Love, valour, compassion

I am almost there. The final week of radiation and chemotherapy is behind me, albeit I have one make-up radiation treatment next week before I am truly finished.

In the spirit of the holy days of Christmas, Hanukah and other mid-winter celebrations of faith I am not going to talk about myself.

I have run out of ways to describe the awful burns, the itching, the pain, and the changes to my bowel and bladder functions … besides you have probably read enough about that for now. Although, the one thing I recently learned is that, much like sunburn, it will get worse before it gets better.

I am going to dedicate this blog entry to the patients and care givers and some of the happier and tender moments I have experienced during my visits to Princess Margaret Cancer Centre (PMCC).

Love

The Samuel Radiation Centre at PMCC on level B2 is at the bottom of an eight-floor atrium.

The dedication sign for the radiation centre stands in the middle of a rock garden at the foot of a sweeping staircase which circles down from the ground floor. The light from the translucent skylight above the atrium doesn't really reach the depths of the radiation centre and the rocks and pebbles are forever a dull shade of grey.

In one corner of the waiting room are the reception desk for radiation units 9-18 (I’ve never figured out where units 1-8 and 19 are) and The Joey and Toby Tanenbaum Nursing Clinic. The walk-in nursing clinic is available to help patients manage the side effects 

of their radiation treatment that arise between their weekly doctor’s visits.

In another corner is a television mounted to the wall permanently broadcasting CP24, a local around-the-clock news, weather, traffic and sports channel. God knows cancer patients and their caregivers need to hear about the latest developments in Syria or US president-elect, Donald Trump’s most recent tweets … cancer isn't depressing enough.

A stainless steel water fountain with a sign that kindly asks, “Please do not spit into the fountain” ... in six languages, occupies the third corner. The sweeping staircase begins and ends in the fourth corner.

The only way from here is up.

The centre of the waiting room is filled with clusters of brown leather club chairs, thirty to be exact, I counted them one day, and three matching leather patient comfort chairs, “generously donated from the proceeds of the Gentle Ben Charity Challenge. In honour of Peter McKendrick.” A few scattered coffee tables with half-finished jigsaw puzzles float among the chairs.

The seats are usually full. The comfort chairs are always full.

On one of my early visits, during my first week of radiation treatment, an older couple, a man and a woman in their late sixties or early seventies, occupied two of the comfort chairs. The woman was swaddled in a blanket, resting beneath the unsympathetic lights. Her husband, I imagine, quietly texted or wrote an email on his phone.

The woman woke and weakly spoke to her husband. He passed a paper cup of ice chips for her to suck and crunch on. Hydration is an important part of treatment, chemotherapy can affect ones interest in food and drink and in some cancers, such as head and neck cancer, radiation can affect persons ability to swallow – ice chips help.

She faintly spoke again and he leaned in to listen. Then he stood up, rounded the rock garden and ascended the staircase circling out of view.

She slept.

Her husband returned fifteen minutes later with a wheelchair and positioned it opposite the comfort chair. He lightly and firmly touched her shoulder.

She awoke.

After a quiet exchange he crouched before her, to be honest it was more of a half-stoop half-hunch, and he reached his arms under hers and clasped his hands behind her back, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck and slowly they stood … together.

They stopped.

Time stopped.

They just stood there. Embracing. Dancing without moving. Holding onto each other.

Holding onto that time and place where pain goes away and all there is left is love.

I felt like a voyeur, wanting to watch but not wanting to stare and privileged to witness this cherished moment.

Then they slowly shuffled, spiraling one hundred and eighty degrees, where he eased his wife into the waiting wheelchair.

He pushed the wheelchair across the room to one of the leather club chairs where they performed their intimate dance in reverse. Once settled in her new chair she set to work on the unfinished jigsaw puzzle.

Valour

My first visit to the Geoffrey Conway Chemotherapy Centre at PMCC was extremely eventful.

The outpatient chemotherapy and transfusion is on the fourth floor of PMCC. I took the stairs as often as possible, I am an admitted over-achiever. Four floors up from the ground … six if I am coming from a radiation treatment on B2. By my fifth week of treatment climbing the stairs left me out of breath, so I forced to ride the glass elevators through the atrium upwards towards the skylight. Sometimes I think about Charlie, Grandpa and Willy Wonka crashing through the glass ceiling.

The waiting room in the chemotherapy centre is divided into two sections by a grey stone wall each with its own hearth and electric fireplace.

One room is furnished with padded leather benches along the wall that are just a little too slippery to be comfortable, fifty or so (these I haven't counted) standard waiting room chairs and a wall-mounted television permanently tuned to CP24.

On the other side of the wall, some more slippery benches, a few chairs, some café tables, a microwave, a sink, a cold water and ice machine and, of course, another wall-mounted television also permanently tuned to … CP24.

On the hearth is a large basket of wool and knitting needles for patients to knit squares that can be stitched together to make an afghan when enough pieces have been completed. At the end of the reception counter are ballots for a free draw for the most recently finished afghan, navy and red.

Upon arriving at reception patients take a number much like they would at the butcher’s or baker’s. When the number is called you exchange your ticket and OHIP card for a restaurant-style pager. When the pager buzzes and flashes you return the pager to the receptionist and you are told where to go for your treatment.

There are a total of 81 treatment beds and chairs divided among five colour coded treatment units, purple 5, orange 26, red 79 and so on. Some chairs are private and others are arranged in u-shaped groups of eight to ten. Each coloured unit is equipped with a microwave, a small fridge, and a cold water and ice machine.

My first day in the chemotherapy outpatient clinic was the same day I had my PICC line inserted. I had some problems with bleeding while in the fitting room at Winners trying on some shirts. I panicked, a little, at the sight of the blood running down my arm and quickly rushed back to the hospital. The doctor who performed the procedure forgot to tell me, or I was too distracted hear, not to lift anything heavy for a week. When I showed up for my first chemotherapy appointment I was quickly triaged to the front of the line so that they could stop the bleeding, clean me up and change the dressing.

While sitting in my chair, orange 19, wondering what was in store for the five weeks that lay ahead of me I heard it for the first time. It rang loud and everyone in the orange unit stopped to applaud.

The Bravery Bell.

Mounted to the wall beside the nursing station is a medium-sized brass bell, much like the one on the wall of the Rovers Return on the British TV soap opera Coronation Street, that patrons ring when they are celebrating a special occasion and want to buy the pub a round of drinks.

The bell hangs silent most of the time and rings, not when someone is buying a round of drinks but when someone has reached their last day of chemotherapy treatment.

A couple of days ago I was sitting in one of the leather club chairs on B2 waiting for my daily dose of radiation, my bladder prepped and ready to explode, when I heard the bell echo throughout the eight-floor atrium followed by a short round of applause for the entire hospital to hear.

When I rang my bell after my last chemotherapy treatment on December 23^rd  I made sure that everyone me heard too.

Compassion

I was having a lousy day.

My chemo IV bag and pump and umpteen trips to the washroom to pee made for a terrible sleep the night before … I’m supposed to stay hydrated and all that fluid from the IV and drinking makes me pee more often.

The best part of my day was those few minutes of sleepy limbo, when I first woke up, when I just lay in bed peacefully and pain free and the enveloping duvet was comforting. That was until my bowels clicked in and I did five-metre dash, or rather five-meter urgent waddle, to the bathroom 

before the diarrhea exploded through its painful terminus.

Although, I plugged myself up with two Imodium, my routine walk to PMCC was interrupted with frequent searches for unoccupied public toilets to relieve my bladder of my increased hydration.

I always try to have a somewhat cheery outlook, there’s enough sadness at PMCC, I don’t want to add to it, but when I arrived at the hospital I was tired, exhausted, stressed, painfully uncomfortable and unhappy. Things were not going well that day.

That's when I met Dick.

Dick is not his real name; it's more of a description of his personality. It’s a politer version of Asshole.

Dick was also having a bad day. Lot’s of people at PMCC have bad days. There are a lot of people dealing with the physical and emotional effects of a cancer diagnosis and treatment.

I could forgive Dick if he was a patient but Dick was an employee.

Dick was being curt, insolent, dismissive, and … well … a DICK!

I lost it.

“Excuse me …” I said, “ I’m sorry … you seem to be having a really bad day and, don’t get me wrong, I get it, we all have them from time to time. The problem is I am pretty sure that my day, and that of many other patients, is worse than yours. You have a job to do and you are going to be a part of many people's lives today. They are counting on you. If you can't do that with at least an attempt at being pleasant and maybe a smile maybe you should take a break or go home for the day.”

Dick looked at me blankly, like a deer caught in the headlights. Then his facial muscles relaxed, his shoulders dropped a little and his face melted.

That’s how I imagined it.

I had prepared and rehearsed my little soapbox speech for when I ran into a staff person having a bad day.

It never happened.

I feel like an actor who skipped a page of script and missed his big monologue.

Every fucking staff member from the receptionists to the nurses, from the doctors to the radiation technicians, to the volunteers who roam the corridors and waiting rooms with carts of juice, biscuits, and knitted hats for patients who have lost or are losing their hair, have been unbearably pleasant.

I swear that the hospital has a private employee entrance that staff and volunteers pass through, something akin to airport security, where they are screened for negativity before the start of their shift. Those that fail are given some sort of magic pill to clear away their dreary clouds and showered with sunshine, rainbows and unicorns.

I have not met a single PMCC staff member or volunteer having a bad day.

They are always positive, checking in with me, asking about my side effects, offering their suggestions for skin care, nausea or fatigue. They will ask again on the next visit and if things aren’t improving they will make a referral to the nursing clinic or doctor for a prescription.

They put aside their own lives and focus 100% on me … or whichever patient is the focus of their attention at the time.

They are chameleons. If I am cheerful they are cheerful. If I am tired and my eyes are closed they speak softly and offer comfort. If I make a bad joke about cancer or my treatment … some of them have their own bad jokes about the same thing.

I have fallen in love with these people.

Without them I don’t know if I could have got through this as bravely as I did.

It is going to be very hard to say goodbye next week. They have meant so much to me.