Chemotherapy began May 5. Without a doubt, this first day brought us to the clinic anxious, apprehensive, and afraid of the weeks to come. We sat in the holding area waiting to be taken back behind "door #2", the door to the ominous chemo clinic on the opposite end of the Oncologist's office, marked only by a very small narrow walkway, a "please ask receptionist for entry" sign, and a solid, locked door. A very kind face opened the scary door and compassionately called out "Antonio" for our dad. She introduced herself to us as Melanie and then took us back into the clinic.
The clinic is a simple, somber, medicinal, cold room. The solid, center Alice in Wonderland-esque mystery door opens to another small, narrow hallway. A giant closet on the right contains an arsenal of drugs; on the left, a wall shelf overflows with informational pamphlets on the many different cancers being treated in the clinic. Within a few steps, the passageway opens up to a giant nurses' station in the center of the room. This nurses' pod is flanked by two patient areas: to the right, a small, intimate section of 4 dull blue vinyl recliners, and to the left, a bigger patient area with identical recliners lined along a wall of windows. This side feels brighter because of the natural light streaming in from the windows. On this side, too, there is a tiny kitchenette with a dated fountain drink area, a water station, a faucet and a fridge. Atop the fridge sits a very small and old television. On both sides of the room, separating each recliner is a patient ledge or counter, for each patient's plastic shoebox of drugs du jour. For reading pleasure, extremely outdated magazines sit in the slips attached to the personal counters. To my surprise at first, my dad chose to sit on the far side of the room, the side without the windows and the tv. As I think back on it now, it seems completely natural that he chose this side--knowing him--the side that is further away, quieter, smaller, and more private. In all of our visits, we have rarely meandered away from our "usual" corner spot in the clinic.
We are overwhelmed and intimidated as Melanie explains the processes and procedures of the clinic. Before we begin, she explains the typical protocol for each infusion day. Protocol includes the initial blood draw to check white and red blood counts as well as platelet levels. No infusions are administered until the nurses are certain that each of these levels falls within normal range. There is also the typical monitoring of heart rate, temperature, and blood pressure, as well as an informal nurse-patient interview to note general physical and mental wellness. For our dad, an added element to each infusion day is the nurse who keeps notes for the E1505 study. She is present each visit as it is her job to keep careful and copious notes of his well-being and all of the chemotherapy and E1505 related side-effects. Our dad and I have already met and talked at length with this nurse, Pam, and are aware that she will remain a permanent person on this journey.
Before the first infusion begins, Melanie tries to put our dad at ease. She empathizes that no one wants to ever be in a place such as the chemo clinic, but adds that it really is not as scary as it seems. She assures him that while the day will be scary for him, he will be pleasantly surprised at the end of the day. She covers a large host of side effects: nausea, fatique, loss of appetite, constipation, diarrhea, numbness/tingling, changes in heart rate, etc., etc. She tells him assuredly that he will lose his hair. Once the laundry list of side effects is complete, she inserts the needle in the port in his chest to begin his day. Today, he will have his three infusions: the first, a 90 minute infusion, then fluid, then a 60 minute infusion, then fluid, and then his final infusion, a 90 minute infusion. His day will begin and end with even more fluid. From start to finish, his first day took us almost 7 hours in the clinic.
For obvious reasons, the first day in the chemo clinic is an extremely vivid one. My dad and I tried to be as light-hearted as possible on Day 1. I tried my best to keep him talking and distracted. We were armed and ready with a Wall Street Journal and a computer. But my dad, being the quiet and contemplative person that he is, seemed to desire just the time to sit and rest his eyes and...be still.
Aside from the sterility of the clinic, the most significant take-away for me on Day 1 was the belief that our dad should never be alone on his infusion days. The visions of all of the people were too powerful, too memorable, too impressionable. We spent at least the first half of the first day in our own little pod, only talking and chuckling with each other. Then, it seemed almost like a light switch, we opened our eyes around us and began chatting with nearby patients. Later my dad and I joked that introducing oneself in the chemo clinic was like being in a bar, eager to meet new people. We cracked up together later as we recounted our day to my mom and Tony, joking of our original pickup line: "What's your cancer?", and how the Big question inevitably opened up to an amazingly quick and rich process of discovery with complete strangers. Nothing seemed to break the ice better than this common bond. And every single person seemed thrilled just to have the chance to tell his or her story....even, surprisingly, my dad.
That first day, I remember two people quite clearly: Colleen and Sammy*. Colleen sat in the clinic with a colleague, while Sammy was there alone. Colleen and her colleague chatted continually throughout her infusion, until we began to listen to her story. Colleen's cancer was clearly in Stage IV...kidneys, colon, lungs. She looked like a woman who, in her younger years, would have been extremely meticulous and well-kept. Now she sat in the clinic with a coiffed blond wig, full-makeup, and crisp clothes. She recounted her latest bout in her fight, with poor blood counts and and inability to withstand infections, and how she had spent the last 28 days in the Lombardi Cancer Center fighting to regain her strength to resume chemo again. Yet while she sat with her bag of fluid, she learned that yet again, she would have to be admitted to the hospital for more observation, as her equilibrium was altogether off and her white blood count was out of range. My dad and I only met Colleen once, and I believe we both secretly wonder whether she is still with us today.
Sammy was another character altogether. His presence was intimidating and gruff as he entered the clinic. His voice, so deep and imposing, seemed to startle the patients and the nurses alike. He appeared aged and curmudgeonly, and initially sat directly across from us and immediately closed his eyes to sleep. When he opened them, we made eye contact and I smiled gently to him. He had a book, Born A Healer, on his lap; so I carefully inquired about it. Sweet Sammy's floodgates opened to an enormously huge-hearted character. I was immediately smitten with him. He shared with my dad and I and enormous effervesence, pleasing even to my sweet, private dad. Sammy had a jubiliant and incredibly positive attitude toward life. He told us of his first wife, who tragically died of cancer; then, of his second wife who also died. He shared his belief that no other love of his life was going to die on him and how now, he chooses to share his life with his 4! "lady friends." He shared with us his daily routines, his 4 "lady friend" caretakers who shuffle him to and from doctor appointments and chemo, cook wonderful meals for him, and spend time enjoying life with him. My dad and I immediately liked him. Sammy continued by sharing his joy of playing cribbage at the Wilson Park Senior Center, and how our dad should join him sometime. And he ended by talking with us of his absolute love of dance. He lit up as he shared his fun with dancing and even stood up and invited me to have a spin around the somber chemo dance floor to flaunt his moves. I am smiling ear to ear thinking of the adorable Sammy. Sammy left us with such a powerful impression of optimism with his attitude, despite his condition--kidney cancer with metastases-Stage IV. He told us after our impromptu dance that the only time he has cancer is the time he enters the chemo clinic. Outside of the clinic, he is just Sammy who loves his life, Sammy who loves Wilson Park, Sammy who loves the company of his lady friends, and Sammy who loves to dance. His message was so powerful. And every visit to the clinic thereafter, my dad and I have been greeted by Sammy with the warmth of an old family friend--full embraces, check-ins on how we are doing, and his own medical reports too. He, and all of the people we have met really, makes me believe so strongly in the power of human connection in the face of life's challenges.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment