Dear Friends and Family,
Numerous times during this journey I have used the word “vacation.”
To date, “vacation” has meant the time Nancy and I spend in between her treatments and hospitalizations at our beloved home in the mountains. “Vacation” has seemed an apt term, as any time away from toxic medicines that make Nancy sick and threaten her life is certainly an escape, retreat, or holiday in the world of leukemia.
On the other hand, the last seven days have been a “traditional” vacation for me because I was “off” from my day job in Park City. Today is the last day of that vacation. Even so, I awoke feeling warm and fuzzy.
What was the first thing I saw this morning?
In the bed beside my rollaway, I mostly observed an overstuffed royal-blue quilt, the treasured present from Nancy’s dear college friend from Minnesota, Patricia McCleese. As happens with Nancy and quilts, the comforter engulfed Nancy’s body. The only part of Nancy I can monitor is a sweet little head surrounded by a halo of pillows. She is still asleep, looking thoroughly serene. I tiptoe closer to capture the moment. Nancy’s hair is once again growing, some of it is over an inch in length and no longer sticking straight up. I still can’t discern the dominant color, but it makes me chuckle to myself all the same just to see the stubble burst forth in every possible direction like Nancy had placed her finger in an electric socket.
“What?” Nancy says with a start. I gaze into her sleepy eyes but get lost in their sky-blue radiance. I find myself wondering, did Patricia know how well the quilt would highlight her eyes?
“Good morning, darlin’,” I say, as has become my best “southern” custom.
Nancy yawns, then shuts her eyes. She is back in dreamland.
Will she remember?
The tired ache deep in my bones has disappeared because my only duties have been those having to do with the hospital. I have not worked for nearly a week. I have not had to race between the clinic in Park City and the hospital in Salt Lake City, changing roles and sometimes clothes in the Subaru. I feel both rested and invigorated.
Watching Nancy breathe normally, I am thankful. She displays no effort. In this same room during her first hospitalization, she struggled to breathe. The image is hard to erase. But so are the tricks that, at times, several of Nancy’s drugs play with her mind.
A vacation in the hospital “penthouse”?
Where else but the “penthouse” is every meal brought to your room?
Where else is the service completely personalized?
Everyone in this hospital knows you and you are treated as if you are staying in a fine hotel. Everyone really and truly cares about you and your family. On a daily basis, you have long conversations with staff. You get to know about them, too. Jane has three kids, with one young adult in college. Will likes to mountain bike.
Do I ask too many questions?
Time has seemed suspended this week—almost nonexistent. Not once were Nancy and I in a rush. We took leisurely walks twice a day, we talked on the phone to friends and family, we read your emails, notes, letters, and parts of books, and we watched videos and the ever-present TV game shows. The days were wonderfully lazy. I was always there during Nancy’s best times of the day. I was always there during her worst times of the day, too.
Nancy, with me by her side to monitor how she looked and felt, decided this week that it was all right for friends to stop by for a brief hello. There was more merriment in our room than in all the weeks that have recently passed. (Friends never visited us in Hawaii or Europe or South America during our other vacations.)
There was no dealing with airports or taxis or crowds. (How wonderful is that?) A vacation without travel hassles. (And how could I forget?) It’s fall now. Our view of the mountains is spectacular. Even through our tiny little window.
In all honesty, I did miss having a beach, or at least a pool and hot tub. And we didn’t get to walk through a jungle or browse a museum. Our strolls were limited to a circle around the eighth floor of the hospital; Nancy strode the halls decked out in her robe and her pink Boston Red Sox cap, wearing a protective mask. (Quite the fashion icon. Thanks, John. She loves the good luck hat.) And we all-too-well now know every picture, sign, and crack in the wall along our well-traveled path.
True, our “penthouse” room at LDS Hospital is not as nice as the least expensive room at a Marriott. But in our “home,” we are able to do our own decorating. We are completely surrounded by things of our choosing. In my mind, the decor beats the Bellagio hands down.
Nancy has room service for every meal, while my food comes mostly from the twenty-four-hour cafeteria. It is not gourmet, but it is both cheap and plentiful. Nancy’s room and board is more expensive than any first-rate room in the world. But I stay free, even though I am not a child. And it’s likely insurance will pay for most of this “vacation.” That’s never happened before at a Hilton.
A different vacation for me?
Yes. Though I sometimes feel sad, lost, and even despondent. I have done more thinking about life’s mysteries than on any previous ten vacations. Plus, when I add everything up, I have had quality time (and lots of it) with the love of my life.
And by the way, if you don’t know it by now, Nancy could turn a jail cell into a holiday.
Summary: I had a week’s vacation from my “day job” and spent it entirely in the “penthouse” with Nancy. She feels good. Our vacation was perfect.
Best,
Winnie