Dear Friends and Family,
In just a few days, we have settled into Room 507 at the University of Utah Hospital—yet another new home.
Our room is probably a full third larger than the other various rooms on the cancer floor at LDS Hospital. Significantly, the bathroom is bigger and the closet space is increased dramatically. We now have a mammoth corkboard for pictures, more wall area for decorations, and there is space for not only the rollaway bed but two more chairs.
We are lucky. To have such a spacious room is really opportune. From what the nurses tell us, we’ll reside here a lot longer than our current record of thirty-nine days, spent in Room 842 at LDS Hospital. (We can use every inch of living area. I suspect there will be nights when the whole family may “sleep over” to support Nancy during her most difficult challenges ahead.)
The best part, however, is not the room.
Rather, it is the fabulous view.
The entire outward-facing wall of our room is comprised of glass. Situated at the top of the east “bench” of the Wasatch Mountains, the University of Utah Hospital overlooks the entire Salt Lake Valley. About ten miles to the west, the barren Oquirrh Mountains jut upward, while to the northwest, the Great Salt Lake extends to the horizon. During the day, it is easy to identify the Mormon Tabernacle, the LDS Church Office Building, the Key Bank building, and other Salt Lake City landmarks. The sunsets are spectacular, and at night the city lights twinkle as far as the eye can see.
If you can believe it, we even have a remote control to close and open the blinds. For now, though, I only open the blinds briefly when Nancy is in her deepest sleep. Otherwise the blinds remain mostly closed. Not surprising, Nancy is focused inward and the beauty outside our room is a distraction. (I long for the day when I hear, “Winnie, what in the world is going on out there? Let’s open the blinds.” But now is not the time for any distractions, no matter how beautiful.)
Nancy has been visiting “Dreamland” for the last two hours.
Me?
I’ve spent the entire time toying with our room number, Room 507.
Five plus zero plus seven equals twelve.
Twelve has never been lucky for me. If only we were in Room 508; the addition of the room numbers would equal thirteen, my basketball number in seventh grade. The pinnacle of my athletic pursuits, when I was a starting point guard in junior high school and we won our local tournament. But twelve? I have never received a dozen roses. The number twelve just doesn’t do it for me.
Then I decide to look at each number individually.
Five. I love the number five.
Five is one of my favorite ages, when a child is just starting kindergarten.
A five-year-old child is not too shy to give me a hug.
A five-year-old child will gladly sit on their mom’s or dad’s lap during my exam.
Five. Now that’s a great number.
What about seven?
A traditionally lucky number, seven is definitely lucky for me, especially now.
Why?
Nancy’s birth month is July, the seventh month.
Nancy is definitely tied to the number seven. (It just can’t get luckier than that.)
And zero?
That’s easy. It’s the answer to the question now defining our lives: “What happens if Nancy makes it through the next one hundred days?”
“Zero leukemia.”
Room FIVE-ZERO-SEVEN.
A room virtually overflowing with luck.
Enough luck to share with our neighbors.
Enough luck for the whole bone marrow floor.
I need us to be in a lucky room. (We obviously are.)
Suddenly, I sense that Nancy is awake and I look into her sky-blue eyes: “What?” Nancy blinks three times in rapid succession, adjusting to the bright light in Room 507, “Did I fall asleep in the middle of my sentence or yours?”
“Neither, love. You finished your sentence right after reminiscing about how expressive Jayna’s face was as a baby. Then, I’m sorry to report, you began snoring loud enough to wake up all the patients in the whole hospital. You were really in a deep sleep. I’m sorry if I woke you up just now.”
“It’s all right.” Nancy opened her eyes wider, trying to better focus on the large, round wall clock opposite her bed. Despite two full days of poison flowing into her veins, Nancy’s eyes still retain their spark and their exquisite beauty. (I could look at those eyes for an eternity, but I will gladly settle for another twenty years.)
“Is it eight o’clock already?”
“I really did sleep, didn’t I?”
“I’m not throwing up yet.”
“My mouth feels funny.”
“I have a metallic taste in my mouth.”
“I don’t feel as bad as I thought I would today.”
“What have you been doing?”
“Why such a big grin?”
“Am I getting that rash again?”
No you aren’t, Nancy, I thought to myself. The total body, intensely itchy, reddish-orange rash that you developed yesterday is at bay for now. Fortunately, it was an insignificant, though annoying, side effect of the mouth ulcer medicine you took prior to beginning the new drugs. The rash is far more benign than the painful ulcers on the inside of your mouth that could be the potential entry point for a life-threatening germ. Thankfully the rash disappeared as rapidly as it covered your entire body once you finished your medicine.
After gathering her senses, I proudly related my “room number” game to Nancy, proclaiming, “We’re very lucky to be in Room 507.”
“I’m glad you think this room is lucky, Winnie. I’ve been worried. The sudden way we moved in made me think the last patient died here. I’ve tried not to think about it, but it’s been a little frightening.”
When we first arrived at the hospital two days ago, we were initially placed in Room 514, an “overflow” room just outside the Bone Marrow Unit. We were told the floor was full and that we would transfer into our permanent room in a few days.
Undeterred, I didn’t change our “moving-in” routine. I spent a full forty-five minutes decorating our room. I placed our plastic flowers in all the unusual corners and shelves, hung the hand-carved birds that my partner Bob Evers created from exotic woods, and found a special place for each of Nancy’s handpicked pictures.
As a result, the “white sterile box” was transformed into Nancy’s personal hideaway. However, just as I received Nancy’s final approval of my decorating efforts, our nurse, Gwen, entered the room and raised her eyebrows somewhat in shock: “Wow, you certainly didn’t waste any time in making this room homey. But I was just told that Room 507 is available. It’s directly across from the Bone Marrow Unit nursing station. It’s opened up and we need to move you. I’m sorry you went to all this trouble, but 507 is a really nice room. It’s one of my favorites.”
“Don’t be frightened, Nancy. I know this is a lucky room.”
How could my numbers game have gone so wrong?
“Honey, I’ll be right back. I need to make a bathroom run.”
I have never lied to Nancy before, and I considered this only a slight “fib.” I simply didn’t want her to see my disappointment. But I must admit, I couldn’t help but wonder if Room 507 might be bad luck?
I did make the trek to the bathroom, but my real purpose had nothing to do with my bladder. I actually needed to corner our nurse for this shift, Connie. Her last words when I met her were, “Please feel free to ask me any question.”
“Connie, you may not be able to answer my question, but did the patient who was in our room before Nancy die?”
My question wasn’t totally off the wall. Nancy had been quoted a 20–30% chance of not walking out of “that” room, and I simply needed to know the answer—for me and for Nancy. Before I could completely finish my question, though, Connie responded, “Heavens no. The previous patient went home earlier than we expected. The doctors sometimes fool us that way.” Connie touched my shoulder as she handed me a Kleenex, “Don’t worry, Winnie. You’re in a good room. I know it. Nancy is doing great.”
Events are already starting to blur for us—after only two days. We constantly watch staff scurry in and out through our always-closed door. They administer an endless supply of medicines, fluids, and treatments. Most of the time, Nancy’s eyelids appear heavily weighed. She does her best to swish and spit four times a day to keep her mouth healthy. She blows into a bottle to help keep her lungs expanded.
I have always been good at remembering names, but I am beginning to wonder with each passing day.
Is our recreational therapist named Joanne?
Or is Joanne the nutritionist?
Maybe Joanne is the social worker?
How about the physical therapist?
Is Joanne the cute environmental health worker? (No, I actually do recall that her name is Juana. She is from Peru. The other day she and Jayna spoke Spanish for twenty minutes and formed an instant bond. Our room stays really clean.)
“Guess what, Nancy? I just spoke with Connie. She had very good news. The last patient in this room . . .”
Summary: Our new room is “The Lucky Room,” FIVE-ZERO-SEVEN, University of Utah Hospital, 50 North Medical Drive, Salt Lake City, Utah 84132.
With luck,
Winnie