Dear Friends and Family,
Today is a very sad day in our “penthouse” hospital room.
Why?
(It’s not what you think.)
August 1 is “back to school” day for Nancy’s sister, Linda. Tomorrow she will be preparing schedules and attending workshops. Lesson plans and seating charts will replace hospital sleepovers and time spent with her nephew, Jaret. Linda will board a plane and travel 1,787 miles east to Dalton, Georgia, where she teaches middle school students ESL (English as a second language).
For the past six weeks, Linda has been the most amazing sister-in-law. Plunging into our family chaos, she immediately made an impact. She substituted for her sister, Nancy, helping Jaret successfully finish his junior year of college. Linda ensured that Jayna always had at least one friend for movies. (During this time period, Jayna had difficulty being around anyone outside our family circle.) Linda even made sure I remained grounded so I could lead my “double life” as a doctor in Park City and as a husband (and caretaker) in Salt Lake City. Simply put, if I looked up the word “godsend” in the dictionary, I am certain I’d find a picture of Linda.
But even more important than what Linda provided for us (Jaret, Jayna, and me) is what she has provided for Nancy—a link to her normal past life before leukemia. And as Linda was preparing to leave for the airport yesterday, it was no different from what I had witnessed for many weeks.
“Oh, one more thing, Nancy,” Linda said. “I guess we don’t need those towels I bought for the guest room in Woodland. We found the missing ones.”
“Not a problem, Linda. I can take them back for you.”
As Nancy took a sip of water, her eyes shined brightly and she sat straight up in her hospital bed. True, she had no hair. Yes, she was dressed in a less-than-fashionable blue polka dot hospital gown. And if you were to make a close examination of either arm you would observe the telltale bruises. But if I had closed my eyes I would have sworn that Nancy’s speech and delivery would have found her sipping that glass of water in a restaurant or in our home. Nancy sounded and acted completely normal.
Does she really have leukemia?
Is she really fighting a life-threatening disease?
In all honesty, my slight chuckle disguised the feeling of moistness behind my contacts.
“What a great idea, Nancy! Will you take your three IV bags with you? Wear your mask? Which hat would you like?”
Linda has a unique and unusual laugh that starts out low in pitch and volume, includes some intermediate breaths while winding up, and then finishes with a loud, midrange cackle that crescendos to a high note bordering on a near scream. A distinctive noise combination that would be recognizable from the other side of a football stadium, her laugh can in a flash fill every inch of our hospital room. And like a yawn, Linda’s laugh is contagious.
The significance of Nancy’s remark was not lost amid our laughter. Nine days into hospitalization two, after six maximum doses of the chemotherapy drug AraC, with her red blood cell count low enough to require transfusions, her white blood cells absent, and her blood clotting platelet cells in the “basement,” Nancy felt good enough to contemplate running up to the outlet mall to return towels for her sister.
I flashed back to Nancy’s declaration last night before she went to sleep.
“Winnie, sometimes I feel almost normal.”
Nancy is a true trooper, and at least this time, we have been lucky. This hospitalization has been less traumatic than we anticipated. She is walking the halls, eating everything in sight, and best of all, laughing a lot. And her demeanor has not gone unnoticed by the nursing staff.
Our primary nurse this week, Anne, told me the other day, “Winnie, your wife is amazing. We’ve never seen someone exercise like she does when her bone marrow is totally shut down.”
And I don’t believe that I’ve mentioned this observation in prior notes, but more than once I’ve had staff members give variations of what our certified nursing assistant told me last week, “Winnie, your wife is my favorite patient. Ever.” (Will has worked on the bone marrow floor for seven years.)
Mine too, Will.
As Linda stood up to get ready to depart for the airport, she gave her sister a final hug but not a kiss. Kissing spreads germs, and Nancy has no infection-fighting white cells left in her blood. (Should I tell Jayna about kissing and germs?)
Over the past six weeks, I’ve witnessed incredible closeness and caring between two sisters. (I can only hope that Jaret and Jayna will be so connected.) During the last hug between Nancy and Linda, I felt like a voyeur. Though the sisters talk “southern” and avoid direct discussion about most things, including their closeness, their tender bond warms me to the center of my soul.
As Linda and I walked to the elevator, we did share some “germs” as I held her a last time. In all candor, partings have always been a mystery to me—especially now. I think to myself, “When will I see you again, Linda? Where will Nancy be?”—and the question I try not to ponder, “How will Nancy be doing?”
When I returned, my bride was in tears. We held hands in silence. Then Nancy dropped my hand, and I heard a deep sigh. The melancholy painted across her face was replaced by a smile—the one that makes me melt like chocolate in the warm summer sun.
“This isn’t really that bad, Winnie. The people who work here are so nice. I don’t have to cook or clean. I can read as many books as I want. And I get to spend so much time with my family.”
She grabbed my hand again, and I noticed a playful twinkle in her eyes. “You know, Winnie, except for this disease, it’s almost fun.”
Of course, Nancy left out the pokes and prods, the sleep interruptions, and, of course, the uncertainty of our future. I do so marvel at her spirit. She’s already adjusted to Linda’s departure and the void she leaves behind before I can even take a deep breath.
Summary: Nancy’s sister returned to Georgia today and she will be sorely missed.
Very much love,
Winnie