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
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
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 23rd 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.
On the
morning, of my last radiation treatment I wanted to check something quickly on
the computer. I wasn’t dressed yet and I didn’t want to sit on the rough fabric
of our desk chair so I laid down a bed sheet folded many times over for extra
padding and comfort. When I stood up ten minutes later the bed sheet came with
me. The sheet was stuck to the seeping mucous and scabs in my 
