The trouble with people is that they go away. Nobody sticks around forever. Grandparents die. Parents let you grow up and move out of the house. Your summer romance goes back to school. Your shrink moves to Colorado for the skiing. I don't like saying goodbye. And this week, I have a couple of pretty big ones to say.
Today is the last meeting of my LIVESTRONG at the YMCA group. I signed up because they promised a free Y membership for three months, and a chance to work with some trainers and instructors who I figured could help me get ready for my half-marathon. I wound up falling in love with a bunch of women who I'll never forget.
The one who survived 4th stage lung cancer, and can lift MY weight on the leg press.
The one who came to the gym looking a little weary because she'd just had a radiation treatment.
The one who went out and bought a pair of those goofy Vibram toe shoes for a treat.
The one who didn't like to shimmy in Zumba because it made her breast hurt after chemo.
The one who cries when she talks about what it's like to train survivors.
The one who has beaten cancer three times, and is tough enough to whip it another three hundred.
I thought I was a pretty bad dude for outlasting cancer and running a 10K. I'm a wimp next to these champions. We'll stay in touch on Facebook, and they are putting an alumni class together that will meet once a week, but it isn't going to be the same. Today, we'll swim, and eat, and laugh and cry together. Then we're going to paint one of the walls in the lobby yellow and hang up the first of what will be many class pictures on the new "LIVESTRONG wall." Everyone who comes into the building will know that something remarkable happens there, and everyone who loves a survivor will know that there is an opportunity for them to be a part of that remarkable thing. Goodbyes are hard, but leaving that kind of a legacy softens the blow.
Then there's Dee. Dee is my cancer nurse. Every cancer patient should have one. Dee was mine. You deal with lots of nurses and doctors and techs and administrators when you're fighting cancer. But there's always one who can take you by the hand and lead you through the dark. That's Dee.
Dee was the first person to greet me in the exam room at the Oncologist's office.
Who laughed and reassured me that the green goo leaking out around my PEG tube was not my vital essence, but the spinach dal I had eaten at the Indian buffet the day before my first Chemo treatment.
Who explained how to treat thrush.
Who fought the insurance companies for me when dorks in suits tried to stand between me and the treatment that was to save my life.
Who gave me the daily injections when I had my saddle thrombosis, and nicknamed me her "My Little Pin Cushion."
Whose face was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes after passing out in the lobby of the clinic one sunny afternoon.
Who brings people from the hospital to see me on stage.
Who created and facilitated the head and neck cancer support group that taught me I wasn't alone.
And last week, Dee packed up her office and moved on from the Markey Cancer center. She has a great opportunity to train other cancer nurses. She's going to pass all that knowledge and passion and compassion to new generations of healers who have never had to pick up an unconscious Fat Man from under the couch in the waiting room. She isn't going to be there the next time I go to visit the doc, but she will be in my heart for as long as it beats. Goodbyes are hard, but that kind of legacy softens the blow.
I wonder about my own legacy a lot. What's going to be left on the wall or in someone's heart when I finally say goodbye? Will it be a kind word... or a cruel one? Will it be a story I told? Will there be someone who runs a marathon or auditions for a play or starts a blog because they knew me? Have I built anything that will last, planted anything that will bear fruit long after I am gone? I think these are questions you once you realize that you are probably closer to your last birthday than your first one. We all want to know that we mattered to somebody.
Cancer taught me that I matter to a lot more people than I realized. People love me more than I ever dreamed. If nothing else, that's my legacy. I gave people a chance to love somebody in this world. Not a bad start.
Lots of people tell me that I inspire them. I am grateful, but I always wonder, "What are you inspired to do?" I have a friend who is trying to stop smoking and start running. I don't take any credit for that, it is a tribute to his own strength and love of life, but he says I put him to shame. I hate that. That's not why I'm alive. There is plenty of shame in the world already. I want to help make more life. If the Fat Man was saved for anything, it was for that: to be a living example of how love can beat death. In every life. Every time. Death can take us in the end, but it we don't ever have to let him win. "The Girls" at the Y taught me that. The Five taught me that. Dee taught me that. If I can teach you that, and inspire you to wrap your arms around life and never let go... well that's a legacy that will soften any goodbye.
Yeah, I'm feeling a little reflective and just a bit melancholy today. I'll get back to miles and weights and fund-raising tomorrow. But today, I'm just kind of nestled in the love of a bunch of cancer fighters who have made me a part of their own legacy.
Peace,
Pennsy
One for the Five, my half-marathon to honor my friends and family whose fight against cancer has ended has raised more than $2400 for the Markey Cancer Foundation with 19 days to go.
Running for Sabrina, my friend Charlie's marathon to honor his niece and fight Down Syndrome has raised $2000 with just a few days to go.
LIVESTRONG at the YMCA still has spots available for the afternoon and the evening sessions which start in a couple of weeks.
Feeling inspired yet?
"He not busy being born is busy dying." ~ Bob Dylan
Showing posts with label nurse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nurse. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Monday, June 7, 2010
#176: The First Day of Chemo
This post is much longer than I expected. Sorry, it was a pretty eventful day. I'll talk chemo today and radiation tomorrow - Pennsy
Last night was a late one. There was a blog to post, my news reader to catch up on, a couple days worth of Facebook status updates to read. Yeah, I was stalling. Finally got to bed about 1:00. Mum was still awake, reading. I don't think either of us wanted to face the dreams that our evening was likely to hold. We were both awake again at about 3:30. Mrs. P's alarm went off at 6:00. I got up and made a vanilla protein shake. That's what goes in the spot where I put three Marlboros and half a pot of coffee back in the old days.
Then it was time to flush my PEG tube. This involves taking a large syringe and running clean water through the tube four or five times a day just to keep it clear. We also change the dressing around it then. Because the stoma is still pretty new, it leaks a little. Usually nothing newsworthy. Except this morning on the gauze we found something that looked suspiciously like the spinach and mushroom dish I enjoyed at our favorite Indian restaurant yesterday.
We were faced with two equally fearful prospects. First, there was a possibility that stomach contents were leaking. This is very bad mojo. The juice in your stomach is designed to break down organic tissue. Having it sloshing around inside your abdomen is a terrible plan. Second, it was certain that I was going to have to admit that I spent my last day before chemo - a therapy almost assured to cause nausea - gumming on enough curry and tandoori to bust a gut. Mrs P, ever the student of those forensic procedural shows, bagged and tagged the evidence so we could take it with us to the cancer center.
There is such comfort in falling into a routine someone else knows well. After a short wait, we moved from sign-in to triage, from triage to the treatment room. "Dee", the nurse from my medical oncologist's office was summoned to examine the verdant discharge on my bandages. After a thorough examination of the tube site, the team agreed that the green stuff was gross, a little hilarious, and harmless. The Chemo could proceed.
"Rodger", the chemo nurse explained the procedure to me. He would give me two litres of fluid, then a bag of medicine, then two more litres of fluid. The "medicine" is very dangerous to the kidneys, so they do all they can to keep them flushed clean. I should feel free to get up and use the bathroom at the first urge. We would be working my radiation treatment into the schedule sometime during one of the two hydration periods.
Two children in white lab coats were my next visitors. I was shocked the first time I saw a police officer on a subway car who was clearly much younger than I. I have started to feel the same way about a lot of the wonderful young people who are working to save me. They are brilliant and competent, but they are also so fresh-faced that they make me want to ask for ID before I show them my scar.
He was my pharmacist. She was his student and not his prom date, as I had assumed. He told me about the specific medicines i was going to be using. My kidneys could fail. My hearing could be damaged. My esophagus might swell shut. My bowels could stop moving. Gotta love this kid. While Mum and Mrs P took careful notes, (God bless them,) he went over each of the pills I'd be taking home. Steroids, anti-nausea potions, more anti-nausea potions, even more anti-nausea potions. "Don't lose these," he cautioned after showing us one particularly potent pellet, "they cost about two thousand dollars a piece." So that's where the nausea comes from.
The girls worked crossword puzzles and did needlework while I listened to my iPod and gazed out the window of our little cubicle. Time dripped through the pump that fed the juice into my left wrist. I had to move my LiveStrong bracelet to my right arm. In the process, it got turned around so the lettering faced away from me. I reversed it again so I could read it. The words are for me, not to impress other people.
When it was time, after about two hours, Rodger and another nurse came in with a large IV bag in a dark amber shroud, almost the color of a beer bottle. I should be so lucky. They were wearing blue haz-mat robes and gloves to protect their skin from the stuff that would soon be pumping into my veins. Like missile officers reviewing launch codes they triple-checked my identity.
"What is your name and birthdate?"
"My records show him as ... born on..."
"His wrist band shows him as so and so, birthdate thus and such, patient number..."
"I have him as patient number..."
"The bag contains..."
"My records show that the bag should contain..."
Check, check, and check.
There were a lot of light-hearted moments in the room. This was not one of them. this was some nasty stuff. How nasty is it? My pee is toxic. I had to use a special bathroom on the ward. The staff could not be exposed to the chemicals they were giving me or they might experience all the wicked side effects they'd been telling me about for two months. I have to "double-flush" to make sure none of the stuff they are putting on me winds up in the bowl at home when someone else uses it. Disinfect seat and handle. Nasty stuff.
As the chemo was finishing, a dear friend who is on the staff came down to visit with us for a while. She offered to walk us over to the radiation therapy building once I was back on fluids again. Rodger set me up, and we trundled my little IV pole across the courtyard. It was a beautiful Bluegrass afternoon. We laughed and joked and drank in the air and the energy of the young people enjoying their lunches at picnic tables. We probably walked 150 yards. It felt like a mile.
After radiation, which I mostly slept through, we made our way back to the ward. It wasn't long before I was finished and feeling worn out. We arrived at 8:00 in the morning and left around 3:00. That's all the typing I can stand today. Sorry I can't craft a more artful ending. We'll talk about radiation tomorrow.
Peace,
pennsy
Last night was a late one. There was a blog to post, my news reader to catch up on, a couple days worth of Facebook status updates to read. Yeah, I was stalling. Finally got to bed about 1:00. Mum was still awake, reading. I don't think either of us wanted to face the dreams that our evening was likely to hold. We were both awake again at about 3:30. Mrs. P's alarm went off at 6:00. I got up and made a vanilla protein shake. That's what goes in the spot where I put three Marlboros and half a pot of coffee back in the old days.
Then it was time to flush my PEG tube. This involves taking a large syringe and running clean water through the tube four or five times a day just to keep it clear. We also change the dressing around it then. Because the stoma is still pretty new, it leaks a little. Usually nothing newsworthy. Except this morning on the gauze we found something that looked suspiciously like the spinach and mushroom dish I enjoyed at our favorite Indian restaurant yesterday.
We were faced with two equally fearful prospects. First, there was a possibility that stomach contents were leaking. This is very bad mojo. The juice in your stomach is designed to break down organic tissue. Having it sloshing around inside your abdomen is a terrible plan. Second, it was certain that I was going to have to admit that I spent my last day before chemo - a therapy almost assured to cause nausea - gumming on enough curry and tandoori to bust a gut. Mrs P, ever the student of those forensic procedural shows, bagged and tagged the evidence so we could take it with us to the cancer center.
There is such comfort in falling into a routine someone else knows well. After a short wait, we moved from sign-in to triage, from triage to the treatment room. "Dee", the nurse from my medical oncologist's office was summoned to examine the verdant discharge on my bandages. After a thorough examination of the tube site, the team agreed that the green stuff was gross, a little hilarious, and harmless. The Chemo could proceed.
"Rodger", the chemo nurse explained the procedure to me. He would give me two litres of fluid, then a bag of medicine, then two more litres of fluid. The "medicine" is very dangerous to the kidneys, so they do all they can to keep them flushed clean. I should feel free to get up and use the bathroom at the first urge. We would be working my radiation treatment into the schedule sometime during one of the two hydration periods.
Two children in white lab coats were my next visitors. I was shocked the first time I saw a police officer on a subway car who was clearly much younger than I. I have started to feel the same way about a lot of the wonderful young people who are working to save me. They are brilliant and competent, but they are also so fresh-faced that they make me want to ask for ID before I show them my scar.
He was my pharmacist. She was his student and not his prom date, as I had assumed. He told me about the specific medicines i was going to be using. My kidneys could fail. My hearing could be damaged. My esophagus might swell shut. My bowels could stop moving. Gotta love this kid. While Mum and Mrs P took careful notes, (God bless them,) he went over each of the pills I'd be taking home. Steroids, anti-nausea potions, more anti-nausea potions, even more anti-nausea potions. "Don't lose these," he cautioned after showing us one particularly potent pellet, "they cost about two thousand dollars a piece." So that's where the nausea comes from.
The girls worked crossword puzzles and did needlework while I listened to my iPod and gazed out the window of our little cubicle. Time dripped through the pump that fed the juice into my left wrist. I had to move my LiveStrong bracelet to my right arm. In the process, it got turned around so the lettering faced away from me. I reversed it again so I could read it. The words are for me, not to impress other people.
When it was time, after about two hours, Rodger and another nurse came in with a large IV bag in a dark amber shroud, almost the color of a beer bottle. I should be so lucky. They were wearing blue haz-mat robes and gloves to protect their skin from the stuff that would soon be pumping into my veins. Like missile officers reviewing launch codes they triple-checked my identity.
"What is your name and birthdate?"
"My records show him as ... born on..."
"His wrist band shows him as so and so, birthdate thus and such, patient number..."
"I have him as patient number..."
"The bag contains..."
"My records show that the bag should contain..."
Check, check, and check.
There were a lot of light-hearted moments in the room. This was not one of them. this was some nasty stuff. How nasty is it? My pee is toxic. I had to use a special bathroom on the ward. The staff could not be exposed to the chemicals they were giving me or they might experience all the wicked side effects they'd been telling me about for two months. I have to "double-flush" to make sure none of the stuff they are putting on me winds up in the bowl at home when someone else uses it. Disinfect seat and handle. Nasty stuff.
As the chemo was finishing, a dear friend who is on the staff came down to visit with us for a while. She offered to walk us over to the radiation therapy building once I was back on fluids again. Rodger set me up, and we trundled my little IV pole across the courtyard. It was a beautiful Bluegrass afternoon. We laughed and joked and drank in the air and the energy of the young people enjoying their lunches at picnic tables. We probably walked 150 yards. It felt like a mile.
After radiation, which I mostly slept through, we made our way back to the ward. It wasn't long before I was finished and feeling worn out. We arrived at 8:00 in the morning and left around 3:00. That's all the typing I can stand today. Sorry I can't craft a more artful ending. We'll talk about radiation tomorrow.
Peace,
pennsy
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