Dear Friends and Family,
Last night was a special anniversary. (No, not of our marriage. I look forward to that too, many months away.) Yesterday marked the end of the first full week in our new (hospital room) home. I had a good cry in the bathroom down the hall when I realized the significance.
One week ago yesterday, Nancy’s doctor told me she might not be with us for this long. I decided not to remind Nancy or Jayna and instead toasted the smiling yet very wet face in the mirror with a paper cup full of cold, fresh water. Funny, the tap water tasted at least as good as wine. But the best anniversary present came from the sleep spirits.
As seems to be my habit, I awakened in time to view the sun jump atop the majestic Wasatch Mountains through our east-facing window. I found, somewhat surprisingly, that watching the sun’s energy rouse the Salt Lake Valley was mesmerizing. Tall, glass-filled office buildings reflected a rainbow of color from the sun’s initial rays. The first delivery trucks darted quickly down otherwise empty streets. The sudden rise in temperature allowed four black-tailed hawks to take advantage of the morning updraft and glide gracefully through space.
And the best part of my view was not outside the room—but rather just to my immediate left. Nancy was still peacefully sleeping, having had her longest slumber of the week, a full seven and a half hours. She only stirred to swallow her midnight pills, to provide an arm for her 5 a.m. blood draw, and to lend an ear for a temperature determination during her vital signs checks that are being done every four hours. It was her best night yet. In fact, for most of the night, Nancy slept deeply enough to snore. (Don’t tell her I told you.)
During her 11 p.m. blood draw, just before kissing my cheek goodnight, she described a dream from the previous evening: “It was really weird, Winnie. I was both the nurse and the patient. I took my own temperature, dispensed pills to myself from a bottle the size of a gallon of milk, and went to the hospital kitchen and served myself a plate overflowing with blueberry pancakes stacked at least six inches high. I even started my own IV. It didn’t hurt.”
I chuckled along with Nancy at her retelling, but I am excited and happy—even subconsciously Nancy is becoming part of her treatment. She certainly does all of the other necessary things to help herself get better. Several times a day, she walks the halls, IV in tow and mask on her face.
Last night, out of the blue, Nancy said, “Why don’t we see if the TV works?”
We watched an entire NBA playoff game between my team and the Golden State Warriors. By halftime, I was so relaxed that I could reflect without worry that today Nancy restarted her chemotherapy meds and there have been no untoward effects. That same drug nearly put her on a respirator seventy-two hours ago. This time, it was totally innocuous.
Myself, I probably slept five hours—my best hospital sleep as well. (In the comfort category, the rollaway is a quantum leap from the chair.) For the first time since Nancy’s diagnosis, I am actually feeling well rested because every other night I am home in Woodland in a real bed, secure with the knowledge that Nancy is in very capable hands—Jayna’s.
Jayna. Though she immediately dropped everything in Peru and traveled twenty-six hours straight to be at her mom’s side, Jayna strolled into the hospital and has not missed a beat.
Well, maybe an occasional beat. When Jayna is tired, she’ll burst into Spanish before she notices the dim-witted look on my face signifying I have no clue what she has just said.
I am elated to have her back.
Jayna is like her mom. She has an incredible presence and similarly gutsy determination. She single-handedly helped wean Nancy off oxygen yesterday by challenging her to excel during a breathing exercise that entailed sucking air out of a machine. Unfortunately, all hospitals are staffed differently than when I was a resident, so minor nursing care like Nancy’s breathing exercise is left to the family. Jayna is up to the task. Nancy nicknamed Jayna “the slave driver,” a badge Jayna wears proudly. In comparison, I would probably be labeled “old softy.”
Jayna’s effect on me has been equally dramatic. With our tag teaming at the hospital, I can see patients at the clinic knowing Nancy is not alone; ride my mountain bike almost every day with Chuck or Kathleen, who want me to stay healthy so I can help Nancy recover; and do mundane house stuff like making sure Nancy’s many houseplants don’t weaken and wither.
When I search for silver linings to the terrible hand we’ve been dealt, one particular example screams out.
Parents don’t routinely watch their children grow, mature, and demonstrate their value systems. In our case, Nancy’s leukemia has provided a dramatic window into the woman our daughter has become as an adult. When Jayna called this morning to inquire about her mom’s night and tell me she was on her way to the hospital to relieve me, she dropped a bombshell: “Dadder, I’ve decided. I won’t be returning to Vassar this fall. I need to be with you and Mom.”
My heart plunged and I had an acid-like taste so bad I needed two Tums tablets. Nancy and I want Jayna’s senior year at Vassar to be the best. With a 3.87 GPA, she has mastered the academic challenges. A tremendous group of caring friends have been discovered. And she would have returned fresh from an entire year’s adventure in Peru, full of perspective and wisdom to enjoy her last carefree college days. Nancy and I want her senior year in college to be the end of the educational rainbow.
And yet Jayna is poised to put her traditional college experience in the rearview mirror. “Jayna, that’s three months away. No need to decide now,” I meekly replied as we hung up.
I live my days in halves.
I work half the time in Park City treating a large number of patients, and the other half at the hospital worrying about a single patient. On my days off from the clinic, when I am in Woodland, everyday details replace patient care: paying bills, getting the garage door fixed, transferring the dirty dishes from the sink into the dishwasher. I haven’t allowed myself to think about anything farther than two days into the future.
My daughter on the other hand?
She is already thinking months ahead.
When Jayna arrived at the hospital later in the day for her “shift,” she finished our conversation: “Dadder, I mourned Vassar for two full days. I’m ready to move forward. I have an appointment tomorrow at the U. I might just finish college here in Utah.”
As I looked into Jayna’s sparkling blue eyes and basked in the warmth of her smile, I saw both peace and resolve.
She is so much like her mother.
My head was filled with the unspoken words from our good friend Joannie.
“Jayna was born wise.”
Summary: I am trying not to exhale because we’re savoring a “good time” period, in no small part due to Jayna.
Much love,
Winnie