Life’s Resources

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Cancer used to be this faraway disease. All that changed with a late afternoon phone call in March when my dearest of friends and sister-in-law, Diane, called to say she had non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.

Today I accompanied her to her second chemo treatment and I’ve learned what life with cancer looks like. Diane is a born optimist and today is no different. Her first words to me as we enter the freeway are “It’s such a beautiful day today, isn’t it?”

As we arrive at the Piper Center entrance where the Minnesota Oncology Hematology center is located, I learn cancer has its privileges. Membership includes a parking coupon and valet service.

We ascend by elevator to the 4th floor. The doors open and shiny gold letters glued onto the wall facing us said “The Living Room Resource Center.”

Diane checks in at the front desk; I take a seat next to the gurgling aquarium. “Life is unpredictable … I hope you have the time of your life” plays softly through ceiling speakers. I couldn’t help but smile as I looked at a room of people waiting for chemo I.V.’s.

“Life resources” in Diane’s case this morning include having her blood checked to make sure her white cells are behaving, a meeting with a nurse to make sure Diane’s medications are listed correctly in the clinic’s database and a meeting with her doctor. Dr. Seng is not wearing a white coat. The only sign he is a doctor is the stethoscope sticking out of his right sportscoat pocket. Otherwise he looks like the kind of man, including the red tie paired with purple shirt, who might hand you a church bulletin and usher you to your seat. Like Hollywood loved Bette Davis’ bedroom eyes, Seng has what cancer people cherish: a bedside manner paired with wisdom. He listens to Diane tell him her reactions from her last chemo treatment and then he explains what will happen today and the coming weeks. He delivers in a gentle, relaxed voice and nerves calm. He is happy at Diane’s blood work and her white count levels of +11,000.

After meeting with Seng, Diane and I are put back in the waiting room. I step away to use the restroom and return to find Diane has moved to the “Chemotherapy Room.”

I find her seated in a Lumex leather lounger on wheels and in this case leather does not mean comfort. It will take 3 hours and 3 pillows before Diane finally gets comfortable.

The room has few pictures, mauve paint and speckled white tile floors but most noticeable in the room are the dangling plastic bags from I.V. poles with clear tubes attached to chests right about where you put your hand to pledge allegiance. In front of the nurses’ station is a cabinet filled with pillows and pillow cases for patients. On top of the cabinet are two Styrofoam faces, modeling scarves and hats. A wicker basket next to them is filled with wigs, scarves and hats that former patients have donated for others.

The woman across from Diane is miserably uncomfortable. She has restless leg syndrome and her legs jump more than the pegs she’s moving as she attempts to distract herself playing cribbage with her brother. Finally the Benadryl kicks in and she relaxes.

Diane is relaxed too as she receives her treatment. She does not get the sore throat she had last time. I am so happy for her. Before long she asks, “What kind of snacks did you bring?” And we agree to nibble. An english muffin is all I’ve brought. Diane’s goodie bag includes some pudding, apple sauce, a peanut butter sandwich and, because she is so her brother’s sister, some tapioca “which they hardly put any round balls in anymore.”

People come and go, some receiving their full treatments, like Diane. Others getting their day-after shot, a stimulus white cell boost package that costs $3,300.

The nurses come every half-hour or so, when the infusion pump beeps. The woman across from Diane finishes her treatment and tells Diane, “Good luck with everything.” This was her 6th of 6 treatments; she now faces a double mastectomy and radiation.

I marvel at the quiet here. Everyone sitting in these chairs seems to put on a “I can do this face.” There are more women in the room than men. They range from 35 to 75, some with wigs, some in scarves.
The nurse hands Diane her next appointment information as Seng ordered a CT scan to ensure the chemo levels are high enough to do a smashing job of eliminating the bad cells.

A woman comes and sits down in a lounger. She’s carrying a book and says to the nurse, “I was just reading this really cool book ‘90 Minutes in Heaven’ and I was just in Heaven when you called me back to Earth.” She unbuttons her shirt and the nurse gives her her stimulus shot in her chest port.

It’s early afternoon now, and Diane has fallen asleep from her Adavan nap. I feel so honored and blessed to have been asked by Diane to take her to her treatment today. I’ve learned some life lessons here. Cancer happens to a lot of people and though the verdict seems scary, here at Abbott-Northwestern, 4th floor, those scary people are facing fear in its face and using every medical means available to continue in life. This really is a “life resource” center, a hub that includes fighters, helpers and encouragers going through treatment with each other.

Diane reaches the end of her treatment for this day and wakes up when the nurse adds a “push” shot of red Hawaiian Punch-looking liquid. It’s Diane’s chemo shot. Diane is groggy from her Adavan. “I don’t know about everyone else but this is very pleasant for me,” she said.

And once again, I can only marvel at the sister-in-law with whom God has so richly blessed my life.