The Woman to my Immediate Right and Unexpected Gifts…

This blog space originated at the request of a friend who believed my experience could help others facing cancer or some other catastrophic illness. At the time, I remember thinking it was a big ask. A reaction based upon the fear of having nothing meaningful to share.

Running out of meaningful things to share hasn’t been a problem. Sometimes just showing up is enough to fill a page. That was the case this morning when I arrived at the City of Hope early Sunday morning for an IVIG (Intravenous Immunoglobin G) infusion. Showing up at the Infusion Center has become a familiar ritual. The beginning of a very long day. This time it was a few minutes after seven when I looked at my watch and I’d already had my blood drawn.

It’s eerily quiet Sunday mornings. The halls are empty and there is parking available. The waiting area is compact and almost everyone is respectful of that community space. Even so, it’s hard not to overhear pieces of conversations you aren’t meant for.

I was drawn to one of those conversations this morning.  The woman sitting to my immediate right was on the phone trying to explain her cancer and treatment to a friend. Her half of the conversation was compelling. As was her obvious frustration at having to explain the nature of her cancer and the Chemo regimen she was about to begin yet again.

“No, Roberta…”

“No, Roberta. I’m not cancer-free. I’m not in remission either. Even if I was in remission, remission isn’t permanent.

“Not all cancers are the same.

“With my cancer, you can go through treatment and drop into remission for a while. Hopefully, a long while. But you can slip out and need to start the whole thing all over again…”

She was there for her first Chemo treatment after her cancer returned.

I was there for an intravenous infusion of Immunoglobin G.  An important factor in warding off infection. My IG numbers drop. I receive an infusion. The numbers climb to somewhere in the normal range. And then they begin to drop precipitously until it’s time for another infusion.

It’s an eight-hour adventure.

I get another infusion in the same center. Ketamine. That infusion is for pain management. A remnant of the Shingles Zoster episode that should have disappeared more than a year ago. The virus was caused by one of the medications I take. An immunosuppressant to help manage Graft versus Host Disease, a consequence of the stem cell/bone marrow transplant that killed the cancer and saved my life.

I am currently unable to receive that infusion because my resting heart rate can drop below 50 Beats Per Minute. I first became aware of this condition as an inpatient in the Cardiac Care Unit at Cedars-Sinai when the alarm on my heart monitor went berserk. If you want to experience orchestrated chaos, a Cardiac Unit is an especially good place to start. Especially if an alarm is signaling a potentially life-threatening event.

I was admitted to the CCU with a combination of pleurisy and pericarditis. Both conditions ultimately attributed to Graft versus Host Disease.

Travelers on the Same Path

Even though we’d never met, the woman in the Infusion Center and I share something in common. We’re both travelers on a path neither of us has chosen. She’s beginning another round of chemo. I was awaiting a different kind of infusion. I’m dealing with the residual effects of Primary Myelofibrosis and GvHD. She’s fighting to beat cancer a second time.

If you’re a cancer survivor, even when you’ve been told you are cancer-free or in remission, there’s a part of you that refuses to accept it. You know there are residuals. The threat of a recurrence. The aftermath of treatment.

Lesley and I were lying in bed trying to relax before another Zero Dark Thirty trip to the Mother Ship. We were watching Jimmy Kimmel Live and an interview with Jeff Bridges. Bridges was talking about his bout with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, which occurred right in the middle of the pandemic.

It was one of the most honest and articulate explanations of the gift that becoming catastrophically ill is likely to leave at your feet. A gift of love and the appreciation of others. The power of now and the joy that can accompany just about everything if you look closely enough. All things we take for granted far too often. Things can get lost in a heartbeat even if you are vigilant.

Fragments of a Conversation

I found myself lying there smiling and shaking my head. Thinking about fragments of a conversation that wasn’t meant for me. I’m willing to bet the woman to my immediate right would understand what Bridges was trying to say. That no one wants cancer. But if you ever find yourself there, you might as well search for the small wonders, the unexpected gifts, that may be hidden within the pain and discomfort.

If you do… If you’re strong enough. Those small wonders and unexpected gifts are likely to change your attitude. And that change in attitude is almost guaranteed to change just about everything else…