Dear Friends and Family,
Earlier, I abruptly stopped writing my last letter because Nancy’s “awake” times are now measured in minutes not hours. A little while ago, Nancy was awake only for about twenty minutes—normal for her over the last week or so. She has had a difficult time as a result of the chemotherapy she received before the transplant. The past week or so has been really challenging. And last night was one of those nights.
“Winnie, I need to go again.”
Over the past two hours, Nancy had made numerous trips to the bathroom. (Actually, about every fifteen minutes.) It’s a side effect of her medicines. She is taking three separate types of drugs to combat germs.
Antibiotics.
Antivirals.
Antifungals.
Each drug trickles into her body from a separate IV bag. Nancy is not allowed (nor does she want) to eat or drink anything. I find myself wondering if the medicines are the culprits causing havoc. I ask myself, “How can she have such a voluminous output when she feels the way she does each day?” Though, by 2 a.m., I stopped worrying about the causes. All that matters is helping her make it through the night.
“Winnie, it’s time again.”
I slip Nancy’s feet into her fur-lined slippers and offer her my elbow for stability. I slide her IV pole carefully to the bathroom door while protecting the three IV lines that connect from the pole to the IV site in her too-thin chest. After situating her in the bathroom, I close the door and pace outside.
When the time that has passed seems longer than usual, I open the door. I can’t believe my eyes. Nancy is there, but she’s kneeling on the floor next to the toilet—cleaning.
“Sweetheart, you can’t do that. You have no immunity. The germs could harm you.”
“I’m only trying to get the worst of it.”
“Stop! Please, let me do it.”
Nancy doesn’t argue. She’s totally exhausted, but she is still thinking of others.
Quickly, I hurry into the bathroom to grab her before she collapses on to the floor.
After Nancy’s next two “visits,” I play housekeeper once Nancy has been returned to her hospital bed. And I do discover another great thing about my Crocs. They are easily cleaned in a sink with soap and warm water. They dry fast, too. (Chris, I find myself liking the color more with each passing hour.)
Our nurse, Erlene, finds me on my hands and knees cleaning the bathroom floor as she enters our room for the third time, bearing Nancy’s nighttime medicines. After hearing my report, her eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling: “Oh my, Nancy. We do appreciate you wanting to help, dear. But cleaning the bathroom is not your job. It’s ours.”
My sigh is audible and I welcome the news wholeheartedly. Nancy doesn’t argue with Erlene like she does with me. Erlene carefully places the drugs she is carrying on top of the medicine cart. She points at Nancy, and then me: “You are the patient, Nancy. Your job is to get better. And Winnie, you are the caretaker. You are not responsible for washing and scrubbing the bathroom floors.”
“Well,” I think to myself and almost say out loud, “I’m glad that’s now clear. I might have forgotten who has the leukemia and who the caretaker is.” Nancy scans the room for a place to go into hiding, but not finding one, nervously giggles. Erlene and I join her.
“Good you can still laugh, dear,” Erlene adds, while hanging the next “bag in a long line of IV bags” that will be replaced tonight. “I bet you already know this, Winnie. Your wife is amazing. Everyone who’s taken care of her loves her.”
Surprising news?
No.
Almost every hospital worker who has assisted and helped us over the past five months has told me Nancy is his or her favorite patient—of all time.
“My dear, dear Nancy. We all want you to get well, but you can’t risk that bathroom germs could get in the way of your recovery.” Erlene turns on one of the small lights above Nancy’s bed. It is one of the six different lights surrounding Nancy that allow her to have a “little” or “a lot” of light. “You look achy tonight, dear. Let me get you an extra dose of pain medicine. It’s also time for your nausea medicine. Would you like that, too?”
For the next twenty minutes, Nancy’s snoring filled the room and then she woke up for her next bathroom visit. Afterward, while tucking her back into bed and kissing her head lightly, she opened her eyes wide. (It’s almost as if Brad Pitt, her favorite movie actor, had just walked into our room.) She grabs my hand and points in the direction of the door, “You have to give them a tip, Winnie.”
“I don’t know that the caregivers are allowed to accept tips, Nancy.”
Not that each and every one of our nurses doesn’t deserve something.
Uniformly, our nurses have been spectacular.
Uniformly, our nurses have been caring.
Uniformly, our nurses have been attentive.
Uniformly, our nurses have been knowledgeable.
And like tonight, uniformly helpful.
Erlene was stern this evening. Yet she has a playful and a kind touch. She turned a tense situation into a moment of amusement. She obviously understands how hard it is for Nancy to know that her body has changed, to have parts not work, and to lose her privacy. In reality, Erlene does deserve a tip.
“Please, Winnie. Please give her a tip right now—before she and the others leave. I hear them out in the hall.”
As I search my briefcase for my wallet, I notice Nancy’s head bobbing up and down. I stare at my bride in disbelief and then realize Nancy is dancing to music that only she can hear. I don’t hear a single note.
“Nancy, I think Erlene and the rest of the nurses aren’t in the hall right now. They are somewhere else helping other patients.”
Nancy wrinkles her forehead and shrugs her shoulders: “Don’t be silly, Winnie. You can’t tip nurses. I mean the lady who put on the magic show.”
“The magic show?”
“Yes. It was my favorite part of the entire performance—the last act of the circus. Right over there by the window.” Nancy points to the window and I hear a childlike laugh that warms my heart. “Didn’t you see it, Winnie?”
A circus?
“I missed it, sweetheart.”
“Darling, what I think you saw was something like a dream.”
“I think what you saw, Sweetie, was caused by your medicines.”
“Honey, I think what you saw was caused by the extra pain medicine and the nausea medicine that were given to you at the same time.”
Nancy replied matter-of-factly, “Oh, am I hallucinating like that other time?”
As Nancy rubbed her beautiful bald head, she added, “Whatever, I’m really sorry you didn’t see the little boys and girls dressed as angels. They were the best. They were flying around the room. You didn’t see them?”
I simply smiled and kissed her head again.
It was a long night, but despite Nancy’s discomfort, despite feeling totally vulnerable, despite the fevers, despite the nausea, and despite the pain, Nancy (with all her inner strength) still finds ways to joke and have a little joy. And later Nancy vividly described the evening to Jayna and one of our favorite nurses, Colleen: “Their costumes sparkled, Jayna. Green, blue, and red sequins glimmered in the three spotlights coming from different sides of the room. You know, I’m still not sure the angels weren’t real.”
And while I’m not sure either, many of you have mentioned sending angels to watch over us.
Surely, the angels were with us tonight.
Summary: We are in a difficult period where Nancy’s body is struggling. Still her spirit is strong—as is your continued support. I am eternally thankful for both.
Fondly,
Winnie