer center itself. It was in a single level newer building along busy University Avenue, and it housed a number of rehabilitation facilities of the University medical system.
Shortly after I checked in, my therapist appeared. Her physique was diminutive, but her greeting and gait suggested she that with little effort she could wrestle a bear to the ground. She didn’t look like the type of therapist with books on the shelf and incense burning in the background—with prior consent by the client, of course. My assessment was confirmed when she ushered us into her “therapy room.” It was equipped with benches, weights, treadmills, and mirrors. I joked to myself about the mirrors. For self-reflection therapy, perhaps?
“So, how are you feeling?” she asked with a lively smile much younger than her years.
“Well, uh, I guess I’m feeling great at the moment,” I said. “It’s what lies ahead that concerns me.”
“What would you like to work on?”
“I’m not sure. I mean, I guess, maybe strategies for keeping myself upright and in some kind of condition as I weather the storm that awaits me.” It was now 9:35, and my real therapy session was to commence online at 10:00. Oops. I disclosed this to the now-apparent physical therapist, adding that my therapist is habitually 15 minutes late for my appointments, so our current half-hour session should be fine. (I had yet to think about how, exactly, I’d close out the physical session and find a place to Facetime with my real therapist.)
We quickly came to terms. In the minutes remaining, I’d submit to a battery of tests, not unlike the ones comprised by the “frailty test” that’d been part of my work-up. But this woman was feistier than the younger, more deferential frailty test administrators at the cancer center. This tightly-wound veteran was out to make me sweat—all in the interest of establishing a base line and my return-to-as-quickly-as-possible objective.
She got right down to business by grabbing a stopwatch, pulling out a chair, and instructing me on what I was to do: from a sitting position, stand up, sit down, stand up, repeating as many times as I could in 30 seconds. Just the sight of the stopwatch unleashed my latent competitive streak. I pulled off 19 rotations and won brief but hearty applause. Then for comic effect, she said, “XYZPDQ.” I had no idea what that meant. “Your fly’s open,” she said. “Stands for ‘close your zipper pretty darn quick.’ Haven’t you heard that before? We heard it all the time when we were growing up.” I couldn’t decide which one of us had grown up in the kinder, gentler neighborhood.
Once I’d remedied the situation, the next trick was walking up and down a hallway between two tapes on the floor, 24 feet apart, as fast as I could in six minutes. When she said “Go!” yours truly was off to the races. As I reflect on it, I must have looked ridiculous. Rolling up and down the other side of the narrow hallway were two-way caravans of sallow-appearing cancer patients wearing caps and slouched in wheelchairs. And there I was, race-walking and working up a sweat. I had to have set a record, but admittedly, I was surely the only one competing. More to the point, it was pointless, I mean, worse than pointless. Later in the day I felt strain in my left hamstring—from the sudden stopping, pivoting, and racing against . . . myself. But I’ve since managed a full recovery.
For the closer, I had to stand one-legged, each side, then stand on a foam cushion one-legged with my eyes closed. I passed these tests as well—lasting until the woman tired of looking at her stopwatch.
Just then, Facetime lit up my phone. It was my “head” therapist. With fumbled words I described my predicament. Bottom line: I’d call him back in about 10 minutes.
At the conclusion of the PT session, we rushed home for . . . my real therapy session. By the time we reconnected, I was in a slightly hyperventilated state. But all’s well that ends well, and we had a positive, encouraging session, with more scheduled for the weeks ahead.
Yesterday, by contrast, was an easier day. I actually knocked off a bit of legal work in the morning, followed by some writing. Then it was off to the clinic again for a lab, brief consult, and change of the bandaging around my port. We arrived in time despite having left the house late, and taking two wrong turns and driving in the illegal direction on a one-way street.
Again, all’s well that ends well. The P.A., Tasha, as always, was completely on top of her game. And Linda, who changed the bandage—remarking that she’s done thousands of such changes—was yet another angel whom I’d not yet met. When I asked how she’d landed at the clinic (a 20-year nursing veteran), she started with a childhood story. At age six, her live-in grandmother, parents, and three brothers took sick with the flu during the week of Christmas. She was the only one who escaped the bug, so despite her tender age, she became the care-giver for the entire family. “I learned how to make toast and give people water, clean up and help comfort them.” At the conclusion of the episode, Linda’s mother told her she had a special gift; the gift of caring.
Such is the type of person in whose care I now find myself. Life is good in the presence of angels.
And now, late yesterday, I learned that dear friends will soon find themselves in the company of “angels masquerading as humans,” for the husband’s treatment of cancer. The going will be tough, which means I must become tough so I can return tenfold to my friends, the support and encouragement they’ve given me. (Cont.)
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
