Dear Friends and Family,
I realize my letters have recently been less frequent; when Nancy came home to her “real” home, I didn’t expect to write you for weeks. I had hoped to spend all my nonwork time assisting Nancy in her recovery. Quite honestly, I thought most of what was happening in our corner of the world would be blissfully boring. Mostly, my plan was to sink my teeth into transforming the Salt Lake City apartment into a proper “second” home.
To me, it’s more than a bit amusing how I now view time and space. In the past, I would never have entertained transforming a hospital room into “home.” Or that I’d even consider making a “temporary” apartment into a place for celebrating the holidays and life in general. Simply, I was used to one place to hang my hat and call my home. During all the years I spent summers in Yellowstone, I never once hung a picture on the wall. I’m almost embarrassed to admit that sometimes I never even unpacked my suitcase to use the chest of drawers.
But now?
I am so much more anchored to the present. Or at best, the very near future. Even as a doctor, I never quite realized it. Cancer (or any other serious disease) totally changes your perspective. Cancer forces you to be flexible. Yesterday is a great example of what I am trying to share with you—just when I had scheduled to spend a full day of being at home, events conspired to alter my plans. When I walked in to the house, Nancy was on the phone about a more important matter. She wasn’t making calls about holiday decorations and preparations.
“Nancy, we probably should have you run up to the hospital for a few tests. Yes, right now. Do you want me to talk to Winnie?”
“There’s no need, Adam. That’s why we rented the apartment in Salt Lake City—to be close.”
Nancy had been feeling increasingly tired the past two days, and her temperature has been rising today. I was happy to hear that someone besides me would be checking her—and since it was Adam, the nurse practitioner on call for bone marrow transplant patients, she would at least bypass the emergency room.
(For those of you who don’t know, transplant patients go straight to the bone marrow outpatient clinic conveniently located on the hospital’s fifth floor. The clinic is only a few steps away from the specialized bone marrow transplant hospital rooms, just in case.)
“Winnie, I’m fine. I want you and Jaret to go to Woodland as planned. Jayna can take me to the hospital. Jaret’s looking forward to being at the house and my plants need watering. Besides, I need some warm clothes for going outside. I want that sweater with the Santa Claus on it. You can always come back down if this is more than a minor problem.”
In Nancy’s typical style, she put her plants and Jaret before any concerns of her own. An hour after our Woodland arrival, she did the same thing again.
“My fever is higher than we thought, Winnie. So Adam wants me to stay in the hospital a few days. He said my ‘army needs a few weapons’ it doesn’t yet have.”
I paused for a long moment and Nancy immediately responded, “Winnie, Winnie. Please don’t get all emotional on me. I’m not planning to die yet.” Right on cue, I heard her almost childlike giggle, which made it nearly impossible not to smile.
“Jayna’s here with me and says she’ll stay tonight. Enjoy your time with Jaret. You can sleep in the hospital with me tomorrow. It will be just like old times. In the meantime, find all the clothes on the list I gave you before you left the apartment. And I would like the treadmill back up here at your earliest convenience.”
Nancy’s muted sense of humor made me smile again. The “treadmill” has become part of the Winn family legend. When Jayna first had the bright idea to buy a treadmill for Nancy’s room after her transplant, Nancy protested, “I will never use it.” Those were strong words from Nancy; she was dead set against it. But we thought that it would be beneficial, and with Jayna’s help, her mother’s stance softened. A week later, the hospital staff marveled when a hospital engineer inspected and put an “official” sticker on the fold-up NordicTrack C2200 treadmill that had just been delivered to our room. We placed it neatly in the far left corner facing the window to take advantage of the spectacular view of the mountains.
As I signed the purchase papers that day in the hospital room, the delivery crew told me, “Oh, by the way, this is a first. We’ve never made a delivery to a hospital patient. There is no delivery charge—this one is on us. We hope your wife is better soon.”
Jayna and I used the treadmill every day after that and a week later, when Jayna and I returned from a brief cafeteria run, we found Nancy gingerly walking on it. “Don’t either of you say anything,” she stridently cautioned Jayna and me. “What a view!”
So given her less-than-positive response to our original gift, I felt unencumbered and unrestricted in my response, “Well, Nancy, I guess if you want the treadmill there, you can’t be too sick. I guess if Jayna promises to call . . .”
“Jayna, will you call Dad if I get worse? Winnie, she’s giving you a thumbs-up. Now go watch a football game with Jaret and then get some sleep.”
After saying good night, I hung up without responding further to Nancy. “That’s easier said than done,” I verbalized to what was now a disconnected phone. With my feelings unbridled, I grabbed two Kleenex boxes for my nightstand. Though the football game was an agreeable distraction, the rest of the night was filled more by questions than answers.
Should I have noticed something sooner?
Did I bring home a bug from the office?
Have I kissed that beautiful bald head too many times?
When I finally dozed off, sleep was not friendly. Germs that looked like termites from a Terminix TV commercial marched through my dreams. The new apartment was full of them. They covered the walls. They covered the floors. They marched in a straight line from behind the couch toward Nancy, who was lying in bed reading a book. When she turned a page, they jumped on her from between the pages and were joined by their brothers-in-arms who were ascending the bed. Time and time again, she attempted to swat them away but could only look at me with a frightened and terrified face.
In another dream, I lay next to Nancy in bed, but somehow I was running on the treadmill. Before I could come to Nancy’s rescue, a giant germ jumped in front of me, poised to bite. He had four protruding eyes and twenty or so hairy arms and was fully a foot taller than me when he stood on his hind legs and made a hissing sound. He was so horrific; I awoke with a jolt. I sat straight up in bed, palms and forehead sweaty, trying to get my bearings in the middle of the night.
I didn’t attempt a return to my dreamland because being awake was easier and less stressful than being asleep. Instead, I ventured out on the deck to watch the sun peek its brightening orange head above the eastern horizon. The early morning light revealed a thick gray mist rising from the frozen river. It floated eerily upward into the snow-covered branches of the nearby trees and, given my recent dream, was more chilling than I would have liked under different circumstances. After all, Woodland was normally my safe place.
As the sun’s rays increased in intensity, they created sparkling reflections in the snow. In every direction outside the bedroom windows. I witnessed nature’s beauty, which lifted my spirits. Two deer, a mother and daughter, casually walked by to drink from the part of the river that wasn’t completely covered with ice. The morning magic embraced me, wiping away the night’s bad memories. The giant germ was just a distant recollection, and after much consideration, I decided not to bring the treadmill back to the hospital.
Summary: I have been “off the grid” because it has been a calm time. No longer. Last night Nancy reentered the hospital with a fever. I will write later when I know more. Thanks in advance for an extra positive thought about Nancy today.
Much Love,
Winnie