January 23, 2004
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Finding Inspiration
I walked down the wide hospital hallway with a sense of curiosity. The hallway was well lit, yet not institutional. The burnt orange carpet must have been an attempt to add warmth. But it was definitely a hospital hallway with unmistakable smells, bumper rails for the rolling beds and the occasional white uniform. Some of the uniforms would smile at you; some would hurry on by in deep concentration. What is it like to work in a hospital, surrounded day after day by people and their families who are struggling with life; each in their own way?
The walk from the exam room wing to the chemo ward was short, maybe fifty yards. We passed a room labeled “Pharmacy”. Of course they would have a pharmacy within a hospital, but for some reason this surprised me. Pharmacies are either little brick buildings on the corner with a soda fountain and birthday cards or one of the new chain operations in the strip mall. This ever present state of readjustment seems to have been the underlying theme of my experience with learning the ins-and-outs of the medical industry; a constant state of surprise and confusion about how the system works. The world of modern medicine is unique. It is an island in the otherwise pervasive sea of sameness culture. It has its own language, social rules (ok to ask someone if the rectal bleeding has subsided), and time.
The whole journey started when my GP (general practitioner for those of you who are unlearned) said, “That mass in your abdomen (belly) could be serious. You need to see a surgeon”. The silence that followed might have been interpreted as shocked reaction on my part as I struggled with the notion that I had a “mass” and it was “serious”. That was not the source of befuddlement, however. I already new something was wrong a couple of days before when I asked my wife to feel this hard place in my belly and, upon probing a couple times, her eyes grew to the size of eggs…grade A. No, I was not in shock or terror, knowing that this could only mean the big C. I was waiting for the GP to go on and tell me who to call and how to go about “seeing” a surgeon. Just any surgeon, a special surgeon, a local surgeon, someone-you-know surgeon? Why a surgeon, what is he going to do? “He will decide how to proceed, maybe with a biopsy.” Biopsy, what’s that? “They’ll use that to determine if you need to see an oncologist.” Oncologist, what’s that? Now, I know that I am professing a surprising degree of naivety on this matter, but I can’t believe that the average person walks in off of the street and can speak this language. The next few weeks flurried by with “consults”, EKGs, stress Muggas, gallium scans, CTs, labs, lymphocytes, WBCs, and so on. Jargon was thrown about with full expectation that you either keep up or get left behind. Kinda like being in
At one point the oncologist said that he wanted me to get a cardio-pulmonary consult. Hmmmm. I had become savy enough to know cardio (heart) and pulmonary (lung); now what is “consult”? Obviously, “consultation”. Ha! I’m catching on. So I go to the central desk and the clerk hands me a paper saying, “Here’s your CONSULT”. Confusion. Is consult a verb or a noun? I go back to the onc’s (that’s what we in the business call oncologists) nurse, hand her the paper that has CONSULT stamped at the top in big red letters, and say, “here is my consult”. “That’s impossible”, she says in the kindest demeanor possible under the circumstances (that’s one of the side benefits of having cancer, even the institutional people feel compelled to treat you nice). “You’ve only been gone for 10 minutes”. I could feel the ears turning crimson to clash with the mint green wall paper. It was a combination of embarrassment, frustration, and a little being pissed. In the silence she went on to explain that I was to take the paper to building M, which is just down the street, and make an appointment to see Dr. Dracula, heart specialist. “He will be DOING THE CONSULT.”
Sigh
We’re back in the hallway with the burnt orange carpet. I’ve reconciled the existence of the pharmacy in halls of the hospital. The double swinging doors are approaching. The sign over the doors read, “Chemotherapy”. Until this moment I had wandered through the entire ordeal in a very strange state of mind. I didn’t panic. I didn’t struggle through the unanswerable, “why me”, lament. It was very clear to me that the question is really, “why not me?” My wife had been a consistent, solid rock upon which I leaned. I had put my faith in this strange land of medicine and had confidence that things would work out. But now…it was time to pay the piper. In a few moments I would be attached to a tube and a benign looking clear liquid would drip into my vein. I had learned that “chemotherapy” does not describe a single drug or even a single group of drugs. Rather, it titles a cook book of recipes that the oncologist puts on the menu depending on the type of cancer, stage, and so on. Therefore, even the limited data that I had to go on as to the effects of chemo on the patient was useless. Shattered immune system, weakened veins, stressed heart, pasty skin, bald head; these were on the table of possibilities, but nothing was certain. For the first time, my knees felt a little weak.
I pushed through the doors to find a wall; a wall with a big leafed plant sitting next to a single chair. The moment of confusion didn’t last very long as my awareness picked up on activity to my left. Ah, yes, the clerk’s desk. The chair was the obligatory waiting room. Not much use for a real waiting room. Chemo is an outpatient process. Any loved ones that tag along sit in the treatment room and hold your hand. We stood at the counter while the busy clerk wheeled about in her office chair; punch the key board, wheel over to the printer, slide to the phone, SLAM!, emboss the ID card. “Can I help you”? Doesn’t she know why I’m here? Doesn’t the whole world know why I’m here? To my astonishment, my voiced cracked as I answered, “I’m here for chemo, my name is….” All of a sudden, in a rush, I started feeling urgently sorry for myself…”why me?”. Who’s going to run my business, how can Kate deal with the debt, how will she handle the unfinished house, the kids need a dad…” “Follow me Mr. Wiseman” shattered my spiraling thought.
As I negotiated the edge of the counter trying to keep the nurse in sight as she whipped down the hallway, an image in one of the rooms caught my attention. She was sitting, back straight, head slightly bent, reading. The tube emerged from the tape on her forearm and snaked its way up and around her chair to where it was held by the metering machine. Her serenity was palpable. She was beautiful. Her gray hair was finely brushed in a elegant natural style. Her sturdiness belied the wrinkled skin. There were no tears, no anguished look. She was in total control. Kings and presidents would pause to her this lady speak. This was something she was doing for herself. When this task was done, she would be on to the next.
“This way Mr. Wiseman…:” I caught up with the nurse and took my seat in the comfortable chair.
Comments (19)
Forgive me…is this fiction? I’m feeling woozy from too many air fresheners.
I was wondering, reading through more slowly because I was wondering, how to begin a comment. But eFairy’s given me my opener:
“Omigod, no,” think I “It’s not fiction. How could it be read as fiction?“ with a certain sense of senselessly proprietary anguish.
But you said in your last post that you would tell us a story. And this IS a story; an excellently-phrased story with a beginning, a middle, a plausible end (insofar as stories of the realistic bent have ends). There’s timing, there’s humor, there’s love and terror and hope and hopelessness and revelation.
It’s a very, very, very good story. Keep telling.
(and — uh — what? — don’t let it end. Eh?)
We had a lecture on cancer in my Anatomy class yesterday. My instructor has done extensive research on cancer treatments. She was diagnosed with cancer 2 1/2 years ago and is doing marvelously. She sounded encouraging telling us that in our lifetime we will most definately see some great advances in curing cancer. Yes, she said curing.
having been one of a legion of people on the sharp end of the chemo IV, i must say you did an excellent job capturing the visual and the emotion of entering their “realm”.
since i’m not familiar with your site (i came here because faith said to…and i always do what she says), i don’t know if you, too, have done this or if you’ve observed.
I hope you’ve just observed…but you write it like you’ve been there…
I’m guessing not fiction….but I hope it is.
Beautifully told.
Beautiful Story.
Having been the one doing the hand holding and navigating of that world for my deaf mother – you captured it.
I, too, came from Faith’s. I too, hope it’s fiction. Whether it is or not – all of those walking those orange hallways are in my prayers.
I assumed it wasn’t fiction, which if it is, means it was well written.
came here from another site .. where you were recommended and i can see why : ) thank you for the story
i could tell you others but i admire the woman you describe in all her glory and control 
ah, you did a great job. my heart dropped into my stomach and just stayed there. really.
It never even occurred to me this might be fiction. Too real, too true-to-life. I’ve lost a wife to cancer, so I know the meanings of — shock, courage, heartbreak, hope, denial – and a whole bunch of other words that used to be just words on a page. What you’ve written here is brilliantly done, and my biggest hope is that you get the brilliance you deserve in return — brilliance in the warm support you’ll be getting from friends, relatives, and even casual associates such as myself, brilliance in the dedication of the health-care professionals who need to come up with the right decisions and advice, brilliance in whatever exists in the way of Divine Providence that capriciously looks over us all and says — this one lives and that one dies — with no particular rhyme or reason.
Thank you so much for sharing your story and your courage. It helps to take the terror out of similar situations many of us face personally or through friends and family. You write masterfully. Please let us have more.
I’m a nurse/massage therapist/humane being, and I knew it rang true. You’ve most definitely nailed that world’s description. I’m sorry that you’ve had to endure the obliviousness those in the business sometimes have as to how that world is perceived. I applaud your honesty and hope this is in your distant past and things are going well. If not, then I pray you ask questions and Make Them Explain Themselves. It is also my experience that those working in oncology usually voice a respect for what people with cancer endure with dignity and humor. One oncologist told me,”It seems the nicest people get cancer. One can’t work with a nicer population.” Interesting take. Blessings.
waiting impatiently for more….
came here from efairys site
Wow, this was absolulty a very real and moving blog… if it isnt real…you have nailed it on the head….I would continue to read this…for sure and I hope it isnt real….
Tina
as i accompanied my aunt to one of her chemo sessions, i felt so sorry for her, me, us….when i entered the room, there were so many. I quickly saw and felt hope from even the youngest of persons receiving the “liquid gold”.
thoughts and prayers be with you………lora
I’ve submitted this to the ZangaZine. New editions come out every Friday, but it usually takes a few weeks for a submission to get in.
Congratulations this piece was featured in this week’s ZZ!
Keep up the good work!
Very true. But there are glimpses of warmth as we go through what we have… the doctor who will take time from his busy schedule just to lean against the bed and talk (and, you know, accidentally press the nurse call button with his elbow)… the nurse who makes jokes about “Patient Impossible” in the next room (and probably calls you the same thing to the next person on her list)… the little boy who rushes in trying to use his chemo stand as a skateboard (“Sorry… I thought this was MY room… wasn’t that an awesome trick?!”)…
You’ve been there and I’ve been there, and as horrific as it is, there is good in it all. I’ve spent some memorable days in the hospital, and I don’t just mean the bad days.