She sounded older on the phone and right away she reminded me of somebody's mom --like the mom of one of my old friends, one who maybe did shift work at the local plant and spent her days off in the summer lounging on a lawn chair in the backyard, drinking budget cola spiked with budget rum and burning the up the afternoon with a dime store paperback.
That might even be more or less who Suzie was before she got sick. She told me she had a son, a little boy who was just starting school.
"I haven't worked in two years," she told me.
Her occupation before she got cancer was assistant manager at a convenience store.
"There was a lot of lifting," Suzie said. "I spent all day on my feet, on a concrete floor. The doctor said I had to quit that, that I was done with that."
She didn't really miss it much. The job sucked, but it was better than being a professional cancer patient.
"But at least I get to spend more time with my son. Before this, I used to work a lot of nights and if I was doing that right now, I'd barely see him. He'd be in school while I was home."
Suzie was definitely a "the glass is half full" type, which was amazing given that the cancer had taken a breast and spread into the bones around her collar and shoulder.
"My plastic surgeon wants to get my reconstruction done before they start chemo and radiation."
She wanted her doctor to take out her uterus, which apparently was what everyone (including the doctor, she said) believed was causing her cancer.
"Just take it out," Suzie said. "Get it out of me and let me live."
Her cancer doctor wouldn't do it.
She changed the subject, talked about ducks and rabbits.
The rabbits lived across the road. She seemed to think they were pets that had gotten loose, gone wild, but were never brave enough to escape their yard --except when one of them ran out in front of a car.
We'd passed over the remains of one as we left her driveway.
The ducks lived in her backyard. Her father had run over a nest with the mower some time back, but they'd managed to save some of the eggs, which later hatched. They'd been raising them ever since.
"They just follow us around the yard," she said then told me she'd hurt her shoulder over the weekend while scooping to pick up one of the ducklings.
The doctor, she expected, would give her hell about that.
Eventually, we talked about her illness. She was resigned to it and a life of gradual loss. Already, the cancer had cost her a job and very likely the man who was her son's father.
He wasn't in the picture any more and she kind of missed him. She missed the car he'd given her more.
"It was a gift for my birthday from my son's father and his Papaw. I miss that car. I loved that car."
Before she'd been diagnosed, she'd drove a sporty Mazda, a stick shift, that she said could fly.
The doctor made her give that up. She wasn't supposed to drive unless she absolutely had to and a stick shift was too much for her to manage with her shoulder the way it was.
At some point, she told me the cancer in her bones was stage four. The doctor couldn't really operate on it, not without it causing the disease to spread --and even if they did, could she really do without a collar bone and a shoulder?
She didn't know the answer to that.
So, they were going to contain it --or try. About once a month, she said she'd have to go in for chemo therapy. This would continue for the rest of her life.
"I guess you'll do whatever you have to, to live," she said and laughed.
I wanted to laugh along with her, but couldn't bring myself to do it.
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Cancer Man: Smoker's lament
Almost all of them smell like cigarettes. They get in the car and they reek like an old tobacco barn. I know the smell.
Back when I was a smoker, a real smoker and not a dabbler who hid his habit, I remember that when I was short on money I'd buy the GPC cigarettes at the Feed store next door from the pizza parlor where I worked a couple of years while in college.
For considerably less than a buck you could get a pack of cigarettes that tasted like hot asphalt and smelled like roasted pus. You lit the things, inhaled and felt the smoke walk around your lungs like an evil spirit that couldn't be bothered to wipe its dirty feet. If you were lucky, it only gave you a headache. Usually, they made me want to throw up.
Half a dozen times I almost quit because I'd been stuck smoking those things between paydays and God, how they stank. You could barely get the smell off your clothes, let alone wash it out of your hair or scrape it off your fingertips. You had to scrub and soak to get rid of the stain and stench.
The people who get in my cars these days for our little journeys to and from, I know, smoke the worst of the worst. They still smoke because where they are now, quitting barely matters, but they don't smoke Marlboros or Winstons or even the much despised Dorals. Those brands to them are like cuts of beef to me --something you look at in the store, pray for it to be on special, but seldom actually put it in the cart.
They smoke the stuff that comes wrapped up like old porno magazines, in plain wrappers that don't promise the products they contain will do anything that the name brand versions sometime suggests. They won't get you laid, won't make you seem more interesting and won't contribute to your image as a rugged individualist. They're a suicide pact. The surgeon general's warning is hardly necessary and is more like the contents of a fortune cookie.
The smell clung to Lila. I could almost sense it before she opened the door. I didn't ask what Lila's cancer was, but it hardly mattered. From what she was smoking, I could tell that whatever she had, it wasn't looking good.
Lila and I were supposed to have met earlier. She'd been booked before months ago then called off because the chemotherapy and the radiation terrified her. She wanted a second opinion.
"I don't want to do this if I don't have to," is what she told me over the phone then thanked me for calling. If she needed me, she'd call me later.
I'd just forgotten about her.
Lila lived on the edges of what passes for civilization, in a grubby trailer at the end of a dusty gravel road that ran parallel to a railroad track.
"Sometimes they'll have the train on the tracks and you have to walk half a mile just to get around it."
The trains come at regular intervals and usually through the night. I asked her how she slept and she shrugged and said she had no idea.
Picking her up, her grown daughter thanked me twice for doing this and on short notice. They had three vehicles in the yard. None of them were reliable, they said, and besides, the daughter needed to wait at the trailer. Someone was picking her up later to take somewhere else.
"My uncle has esophagus cancer," she said. "He's got surgery today." Lila's daughter shook her head, looked tired and defeated.
I said nothing. That particular brand of cancer is ugly and usually fatal.
She said, "It's my birthday. Happy birthday, right?"
Too late.
I took the woman's mother back down the road and tried to make idle chatter. That's usually better than silence, but she didn't want to talk. She wanted to get this done and hopefully live to see her grandchildren get through school.
At some point, she asked about how I got into this business and I gave her the lame story about the newspaper already having enough people to play volleyball for the corporate cup.
"We needed points and I could get them points by donating blood or becoming a driver for the cancer society. I did both and stuck with the driving because I believe in it. I wish I'd started doing stuff like this years before."
I told her it was a good way to get out of the office. I told her I'd met a lot of interesting people then I lied and said most of them turn out fine.
Back when I was a smoker, a real smoker and not a dabbler who hid his habit, I remember that when I was short on money I'd buy the GPC cigarettes at the Feed store next door from the pizza parlor where I worked a couple of years while in college.
For considerably less than a buck you could get a pack of cigarettes that tasted like hot asphalt and smelled like roasted pus. You lit the things, inhaled and felt the smoke walk around your lungs like an evil spirit that couldn't be bothered to wipe its dirty feet. If you were lucky, it only gave you a headache. Usually, they made me want to throw up.
Half a dozen times I almost quit because I'd been stuck smoking those things between paydays and God, how they stank. You could barely get the smell off your clothes, let alone wash it out of your hair or scrape it off your fingertips. You had to scrub and soak to get rid of the stain and stench.
The people who get in my cars these days for our little journeys to and from, I know, smoke the worst of the worst. They still smoke because where they are now, quitting barely matters, but they don't smoke Marlboros or Winstons or even the much despised Dorals. Those brands to them are like cuts of beef to me --something you look at in the store, pray for it to be on special, but seldom actually put it in the cart.
They smoke the stuff that comes wrapped up like old porno magazines, in plain wrappers that don't promise the products they contain will do anything that the name brand versions sometime suggests. They won't get you laid, won't make you seem more interesting and won't contribute to your image as a rugged individualist. They're a suicide pact. The surgeon general's warning is hardly necessary and is more like the contents of a fortune cookie.
The smell clung to Lila. I could almost sense it before she opened the door. I didn't ask what Lila's cancer was, but it hardly mattered. From what she was smoking, I could tell that whatever she had, it wasn't looking good.
Lila and I were supposed to have met earlier. She'd been booked before months ago then called off because the chemotherapy and the radiation terrified her. She wanted a second opinion.
"I don't want to do this if I don't have to," is what she told me over the phone then thanked me for calling. If she needed me, she'd call me later.
I'd just forgotten about her.
Lila lived on the edges of what passes for civilization, in a grubby trailer at the end of a dusty gravel road that ran parallel to a railroad track.
"Sometimes they'll have the train on the tracks and you have to walk half a mile just to get around it."
The trains come at regular intervals and usually through the night. I asked her how she slept and she shrugged and said she had no idea.
Picking her up, her grown daughter thanked me twice for doing this and on short notice. They had three vehicles in the yard. None of them were reliable, they said, and besides, the daughter needed to wait at the trailer. Someone was picking her up later to take somewhere else.
"My uncle has esophagus cancer," she said. "He's got surgery today." Lila's daughter shook her head, looked tired and defeated.
I said nothing. That particular brand of cancer is ugly and usually fatal.
She said, "It's my birthday. Happy birthday, right?"
Too late.
I took the woman's mother back down the road and tried to make idle chatter. That's usually better than silence, but she didn't want to talk. She wanted to get this done and hopefully live to see her grandchildren get through school.
At some point, she asked about how I got into this business and I gave her the lame story about the newspaper already having enough people to play volleyball for the corporate cup.
"We needed points and I could get them points by donating blood or becoming a driver for the cancer society. I did both and stuck with the driving because I believe in it. I wish I'd started doing stuff like this years before."
I told her it was a good way to get out of the office. I told her I'd met a lot of interesting people then I lied and said most of them turn out fine.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Cancer Man: Lila
The call came out of the blue.
"Do you still, like, help people when they've got the cancer?"
"Um, yes," I said, wanting to explain that this was usually through an agency. They handled everything, but I just didn't feel like explaining anything. They barely call me anymore. The program is apparently on something of a downswing, even though Cancer continues to be popular.
"Well, I need to get to hospital on the 19th," she told me.
"The 19th of October?"
"No, Wednesday. Can you come pick me up?"
I thought about it for maybe a second, then shrugged and said, "Sure. What time and where?"
And then I asked her name.
Over the past couple of months, I've struggled to connect with Hospice. I have the training. I want to help, yet when I get the cattle call emails requesting assistance, I tend to look at them quickly then disregard.
I don't have time. It's awkward. It's not for me. Somebody else can get this one.
These are the things I say to myself and then my heart sinks a little when I get a note for a call off. Medicine doesn't need to be delivered because the patient won't be needing it anymore. The vigil is called off because nobody needs to sit with someone who has already checked out.
I don't know what I expected and I can't figure out if somehow I've become afraid of dying and death.
But the call on the phone, I couldn't turn that down, not after she worked up the nerve to call.
I have no idea how she got my number.
"Do you still, like, help people when they've got the cancer?"
"Um, yes," I said, wanting to explain that this was usually through an agency. They handled everything, but I just didn't feel like explaining anything. They barely call me anymore. The program is apparently on something of a downswing, even though Cancer continues to be popular.
"Well, I need to get to hospital on the 19th," she told me.
"The 19th of October?"
"No, Wednesday. Can you come pick me up?"
I thought about it for maybe a second, then shrugged and said, "Sure. What time and where?"
And then I asked her name.
Over the past couple of months, I've struggled to connect with Hospice. I have the training. I want to help, yet when I get the cattle call emails requesting assistance, I tend to look at them quickly then disregard.
I don't have time. It's awkward. It's not for me. Somebody else can get this one.
These are the things I say to myself and then my heart sinks a little when I get a note for a call off. Medicine doesn't need to be delivered because the patient won't be needing it anymore. The vigil is called off because nobody needs to sit with someone who has already checked out.
I don't know what I expected and I can't figure out if somehow I've become afraid of dying and death.
But the call on the phone, I couldn't turn that down, not after she worked up the nerve to call.
I have no idea how she got my number.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Cancer Man: Margie -15 minute monologue
I managed to collect Margie at the correct time and at the correct place. A stale odor clung to her as she slumped in the passenger seat of my car, panting to catch her breath. It was persistent, but not overpowering. She smelled old, like dust and mothballs --a side effect of the medicine, probably.
In gasping breaths, she thanked me for picking her up and taking her to see the doctor.
"I could have got one of my boys to do this maybe," she said. "But they've missed so much work anyway and we need them to work."
I nodded. It wasn't a problem. I was glad to get the chance to make good.
We talked. She was lonesome and wanted to talk. Other than her two sons, both likely in their late 20s or early 30s, and an old friend she spoke to on the phone, all she had left for company was an ailing dog she believed was worse off than she was.
"The vet says it's cancer," Margie told me. "They can't do much for her, but she's not in any pain. She's eating, but the swelling." She shook her head. "She could go anytime."
Losing the dog would be hard, one more event in an already troubled life.
Margie barely remembered anything good about being Margie. She was defensive about her life, bruised about her catalog of injustices and slights. Her hard-drinking, hard-living father, whom she'd adored, had been tossed out of her mother's house when she was in five or six. On a rare, unannounced visit by the man, her mother had discovered the two of them talking together inside the house and the sheriff had been called to haul him off.
Her mother apparently had run through several men, but Margie lost the roof over her head when she got pregnant in high school.
She'd been married. It had fallen apart. The husband was scarcely mentioned. If she'd ever loved him, the joining had been reduced to an obligatory footnote. He was probably not the father of her sons, who she cooked and cleaned for, even in her condition.
Margie said she'd owned one really nice car, a Cherry red Mustang, but mostly she'd driven junk and lived in trailers.
Margie struggled. She'd been sick. Once, she'd been locked up in a mental hospital for depression. Her doctor turned out to be an old college friend.
Despite the falling out with her mother, Margie said she'd taken care of her during her final days when others wouldn't.
"She got cancer."
I don't know how much of what Margie told me was true. There was a certain hollowness in her words. Her story rang of edited for time and content kind of truth, like television movie based on the book truth, but not the straight stuff. Still, I believed that seeing her mother slowly succumb to breast cancer had taken its toll on Margie.
She told me the year before, she'd discovered a mysterious lump in her breast. The discovery terrified her.
So she did nothing.
Not for months, not until early autumn when she finally went to a doctor, who told her the breast would have to be removed immediately if she wanted to live to see the new year.
"It was agony," she told me. "It was like being cut over and over with a hot knife."
After it was all over, she'd considered reconstructive surgery.
"I thought about replacing my boob," she said. "But I couldn't go through that again --besides, I'm not interested in dating any more. I'm past that. I don't know that I'd even want to try to meet someone."
She didn't think she'd be much company anyway. The pain had never really gone away and it had spread, which was why she was seeing another doctor. Now, her back hurt her and she told me doctors had narrowed the problem down to either bone cancer or disintegrating vertebrae --neither had much appeal.
The drugs, she assured me, as strong as they were and they were pretty strong, weren't cutting it.
"I don't know what I'm going to do," she sighed. "I don't want to die, but the pain is killing me."
Then she asked me why I was here.
In gasping breaths, she thanked me for picking her up and taking her to see the doctor.
"I could have got one of my boys to do this maybe," she said. "But they've missed so much work anyway and we need them to work."
I nodded. It wasn't a problem. I was glad to get the chance to make good.
We talked. She was lonesome and wanted to talk. Other than her two sons, both likely in their late 20s or early 30s, and an old friend she spoke to on the phone, all she had left for company was an ailing dog she believed was worse off than she was.
"The vet says it's cancer," Margie told me. "They can't do much for her, but she's not in any pain. She's eating, but the swelling." She shook her head. "She could go anytime."
Losing the dog would be hard, one more event in an already troubled life.
Margie barely remembered anything good about being Margie. She was defensive about her life, bruised about her catalog of injustices and slights. Her hard-drinking, hard-living father, whom she'd adored, had been tossed out of her mother's house when she was in five or six. On a rare, unannounced visit by the man, her mother had discovered the two of them talking together inside the house and the sheriff had been called to haul him off.
Her mother apparently had run through several men, but Margie lost the roof over her head when she got pregnant in high school.
She'd been married. It had fallen apart. The husband was scarcely mentioned. If she'd ever loved him, the joining had been reduced to an obligatory footnote. He was probably not the father of her sons, who she cooked and cleaned for, even in her condition.
Margie said she'd owned one really nice car, a Cherry red Mustang, but mostly she'd driven junk and lived in trailers.
Margie struggled. She'd been sick. Once, she'd been locked up in a mental hospital for depression. Her doctor turned out to be an old college friend.
Despite the falling out with her mother, Margie said she'd taken care of her during her final days when others wouldn't.
"She got cancer."
I don't know how much of what Margie told me was true. There was a certain hollowness in her words. Her story rang of edited for time and content kind of truth, like television movie based on the book truth, but not the straight stuff. Still, I believed that seeing her mother slowly succumb to breast cancer had taken its toll on Margie.
She told me the year before, she'd discovered a mysterious lump in her breast. The discovery terrified her.
So she did nothing.
Not for months, not until early autumn when she finally went to a doctor, who told her the breast would have to be removed immediately if she wanted to live to see the new year.
"It was agony," she told me. "It was like being cut over and over with a hot knife."
After it was all over, she'd considered reconstructive surgery.
"I thought about replacing my boob," she said. "But I couldn't go through that again --besides, I'm not interested in dating any more. I'm past that. I don't know that I'd even want to try to meet someone."
She didn't think she'd be much company anyway. The pain had never really gone away and it had spread, which was why she was seeing another doctor. Now, her back hurt her and she told me doctors had narrowed the problem down to either bone cancer or disintegrating vertebrae --neither had much appeal.
The drugs, she assured me, as strong as they were and they were pretty strong, weren't cutting it.
"I don't know what I'm going to do," she sighed. "I don't want to die, but the pain is killing me."
Then she asked me why I was here.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Cancer Man: Margie
I can't say I liked Margie at first. Sometimes people click with you and sometimes they don't. Margie and I didn't click, but I tried. I'm still trying. I think she's trying too.
The path to Margie's house was scarcely a road, it was a paved golf-cart trail; some asshole land development planner's idea of a joke. They'd wedged the only way to get to Margie's house in between a tree gnarled and rocky hill and a steep drop into a muddy creek.
The shoulder on either side was negligible.
Over the phone Margie promised getting to her house wouldn't be hard. It was easy to find. "It's the most rundown one in the neighborhood. It's the least expensive."
From her voice, I didn't take that as modesty or humility, but a kind of vicious contempt. She hated her neighbors because they had more and she hated what she had because it was less. Her irrational envy spoke to mine and the two did not get along.
I didn't like the sound of her voice either. It was coarse and thick with phlegm. I thought I could hear her smoking as we discussed the details of the trip. She sounded suspicious and a little angry, though I couldn't tell what for. By the time we hung up the phone, I was already hoping Margie was just a one-time passenger.
Our rough start only got worse. The directions I'd been given to pick her up were dodgy at best. My contact with the service had said Charleston, an easy transport, but it turned out to be Cross Lanes which made it a bit out of my way.
Margie's directions were confusing and vague. She wasn't sure about her right from her left.
She apologized. She just didn't give good directions.
"It's no problem," I told her. "I'll get them online."
But... technology when given the chance will betray you and Yahoo maps stuck the knife in. They sent me all over the place and so I called from the only landmark Margie had mentioned I could find and asked her to guide me in.
Three phone calls and almost half an hour later, the burly, plainly disfigured women was standing on the slimy steps to her obscure and unimpressive house yelling at me. She was righteously angry and in the grimy light of the rainy day, resembled not so much a person with a deadly disease, but a storybook troll; all wild hair and sickly gray.
Because I couldn't get there, she'd missed her appointment, an intake meeting with the doctor's staff to do paperwork. It was kind of miserable, but at least she hadn't missed medicine.
I tried to tell her that, but she wasn't listening. Instead, she lit into me about not being able to follow directions.
I told her, "You said housing complex. There are nothing but housing complexes over here."
"I told you there was a gate."
"You told me it was busted and no longer there. The church you said to look for is Methodist, not Baptist."
She sneered. What was the difference?
I had no idea, except that if you're following directions, if someone tells you to turn at the McDonalds and it should be the Burger King, odds are you're not going to even look at the Burger King unless you never find a McDonalds, which is more or less how I figured out what she meant.
I never saw the church she mentioned and guessed she meant another one, but by the time I'd arrived, I'd been driving around for almost an hour. I was flustered and annoyed. I'd taken time out of my day to do this. I felt poorly used, indignant then suddenly embarrassed.
"I'm sorry about this," I said. "Call them and reschedule as soon as you can. I know how to get here now. It won't be a problem again. We'll take care of you."
What other choice did she have?
Grumbling and glaring at me, she hobbled back up the steps, while I gingerly tried to back out and up the squirming wormy road in my still new car.
I screamed and cursed the entire way, promised retribution to no one in particular if I dumped the car in the creek. I didn't. Somehow, I didn't.
On the drive back home, I felt sick about what happened. I felt sick about screwing up the assignment and felt just as bad about getting testy with Margie. She was profoundly ill, frightened and nervous about having to step out of what she was comfortable with to ask a stranger for help. She'd invested some hope in me and it wasn't like she had a lot of that banked.
I blew it. I really did. I didn't prepare enough in advance. I didn't double check. I waited too long to call and then got mad when she didn't thank me for showing up too late to get her to where she needed to go.
As close to a prayer as I get these days, with my hands on the steering wheel, I asked if I could fix this.
"Let me get it right next time."
The path to Margie's house was scarcely a road, it was a paved golf-cart trail; some asshole land development planner's idea of a joke. They'd wedged the only way to get to Margie's house in between a tree gnarled and rocky hill and a steep drop into a muddy creek.
The shoulder on either side was negligible.
Over the phone Margie promised getting to her house wouldn't be hard. It was easy to find. "It's the most rundown one in the neighborhood. It's the least expensive."
From her voice, I didn't take that as modesty or humility, but a kind of vicious contempt. She hated her neighbors because they had more and she hated what she had because it was less. Her irrational envy spoke to mine and the two did not get along.
I didn't like the sound of her voice either. It was coarse and thick with phlegm. I thought I could hear her smoking as we discussed the details of the trip. She sounded suspicious and a little angry, though I couldn't tell what for. By the time we hung up the phone, I was already hoping Margie was just a one-time passenger.
Our rough start only got worse. The directions I'd been given to pick her up were dodgy at best. My contact with the service had said Charleston, an easy transport, but it turned out to be Cross Lanes which made it a bit out of my way.
Margie's directions were confusing and vague. She wasn't sure about her right from her left.
She apologized. She just didn't give good directions.
"It's no problem," I told her. "I'll get them online."
But... technology when given the chance will betray you and Yahoo maps stuck the knife in. They sent me all over the place and so I called from the only landmark Margie had mentioned I could find and asked her to guide me in.
Three phone calls and almost half an hour later, the burly, plainly disfigured women was standing on the slimy steps to her obscure and unimpressive house yelling at me. She was righteously angry and in the grimy light of the rainy day, resembled not so much a person with a deadly disease, but a storybook troll; all wild hair and sickly gray.
Because I couldn't get there, she'd missed her appointment, an intake meeting with the doctor's staff to do paperwork. It was kind of miserable, but at least she hadn't missed medicine.
I tried to tell her that, but she wasn't listening. Instead, she lit into me about not being able to follow directions.
I told her, "You said housing complex. There are nothing but housing complexes over here."
"I told you there was a gate."
"You told me it was busted and no longer there. The church you said to look for is Methodist, not Baptist."
She sneered. What was the difference?
I had no idea, except that if you're following directions, if someone tells you to turn at the McDonalds and it should be the Burger King, odds are you're not going to even look at the Burger King unless you never find a McDonalds, which is more or less how I figured out what she meant.
I never saw the church she mentioned and guessed she meant another one, but by the time I'd arrived, I'd been driving around for almost an hour. I was flustered and annoyed. I'd taken time out of my day to do this. I felt poorly used, indignant then suddenly embarrassed.
"I'm sorry about this," I said. "Call them and reschedule as soon as you can. I know how to get here now. It won't be a problem again. We'll take care of you."
What other choice did she have?
Grumbling and glaring at me, she hobbled back up the steps, while I gingerly tried to back out and up the squirming wormy road in my still new car.
I screamed and cursed the entire way, promised retribution to no one in particular if I dumped the car in the creek. I didn't. Somehow, I didn't.
On the drive back home, I felt sick about what happened. I felt sick about screwing up the assignment and felt just as bad about getting testy with Margie. She was profoundly ill, frightened and nervous about having to step out of what she was comfortable with to ask a stranger for help. She'd invested some hope in me and it wasn't like she had a lot of that banked.
I blew it. I really did. I didn't prepare enough in advance. I didn't double check. I waited too long to call and then got mad when she didn't thank me for showing up too late to get her to where she needed to go.
As close to a prayer as I get these days, with my hands on the steering wheel, I asked if I could fix this.
"Let me get it right next time."
Thursday, October 13, 2011
ring cycle: cancer man blues
I picked Lisa up at the doctor's office. It was the first time we met. Because of the length of time she needed to be under treatment and the distance in travel, another driver and me had divided the job.
From the sight of her, I knew Lisa wasn't doing very well. Her hair was gone and her skin was the color of sour milk left too long on the counter. Her belly was swollen yet her clothes hung loosely from her dwindled limbs. She'd overdressed for the weather, was in a loose sweat shirt and a coat, which was probably as much to hide the colostomy bag as keep her warm.
Lisa had a frantic, fearful cast to her eyes and she moved like she was perpetually crossing a frozen pond in late winter. She could hear the ice cracking under her feet with every step, getting louder. Lisa was dying and she knew it.
In the car, she thanked me too much for coming to get her and the ride back to her friend's home. She didn't actually live in the city or the county, but was a county or two over. She owned a small house there, something she'd bought just a few years ago.
"I rented my whole life," she said. "I hated it. Something would go wrong and the landlord wouldn't do nothing about it."
This went on for years until she finally had enough money for a down payment.
She'd bought the place with a little money inherited from her parents. Both had died in car accident and left her and what was left of her family with a couple of thousand dollars each.
The house was small, but it was hers. She hated that she couldn't get to treatments from home, but counted herself lucky that she'd landed a spare room among friends long enough to get through this round. Sadly, this was not her first time at this particular rodeo.
"The doctor got me through it eight years ago," she said wistfully. "Maybe he can do it again."
She changed the subject and asked about me, if I was married, if I had children. I explained that I'd been married and had children. She told me she was sorry for my loss.
"I never married," she said and sighed. "No kids."
Lisa said she'd dated a little in high school and through her 20s, but nothing had really took. She'd lived at home until she was in her mid-30s. Being alone didn't seem to bother her much. She had other family around and she had a cat, but no children, no husband.
Instead, Lisa was proud of her education and thought she'd had a good job.
"I worked for the welfare office," she said. "I helped a lot of people who needed it."
She also took a little bit of satisfaction in the screws being put to people who lied to her.
"Most of the time I knew while they were filling out the forms," she said. "I'd tell them to be sure about what they were putting down. Sooner or later, somebody would catch them."
She didn't have a lot of regrets. After decades of living under another's roof, she had her own home. That was a comfort to her, which I have come to understand. A shelter you own can be a different kind of refuge.
Lisa was fine with her house. She only wished she'd get to stay a little longer.
From the sight of her, I knew Lisa wasn't doing very well. Her hair was gone and her skin was the color of sour milk left too long on the counter. Her belly was swollen yet her clothes hung loosely from her dwindled limbs. She'd overdressed for the weather, was in a loose sweat shirt and a coat, which was probably as much to hide the colostomy bag as keep her warm.
Lisa had a frantic, fearful cast to her eyes and she moved like she was perpetually crossing a frozen pond in late winter. She could hear the ice cracking under her feet with every step, getting louder. Lisa was dying and she knew it.
In the car, she thanked me too much for coming to get her and the ride back to her friend's home. She didn't actually live in the city or the county, but was a county or two over. She owned a small house there, something she'd bought just a few years ago.
"I rented my whole life," she said. "I hated it. Something would go wrong and the landlord wouldn't do nothing about it."
This went on for years until she finally had enough money for a down payment.
She'd bought the place with a little money inherited from her parents. Both had died in car accident and left her and what was left of her family with a couple of thousand dollars each.
The house was small, but it was hers. She hated that she couldn't get to treatments from home, but counted herself lucky that she'd landed a spare room among friends long enough to get through this round. Sadly, this was not her first time at this particular rodeo.
"The doctor got me through it eight years ago," she said wistfully. "Maybe he can do it again."
She changed the subject and asked about me, if I was married, if I had children. I explained that I'd been married and had children. She told me she was sorry for my loss.
"I never married," she said and sighed. "No kids."
Lisa said she'd dated a little in high school and through her 20s, but nothing had really took. She'd lived at home until she was in her mid-30s. Being alone didn't seem to bother her much. She had other family around and she had a cat, but no children, no husband.
Instead, Lisa was proud of her education and thought she'd had a good job.
"I worked for the welfare office," she said. "I helped a lot of people who needed it."
She also took a little bit of satisfaction in the screws being put to people who lied to her.
"Most of the time I knew while they were filling out the forms," she said. "I'd tell them to be sure about what they were putting down. Sooner or later, somebody would catch them."
She didn't have a lot of regrets. After decades of living under another's roof, she had her own home. That was a comfort to her, which I have come to understand. A shelter you own can be a different kind of refuge.
Lisa was fine with her house. She only wished she'd get to stay a little longer.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Ring Cycle: Cancer Man crossover
“You don’t talk about your wife.” It was a funny thing for her to say, but Rebecca was right. I’d been driving her to cancer treatments for a couple of weeks. We’d covered her stripper daughter and her addictions and the vague possibility that the daughter might have a side job of a sort.
We’d talked a lot about her grand kids. They were slowly leaving her nest and getting on with their lives.
It sounded like she’d done a good job with them.
We even discussed FOX news, her grandson’s pornography collection and what she liked best. She liked Jesus, cleaning houses for a living and television shows involving witches and that girl from “Who’s The Boss?” We’d shared. She’d baked me cookies and a slab of Mexican cornbread. I’d bought her an apple fritter from the Donut Connection and she’d laughed when she’d returned from her treatment to find me napping behind the wheel.
“You do too much,” she’d said.
I shrugged. Stuff has got to get done.
“You don’t talk about your wife.”
And she was right. In conversation, I’d mentioned being married and having kids. I’d talked about the new house and getting ripped off on the used lawnmower I’d bought from a guy by the side of the road: that one should have been obvious. I’d said a lot of things, but I’d said nothing about my wife.
So, I told her.
“My wife and I are splitting up.”
I’d already broken the news to my sisters, told a friend, but otherwise hadn’t worked up the nerve to say anything to the people I worked with or to my parents. For a couple of weeks I’d been carrying it around; the inside of my chest feeling like it was made of mangled tin and leaking mercury.
I told her as much as I could tell her, explained that it was real, it was final. I felt like shit for mentioning it. She was sick (technically, though her treatment was more of follow-up to what had already been done through surgery). I was taking her back and forth to the hospital and she had a lot on her plate besides. How fucking selfish was that?
Rebecca was quiet for a minute then she said she’d pray for me.
“You’re a good man." She smiled. "I’ll pray for a good woman for you –one who can cook.”
I might have raved a little too much about the cornbread and the cookies. They were pretty amazing.
I told her she didn’t have to. I told her I was a long way from even in thinking in that direction. I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend, let alone a wife. I wasn’t ready. I wasn't going to be ready for a long, long time.
“You’re young,” she said. “A young guy like you can’t be alone.”
I assured her it was possible and under the circumstances, pretty likely. I did not give her my reasons, but I think she knew them.
She laughed and told me she’d pray anyway and bake me some more cookies.
She made me a couple of dozen to share with whoever I wanted. It was one of the nicest things, I think, anybody had ever done for me.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Cancer Man: Last one standing 2
I could never seem to be on time for Rebecca. Living on the other side of the county, just getting her to her appointment only a little late was a real challenge. Every day, we had road construction, traffic delays and an endless string of red lights that gathered up, you could loop around and around a Christmas tree.
She was good about it. I apologized, explained and Rebecca just shrugged.
"It doesn't matter to me if I'm late," she said. "I've got nothing else to do today."
Of course, I did. I have two jobs, children, a new home, additional responsibilities and a crumbling personal life.
"You do too much," she told. "It's too much."
I nodded, but what of it? What was I supposed to not do?
There is no answer to that.
Every trip, whatever else we talked about (her daughter's drug use, that time the daughter got married out west for six months or that other time the same daughter was tricked into becoming a hooker out in Las Vegas), it always gravitated back toward religion. She took comfort in God. She had a personal relationship with Jesus.
I wouldn't say it was an entirely healthy relationship. Rebecca struggled. She'd raised a couple of kids and a couple of grandkids. Her first husband beat her. Her second husband tossed her out when she gave up her wild ways. She was lonesome. She prayed a lot. She turned to her Bible, to church and to the song and dance of television preachers.
Jesus, by the way, didn't write, didn't call and didn't send money.
This didn't upset her. It used to bug me, until I quit.
I did not mention my lack of faith and took a little bit of solace in her unflappable cheeriness. I looked forward to collecting her for her treatments and enjoyed our time together. It was good to listen to her tell me about growing up in a house with 14 children raised by one mother.
"We had biscuits and gravy every morning," she said. "We drank powdered milk and ate pinto beans every night."
The food was cheap. Anything else they got from their garden or from neighbors. Meat was a rare occurrence. A treat was a bologna sandwich with a dill pickle on the side and a glass of kool-aid.
Comparatively speaking, she had it made, living in a rented double-wide trailer. Beans and cornbread were comfort food, a touchstone to old memories of family, not a daily staple.
She told me about surviving, about getting over the loss of quitting one marriage and being discarded from another. She told me she'd managed to maintain a friendship with her second husband. They were good friends and spoke about every week on the phone. He was a good man, she said. He just wasn't who she needed to be with any more. They'd changed. He drank. She didn't. He wouldn't give it up and she wouldn't pick it back up.
She told me she really hadn't needed the marriage. She'd found purpose in her faith and as the mother to her daughter's children.
"You know, if I'd have thought about it," she said. "I guess I could have asked the lord to send me another man, but I don't guess I needed one. I've been all right without having a man around."
She wasn't bitter about it or resentful. There wasn't even a sense of regret.
I don't think it was always that way for her. I think it took time, but at the end of it, even facing cancer, she hadn't really needed a man around. She hadn't needed someone to be there to hold her, to listen to her or to love her. She'd found most of those things through her grandchildren and through her God.
Really, the only thing she'd needed that she might have gotten from a husband was someone to drive her to the hospital and sit with her for a little while. As that turned out, she hadn't even really needed that.
She was good about it. I apologized, explained and Rebecca just shrugged.
"It doesn't matter to me if I'm late," she said. "I've got nothing else to do today."
Of course, I did. I have two jobs, children, a new home, additional responsibilities and a crumbling personal life.
"You do too much," she told. "It's too much."
I nodded, but what of it? What was I supposed to not do?
There is no answer to that.
Every trip, whatever else we talked about (her daughter's drug use, that time the daughter got married out west for six months or that other time the same daughter was tricked into becoming a hooker out in Las Vegas), it always gravitated back toward religion. She took comfort in God. She had a personal relationship with Jesus.
I wouldn't say it was an entirely healthy relationship. Rebecca struggled. She'd raised a couple of kids and a couple of grandkids. Her first husband beat her. Her second husband tossed her out when she gave up her wild ways. She was lonesome. She prayed a lot. She turned to her Bible, to church and to the song and dance of television preachers.
Jesus, by the way, didn't write, didn't call and didn't send money.
This didn't upset her. It used to bug me, until I quit.
I did not mention my lack of faith and took a little bit of solace in her unflappable cheeriness. I looked forward to collecting her for her treatments and enjoyed our time together. It was good to listen to her tell me about growing up in a house with 14 children raised by one mother.
"We had biscuits and gravy every morning," she said. "We drank powdered milk and ate pinto beans every night."
The food was cheap. Anything else they got from their garden or from neighbors. Meat was a rare occurrence. A treat was a bologna sandwich with a dill pickle on the side and a glass of kool-aid.
Comparatively speaking, she had it made, living in a rented double-wide trailer. Beans and cornbread were comfort food, a touchstone to old memories of family, not a daily staple.
She told me about surviving, about getting over the loss of quitting one marriage and being discarded from another. She told me she'd managed to maintain a friendship with her second husband. They were good friends and spoke about every week on the phone. He was a good man, she said. He just wasn't who she needed to be with any more. They'd changed. He drank. She didn't. He wouldn't give it up and she wouldn't pick it back up.
She told me she really hadn't needed the marriage. She'd found purpose in her faith and as the mother to her daughter's children.
"You know, if I'd have thought about it," she said. "I guess I could have asked the lord to send me another man, but I don't guess I needed one. I've been all right without having a man around."
She wasn't bitter about it or resentful. There wasn't even a sense of regret.
I don't think it was always that way for her. I think it took time, but at the end of it, even facing cancer, she hadn't really needed a man around. She hadn't needed someone to be there to hold her, to listen to her or to love her. She'd found most of those things through her grandchildren and through her God.
Really, the only thing she'd needed that she might have gotten from a husband was someone to drive her to the hospital and sit with her for a little while. As that turned out, she hadn't even really needed that.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Cancer man: Long run 1
Rebecca was downright cheerful; a little chatty (nerves), but cheerful on her first day of radiation therapy.
From the start, she apologized for needing help.
"I've got a car, but it's not reliable. It don't start sometimes and it quits." She sighed heavily. "I don't got no gas to get there anyway."
I liked her right off. She seemed honest and unpretentious.
Into her early 60s, Rebecca looked a few years younger than she was. How that would be possible is anybody's guess. Her life, like some of the others, was an how much battery a soul can take and still retain some degree of hope.
She talked a lot about her kids, her grand-kids.
"I raised them like my own," she said. "Their mother gave them to me when they were little and when she came back nine or ten years later, they didn't want to go."
Both kids were now in their late teens. The eldest, Rebecca's granddaughter, had just got her first job. Rebecca's grandson had another year to go before graduation. Both, she said, were looking toward the future. The girl was looking for an apartment of her own and was engaged to a man who'd been Rebecca's nurse during her surgeries months ago.
Her daughter came around to see them and to see her. There was love, but also a terrible burden.
"She's an exotic dancer," Rebecca told me, stressing the word 'exotic.' She said, "I know what that means. I'm not stupid."
The daughter is 37, has 26 tattoos (many of them the gift of an ex-husband who was a tattoo artist) and Rebecca says she's addicted to heroin.
"She shoots herself in her tattoos," Rebecca explained. "It makes it harder for people to see the marks."
Her daughter also had a drinking problem and a history of run-ins with the police.
"She drives a real nice car," Rebecca told me. "But she's got one of them breath-things. She has to blow into a tube to get the car to start."
The device is supposed to prevent repeat offenders from drinking and driving. Rebecca said her daughter has had four D.U.I.s.
It's a cool car, she said, a fine, luxury vehicle with custom paint and custom interior.
"I can't drive it," Rebecca added. "After I had my heart attack, I lost all my wind. I took it out once, got it to start at the house, but then couldn't do anything with it when I was at Walmart."
Her breath wouldn't register and the machine set off an alarm, summoning the police.
Rebecca doesn't drink, doesn't do drugs and hasn't smoked or had more than a cup of coffee in five or six years. She gave them all to Jesus and Jesus took them.
It's hard to say what she got in return.
On the way back, as we drove up a narrow road to her house, she told me, "I miss weed. I was always a pothead. If they ever made that legal, I'd get a joint the size of cigar and smoke that, but a sin is a sin."
I thought about arguing just a little about the laws of men and the laws of God, but it turned out I didn't really care one way or the other.
I told her I didn't smoke dope and didn't really drink much.
"There ain't enough time, is there?"
No, there isn't.
From the start, she apologized for needing help.
"I've got a car, but it's not reliable. It don't start sometimes and it quits." She sighed heavily. "I don't got no gas to get there anyway."
I liked her right off. She seemed honest and unpretentious.
Into her early 60s, Rebecca looked a few years younger than she was. How that would be possible is anybody's guess. Her life, like some of the others, was an how much battery a soul can take and still retain some degree of hope.
She talked a lot about her kids, her grand-kids.
"I raised them like my own," she said. "Their mother gave them to me when they were little and when she came back nine or ten years later, they didn't want to go."
Both kids were now in their late teens. The eldest, Rebecca's granddaughter, had just got her first job. Rebecca's grandson had another year to go before graduation. Both, she said, were looking toward the future. The girl was looking for an apartment of her own and was engaged to a man who'd been Rebecca's nurse during her surgeries months ago.
Her daughter came around to see them and to see her. There was love, but also a terrible burden.
"She's an exotic dancer," Rebecca told me, stressing the word 'exotic.' She said, "I know what that means. I'm not stupid."
The daughter is 37, has 26 tattoos (many of them the gift of an ex-husband who was a tattoo artist) and Rebecca says she's addicted to heroin.
"She shoots herself in her tattoos," Rebecca explained. "It makes it harder for people to see the marks."
Her daughter also had a drinking problem and a history of run-ins with the police.
"She drives a real nice car," Rebecca told me. "But she's got one of them breath-things. She has to blow into a tube to get the car to start."
The device is supposed to prevent repeat offenders from drinking and driving. Rebecca said her daughter has had four D.U.I.s.
It's a cool car, she said, a fine, luxury vehicle with custom paint and custom interior.
"I can't drive it," Rebecca added. "After I had my heart attack, I lost all my wind. I took it out once, got it to start at the house, but then couldn't do anything with it when I was at Walmart."
Her breath wouldn't register and the machine set off an alarm, summoning the police.
Rebecca doesn't drink, doesn't do drugs and hasn't smoked or had more than a cup of coffee in five or six years. She gave them all to Jesus and Jesus took them.
It's hard to say what she got in return.
On the way back, as we drove up a narrow road to her house, she told me, "I miss weed. I was always a pothead. If they ever made that legal, I'd get a joint the size of cigar and smoke that, but a sin is a sin."
I thought about arguing just a little about the laws of men and the laws of God, but it turned out I didn't really care one way or the other.
I told her I didn't smoke dope and didn't really drink much.
"There ain't enough time, is there?"
No, there isn't.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Cancer Man: Last one standing?
We joked that it had been a long time.
"I thought someone might have cured cancer and not told me," she said.
"I wish they'd get around to doing that," I told her and the coordinator for the cancer society agreed and said she hoped to live to see it happen.
"I've got someone who needs a ride," she said then paused. "But she's a little out of the way. She's young and lives with her Mom."
She would also need to be at the doctor at 8 a.m., which is awfully early after a late shift at the radio station. I started to balk. Maybe I could do Tuesday. Monday...
"She's got a six hour appointment on Monday, but only an hour on Tuesday."
Right, right, right... suck it up. They don't call if they don't need this. You know exactly what kind of people have to ask for this.
"Okay, I can do Monday and Tuesday."
The coordinator added, hesitantly, "She's got more treatments later in the month."
"I'll have to see, you know? See how it goes?"
The coordinator thanked me then lowered the boom.
"I appreciate you doing this. There are only two of you left."
No pressure.
"I thought someone might have cured cancer and not told me," she said.
"I wish they'd get around to doing that," I told her and the coordinator for the cancer society agreed and said she hoped to live to see it happen.
"I've got someone who needs a ride," she said then paused. "But she's a little out of the way. She's young and lives with her Mom."
She would also need to be at the doctor at 8 a.m., which is awfully early after a late shift at the radio station. I started to balk. Maybe I could do Tuesday. Monday...
"She's got a six hour appointment on Monday, but only an hour on Tuesday."
Right, right, right... suck it up. They don't call if they don't need this. You know exactly what kind of people have to ask for this.
"Okay, I can do Monday and Tuesday."
The coordinator added, hesitantly, "She's got more treatments later in the month."
"I'll have to see, you know? See how it goes?"
The coordinator thanked me then lowered the boom.
"I appreciate you doing this. There are only two of you left."
No pressure.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Cancer Man: Random
"Oh, sorry," she said. "I was talking to myself.
I turned and smiled. "I didn't hear a thing."
And this is true. I'd just come out of the bathroom and was thinking about how little I enjoy where I sleep, though I do get better sleep these days and how much I hate washing the dishes, how much time is spent cleaning the plates other people eat off of.
A lot of thoughts... none of them concerning whatever was going on inside of the mind of the threadbare, overly perfumed middle-aged woman in the hallway.
"Mister, can I talk to you?"
And sure, she could. In fact, uttering those words is the easiest way to get me to listen to whatever you have to say.
In the span of a couple of minutes, she explained the reason for her black eye --a fight with an apparently occasional boyfriend she'd known since she was a kid --and her desire to donate her hair to a charity supporting women who have breast cancer.
"I don't have any money," she said.
"You need money to donate hair?"
"I need money for the haircut."
And that thought never occurred to me.
Her mother, she told me survived breast cancer and now her sister was fighting it, but because of the fight with the guy, she'd been off of work for a while. There was no money to pay for the haircut.
So, I told her I'd help --not today, not right now, but she wasn't looking for a hand-out precisely --well, maybe she was. I gave her my card and told her to call me Tuesday. I'll have cash then.
I turned and smiled. "I didn't hear a thing."
And this is true. I'd just come out of the bathroom and was thinking about how little I enjoy where I sleep, though I do get better sleep these days and how much I hate washing the dishes, how much time is spent cleaning the plates other people eat off of.
A lot of thoughts... none of them concerning whatever was going on inside of the mind of the threadbare, overly perfumed middle-aged woman in the hallway.
"Mister, can I talk to you?"
And sure, she could. In fact, uttering those words is the easiest way to get me to listen to whatever you have to say.
In the span of a couple of minutes, she explained the reason for her black eye --a fight with an apparently occasional boyfriend she'd known since she was a kid --and her desire to donate her hair to a charity supporting women who have breast cancer.
"I don't have any money," she said.
"You need money to donate hair?"
"I need money for the haircut."
And that thought never occurred to me.
Her mother, she told me survived breast cancer and now her sister was fighting it, but because of the fight with the guy, she'd been off of work for a while. There was no money to pay for the haircut.
So, I told her I'd help --not today, not right now, but she wasn't looking for a hand-out precisely --well, maybe she was. I gave her my card and told her to call me Tuesday. I'll have cash then.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Cancer: flowers
Carla didn't come to the door and the house was eerily quiet: no babble from the television, no shrieks or cries from children, no voices on the other side speaking sharply at one another.
Silent and worry.
I was a couple of minutes early and already I'd made up my mind I was buying the lady flowers before I brought her home. Valentine's Day was coming up. It seemed like something nice to do for someone who could use it.
I waited then knocked again.
Nothing.
On the dead grass to the bottom step of the paint-chipped and battered front porch, a dark, rusty stain spread out in a disturbing pattern. It bled out onto the pebbled sidewalk.
The house was awfully quiet and I imagined Carla stepping down onto the walk and bleeding out suddenly, an awful hemorrhage brought on by a tumor bursting.
Then I heard children inside the house and I tried the door again.
"I'm coming," Carla called. "Just a second."
I smiled when she opened the door. Me and my fucking imagination.
"I had to change shirts three times," she said and shook her head.
She was in a pretty good mood. We drove on the interstate, which unnerved her some. Carla's vision isn't so great and each passing vehicle made her feel claustrophobic. She clutched the side of her seat and kept looking down at the floor, but we talked about the new place. She doesn't like it.
"There ain't no closets," she complained. "At least none you can do more than just turnaround in."
I got her to the doctor's office. They were waiting for her and ready to go, which was nice.
"We'll call you when she's ready to go home," the technician told me.
I went to the grocery store and bought flowers. I debated what to get. I didn't want to get something that suggested either romance or a funeral. I just wanted something to put a little color into her day --and I got the impression that it had been a long time since anyone had bought her flowers just because.
Two hours later, I got the call to come back. Carla was weak and dizzy when I picked her up. The doctor had given her two, liter containers of fruit flavored barium (yum), which wouldn't fit in her purse.
"You drink this stuff with a little coke and it just about ruins your day," Carla said. "The oily taste just sticks in the back of your throat. You don't want nothing to eat."
She hated it and also hated what it meant.
"They want to take some more pictures," she said. "I'm not doing too good." She managed to smile. "But you've got to stay positive, right? That's what they tell you: stay positive."
With the barium in her hands, whatever optimism she had was fading fast.
"I don't know if I'm going to make it to the spring," she told me.
As I let her out at the curb in front of her house, Carla stuffed the canisters in her pocket. I reached into the backseat then handed her the purple carnations: four bucks plus tax. The bundle, formerly wrapped in cellophane seemed pathetic and cheap. It was cheap.
Without smiling, she put the flowers to her face and told me they were beautiful.
"It's just nothing," I said, awkwardly. "Valentine's Day is next week and I thought..."
"I appreciate this." She didn't look at me. "I really appreciate what you do."
She started to leave.
"See you next month?"
She nodded quickly and scurried toward her door. It wasn't a promise.
Silent and worry.
I was a couple of minutes early and already I'd made up my mind I was buying the lady flowers before I brought her home. Valentine's Day was coming up. It seemed like something nice to do for someone who could use it.
I waited then knocked again.
Nothing.
On the dead grass to the bottom step of the paint-chipped and battered front porch, a dark, rusty stain spread out in a disturbing pattern. It bled out onto the pebbled sidewalk.
The house was awfully quiet and I imagined Carla stepping down onto the walk and bleeding out suddenly, an awful hemorrhage brought on by a tumor bursting.
Then I heard children inside the house and I tried the door again.
"I'm coming," Carla called. "Just a second."
I smiled when she opened the door. Me and my fucking imagination.
"I had to change shirts three times," she said and shook her head.
She was in a pretty good mood. We drove on the interstate, which unnerved her some. Carla's vision isn't so great and each passing vehicle made her feel claustrophobic. She clutched the side of her seat and kept looking down at the floor, but we talked about the new place. She doesn't like it.
"There ain't no closets," she complained. "At least none you can do more than just turnaround in."
I got her to the doctor's office. They were waiting for her and ready to go, which was nice.
"We'll call you when she's ready to go home," the technician told me.
I went to the grocery store and bought flowers. I debated what to get. I didn't want to get something that suggested either romance or a funeral. I just wanted something to put a little color into her day --and I got the impression that it had been a long time since anyone had bought her flowers just because.
Two hours later, I got the call to come back. Carla was weak and dizzy when I picked her up. The doctor had given her two, liter containers of fruit flavored barium (yum), which wouldn't fit in her purse.
"You drink this stuff with a little coke and it just about ruins your day," Carla said. "The oily taste just sticks in the back of your throat. You don't want nothing to eat."
She hated it and also hated what it meant.
"They want to take some more pictures," she said. "I'm not doing too good." She managed to smile. "But you've got to stay positive, right? That's what they tell you: stay positive."
With the barium in her hands, whatever optimism she had was fading fast.
"I don't know if I'm going to make it to the spring," she told me.
As I let her out at the curb in front of her house, Carla stuffed the canisters in her pocket. I reached into the backseat then handed her the purple carnations: four bucks plus tax. The bundle, formerly wrapped in cellophane seemed pathetic and cheap. It was cheap.
Without smiling, she put the flowers to her face and told me they were beautiful.
"It's just nothing," I said, awkwardly. "Valentine's Day is next week and I thought..."
"I appreciate this." She didn't look at me. "I really appreciate what you do."
She started to leave.
"See you next month?"
She nodded quickly and scurried toward her door. It wasn't a promise.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Cancer: Time
Gina's daughter answered the door while a baby wailed in the background. She looked like your typical new mother: tired and slightly depressed. Her clothes were the low-rent version of house-wear, a pair of cartoon pajama bottoms and an over-sized t-shirt. No bras. No socks.
The woman barely looked at me as I stood out on the porch, next to a smashed alarm clock and a couple of empty boxes leftover from the move. The boxes had been scrounged from her boyfriend's place of business. The company logo was printed on the side. The clock looked like it had been stomped to death.
"Mom, your ride is here," she yelled then disappeared back into the shallow gloom behind the door.
Gina crept out, still moving gingerly like her heels were made of glass.
"I was just getting ready to call you," she said and smiled. "We thought you might have gotten lost."
It would have been easy enough. The new place was in the labyrinthine bowels of the West Side, where roads lead nowhere and traffic signs are scattered along the grid much like dandelion seeds, but I told her I had it covered.
"And we've got plenty of time," I said.
We didn't talk much. Not a lot had happened since our last visit. They'd settled into the little house, which was an improvement from the hellish backyard apartment they'd been in before, but Carla talked about getting out. She wanted a space of her own.
"It's got a pretty big living room and the one bedroom is all right," she told me. "The rest is just too small. My daughter has all her stuff in storage. So, do I."
The place looked like it might be two bedrooms. If her daughter and boyfriend had a bedroom and the kids had a bedroom, where did that put her?
I didn't ask.
"Now, this is just a doctor's visit, right?" I asked. "It's just an office visit."
She nodded and told me she had a chemo treatment in a couple of days. This was just a visit to talk to the doctor, but she offered to check with the receptionist to see how long it would be. Neither of us wanted me to miss too much work, but I could hang out for a little while, if they were going to see her in the next hour or so.
The reception area was full with only a couple of seats available. On the television, Fox News was giving their fair and balanced interpretation of the news while a woman in a dark brown wig talked about how her treatment was interfering with her sleep.
"I'll get two or three good nights and then I can't sleep for days."
Her husband sat beside her, holding her hand, staring at the floor numbly. He looked shell-shocked and defeated.
Carla asked about the wait and the guy at the window frowned unhappily.
"It's going to be a long wait," he said.
Carla wanted me to go on and to be honest, I had to go, but I handed over one my business cards, the one with my name attached to the newspaper and told him to call the moment she was done.
Most of the time the card is useless, but every once in a great while, it helps... a little bit.
"I'll be back," I told Carla then went to work and wrote about bagpipe players, daredevils and guys who play guitar.
Hours ticked by. I stayed at my desk and watched the phone. When I went to the bathroom or refilled my coffee pot, I asked for someone to watch my phone. I didn't dare go more than a few paces.
It was after five when I finally heard back from the doctor's office. After just over four hours, she was ready to go.
Carla was waiting for me in a room full of sad, scared people who looked like they were at their own wakes. I took her home. I told her I couldn't believe how long they had kept her. She explained that the receptionist had said the doctor had needed to go over a surgery with a new patient.
It was a bullshit excuse.
I was baffled. It was after five p.m. and the waiting area was still full. Carla told me they'd run out of chairs and people had been sitting in their cars. The doctor was overbooked. He was double, maybe triple booked. The man's schedule would have to be obscene.
Four hours. Why would you do that to anyone?
With weary resignation Carla explained the doctor had surgeries and he taught. He was a busy man.
She'd ended up meeting with him for just a few minutes to go over her treatment and to let her ask questions.
"I only asked how much longer do I have to keep doing this?"
The doctor wouldn't say.
The woman barely looked at me as I stood out on the porch, next to a smashed alarm clock and a couple of empty boxes leftover from the move. The boxes had been scrounged from her boyfriend's place of business. The company logo was printed on the side. The clock looked like it had been stomped to death.
"Mom, your ride is here," she yelled then disappeared back into the shallow gloom behind the door.
Gina crept out, still moving gingerly like her heels were made of glass.
"I was just getting ready to call you," she said and smiled. "We thought you might have gotten lost."
It would have been easy enough. The new place was in the labyrinthine bowels of the West Side, where roads lead nowhere and traffic signs are scattered along the grid much like dandelion seeds, but I told her I had it covered.
"And we've got plenty of time," I said.
We didn't talk much. Not a lot had happened since our last visit. They'd settled into the little house, which was an improvement from the hellish backyard apartment they'd been in before, but Carla talked about getting out. She wanted a space of her own.
"It's got a pretty big living room and the one bedroom is all right," she told me. "The rest is just too small. My daughter has all her stuff in storage. So, do I."
The place looked like it might be two bedrooms. If her daughter and boyfriend had a bedroom and the kids had a bedroom, where did that put her?
I didn't ask.
"Now, this is just a doctor's visit, right?" I asked. "It's just an office visit."
She nodded and told me she had a chemo treatment in a couple of days. This was just a visit to talk to the doctor, but she offered to check with the receptionist to see how long it would be. Neither of us wanted me to miss too much work, but I could hang out for a little while, if they were going to see her in the next hour or so.
The reception area was full with only a couple of seats available. On the television, Fox News was giving their fair and balanced interpretation of the news while a woman in a dark brown wig talked about how her treatment was interfering with her sleep.
"I'll get two or three good nights and then I can't sleep for days."
Her husband sat beside her, holding her hand, staring at the floor numbly. He looked shell-shocked and defeated.
Carla asked about the wait and the guy at the window frowned unhappily.
"It's going to be a long wait," he said.
Carla wanted me to go on and to be honest, I had to go, but I handed over one my business cards, the one with my name attached to the newspaper and told him to call the moment she was done.
Most of the time the card is useless, but every once in a great while, it helps... a little bit.
"I'll be back," I told Carla then went to work and wrote about bagpipe players, daredevils and guys who play guitar.
Hours ticked by. I stayed at my desk and watched the phone. When I went to the bathroom or refilled my coffee pot, I asked for someone to watch my phone. I didn't dare go more than a few paces.
It was after five when I finally heard back from the doctor's office. After just over four hours, she was ready to go.
Carla was waiting for me in a room full of sad, scared people who looked like they were at their own wakes. I took her home. I told her I couldn't believe how long they had kept her. She explained that the receptionist had said the doctor had needed to go over a surgery with a new patient.
It was a bullshit excuse.
I was baffled. It was after five p.m. and the waiting area was still full. Carla told me they'd run out of chairs and people had been sitting in their cars. The doctor was overbooked. He was double, maybe triple booked. The man's schedule would have to be obscene.
Four hours. Why would you do that to anyone?
With weary resignation Carla explained the doctor had surgeries and he taught. He was a busy man.
She'd ended up meeting with him for just a few minutes to go over her treatment and to let her ask questions.
"I only asked how much longer do I have to keep doing this?"
The doctor wouldn't say.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Cancer Man: Old Lang Syne
Gina wanted to give me ten dollars. Over and over on the way back she said, "You ought to get something for this. You're doing me a favor. It ain't much, but it helps, don't it?"
I wouldn't take her money.
"Gina, that's okay," I told her. "I'm doing fine."
At least, good enough, but Gina...
A couple of months ago, I picked her up for a couple of cancer treatments, went to the tiny apartment she was sharing with at least two kids, her daughter and her daughter's boyfriend. Gina was a tiny, mousy woman who moved quickly, but gingerly, as if she didn't get to where she was going soon her back would snap in half.
Her life has been impossibly hard. She didn't have much to begin with then lost her husband when she was in her late 20s or early 30s. She raised a pair of daughters alone, worked every crummy job a woman with limited education and resources could get to support them and it never got any better.
"My parents helped some," she said. "His did, too --and my Grand dad."
She never got over the loss. Gina has mourned her husband these last 25 years and struggled like a fly caught in the web of a very fat and very bored spider. Cancer is just the latest in a long line of insults and injuries leading to her eventual end.
The last time I saw her was before Halloween and I didn't have particularly high hopes of seeing her again. It's one of those unfortunate things I've figured out about driving for cancer patients. By the time they get to needing someone like me to get them to their appointments, they're on their last legs. Their support system of friends and family has failed. They're usually broke and you can feel the fear and hopelessness rising off them like an awful heat.
Gina seemed spry when I met her, but I didn't expect her to last through Christmas. It was the type of cancer, the round of treatment she was on and of course, because she needed someone like me to get her where she was going. I was delighted when I got the call.
"Yes, I'll go. Yes." The details hardly mattered. I'd have taken her to see the doctor at midnight.
In the car, she was all chatter. It was cheerful, but miserable. Her daughter and the boyfriend were in the middle of a move. They had a house they were renting a few blocks over, but she wasn't sure where it was or if she was going right away.
"I might go stay with my other daughter for a while." But they'd been fighting and things were tough with the daughter she was living with now. She felt like she was contributing, but the daughter and her boyfriend kept borrowing money.
"I don't really care about money," she said. "I don't have much and I have stayed with them some." She smiled. "But I watch the kids, too, and buy some of the things in the house."
They always promised to pay it back. Sometimes she'd get a little bit, given to her in little amounts, handed over like spare change. Gina resented it and she didn't like that her daughter opened her mail.
None of them had much. Her daughter was often between jobs. The daughter's boyfriend worked mainly in fast food. He had a criminal record --something he did when he was a teenager.
"But he won't tell us what he done," she said.
The criminal record followed him everywhere. He couldn't shake it and nobody wanted to hire him, except burger joints and pizza places. He can't get ahead and he blows what little money he gets his fingers on.
Outside the door of the apartment there was a swollen trash bag, the transparent kind you sometimes see in restaurants. There were a lot of beer cans; more beer cans than soup cans, more beer cans than tightly tucked disposable diapers.
"He talks about going to school, becoming a paramedic --all kinds of things." She laughed. It was useless. "He's a big talker. He even says he's going to get that felony moved off his record."
She likes him and doesn't mind the money so much, but it bothers her that she doesn't know what it is he did. Gina doesn't know who her daughter is sleeping with. He won't tell them.
On the way back from the doctor, just a consultation, where they kept her waiting for an hour and a half, she points out houses where she used to clean and one place where she used to take care of an old man.
"He had Alzheimer's," she said sadly, like that somehow might be worse than what's happening to her. "Over there." She pointed. "That's where a man was shot."
It's less than a block from where she lives.
She offers me the money one last time before she grabs her purse from the floor and bolts for the alley and the icy steps leading to a battered door closed tightly against the cold.
I wouldn't take her money.
"Gina, that's okay," I told her. "I'm doing fine."
At least, good enough, but Gina...
A couple of months ago, I picked her up for a couple of cancer treatments, went to the tiny apartment she was sharing with at least two kids, her daughter and her daughter's boyfriend. Gina was a tiny, mousy woman who moved quickly, but gingerly, as if she didn't get to where she was going soon her back would snap in half.
Her life has been impossibly hard. She didn't have much to begin with then lost her husband when she was in her late 20s or early 30s. She raised a pair of daughters alone, worked every crummy job a woman with limited education and resources could get to support them and it never got any better.
"My parents helped some," she said. "His did, too --and my Grand dad."
She never got over the loss. Gina has mourned her husband these last 25 years and struggled like a fly caught in the web of a very fat and very bored spider. Cancer is just the latest in a long line of insults and injuries leading to her eventual end.
The last time I saw her was before Halloween and I didn't have particularly high hopes of seeing her again. It's one of those unfortunate things I've figured out about driving for cancer patients. By the time they get to needing someone like me to get them to their appointments, they're on their last legs. Their support system of friends and family has failed. They're usually broke and you can feel the fear and hopelessness rising off them like an awful heat.
Gina seemed spry when I met her, but I didn't expect her to last through Christmas. It was the type of cancer, the round of treatment she was on and of course, because she needed someone like me to get her where she was going. I was delighted when I got the call.
"Yes, I'll go. Yes." The details hardly mattered. I'd have taken her to see the doctor at midnight.
In the car, she was all chatter. It was cheerful, but miserable. Her daughter and the boyfriend were in the middle of a move. They had a house they were renting a few blocks over, but she wasn't sure where it was or if she was going right away.
"I might go stay with my other daughter for a while." But they'd been fighting and things were tough with the daughter she was living with now. She felt like she was contributing, but the daughter and her boyfriend kept borrowing money.
"I don't really care about money," she said. "I don't have much and I have stayed with them some." She smiled. "But I watch the kids, too, and buy some of the things in the house."
They always promised to pay it back. Sometimes she'd get a little bit, given to her in little amounts, handed over like spare change. Gina resented it and she didn't like that her daughter opened her mail.
None of them had much. Her daughter was often between jobs. The daughter's boyfriend worked mainly in fast food. He had a criminal record --something he did when he was a teenager.
"But he won't tell us what he done," she said.
The criminal record followed him everywhere. He couldn't shake it and nobody wanted to hire him, except burger joints and pizza places. He can't get ahead and he blows what little money he gets his fingers on.
Outside the door of the apartment there was a swollen trash bag, the transparent kind you sometimes see in restaurants. There were a lot of beer cans; more beer cans than soup cans, more beer cans than tightly tucked disposable diapers.
"He talks about going to school, becoming a paramedic --all kinds of things." She laughed. It was useless. "He's a big talker. He even says he's going to get that felony moved off his record."
She likes him and doesn't mind the money so much, but it bothers her that she doesn't know what it is he did. Gina doesn't know who her daughter is sleeping with. He won't tell them.
On the way back from the doctor, just a consultation, where they kept her waiting for an hour and a half, she points out houses where she used to clean and one place where she used to take care of an old man.
"He had Alzheimer's," she said sadly, like that somehow might be worse than what's happening to her. "Over there." She pointed. "That's where a man was shot."
It's less than a block from where she lives.
She offers me the money one last time before she grabs her purse from the floor and bolts for the alley and the icy steps leading to a battered door closed tightly against the cold.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Cancer man: Camo
He had a camouflage hat and we talked about hunting in the car.
"Do you get out much to hunt?" He asked and I shook my head.
"I haven't really been hunting since I was a boy."
I did not tell him that I was the weird one in the family who didn't much care for it, which mostly had to do with the hours, not necessarily the objection to obliterating animals. I'm not big on that either, but hunting is inconvenient. Hunters like to get up before dawn, dress either too warmly or not warm enough and wander in fields while the sun slowly peeks up above the trees. They wander around in the woods and have to be quiet.
I'd rather sleep. Back in the day, I'd rather eat breakfast cereal in my Hulk underoos and watch cartoons I hated, but would come to adore later.
"My brothers and my dad hunt a good bit," I said and that's true. They're nuts about it, though not as crazy as my best friend's dad, Bobby. Bobby had a gun cabinet like a golf bag. He'd have hunted mailmen and mounted their heads on his wall if they'd but had an official season.
"I miss that the most," he said. "I just can't get out like I used to."
His wife said nothing, but she nodded. He loved to hunt.
It was a beautiful day. A good day to be in the woods and kind of a shame for him that he couldn't make it.
I got him to his treatment, which was supposed to be 45 minutes, but turned into over 3 hours.
"They couldn't get the port to work," he said when it was all over. "It was a new port." He sighed. "It's supposed to be better next time."
I told him I hoped it was, not because it put me out, which seemed to bother him, but because his day was shot.
Barely out of the parking lot, he said he could feel the medicine kicking in.
"You can tell," he told me. "There it is."
I asked him if he was all right.
"Oh, I'll be fine. They done give me some stuff before they started the chemo for my stomach." He sighed. "Chemo is the absolute worst."
"How far along are you into your treatment?"
"This was my first round of this," he told me. "It's pretty tough, but I got to do it." He shook his head. "I'm just buying myself a little more time is all."
His wife in the backseat kept her silence, but stared at the floor.
"Do you get out much to hunt?" He asked and I shook my head.
"I haven't really been hunting since I was a boy."
I did not tell him that I was the weird one in the family who didn't much care for it, which mostly had to do with the hours, not necessarily the objection to obliterating animals. I'm not big on that either, but hunting is inconvenient. Hunters like to get up before dawn, dress either too warmly or not warm enough and wander in fields while the sun slowly peeks up above the trees. They wander around in the woods and have to be quiet.
I'd rather sleep. Back in the day, I'd rather eat breakfast cereal in my Hulk underoos and watch cartoons I hated, but would come to adore later.
"My brothers and my dad hunt a good bit," I said and that's true. They're nuts about it, though not as crazy as my best friend's dad, Bobby. Bobby had a gun cabinet like a golf bag. He'd have hunted mailmen and mounted their heads on his wall if they'd but had an official season.
"I miss that the most," he said. "I just can't get out like I used to."
His wife said nothing, but she nodded. He loved to hunt.
It was a beautiful day. A good day to be in the woods and kind of a shame for him that he couldn't make it.
I got him to his treatment, which was supposed to be 45 minutes, but turned into over 3 hours.
"They couldn't get the port to work," he said when it was all over. "It was a new port." He sighed. "It's supposed to be better next time."
I told him I hoped it was, not because it put me out, which seemed to bother him, but because his day was shot.
Barely out of the parking lot, he said he could feel the medicine kicking in.
"You can tell," he told me. "There it is."
I asked him if he was all right.
"Oh, I'll be fine. They done give me some stuff before they started the chemo for my stomach." He sighed. "Chemo is the absolute worst."
"How far along are you into your treatment?"
"This was my first round of this," he told me. "It's pretty tough, but I got to do it." He shook his head. "I'm just buying myself a little more time is all."
His wife in the backseat kept her silence, but stared at the floor.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Cancer man: clown
I have a not-too-unreasonable fear of Cancer. In my life, it has killed two grandfathers, a couple of uncles, a great aunt or two and was a factor in my grandmother's death. It's also popped up in the lives of my sisters and is the odds on favorite for how I will eventually go.
Part of the reason I've continued with the Road to Recovery program with the American Cancer Society is because Cancer is waiting for me. I've seen how frail it makes people who have it. I have compassion for them because I have compassion for that future me, that shriveled man somewhere down the line who will likely face it alone.
I am man who is very aware of the reality of his surroundings.
A couple of weeks ago, I got a call from the circus, from Ringling Brothers. A clown, who I did a feature on, was diagnosed with brain cancer. Surgery had been performed, but they were really only able to remove part of the tumor. They're treating it as best they can, trying to keep him comfortable and in good spirits, but his hopes for a meaningful recovery sound bleak.
The treatment buys him some time.
Someone at the circus remembered the article, remembered maybe that he liked it, and wanted a copy to send him they could put on his wall. The circus was gathering things to help cheer him up and show them they cared now, especially now.
I said yes. I didn't hesitate. I didn't ask anybody what it was going to cost. I just said yes.
It took a little bit of doing. It wasn't entirely easy, but I had help shepherding it through. The glossy poster version of his front page article got done and all I had to do was write a check to pay for it --something I will do in a few minutes once I figure out where the accounting department is in this building. Our secretary, really kind of a saint, gave up her money for the postage. The poster is already in the mail.
I've thought about the clown, about why the man behind the makeup got into his chosen field. It's not an easy choice to become a circus clown. It's an outright weird choice. There are much easier and more obvious ways to become an entertainer, but he chose it, I think, because he loved the audience, because he loves children.
As a symbol, I couldn't think of anything sadder in the world: a clown dying slowly of cancer.
I think I would have said yes, even if the picture had cost a hundred bucks. As it happened, it didn't. There's not a lot of justice in the way of things, but you can get a discount now and then.
Part of the reason I've continued with the Road to Recovery program with the American Cancer Society is because Cancer is waiting for me. I've seen how frail it makes people who have it. I have compassion for them because I have compassion for that future me, that shriveled man somewhere down the line who will likely face it alone.
I am man who is very aware of the reality of his surroundings.
A couple of weeks ago, I got a call from the circus, from Ringling Brothers. A clown, who I did a feature on, was diagnosed with brain cancer. Surgery had been performed, but they were really only able to remove part of the tumor. They're treating it as best they can, trying to keep him comfortable and in good spirits, but his hopes for a meaningful recovery sound bleak.
The treatment buys him some time.
Someone at the circus remembered the article, remembered maybe that he liked it, and wanted a copy to send him they could put on his wall. The circus was gathering things to help cheer him up and show them they cared now, especially now.
I said yes. I didn't hesitate. I didn't ask anybody what it was going to cost. I just said yes.
It took a little bit of doing. It wasn't entirely easy, but I had help shepherding it through. The glossy poster version of his front page article got done and all I had to do was write a check to pay for it --something I will do in a few minutes once I figure out where the accounting department is in this building. Our secretary, really kind of a saint, gave up her money for the postage. The poster is already in the mail.
I've thought about the clown, about why the man behind the makeup got into his chosen field. It's not an easy choice to become a circus clown. It's an outright weird choice. There are much easier and more obvious ways to become an entertainer, but he chose it, I think, because he loved the audience, because he loves children.
As a symbol, I couldn't think of anything sadder in the world: a clown dying slowly of cancer.
I think I would have said yes, even if the picture had cost a hundred bucks. As it happened, it didn't. There's not a lot of justice in the way of things, but you can get a discount now and then.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Cancer Man Returns Again
The apartment was a little slice of hell, not the kind of place where you'd want grow up, not the kind of place you'd ever want to go to die. As it happens, we seldom get those kind of choices. You're born where you're born. You die wherever. Most of the time, you're greeted by a crowd coming in. Most of the time, you leave when there's no one looking.
The door was at the end of a long stretch of stairs. A swollen and prematurely carved jack-o-lantern guarded the last step. It was already beginning to rot and the rain coming down wouldn't help.
The window next to the door had been patched over. In it's place was a restaurant sign advertising loaded nachos. The job wasn't a quick fix. It was permanent.
What kind of asshole landlord would do that?
Gina shuffled outside, all smiles and frenetic politeness. She didn't mean to call, didn't want to be a bother, but she didn't want to miss her appointment.
I apologized. I wasn't late. She was in no way behind schedule, but I'd been answering an e-mail. I wanted to make sure a friend was OK.
She got in the car and we drove. She told me about her daughter again, clarifying some of the things she'd said before. Last time, she'd been groggy. She'd taken a pain pill before we left and the drugs had knocked her on her ass. I'd thought it was just the chemo, but Gina told me she's taking quite a bit of medication.
"Me and the other daughter clashed," she said. "She was moving in with the boyfriend and I went along. He had a big house."
What the daughter had failed to mention was that she and the boyfriend expected her to watch her daughter's two kids all summer long.
"I told her not to take them out of daycare, but she did." She frowned. "I don't mind helping out, but not all the time."
On a fixed income, a disability check, and with cancer, they'd brought her in as an indentured servant.
"We clashed. Boy, we clashed. " And she left and moved in with another daughter with equally complicated, but less troublesome issues.
"She can't drive," she told me, shook her head and laughed. "Boy, she can't drive."
At the office, the nurse told us it would be two to three hours for her treatment. Gina gave me the card for her doctor and told me to call him after while. She didn't see any point to have me wait around.
I went back to work, checked in with the doctor and they called me when she was finished.
I ushered her carefully back into the car. Most of the spunk and spark Gina had going for her before the treatment was gone. She was tired and fearsome of the traffic.
"I don't want to tell you how to drive," she told me. "I'm just making suggestions."
On the way, she offered me a small can of Pepsi.
"I grabbed this," she said. "I thought you might like it."
I told her I couldn't. I'd just started another diet.
She put it away.
"I don't drink soda too much on account I had a colostomy." She laughed miserably. "I'm all eaten up." She wasn't the only one. "A girl in there, burst a bag." She looked out the window. "She should have said something. I had some spares."
In the car, I noticed the smell: the chemical smell of a funeral home, the smell of death. It was all over her and everywhere in my car. Quite suddenly, I wanted to get her home and get as far away as I could.
I kept my hands on the wheel, drove and just listened. You don't get cancer by riding in a car with a cancer patient.
"They wouldn't tell me how many treatments I had left," she said. "I asked the man and he said he was going to check, but then I took my pill and I forgot and he forgot."
"You could probably call them tomorrow," I told her.
Gina nodded. She could do that. Sure, she could.
"I saved that article," she told me and I didn't know what she was talking about. "That one you did with Judy Garland's daughter. I cut it out and kept it."
"You saved that?" I smiled. "That's..." I didn't know what to say. "It wasn't a very good article," I told her. "Not my best." I looked at her. "Thank-you. You didn't have to do that."
She didn't say anything.
We navigated backstreets and side roads to finally bring her back to her daughter's apartment.
"You can let me out right here. I appreciate you doing this. Thank-you." She skittered off toward those long steps with the sagging Jack-o-lantern at the top. She didn't want me to follow, but I waited at the curb and watched her find the door before I drove away.
I wish I could have brought her some place else.
The door was at the end of a long stretch of stairs. A swollen and prematurely carved jack-o-lantern guarded the last step. It was already beginning to rot and the rain coming down wouldn't help.
The window next to the door had been patched over. In it's place was a restaurant sign advertising loaded nachos. The job wasn't a quick fix. It was permanent.
What kind of asshole landlord would do that?
Gina shuffled outside, all smiles and frenetic politeness. She didn't mean to call, didn't want to be a bother, but she didn't want to miss her appointment.
I apologized. I wasn't late. She was in no way behind schedule, but I'd been answering an e-mail. I wanted to make sure a friend was OK.
She got in the car and we drove. She told me about her daughter again, clarifying some of the things she'd said before. Last time, she'd been groggy. She'd taken a pain pill before we left and the drugs had knocked her on her ass. I'd thought it was just the chemo, but Gina told me she's taking quite a bit of medication.
"Me and the other daughter clashed," she said. "She was moving in with the boyfriend and I went along. He had a big house."
What the daughter had failed to mention was that she and the boyfriend expected her to watch her daughter's two kids all summer long.
"I told her not to take them out of daycare, but she did." She frowned. "I don't mind helping out, but not all the time."
On a fixed income, a disability check, and with cancer, they'd brought her in as an indentured servant.
"We clashed. Boy, we clashed. " And she left and moved in with another daughter with equally complicated, but less troublesome issues.
"She can't drive," she told me, shook her head and laughed. "Boy, she can't drive."
At the office, the nurse told us it would be two to three hours for her treatment. Gina gave me the card for her doctor and told me to call him after while. She didn't see any point to have me wait around.
I went back to work, checked in with the doctor and they called me when she was finished.
I ushered her carefully back into the car. Most of the spunk and spark Gina had going for her before the treatment was gone. She was tired and fearsome of the traffic.
"I don't want to tell you how to drive," she told me. "I'm just making suggestions."
On the way, she offered me a small can of Pepsi.
"I grabbed this," she said. "I thought you might like it."
I told her I couldn't. I'd just started another diet.
She put it away.
"I don't drink soda too much on account I had a colostomy." She laughed miserably. "I'm all eaten up." She wasn't the only one. "A girl in there, burst a bag." She looked out the window. "She should have said something. I had some spares."
In the car, I noticed the smell: the chemical smell of a funeral home, the smell of death. It was all over her and everywhere in my car. Quite suddenly, I wanted to get her home and get as far away as I could.
I kept my hands on the wheel, drove and just listened. You don't get cancer by riding in a car with a cancer patient.
"They wouldn't tell me how many treatments I had left," she said. "I asked the man and he said he was going to check, but then I took my pill and I forgot and he forgot."
"You could probably call them tomorrow," I told her.
Gina nodded. She could do that. Sure, she could.
"I saved that article," she told me and I didn't know what she was talking about. "That one you did with Judy Garland's daughter. I cut it out and kept it."
"You saved that?" I smiled. "That's..." I didn't know what to say. "It wasn't a very good article," I told her. "Not my best." I looked at her. "Thank-you. You didn't have to do that."
She didn't say anything.
We navigated backstreets and side roads to finally bring her back to her daughter's apartment.
"You can let me out right here. I appreciate you doing this. Thank-you." She skittered off toward those long steps with the sagging Jack-o-lantern at the top. She didn't want me to follow, but I waited at the curb and watched her find the door before I drove away.
I wish I could have brought her some place else.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
The Return Of Cancer Man -3
Chemo does funny things to people. With radiation, the side effects seem to take a while to kick in. I've never had anyone throw up in my car, never had anybody lose control of their bowels, but with chemo, they always come back a bit weary, a bit drained and disoriented.
I'd been gone for an hour and a half, but the nurse told me to have a seat. Gina wasn't finished yet.
She looked back toward the small woman curled up on the recliner. A syrup the color of an off-brand crayola red slowly drained into her.
"About another half hour?" She seemed concerned when she asked, like she thought I might bolt.
I shrugged. I was supposed to be talking to a jazz legend in about an hour. He'd keep or he wouldn't, I supposed, took a seat and started leafing through a copy of National Geographic. I read about the greening of Greenland and thought for the millionth time about how much I like National Geographic, but would probably never actually read it at the house.
The minutes crept by. A pharma rep came in and chatted up another patient as she was plugged in, which seemed weird.
"How are you enjoying your chemo? Have you tried the new pomegranate flavor?" God knows what she was talking about.
Gina finished, but she didn't snap out of the chair with quite as much spring as she had as we came in. Her movements were staccato and rushed, but delicate. She didn't feel well.
In the car, she thanked me again about taking her for treatment.
"I wouldn't mind taking the bus," she said again. "But I just don't want to ride there alone."
"It's no problem. I don't mind doing this."
"My daughter's boyfriend used to take me to these things," she said. "There was a time when he'd do anything for me. He couldn't do enough."
Things had changed over the last few months. They weren't getting along and it sounded like his relationship with her daughter was coming to a sad conclusion. None of them were getting along and she'd moved to the other daughter's place, which wasn't much better. Her daughter was working at a motel. The boyfriend had legal issues and he wanted her to watch the kids for them a bit more than she felt up to.
"I used to drive," she said. "But I never liked it. I didn't even get my license until after my husband died."
Then she told me about him again, her husband, how he'd died in a car accident when he was 37. She'd raised two daughters on her own and they'd scraped by. It was hard. She'd never wanted to have to do that. She missed him something fierce.
She rambled and I told her I didn't mind taking her back and forth for treatment. She didn't have to worry about that one thing, at least.
Before we got her home, which she reminded me again, wasn't her home, she didn't have a home any more, she was living with her daughter, she told me, "I'd take the bus, but I just don't want to have to there alone. I think I'd be scared."
"Gina, you don't have to go there alone." Nobody should have to do this alone, but God knows how many do.
I'd been gone for an hour and a half, but the nurse told me to have a seat. Gina wasn't finished yet.
She looked back toward the small woman curled up on the recliner. A syrup the color of an off-brand crayola red slowly drained into her.
"About another half hour?" She seemed concerned when she asked, like she thought I might bolt.
I shrugged. I was supposed to be talking to a jazz legend in about an hour. He'd keep or he wouldn't, I supposed, took a seat and started leafing through a copy of National Geographic. I read about the greening of Greenland and thought for the millionth time about how much I like National Geographic, but would probably never actually read it at the house.
The minutes crept by. A pharma rep came in and chatted up another patient as she was plugged in, which seemed weird.
"How are you enjoying your chemo? Have you tried the new pomegranate flavor?" God knows what she was talking about.
Gina finished, but she didn't snap out of the chair with quite as much spring as she had as we came in. Her movements were staccato and rushed, but delicate. She didn't feel well.
In the car, she thanked me again about taking her for treatment.
"I wouldn't mind taking the bus," she said again. "But I just don't want to ride there alone."
"It's no problem. I don't mind doing this."
"My daughter's boyfriend used to take me to these things," she said. "There was a time when he'd do anything for me. He couldn't do enough."
Things had changed over the last few months. They weren't getting along and it sounded like his relationship with her daughter was coming to a sad conclusion. None of them were getting along and she'd moved to the other daughter's place, which wasn't much better. Her daughter was working at a motel. The boyfriend had legal issues and he wanted her to watch the kids for them a bit more than she felt up to.
"I used to drive," she said. "But I never liked it. I didn't even get my license until after my husband died."
Then she told me about him again, her husband, how he'd died in a car accident when he was 37. She'd raised two daughters on her own and they'd scraped by. It was hard. She'd never wanted to have to do that. She missed him something fierce.
She rambled and I told her I didn't mind taking her back and forth for treatment. She didn't have to worry about that one thing, at least.
Before we got her home, which she reminded me again, wasn't her home, she didn't have a home any more, she was living with her daughter, she told me, "I'd take the bus, but I just don't want to have to there alone. I think I'd be scared."
"Gina, you don't have to go there alone." Nobody should have to do this alone, but God knows how many do.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
The Return Of Cancer Man-2
Gina hobbled down a narrow set of washed out wooden steps from her daughter's second floor apartment to a grubby side yard behind a rusted chain link fence. She was nearly to the bottom by the time I got out of my car. She was tiny, short-haired and in a hurry. She didn't even ask me who I was until we'd both settled into the car and I'd turned the ignition.
As we drove, everything came out in a spill, like we were on a speed date.
"This is my second round of chemo," she said. "I'm 61." She put her hand through her hair. It was thin and a flat, mousy brown. "The first time I did treatment. I lost all my hair. It nearly broke my heart." She smiled. "But I got a wig. It was a pretty good wig. I still have it."
We drove along. She pointed out where I should turn and she gripped the side of the door as if any second I might crash us into a tree, another car, a building. It seemed a little funny, but then I remembered she was probably on all kinds of medication. Moving faster than 20 miles an hour might be a little disconcerting, plus she didn't know who the hell I was.
Gina told me she didn't know the streets so well. She wasn't from Charleston, but had grown up in Spring Hill before moving away. She lost her husband in a car accident when he was 37.
"He was in the hospital for a month," Gina explained. "Paralyzed and then he just went."
She's never stopped missing him. Lately, she's missed him more.
"I'm staying with my daughter right now."
Gina has two, plus a couple of grandchildren. The boyfriends of her daughters are also in the picture, though one of them might have been fading out, she told me. Things hadn't been going too well.
The boyfriend of the daughter she was living with couldn't drive. He was fighting a DUI arrest, she explained, and they got around using the bus.
"I'd use the bus to do this," Gina said. "But I wouldn't want to do it alone."
"You don't have to," I told her. "I'll get you there."
"This might take a while."
I shrugged. I'd worked the holiday, mostly out of necessity due to deadlines, and had a full day to burn off. I suck at leisure time.
"I got all the time in the world," I told her, which wasn't precisely true. I was supposed to talk to a jazz piano legend in a couple of hours and he was calling from Italy.
"Well," she said. "You could go back to work, if you wanted..."
I took her inside the cancer treatment office. Inside, a receptionist and nurse monitored a half-dozen women sitting in recliners, parked next to IV stands with tubes snaking into their hands. Some of them looked pale. Two wore very bad wigs and one was half-covered up by a blanket and scratching her way through a word search puzzle book. They were all single ladies, at least today, which seemed sort of sad.
Greta's chair was waiting for her. The nurse ushered her to her seat then asked me who I was.
"Are you family?"
"I'm just a driver," I told her. "Just here to help."
She nodded and said I could take a seat in the other room. They had a nice selection of magazines, including several dealing with old age, cancer and celebrities. The National Geographic looked promising and God, who doesn't get enough of about the life and times of Reba McEntire?
She offered to bring me a cup of coffee or some water if I wanted.
"It's going to be about an hour and a half." She looked at the clock on the wall. "Maybe a little longer."
I told her I'd check back.
(To Be Continued)
As we drove, everything came out in a spill, like we were on a speed date.
"This is my second round of chemo," she said. "I'm 61." She put her hand through her hair. It was thin and a flat, mousy brown. "The first time I did treatment. I lost all my hair. It nearly broke my heart." She smiled. "But I got a wig. It was a pretty good wig. I still have it."
We drove along. She pointed out where I should turn and she gripped the side of the door as if any second I might crash us into a tree, another car, a building. It seemed a little funny, but then I remembered she was probably on all kinds of medication. Moving faster than 20 miles an hour might be a little disconcerting, plus she didn't know who the hell I was.
Gina told me she didn't know the streets so well. She wasn't from Charleston, but had grown up in Spring Hill before moving away. She lost her husband in a car accident when he was 37.
"He was in the hospital for a month," Gina explained. "Paralyzed and then he just went."
She's never stopped missing him. Lately, she's missed him more.
"I'm staying with my daughter right now."
Gina has two, plus a couple of grandchildren. The boyfriends of her daughters are also in the picture, though one of them might have been fading out, she told me. Things hadn't been going too well.
The boyfriend of the daughter she was living with couldn't drive. He was fighting a DUI arrest, she explained, and they got around using the bus.
"I'd use the bus to do this," Gina said. "But I wouldn't want to do it alone."
"You don't have to," I told her. "I'll get you there."
"This might take a while."
I shrugged. I'd worked the holiday, mostly out of necessity due to deadlines, and had a full day to burn off. I suck at leisure time.
"I got all the time in the world," I told her, which wasn't precisely true. I was supposed to talk to a jazz piano legend in a couple of hours and he was calling from Italy.
"Well," she said. "You could go back to work, if you wanted..."
I took her inside the cancer treatment office. Inside, a receptionist and nurse monitored a half-dozen women sitting in recliners, parked next to IV stands with tubes snaking into their hands. Some of them looked pale. Two wore very bad wigs and one was half-covered up by a blanket and scratching her way through a word search puzzle book. They were all single ladies, at least today, which seemed sort of sad.
Greta's chair was waiting for her. The nurse ushered her to her seat then asked me who I was.
"Are you family?"
"I'm just a driver," I told her. "Just here to help."
She nodded and said I could take a seat in the other room. They had a nice selection of magazines, including several dealing with old age, cancer and celebrities. The National Geographic looked promising and God, who doesn't get enough of about the life and times of Reba McEntire?
She offered to bring me a cup of coffee or some water if I wanted.
"It's going to be about an hour and a half." She looked at the clock on the wall. "Maybe a little longer."
I told her I'd check back.
(To Be Continued)
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The Return Of Cancer Man -1
It has been a long while since I got the call to drive anyone for treatment. Cancer is a plague, particularly in this part of the world. Everybody knows somebody who has it, has had it or has died from it. Odds are given my family history, where I live, and my nearly 20 year on and off again love affair with Marlboros, it's probably going to be the thing that gets me -- unless I happen to really piss off Jesco White's family again. There's a lot of cancer around, a lot of cancer patients but not a lot of cancer patients know about the Road To Recovery program.
Word does not get around, which is sad.
In my experience, by the time the folks who could use something like Road To Recovery hear about it, they're grasping at straws. Their support system of family and friends has fallen apart. They're often on some kind of assisted living, barely scraping by and their lives are coming to a slow, but inevitable resolution.
It's the same resolution for all of us, but I imagine the end looks a lot different when you can see it only ten or fifteen paces away.
All of the people I've driven for treatment have died. Most of them expired within three or four months after their last chemo or radiation therapy.
I figured that out a while back, but decided it couldn't matter. Aside from the necessity of the task, I needed to believe there were people out there withe bare minimum, provide a gallon of gas and a little time to help a stranger live for a little while longer.
Be the change you want.
I give what I can, which is a little company to go with the ride. I've broken bread with a couple of them, talked with them about their grandchildren and listened sympathetically as they've exposed the faulty wiring of their families. For them to even need me means something is broken where it ought not to be.
These people lead the frailest of lives. They don't have cars or can't drive any more. They all look a little frightened and sound a little desperate. Some are terribly alone, living off the company of game shows or talk radio and always looking forward to that phone call from their daughter or nephew in Florida --the one who visited a couple of months ago, but didn't bring the kids.
So... I got a call, the first in months. Her name is Gina and she lives with her daughter.
To be continued...
Word does not get around, which is sad.
In my experience, by the time the folks who could use something like Road To Recovery hear about it, they're grasping at straws. Their support system of family and friends has fallen apart. They're often on some kind of assisted living, barely scraping by and their lives are coming to a slow, but inevitable resolution.
It's the same resolution for all of us, but I imagine the end looks a lot different when you can see it only ten or fifteen paces away.
All of the people I've driven for treatment have died. Most of them expired within three or four months after their last chemo or radiation therapy.
I figured that out a while back, but decided it couldn't matter. Aside from the necessity of the task, I needed to believe there were people out there withe bare minimum, provide a gallon of gas and a little time to help a stranger live for a little while longer.
Be the change you want.
I give what I can, which is a little company to go with the ride. I've broken bread with a couple of them, talked with them about their grandchildren and listened sympathetically as they've exposed the faulty wiring of their families. For them to even need me means something is broken where it ought not to be.
These people lead the frailest of lives. They don't have cars or can't drive any more. They all look a little frightened and sound a little desperate. Some are terribly alone, living off the company of game shows or talk radio and always looking forward to that phone call from their daughter or nephew in Florida --the one who visited a couple of months ago, but didn't bring the kids.
So... I got a call, the first in months. Her name is Gina and she lives with her daughter.
To be continued...
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