What a Difference a Year Makes
The healing power of friendships, family, and time.
When I stepped out of my apartment to hail a cab to take us to Laura’s birthday dinner, I heard the booming bass coming from Central Park. I immediately knew it must be coming from the Global Citizens Festival, a yearly event that more or less coincides with Laura’s birthday in late September. The sounds immediately brought to mind that last year, just before her dinner, I had spent a few worried moments on a park bench with the same pounding sounds in the background. Worried, but relieved her eighteen-week chemotherapy had just ended. We were about to begin a rejuvenation project to restore what she had lost — her energy, her confidence, her spunky spirit, and much more.
My wife’s cancer — and her health — dominated last year’s dinner conversation. We couldn’t let go of the intrusion lymphoma had inflicted on her life. We searched for ways to fight back, to help her repel the invasion. Her prescribed regiment had been brutal, physically and emotionally demanding. The physical woes were obvious: she lost weight, she was sickly pale, she was nauseous constantly, and most difficult for her, she was bald — her hair loss putting an end to my son’s silly jokes about his bald dad. Deeper, and mostly hidden, was the mental and emotional toll.
I came up with a fragility index to help us understand how capable, how ready, she felt about dealing with the minutiae of life, the routines of any given day. This shortcut to allowed us to quickly exchange data without searching for words. Before her illness, she would have been at zero most days. During the chemo cycle, every third week she would hit a nine or a ten on the index. Five times I rushed her to the emergency room when she hit an eleven.
One of those emergency room visits stands out. She had crashed so badly, I had rushed her to the closest hospital and discouraged her father from rushing to the ER until she recovered a bit. I was worried how her state would affect him. She could hardly move. Her eyes glazed and sunken. I knew she was still there, but it wasn’t easy to find the woman I met over a Fourth of July weekend in Boulder many years ago. I was so smitten then that, before the weekend was over, I told a good friend I was going to marry her. Hour after hour in that crowded ER she looked at me for respite that I couldn’t provide. It was a helpless feeling, but I was optimistic I would find her again.
It was her oncologist’s unexpected appearance at the ER that helped turned the tide. That we weren’t at his hospital didn’t seem to matter. He had been at a function nearby when he received my SOS earlier that evening. If I had been praying for an angel to come help, that angel would have looked just like him: the young doctor from Israel, here on a fellowship. He assured me that Laura would be fine once the ER staff addressed her off-kilter blood counts. He was diplomatic with the ER staff who were surprised to find him at her side. He was firm on what needed to be done next. Sure enough, by morning, she had improved. Her father came to see her every night of her five-night hospital stay. Fortunately, that ER visit turned out to be the low point of her treatment.
After her last round of chemo, it was time to start on the rejuvenation project. I took her on short walks in the park, then longer walks, then short trips. We went out to restaurants after avoiding them for months — doctor’s orders had been to stay away from crowded places given her depleted immune system. We gathered with close friends, whose support we can never be grateful enough. Her best friend took her away for a pampered and restful few days near the beach, just the girls hanging in sweats at a hotel far from the city, away from the hospitals, the taxis, and everything else that was a reminder of her recent ordeal. Not initially obvious, was how much I also benefited from the break of looking after her, to keep her hydrated and nourished, to keep track of her medicines twenty-four hours a day.
At this year’s dinner, my wife’s treatments and recovery didn’t come up once during the non-stop conversations. Not discussing chemotherapy, CT scans, or how real the wig looks felt like a return to normalcy. It felt like we had repelled the intrusion.
After dinner, I walked home with the youngsters who favored a stroll to aid the digestion. Laura got a ride home from her sister. The streets were mostly empty. The music was still booming from Central Park. My kids and their cousins were chatting away, in their own world, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I thought about her doctors and nurses, who help so many people through difficult times; her sister’s prodigious ability to comfort; her father’s and his wife’s limitless support; and the many friends who rallied around us, some who went so far out of their way.
I thought about our friends, a couple, who drove four hours from outside of Boston, arriving with all the ingredients necessary to cook meals for the upcoming week — a week when she was expected to be at her weakest. After working the kitchen like short-order cooks, they drove back, all within twenty-four hours, leaving our refrigerator stocked. I thought about Laura’s colleague who dropped off tons of halal food and a large bag of dates from Saudi Arabia — among the best, I was informed. They were such a treat, and so soothing to her chemo-burned mouth. I will never eat another date without thinking about that bag.
For a moment I stepped out of my thoughts, looking around at the street lights, became conscious of the traffic rolling past us, and the kids walking just ahead of me. I felt a strong sense of gratitude swell within me, and a sense of relief. What a difference a year makes.
This entry is a sequel a post first published on the now defunct, but not forgotten site, P.S. I Love You:
For other essays on Medium.com, see https://medium.com/@matiz/essays-7c5f88cad2dc
