IT BEGINS


Part 4 I Don’t Belong Here

On January 4 I go to my first doctor’s appointment prior to starting treatment. Sitting for one and one-half hours in a waiting room until Dr. Bu- can make it in is a dismal way to begin. He finally arrives, smiling, seeming more upbeat and optimistic today (but he is talking rapidly and is difficult to understand). When he leaves, I actually feel more unsure than before he arrived. I walk into the “chemo room” – looking around I see chair after reclining chair with IV stands next to each. I struggle to maintain any optimism that is left in me. I take my seat and wait to be hooked up to the first of my combo of drugs that have been designed by M.D. Anderson Hospital as being the most effective drug treatment plan. The home and gardening channel is an innocuous distraction (actually, a welcomed one from the perpetual dismal CNN commentary going on in the entrance waiting room). A crowd of mostly older faces fills the room, people with frail bodies sitting in recliners with IVs running from their arms. My mind is screaming “I don’t belong here, I’m not like them!” (but the voice inside my head says, “yes you are”).

One man with curly hair seems grumpy, while another woman who wears a scarf to cover her bald head is cheerful and laughs frequently. Another older man wearing a hat leans far back in his chair, complaining to his surrounding family members that he does not feel like eating. He sneezes loudly and the chair lunges back almost to the floor, after which he laughs and says he feels much better.

I am soon visited by the head nurse, Annabel, a tall, stoic figure with short cropped gray hair who rattles off my medication regimen and possible side effects from chemotherapy. I sit dazed and overwhelmed by it all, barely comprehending half of what she is saying. Somewhere in the speech I hear something about one of the three drugs causing all of my hair to fall out in just three weeks time, to me the most disturbing of any of the news I receive. I will perseverate on this prediction for days thereafter.

After 16 days off for the Christmas holidays (which are radically unlike any holidays I have ever experienced) I return to work. I awake that morning at 4:00, unable to get back to sleep. As soon as I open the door to walk down the hall, I see the diagnostician Lauren and blurt out my diagnosis. She tears up slightly and told me about a relative of hers who has recently been given a similar diagnosis. I tell various others as I enter my office. A secretary rushes into my office, lays her hands on my neck, and prays for healing. I check emails and find reassuring statements (“God will help”, “prayer bombs will be arriving at 10:00 tonight”). I remember a recent statement from Joel Osteen (“I wear the breastplate of God, what can hurt me?”), and feel supported by these words.

A girl is sitting outside my office waiting to see a principal for wearing ripped jeans to school. I hear her claim that they spontaneously ripped on her way to school. I can’t help but laugh along with the secretaries. I relish the lightness of the moment and the realization that some things don’t change. Becah and I had discussed the importance of maintaining consistency during this time of incredible change.

I have been cutting my daughters more slack at home now, trying to show more patience and love. Do I still discipline them? And how do I do this without seeming too harsh?
Becah has been working hard today – running the kids around, looking after me, handling phone calls and emails – this will undoubtedly take its toll on loved ones. I long to just leave for a few months, living in a monastery high in the mountains, being treated by nurses or angels, as monks pass by chanting incantations. How wonderful would this be! In between treatments I could read, exercise, compose music on my keyboard. When it was all over, I could come back and be with my family. They wouldn’t see me suffer and physically change. But then I wouldn’t receive the ongoing family support. Where do I find this place? (And is it covered by my insurance plan?)

I am thinking of Scrooge. He suffers but is transformed all following just one night of scary dreams. I will have to endure this madness for months. Where is Tiny Tim, all healed, saying, “God bless us, everyone”.