Part I.
Sometimes, the memory and mind work in strange ways. Etching certain details so deeply, that no matter how many times you replay it, it never fails to feel like the knife cutting through for the first time.
I still remember that day, or night rather. It was a Wednesday night, in October. We had just gone on an amazing Fall Leaves Hiking trip in the Adirondacks two weeks ago. You texted me while I was “working” a fancy charity event. It was the first event I tried out for an actual event planning company. A weekday night, I was already a bit out of my routine, given the rush after work to this charity art auction, that according to the company, was “one of our low-key events each year.” Besides, I rarely do anything after work on a weekday, so working a shift for this event already had a surreal feel to it. Not to mention that it actually had a surreal ambiance to it. From the glowing candles that lined the entryway and several model girls held iPads to check in the wealthy guests, all here to display their socialite lives and engage in the art auction. The cocktail area was sectioned off with ceiling high bamboo and decked in gold glimmer. When guests started to migrate towards the dinner tables, I helped open up the section and revealed a long series of curved tables that snaked across the narrow room. It was bathed in red and purple lights, with a projector showcasing images of the artwork against the backwall. Guests in flowing dresses and sequined wraps floated through to their tables as I directed them to their assigned seats. I was swept away at how unbelievable the event felt, that such beautiful people really did dress up to attend charity art auctions and casually drop several thousands of dollars for streaks of color on a canvas. I was also elated at having this first experience of being part of such an event. It was doing strange things to my head. Is this my true calling? Planning exorbitant events of caliber that I never would have imagined? Mingling with socialites? Am I really even here?
My shift was wrapping up, with the dinner and auction well on its way. By 10:30pm, I was gathering my purse and slipping my leather jacket on. That’s when you texted me. I glanced at the messages, something about blood tests and a waiting room. As I stepped out of the building, I felt disoriented, why is the street so dark and lined with even darker shadows of cars. Some men, presumably, security and also drivers, lingered around the sidewalk. Where was I for the last few hours and what was I even doing? Did anything make sense? I hurriedly walked to a bigger street and hailed a taxi. Despite becoming a city girl, I still feared unusual places and people, late at night. First and utmost, get myself home safely. I slid into the backseat and tried to assure all my belongings were with me, as I juggled reading your messages as they continued to light up my phone.
Suddenly my focus sharpened. What do you mean your white blood cells were abnormally high? I remember not understanding what you meant. The reality of those messages and that night still doesn’t hit me sometimes. Medical words were never my thing, and I remember replying with a joke, “High white blood cells, isn’t that like, leukemia?” You didn’t seem nervous, rather seemed equally confused as you explained taking a regular blood test the other day, something that you had been putting off for a few months now. Then doing a second one today to confirm the abnormal numbers. Even though you emphasized how you felt fine. And now somehow you have been sent to the emergency waiting area of HUP. The hospital was admitting you overnight so that they could do more tests. You wanted to go back to work. I asked you about feeling stressed recently, and how that often messes up test results. We talked about how you fainted a few times in the past, and maybe with the stress, and recent dating debacles, that all this was causing your white T-cells to behave weirdly. I mean, we just hung out two weeks ago, hiked up Mt. Buck, drove through Manhattan, and yes, you seemed short of breath, but that can be expected when you don’t exercise much. You told me your mom was with you and that the doctors weren’t really telling you anything. During the entirety of the ride home, we exchanged texts. I googled “high white blood cells” on my phone in between messages. The results told me that you likely had some kind of infection. You didn’t have any symptoms of feeling sick. This was a routine blood test. Anything more serious than that didn’t make sense; leukemia, blood cancer, you didn’t and couldn’t have any of those. I literally just saw you, and you were fine. It had to be an unusual infection, and you’d be fine. You chuckled and said doctors think it’s something else since apparently, the result was so high, that it couldn’t be just the immune system fighting an infection.
After I got home, you were still at the hospital waiting area. Frustrated and tired, no one had any information for you, and you didn’t understand why you had to stay overnight. Per usual, you were eager to go back to work or at least finish the day’s work. Apparently, you had taken a break just to do the second blood test, thinking maybe an hour to get back. But now you had to tell your boss that the hospital was keeping you overnight, in your work clothes, without any good reason. They also made you wear a face mask, which was causing you to sweat a lot. You told me it was a precaution because they think something is wrong with your immune system. As I got into bed, you told me that they were finally admitting you. Everything was still strange since you felt fine, but at least the doctors might be able to tell you more after doing additional tests at night. I also remember making a Star Wars joke, which was naturally lost on you, and I had to do further googling to explain the reference. Your white blood cells aka midichlorians are super high; you’re a Jedi!
I went to work the next morning. Texted but didn’t hear from you. I figured you were probably busy at the hospital doing other blood tests. At about mid-morning, I heard from you. To this day, I have not yet had the strength to go back and read through our text messages. I only remember you generally kept it positive, saying that the doctors confirmed what they suspected, that you had leukemia. Again, that did not make sense. Regardless, you said it was B-some type that I don’t remember, other than that it wasn’t the worst kind. It was apparently a kind more common in children, on the lower risk side, but since you were an adult, it was higher risk. With every text, I was furiously googling on my computer at work what any of it meant. The different types of leukemia, the risks, the survival rates, treatment. You told me you weren’t going to die. You told me that the doctors found this very early on, super early stages of this random leukemia. It was all a miraculous timing that you did a blood test at the time you did because obviously, you didn’t have this leukemia thing during your routine blood test last year. Since the leukemia was so early, again, you had zero symptoms of being sick, if you did the blood test any earlier, it might not have appeared, which meant that it could have gone undetected until next year’s routine test, which would have been much worse. I asked if you’d need a bone marrow transplant; that seemed associated with leukemia search results. You said the doctors said perhaps eventually, and good thing that you had many siblings and relatives, so someone should be a match. You said they wanted to start treatment immediately. I went to the bathroom as some of this started to sink in. How could you have leukemia? This doesn’t make any sense. I kept crying silently, staring at my phone for more of your messages. I remember trying to wash my face so that my eyes weren’t so red. On my way back to my desk, I stopped in the corridor to take some deep breaths, wanting to hide somewhere and just process. I was also concerned that someone would see me looking ridiculous, with the tears, panic, trying to disappear into the wall. What was I supposed to say if someone asked about my current state? My best friend has cancer. Ha what? How is that possible? We’re 26. I don’t know either. I was very much freaking out in my texts to you — trying to get more information and also questioning whether the hospital and doctors were misdiagnosing. I told you that Houston has the best cancer hospital and you should go get a second opinion and could stay with my parents. You told me that HUP was very reputable and being close to your family and relatives, it was already settled. I knew I was going on autopilot panic mode, but nothing made sense to me. And while you were the one in the hospital, with leukemia, you were trying to calm me down by answering all my questions, passing on the details as the doctors told you. You said again that it was early stages and that with treatment, everything will be fine. Catherine, you told me that you weren’t going to die. The doctors knew what to do and that HUP was starting immediately on the treatments and making you better. I asked you if it was ok that I tell Nelson. I needed to tell someone else so that I could freak out about it, and not continue pestering you since I figured you had a lot going on. You told me, very caringly that I could tell whoever I needed to. You were helping me try to feel better. I still remember that so well because you didn’t want me to freak out, and since that was already happening, you wanted me to have support. All the while, this was happening to you, and yet you were thinking of me. I really didn’t know what to do. I asked if I could visit you. You said yes, you were allowed visitors. I didn’t know the protocol of er well cancer patients I guess you now were, so I asked how soon, like is this weekend too soon? Or would that be disruptive with the hospital stuff and with your family, also trying to figure out what was happening. I didn’t know — somehow, I thought time and speed were of essence. Somehow, as if I could be there and also hear all this firsthand, that it wouldn’t be real. I also wanted to see you, to prove to myself that you were fine, that you would look exactly the same as I last saw you, and that whatever this was, was just, just some kind of confusion.
The plus side of my socially empty schedule is that I had no plans that weekend (come to think of it, even if I did, it wouldn’t have mattered) and I immediately bought train tickets to Philly. My ride there, I didn’t know what to do. I had limited experience with hospitals, much less with cancer, and honestly, I didn’t know what to expect. You said you’ll be staying in the hospital and haven’t even gone home since Wednesday night when they admitted you. They wanted to start treatment immediately, meaning Monday. So honestly, as I was walking from 30th Street Station to HUP, I was considering getting some Koreana for lunch. In fact, I even asked if you wanted any food. Part of me expected that you would be able to come out and go to Koreana with me.
When I got to the hospital, it was big and the room number you gave me didn’t make sense. Seems like nothing was making sense anymore. Hospital reception wasn’t too helpful either, but I found some maps and made my way to the Dulles elevators, deep in some back ward of the hospital. I was trying to absorb the place, it was rather empty, with many wide hallways and closed doors. When I got to the oncology levels, everything looked weird. I found your room, door opened, and a very pregnant Rose was sitting on the chair. You sat on the bed and looked normal. Except for several tubes coming out of your arm. I was very taken aback at seeing those three tubes. They looked alien and didn’t belong, being attached with some gauze tape to the inside of your pale, freckled arm. You were laughing though and said “Heyyyyy” like you usually did. I remember thinking, ok, well this is all very strange and everything feels wrong, being here and hanging out with you in the oncology section of a hospital, while you sat with tubes coming out of your arm. Very clear that while you looked and acted normal, there was no way you would be able to leave the room and get some Koreana with me. But it was going to be ok, this is a super random development, but we can handle this blip in our life timelines. Doctors know what’s wrong, they know what to do, and soon enough, you’ll be back to normal and we’ll be laughing at this very random leukemia that “happened back in 2017.”
Written on September 1, 2018 about October 25, 2017
