Dear Friends and Family,
Once again, our new bright-red paisley comforter has swallowed Nancy’s body. Only a familiar cute bald head peaks from beneath its left upper edge. As I regard her shiny head, it strikes me that I can hardly remember what Nancy looks like with hair.
Not surprisingly, I used to think that no hair was undesirable. Not now.
Nancy senses my gaze, slowly opens her eyes, and smiles back at me. Instinctively, I rub the growing fuzz and gently kiss the special mole just like I do every morning and every evening. This action has become our new ritual.
One has to find positives when dealing with cancer.
“Good morning, beautiful.” I whisper in Nancy’s ear after placing a second kiss on her right earlobe.
“I’m not beautiful, am I?”
There is no need for me to answer.
Today is a very big day.
Today we will venture to Salt Lake City.
Today we visit her oncologist.
Instead of asking if Nancy wants breakfast in bed, I urge her to sit and then stand up. She has only left our property three times in the nearly two weeks we’ve been home. The first time was for a chest X-ray at my Park City office to confirm that her pneumonia had disappeared. Another time Nancy announced, “I feel really strong today. Let’s go to the market.” (I’ve never enjoyed the Kamas grocery store more.) And then yesterday, we actually walked to the Woodland Cash Store at the end of our block. Nancy is light years stronger now than when she arrived home.
But today is distinctly different; Nancy is feeling strong and better.
“What do you think of this hat with my outfit, Winnie?”
As we prepare for our trip, she has changed clothes at least five times.
“They look really good together to me, my love.”
Nancy knows that asking me “Which color goes best?” or “Which shirt is most flattering?” is like asking me to translate Chinese. Ignoring my words, she sighs, and turns to her trusted counselor Jayna, who has just joined us. Minutes later, they have chosen an outfit that is a perfect match. Both the pants suit and hat highlight her eyes. That, even I can see.
Although Nancy was so excited she “raced” me to the car for the hour’s ride to Salt Lake City, we rode in silence for at least ten minutes as I watched her soak in the scenery outside the window. When she coughed, I broke the silence: “How you doing, darlin’?” I’d stolen the line from the movie The Big Easy and gave a southern flare to the word ‘darling.’
Nancy didn’t answer immediately, and I wondered if something was wrong. Then with as loud a voice as I’ve heard in a month and a half, I was startled by her shout.
“I feel free!”
Nancy is genuinely and deeply happy.
At last she is “unhooked.”
No hospital bracelets.
No IVs.
And today, no oxygen tube is in her nose.
After twelve days at home, Nancy is as normal as she can be. Only someone who has had needles in both arms, tubes in unmentionable places, and a mask over her face for days on end can know the joy I see next to me. Nancy’s eyes shine like turquoise jewels.
The hour’s trip goes all too quickly. Too soon, Nancy returns to medicine’s clutches.
“You’re going to feel a little sting, followed by a burn. Here’s the sting.”
Nancy lies on an exam table next to my chair. On the opposite side is Dr. Morton. To me, Dr. Russ Morton is the “attending physician,” the doctor ultimately in charge of Nancy’s case. But to my girls, he is “Captain,” the leader of our platoon. Nancy is holding my hand and I don’t want to let go. Her bone marrow procedure is about to begin.
The bone marrow is the womb of all blood components. It is where any recurrence of Nancy’s leukemia will first be detected. My free hand is sweaty. I don’t snap my fingers on that hand either. I am too busy repeating the same words silently that are echoing in my head. Please, bone marrow—be all right.
I watch Dr. Morton skillfully inject Nancy’s back. “Here’s the burn,” he warns.
Nancy is an amazing trooper. When suturing a patient’s lacerations, as I do on most workdays, I administer the same numbing medicine. I often hear a loud scream or words I can’t repeat in this note. I see loved ones’ hands nearly broken during a moment similar to the one I am in now. Nancy’s hand squeeze, however, is barely perceptible.
Captain picks up a very large syringe attached to a huge needle. He is about to bore into Nancy’s hip, the best place to extract the precious marrow.
“You may feel this a touch.”
The sound of crushing bone fills the room inescapably. My hand feels another tiny squeeze. Nancy amazes me again. Her facial expression is serene. When Dr. Morton announces that the test is finished, Nancy smiles and says, “Thank you, Dr. Morton.”
I don’t belabor the significance of the bone marrow test to Nancy. In fact, I barely mention it on the way home except to ask if her hip is sore. She replies, “A little,” and continues to be mesmerized by the scenery as we head back up Parley’s Canyon toward Park City and Woodland.
Captain is a low-key guy. His words didn’t alert Nancy to the bone marrow test’s importance. But I know too much. Sometimes I wish I were a park ranger or working in a gas station. I am still struggling as we prepare for our second round of chemotherapy.
How much do I read?
How much research should I do?
And the worst: How much medical information do I tell Nancy, Jaret, or Jayna?
I want our last five days at home to be worry free. I still fancy myself as “The Worry Buster!” But the next day, as I dial the oncologists’ office, I have a lonely and frightened feeling.
“Drs. Morton and Prystas’ office.”
“Yes . . . this is Nancy Winn’s husband, Winnie. Dr. Morton said I could call today to find out my wife’s bone marrow test results from yesterday.”
“Dr. Winn, let me check for you. Dr. Morton did tell me you’d be calling.”
Thirty seconds of silence seems like an eternity.
“I’m sorry, but the test results are not back yet, Dr. Winn. For some reason the lab is a little slow today. May I call you when we get them?”
Many answers roll through my head. I choose a socially acceptable one.
“Yes, that’d be great. Thanks.”
I hurry back to my patients, reminding myself that I am working today and they deserve my full attention. I do look at my mobile phone periodically to be sure I have power, that the vibrate mode is working, and that I haven’t mysteriously missed a call.
Finally, I feel a familiar buzz in my chest pocket. The caller ID reads LDS Hospital. I scurry to an empty room, feeling blood rush to my temples.
“Winnie, Russ Morton here. I’ve got good news. . . .”
Summary: Nancy’s bone marrow test is normal. At present, she is leukemia free.
Much love,
Winnie