Dear Friends and Family,
In the last update, I described Nancy’s lab results and how they made her feel physically. However, I realize I didn’t answer the most frequent and important question that continues to be asked now that we’ve been in the hospital over three weeks: “How are Nancy’s emotions holding up?”
Some emotions seem obvious, even though Nancy has not yet expressed them. Nancy has to be sad. Who wouldn’t be? And if I had to bet, she is scared. Is she angry? Or more than sad, depressed? I see occasional glimpses of these emotions, but I oftentimes wonder if I am projecting my own feelings.
Each day I leave the door open to connect on a deeper level. I ask, “What’s on your mind today, my love?” I inquire time and again, “What can I do?” Many of you have expressed helplessness in relation to Nancy’s situation. Powerlessness and vulnerability are emotions that have a constant presence in my emotional wheelhouse.
I hold Nancy’s hand. I tell my newest silly story in a feeble attempt to provoke laughter. And I catalogue into a daily summary all the thoughts and prayers that you are sending in her direction. But even between the closest of individuals, infinite distance exists. I can only hope to occasionally bridge the gap.
My best guess? Nancy is doing as well as can be expected. Having cancer is a horrible plight. Sitting next to it isn’t great either.
Perhaps a few stories will give the best answer (and insight) to your question.
On her morning rounds, Dr. Prystas (one of our cancer doctors), told Nancy, “You need to eat more if you can. Nutrition is important to our fight. I’ll write an order. They should give you whatever you want to eat whenever you want it.”
Dr. Prystas had barely shut the door when Nancy announced, “If you see the dietician, tackle her.”
The same plea went to the nurse, the intern, and our now familiar cleaning lady. Nancy is ready for the foods she likes, anything to combat the nausea and general lousiness of chemotherapy. It was also a full-hearted statement to all of us around her. Nancy seems eager to participate in her care. She is like a teenaged girl readying for a date, and her desire to get better is growing stronger.
In context, Nancy’s “tackle her” statement is even more amazing. Nancy is from the Deep South. Georgia, to be specific. As a “Yankee,” it took me years to understand how southerners communicate.
Southerners are rarely direct. My mother-in-law can spend a whole afternoon discussing dinner instead of just saying, “Let’s eat.”
Nancy is not as extreme. However, when she asks, “Do you think I should wear my navy coat,” I’m off the hook. She will be decked in navy; I just need to agree.
“Are you tired?” is southern for “I’m tired now. Can we go to bed?”
So instead of saying, “If you see the dietician, let me know,” Nancy’s “tackle the dietician” is completely out of character. Her response illustrates a strong will.
Thank goodness.
A second story.
“It hit me hard today, Winnie. I can’t believe I’ll have to do this chemotherapy thing again. Three more times. I feel like crap.”
What could I possibly say? It had been a bad day for Nancy. The phlebotomist who normally draws Nancy’s blood was off, and her replacement “missed” the first two times. She had to stand to have a chest X-ray even though she felt particularly weak. And she had to give three different urine specimens. By late morning, fever and chills were return visitors to Room 842. Nancy had no energy to walk. She even turned down her daily shower, too tired to make another trip to her bathroom.
“You know, Nancy, the day before yesterday, when Chuck and I took our mountain bike ride, we went on a brand new trail in Round Valley. It was really hard for me. But yesterday, we rode the same trail. And it wasn’t so bad. Actually, it was almost easy. Your treatments will be like that.”
Nancy grabbed my hand between both of hers. There were fewer wrinkles on her forehead than moments before. Her eyes spoke volumes and I couldn’t speak. I didn’t need to. For once, I chose the correct words. She smiled, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.
Your emails and cards have the same soothing effect.
I once again send our thanks.
For both of us.
A final story.
Jayna ordered five hats from the American Cancer Society catalog. They were delivered yesterday. When I arrived today, Nancy was wearing the pink one. She wore matching lipstick and was also sporting earrings given to Nancy by our dear friend Mona for their magic healing power. I even detected eyeliner, mascara, and a hint of blush. Today Nancy looked more beautiful than ever.
Many years ago, one of my medical school mentors taught me the importance of “accepting one’s disease.” When I gave Nancy a longer-than-usual kiss and told her how ravishing she was, she removed the hat. Her recently shaved, glistening bald head only added to the magnificence.
After saying “Wow” and showering her head with kisses and soft caresses, I asked, “Why now?”
Her twinkling eyes complimented the mischievous tone of her voice when she replied, “It was time.”
I suspect Nancy was talking about more than her clean-shaven head.
I expect as Nancy gains strength that you will hear from her.
Summary: As best I can tell; Nancy is doing as well emotionally as can be expected.
With much love from my bald and beautiful wife (and me),
Winnie