Dear Friends and Family,
Besides worrying about Nancy, besides inquiring about Jaret and Jayna, many of you have posed the same question to me the past twenty-eight days.
The question “How are you?” has made its way into many of your emails, notes, and letters.
In all honesty, I have been less than direct in my answers. With Nancy lying so sick, how can I describe my sadness, my terror, and my anger?
My guts have churned in turmoil.
My thoughts have railed against demons.
My emotions change as rapidly as Nancy’s temperature.
How can I possibly describe the way I feel?
As a doctor, I often know too much. As the spouse of a soul mate with a complicated life-threatening disease, I know too little. Too many times, the closest one-word description is “horror.” But even that term sometimes seems extremely inadequate.
My basket full of feelings doesn’t easily translate into words, so I’ve hidden them from you as much as possible in order to provide care for Nancy—and support for Jaret and Jayna. In reality, I don’t know that I’ve done a good job of either the hiding or the caring.
In an unexpected way, it has been very hard to realize that you care so deeply about Nancy and me. I struggle with the concept of Nancy and myself—on display. Should I tell you everything? Nancy and I talk at almost any hour on the nights we spend together in Room 842. Whenever she wakens or is awakened by the staff, I make myself accessible.
Our conversations are often short now because Nancy tires easily, but our topics are not those of daily conversation. By this point in our journey, they are intimate. Nancy has affirmed that she is generally satisfied with her life. I always hoped that was the case, but now all doubts have disappeared. Three nights ago, she sat up straight in her bed and out of nowhere declared to me that she is definitely “at peace” and has very few regrets. Of course, a big part of why she told me was so she could ask if I felt the same way. She followed her revelation with, “I am worried about you, Winnie.”
Nancy may wish that she had not made her sister eat dirt when they were kids or that she had handled an issue or two differently with Jaret or Jayna—but those types of things are pretty trivial in the big picture of nearly fifty-seven years on this planet. Last night at around 2 a.m. she went a step further: “Winnie, it’s important to me that you know how I feel. I’ve been extremely lucky in my life. I’m comfortable with whatever the future holds.” Direct, non-southern speak. We held each other for a long, long time.
Nancy has expressed to me that she hates to see others, especially ones we care so much about, “fussing” on our behalf. Don’t take this wrongly. The thought of losing my soul mate is the toughest challenge I have ever faced; still, I know that Nancy, I, and each of you will leave this earth in due time. Even as I write, I have two other friends facing equally life-threatening battles.
Sometimes it simply feels weird and uncalled for that you, our dearest of friends, have offered so many kind words, thoughts, and deeds. Nancy and I can’t help but feel surrounded by your love; except there are times we feel overwhelmed and even unworthy. And I continue to think of Megan, my angel friend, with ovarian cancer at twenty-two. Her plight is truly a tragedy and one difficult to rationally understand. Ours is personally sad and devastating, but Nancy has lived a full and fruitful life. In our situation, Nancy and I may merely be facing the inevitable ebb and flow of life’s forces.
Please don’t think for one millisecond that I don’t want to battle this leukemia to win a few more days, weeks, months, or even years with my beloved Nancy. Or that I wouldn’t trade places so she could continue to be “Super Mom” to Jaret and Jayna, the special light to her friends, or the incredible human being she is to the many others she has touched during her life. I will support Nancy and persuade her to fight as hard as she can for as many months or years as necessary.
As long as she is not suffering.
As long as there is reasonable hope.
I share these somewhat random thoughts so you can understand my reticence in addressing directly your simple question, “How are you?”
It is no wonder then that these three simple words, “How are you?” keep me awake many nights. I have always been a positive person. Why not? I live in a wonderful place, have a satisfying job, and, yes, I have a magnificent wife and children.
So for as long as I can remember, my customary reply to “How are you?” has usually been “Super.”
Short.
Positive.
Efficient.
And though probably not listened to by the questioner, my answer has been an accurate reflection of how I most often feel—at least until twenty-eight days ago, when my world dramatically changed.
In guilt and sometimes between tears, I end up revealing my sadness. Perfect strangers sometimes end up crying with me. I constantly struggle about whom and how much information I can or should share. I still haven’t mastered these questions and perhaps never will.
We’re only amid the first skirmish in a long fight against leukemia. But one thing has become clear. I often feel selfish when so many others have problems equally pressing. I’m supposed to be the helper, right? But at least for this one day, at least for the next twelve hours before some new lab test or negative development occurs, I am ready to scream the answer.
To friends.
To acquaintances.
To people I don’t even know.
I have finally returned to my one-word, familiar reply to the omnipresent question of “How are you?”
Why?
It happened only yesterday. Nancy and I had a restful night, with more sleep than interruptions. As always, I awoke for the sunrise, which was more brilliant than usual. The muted yellows and blending oranges bursting through the window were like an impressionist painting and I considered for a moment whether or not to awaken Nancy.
Nancy had been without a fever for nearly fifteen hours at that point, a blessing that allows her to feel relatively good and lets me worry relatively less. No elevated temperature was a sharp contrast to the day before when she had spiked a temperature of 105 degrees and required more oxygen. The medical team concluded Nancy had pneumonia, and with no innate immunity, the battle seemed stacked against us.
But yesterday morning, even better than the colorful greeting from the rising sun, favorable lab news arrived. Nancy’s immune system is making neutrophils. Red cells and platelets, too. Her sleeping bone marrow has awakened at last, and good things are bound to follow.
I attribute this favorable event to your prayers and positive energy.
My deepest heartfelt thanks to each and every one of you.
Summary: The last forty-eight hours have seen a dramatic turnaround in Nancy’s condition; her bone marrow is once again generating the specific white blood cells called neutrophils that provide natural immunity and complement the many antibiotics she is taking to fight the pneumonia she has contracted. I’ve waited anxiously and apprehensively for twenty-eight days to report this spectacular development. If Nancy continues to progress without complications, she will be able to come home in about a week.
SUPER love,
Winnie