Jessica, I love you. I love your humanity . I love your courage and persistence. I am adding you to our morning prayers over coffee. I thank God for the gift of YOU.
Thank you so much for your kind words. While I am persistent (some would say like a fungus <grin wink>), I do question my humanity. And I am NOT courageous. I am actually quite fearful. For example, I am afraid of the dark. But I'm even more afraid of the darkness that would befall us if the bad people were to win in November - and so, like Anna in The King and I, I whistle a happy tune, and pretend I'm not afraid! Thank you so much for the prayers.
Infusion Centers can be emotionally rough and depressing. Before switching over to the VA system, I had all my bloodwork done at an infusion center clinic close to home and part of the OHSU system. Everyone masked, in a long row of (hopefully) comfy chairs with bags of who knows what dripping into their systems.
Some folks were robust, some were frail-looking, some were alert and others very much like the woman you described - a look of ghostly fear.
While I obviously couldn't interact with anyone, I did watch the staff and how they did - with encouragement as well as understanding. My takeaway was the courage it took to sit in one of those chairs with a literal poison dripping into their bodies - not knowing the outcome, hoping for the best and fearing the worst.
You may be afraid of the dark, but it took courage for you to sit in that chair and face that very real fear.
I chose to go to a free-standing place. It was much smaller than Penn, FoxChase or any of the other large corporate places are. There is an entire wall of windows, so it is very bright. In addition, there are only 10 chairs, so it is intimate. During my time under treatment, they moved things around, painted, bought new chairs (HEAT AND MASSAGE!!!!). I’m not saying the experience itself was pleasant, but I’d gone to treatment with friends getting infusions at other places, and this was a much more human place. I did my bit - instead of using their blankets (I'm always cold) I brought a brightly striped blanket with all the colors of the rainbow. Wore outrageous socks. Always had a safe-for-work joke.
Oncology nurses are angels. They always know the right thing to say. They encourage, they comfort. I cannot say enough good about them. I’m convinced I lived because of them.
There was a lag between when I got sick, and when they properly diagnosed me, and I started treatment. Early on, I got all of my affairs in order, wrote an ethical will plus all the standard stuff. I thought long and hard about my life. I was never scared. Well, only once. Generally, though, I didn’t invest in whether I’d live or die – I was grateful for everything my life had been. There was one day, early on, when things went terribly wrong. They told me I was going to have to go to the ICU, and I knew if I did, I’d die there that night, and somehow convinced the nurses to let me go home. That half hour between “we’re getting a stretcher and taking you over to the hospital” and “your husband is here, and we’ll wheel you out to him” was true fear. But other than that, no fear, just trust that they were doing the right thing for me.
I met a lot of people. Often, they prep you, start the infusion, and you fall asleep. Then you wake up and can talk with neighbors. Sometimes, there were group discussions. Most people are there 2 – 3 hours, but I was always there 6 – 8 hours because my body required a r-e-a-l-l-y s-l-o-w infusion rate. So I got to meet the morning patients AND the afternoon patients. So many wonderful people. While everyone’s cancer journey is unique, there ARE things you only know if you’re a patient and it’s nice to be able to laugh about it together.
Very touching. Back in the 60s to 90s when I was actively engaged in politics these type of questions never arose. We thought we were right and our GOP apposites thought the opposite. Withal some of our best friends were Republicans and we could discuss issues without rancor. And all along, with social progress slowly progressing, I thought that humanity would further evolve as did all other creatures to separate the rot from the surviving flock. Hopefully that will occur before we eliminate our species.
I had a front row seat to a life partner who had two major cancers, the second one worse than the first. She is in remission now. What is particularly disconcerting about us is that we do not allow our deep connective humanity to come out until we face someone in utter crises. I have to continually remind myself NOT to do this. I spend a lot of time at the gym. I know my best male friend there is a Trumper, but I like him. We have much in common, and I don’t give a crap what his politics are. I believe he knows I am not a Trumper, but he does not care either. Perhaps this is the way we make connections again with Trump folks. One person at a time, being willing to find common ground at the many levels we are. Let them see that you don’t eat children and act and are normal.
Jessica, I love you. I love your humanity . I love your courage and persistence. I am adding you to our morning prayers over coffee. I thank God for the gift of YOU.
Thank you so much for your kind words. While I am persistent (some would say like a fungus <grin wink>), I do question my humanity. And I am NOT courageous. I am actually quite fearful. For example, I am afraid of the dark. But I'm even more afraid of the darkness that would befall us if the bad people were to win in November - and so, like Anna in The King and I, I whistle a happy tune, and pretend I'm not afraid! Thank you so much for the prayers.
Infusion Centers can be emotionally rough and depressing. Before switching over to the VA system, I had all my bloodwork done at an infusion center clinic close to home and part of the OHSU system. Everyone masked, in a long row of (hopefully) comfy chairs with bags of who knows what dripping into their systems.
Some folks were robust, some were frail-looking, some were alert and others very much like the woman you described - a look of ghostly fear.
While I obviously couldn't interact with anyone, I did watch the staff and how they did - with encouragement as well as understanding. My takeaway was the courage it took to sit in one of those chairs with a literal poison dripping into their bodies - not knowing the outcome, hoping for the best and fearing the worst.
You may be afraid of the dark, but it took courage for you to sit in that chair and face that very real fear.
And I, for one, am rather glad you did.
I chose to go to a free-standing place. It was much smaller than Penn, FoxChase or any of the other large corporate places are. There is an entire wall of windows, so it is very bright. In addition, there are only 10 chairs, so it is intimate. During my time under treatment, they moved things around, painted, bought new chairs (HEAT AND MASSAGE!!!!). I’m not saying the experience itself was pleasant, but I’d gone to treatment with friends getting infusions at other places, and this was a much more human place. I did my bit - instead of using their blankets (I'm always cold) I brought a brightly striped blanket with all the colors of the rainbow. Wore outrageous socks. Always had a safe-for-work joke.
Oncology nurses are angels. They always know the right thing to say. They encourage, they comfort. I cannot say enough good about them. I’m convinced I lived because of them.
There was a lag between when I got sick, and when they properly diagnosed me, and I started treatment. Early on, I got all of my affairs in order, wrote an ethical will plus all the standard stuff. I thought long and hard about my life. I was never scared. Well, only once. Generally, though, I didn’t invest in whether I’d live or die – I was grateful for everything my life had been. There was one day, early on, when things went terribly wrong. They told me I was going to have to go to the ICU, and I knew if I did, I’d die there that night, and somehow convinced the nurses to let me go home. That half hour between “we’re getting a stretcher and taking you over to the hospital” and “your husband is here, and we’ll wheel you out to him” was true fear. But other than that, no fear, just trust that they were doing the right thing for me.
I met a lot of people. Often, they prep you, start the infusion, and you fall asleep. Then you wake up and can talk with neighbors. Sometimes, there were group discussions. Most people are there 2 – 3 hours, but I was always there 6 – 8 hours because my body required a r-e-a-l-l-y s-l-o-w infusion rate. So I got to meet the morning patients AND the afternoon patients. So many wonderful people. While everyone’s cancer journey is unique, there ARE things you only know if you’re a patient and it’s nice to be able to laugh about it together.
Thank you for your happiness about my survival.
Caring, compassion, empathy, kindness, encouragement. Decency.
Jessica, Your posts are always great, and this one tops them all!! Sending healing, healthy vibes to all of your cells!
Very touching. Back in the 60s to 90s when I was actively engaged in politics these type of questions never arose. We thought we were right and our GOP apposites thought the opposite. Withal some of our best friends were Republicans and we could discuss issues without rancor. And all along, with social progress slowly progressing, I thought that humanity would further evolve as did all other creatures to separate the rot from the surviving flock. Hopefully that will occur before we eliminate our species.
As always, you’ve said it succinctly. That’s what I love about you. Take care my friend.
Thanks! I do my best --
I had a front row seat to a life partner who had two major cancers, the second one worse than the first. She is in remission now. What is particularly disconcerting about us is that we do not allow our deep connective humanity to come out until we face someone in utter crises. I have to continually remind myself NOT to do this. I spend a lot of time at the gym. I know my best male friend there is a Trumper, but I like him. We have much in common, and I don’t give a crap what his politics are. I believe he knows I am not a Trumper, but he does not care either. Perhaps this is the way we make connections again with Trump folks. One person at a time, being willing to find common ground at the many levels we are. Let them see that you don’t eat children and act and are normal.
I am SO GLAD your partner is in remission. That makes me so very happy. I think you're right about finding common ground.