The Hospital: Part 3
Night one, there were no blankets at all. And now… no less than three!
Compared to the day before, I was on Cloud 9. Yes, it’s still only Friday and I had just had the CT Scan Thursday morning at 8:30 AM even though 109, 283, 308 things happened to our heroine since then… sorry, I had to, seemed like a good spot for a comic book aside.
Having a (pretty sure) diagnosis of lymphoma, a room to myself, nurses, doctors and literally three different teams of people caring for me — after 5 1/2 years of being the primary caregiver for twins, not to mention hauling them around inside my body for almost nine months — in addition to the never-ending pandemic parenting my husband and I were juggling, this day of being alone, reading a book, chatting on the phone, listening to meditations and being served tiny pre-packaged cheeses wasn’t half bad. Unlike that sentence which ran on forever and no doubt my sister, the actual writer of the family, is currently giggling as she reads.
The rest of the day consisted of more bloodwork. Truly, with the amount of vials of blood I had given since December, it astounds me I was still walking or as the nurses call it when they hand off “she’s independent,” I was the only one in the whole area. Yay, me! They tested me for everything. From HIV, to Lyme Disease, Epstein-Barr Virus to something I had never heard of, vial after vial went to the lab. A few hours later, my Internal Medicine doctor came by to tell me my LDH levels were high, another piece in the most-likely-lymphoma puzzle.
In between waiting for test results, I texted family and friends to let them know what was going on. Some of them didn’t know I’d been feeling so unwell, with this kind of thing, I thought it made the most sense to hold back telling people anything until I had something concrete to say. There, in that room alone, I felt so surrounded by love. All the concern and outpouring from my family, from my friends. I thought of myself as this one person sitting there with an army behind her. From friends I have known for more than 30 years to friends I’ve only known for three, to those who are no longer of this earth looking over me, whom I’m sure wouldn’t let cancer take me away. I wasn’t alone. Not for a moment. And it was nice to spend the day catching up. Even if what we were talking about was on the shittier side of shitty.
One call with my sister went a little like this, Tracy:
”How’re you feeling, Sissy?”
”You know, despite it all, this is kind of a nice, if really fucked up vacation. People are waiting on me. They have delicious little muffins and pre-packaged cheeses. It’s not so bad.”
We both laughed and laughed. Then she shouted it out to her husband Tom and he laughed, too. The time they were spending worrying at home, totally helpless, called for a little laughter. Then I asked to talk to the girls. The girls are my nieces. Mary, 15, and Adelaide, now 13. They are the light of my lives. Before I had my own kids, or had even met Willis, I used to sleep over at my sister’s and sometimes accidentally spend days there. I’m so grateful for the times I got to be the fifth member of that sweet, little family. Getting my face painted at birthday parties. Doing crafts. Sharing laughs. Being an extra chaperone. I cherish those moments so much now that I have my own kids and am way too tired to appreciate the joy of being a little one. A joy that’s easy to appreciate when you’re in your early 20s and can just go home. As an extra bonus, Mary was born on my 21st birthday and because of that, we share a special bond. Of all the days of the year, she chose mine. At the time, I was a little miffed, but now, I’m so glad.
It’s not lost on me that I was 13 when my Aunt Pat was diagnosed with liver cancer. She was a big part of my world. She was my safe place to land. My cheerleader. My special bond. Her and I shared a Sun sign (Sagittarius), birthdays 15 days apart, the urge to laugh instead of cry, a boat load of empathy and that intuition. She knew before the doctors there was something wrong. She just didn’t know what. Eventually they found it, and it was too late. My mom happened to say just a few months ago “Pat was the best of all of us.” And that’s true. There aren’t many days that pass when I don’t long for her presence and wish she was still here, 23 years after we lost her. Much of who I am today grew from that loss. Losing someone so close at 13-years-old (we can all agree, already a tough stage) changes you. It’s a big part of why I live my life thinking you never know what someone else is going through, so, above all, be kind.
I remember how I felt then and I wanted Mary and Adelaide to hear my voice, to know that I was okay. That I would continue to be okay.
”Hi Nini.”
”Hi Mary! How are you?”
”I’m okay. How are YOU?”
”Honestly, I’m relieved. I’m glad I’m here and we can figure this out and fix it.” Then we talked about how glorious and weird my mini vacation was and how much I like hospital food. When she handed the phone to Adelaide, we had much the same conversation. We laughed a little and I made sure they knew I was okay. That I am stronger than this. That we are in this together. And when we hung up, I smiled to myself. Proud of the young people they are becoming and how lucky I’ve been to watch them grow.
As it got closer to shift change, Lucy came by, noticing I still didn’t get dinner, even though Natasha had most definitely put in my name.
“You still didn’t get a meal today?”
“Nope.”
”Do you want me to wait until you have one before I go home?”
Also, “no it’s okay.”
My meal would arrive before Lucy left and I happily gobbled it up.
Natasha introduced me to my night nurse, Natalie, and told us I could finallllllllllly get my steroids at 9 PM. Since I had my biopsy in the middle of the afternoon, they had to wait to administer the steroid for several hours. On her way out of the building, Natasha told me to expect to be awake all night. Apparently, steroids, especially these ones being administered by IV, keep you awake. Considering I’d slept about four hours the night before and had broken sleep for the better part of two weeks as I tried sleeping sitting up and/or while my throat was constricting — I wasn’t particularly thrilled about this.
Shortly after shift change, a person appeared at the curtain of my room, her name was Olga and I recognized her immediately.
”Hiiii, I’m so sorry. Last night was rough.”
”You were sleep deprived and it was a hard day.”
Olga, it turns out, was the lovely nurse who stopped to ask if I was okay the night before as I wept alone in the hallway. She had gotten me a cup of ice. Seeing her now, I felt a little embarrassed, but grateful nevertheless.
And then, what with the excitement of the last few days, I fell asleep. When I awoke, it was 9:30 PM and it was all I could do to not run out of my room screaming “GIVE ME THE STEROIDSSSSS NOWWWWWWW!!!!!!” Fighting these primal urges, I settled on asking a man, Joe, who was there for the night helping (I can’t figure out if he was a nurse, but definitely staff of some kind and helped the nurses when they needed him or when patients did) walked by. “Excuse me” I said, “I was supposed to get my steroids at 9 PM, could you let Natalie know?”
Natalie came in about ten minutes later and told me I was asleep when she came in and she didn’t want to disturb me. Inside, again, I screamed “GIVE ME THE STEROIDSSSSS NOWWWWWWW!!!!!!” Nothing like having your face and body swollen for days and months to turn you into a junkie.
Within 30 minutes I was Kristen Wiig in Bridesmaids when she’s standing in the aisle in First Class half-singing “I’m ready to partyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!” Just then, I heard Joe tell another patient he would get him some pudding. Delicious, I thought. As Natalie walked by, I popped my head out
“Hey, I heard there was pudding.”
”It’s sugar-free, is that okay?”
”Yes. Any pudding is perfect.”
Within minutes I was enjoying my perfect pudding cup. Joe walked by and I called out to him “hey, thanks for the tip about the pudding.” He came over to my room and said “you look okay what’re you doing here?” And I proceeded to tell him what I was doing there, the insanity of the last 32 hours+ and that actually the face he was looking at was much larger than my actual face.
Joe also had a Black Lives Matter pin on his baseball cap. I told him I liked his pin when I was done my story and he had put his eyes back in their sockets. From there, we talked about everything. Systemic racism. Misogyny. The “Me Too” Movement. LGBTQQIP2SAA rights. How kids these days don’t get to play outside enough or get dirty enough. Let them play in puddles! How outrageous it is that the Hamilton-Wentworth District School Board has racist trustees currently serving terms. No less than four people have been investigated for overtly racist behaviours and actions and ARE STILL SITTING ON THE BOARD. Sorry, but no. You gotta go. Last year. Yesterday. Now. If you’re in a position where you’re teaching children or advocating for children, there should be mandatory anti-racism training. All kids deserve to be treated equitably. Not just my white ones.
Needless to say, Joe and I enjoyed talking and it really helped me work through my steroid high. Eventually, he was needed elsewhere. But he came back twice more before his shift was over. The last time telling me “when I meet remarkable people, I pray for them. I’ll be praying for you.” While I appreciate his prayers and the incredible positive energy he exuded, I don’t want to be remarkable. It should not be remarkable to want equity for everyone. It should not be remarkable to openly discuss the issues of our society so they can improve. It should not be remarkable to look at life through the lens of anti-oppression. This has happened to me in many arenas. People say “thank you” for saying something. No one should have to say thank you. It should just be what is done. Everyone against racists. Everyone against sexism. Everyone against ableism. Everyone against oppression in all its forms.
When Joe and I were finished our chat for the first time, it was closing in on midnight. Despite my incredible steroid high (Natalie joked that I go outside and shovel as it was mid-snowstorm) I decided to try to relax. I put on some calming music and tried to lull myself to sleep. I turned onto my side, in a semi-fetal position, still a little propped up on my pillow because I was still worried about the swelling in the morning. As I did this, I felt as if arms were wrapping around me. I smiled to myself. Aunt Pat. I knew she wouldn’t leave me here alone.
Despite being a spiritual person, I’m not particularly religious and I don’t claim to know what happens to us when we die. But I do believe we are all connected. We are all a part of this vast universe, made of stars, longing for love, joy, community, togetherness and belonging. In all my years studying yoga and its philosophies, I’m more inclined to Buddhism and Hinduism than I am to my native Catholicism (sorry, Mom). At the end of the day, I believe we are responsible for the actions we take, we can shape lives and futures and we largely make our own luck. But that doesn’t mean there’s no room for magic. For the unexplainable.
I have a friend who’s an energy healer, she genuinely makes me feel at peace when I’m hurting. Once in a session with her, she told me there was a man who was trying to speak with me. I had thought of him throughout my session. He had said “thank you for looking after Robin” and I had said “thank you for giving Robin to the world, Bert.” If you found me on Instagram, you may have read about Robin already. Robin is another sister from another mister. Her father, Bert, passed away suddenly and tragically almost four years ago. She moved up north to live with her brother and to care for her mom, which she now does full-time. She is another light of my life. Another bright, brilliant compassionate soul I’m lucky to call friend.
And so, thinking of Aunt Pat, and all those rooting for me, I closed my eyes and managed to find sleep. For weeks I longed for the swelling to go down. For a discovery. And now, I was on night two at Juravinski Hospital in Hamilton, Ontario. In my Shangri-La room. Hoping to go home tomorrow, but first, one more test.