Meandering Maudlin Memory Lane

“Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.” Norman Cousins

When I was 25 years old I found a lump on my neck. I was on state aid for health insurance after leaving my first husband. I had never been on state aid before, nor since, but thank goodness I was on it then. I went to the one doctor that was still taking state aid (aka "welfare"), the Astoria infamous Dr. Patrick. 

Dr. Patrick diagnosed it as a "cyst" and said that if he found it on his wife he wouldn't even bother biopsying it, however, since I was a patient with a history of cysts he should do a biopsy and the date for the minor operation was set for the week before Thanksgiving, 1985. Because of the location of the cyst, just below my collar bone, a needle biopsy wasn't feasible. The surgery had to take place at the Long Beach Hospital because Patrick had lost his Columbia Memorial Hospital privileges.

After the surgery Patrick told us that the cyst had been wrapped around my collarbone and was a bit bigger mass than he had anticipated but did not appear to be cancerous. He did remove the whole cyst and sent off a piece of it to the Seattle lab to be tested. I spent Thanksgiving with my neck swathed in bandages, grimacing about the three or so stitches in my neck. Little did I know what I would be dealing with by Christmas time.

On December 6th I went in to Dr. Patrick to find out the results of the biopsy on the cyst. The nurse was very kind when I went in. I remember she patted my arm and asked if I had come alone. I laughed and said told her bringing my two and four year olds along would not have been conducive to being able to listen to the Doctor's report. She said, "Oh dear, you have children?" I thought that was an odd reply. 

Dr. Patrick came into the room and got right down to business. He asked me if I had been tired lately and if I had been losing weight. I told him I was the mother of a toddler and pre-school child and was on a (perpetual) diet so yes, and yes. He then said, "The biopsy on your tumor came back, it is malignant." I remember there being total silence at that point. It was one of those moments that your mind says, "This does not compute." 

"But I didn't have a tumor, I had a cyst. This is some other patient's chart you are reading," I argued to Patrick. "Remember, I had the CYST in the NECK," I said, emphasizing the words and pointing to my neck.

Dr. Patrick shook his head. "It was a tumor, and it was malignant. We are going to have to do a series of tests to find out how far it has spread. First off we will have to ....." his words trailed away to my hearing. I remember nodding my head. He asked if I was okay, I said yes. His nurse asked if she should call someone, I said no. He asked if I understood, I said yes. Then he said good-bye and left the room. I put on my coat and walked out to the lobby where the receptionist handed me a list of appointments in Portland for the following week. 

I drove in a daze to City Transfer & Storage, which my parents owned at that time. My dad was on the roof, no recollection why now, and he hollered down to me, "Everything ok?" making a thumbs up signal. I signaled, thumbs down, "Very bad news" I hollered back up. We did not see him again for hours.

My mother looked up from the phone and saw that something was badly wrong. She said I looked completely dumbfounded. "What's the matter? What's the matter?" I finally answered, "He says I have cancer." I love her answer. To this day it is a quote our family uses, "By whose authority did he tell you that?" Even at that time it brought a chuckle to my lips. That is my mother. By whose authority did a doctor tell me that I had cancer? Certainly not by Her authority!

"Give me THAT man's phone number!" my mother demanded. I gave it to her and within moments she was on the phone to him. Forget HEPA, albeit it was long before those privacy laws. I heard her say she wanted a second opinion and then heard her say, "Oh." 

All of December was spent running from one appointment to the next. At one place veins in the top of my feet were accessed and dye was pumped in from there for a lymphangiogram. I still have the scars as Dr. Patrick forgot that had been done and had to tear some skin to get to the stitches to take them out. I had a bone marrow tap to see if the cancer was inside my bones. I vividly remember the hammering on my hips. Sometimes I ache there. My grandmother would say it was my sciatica acting up.   

A week before Christmas I entered Long Beach Hospital once again. This time was for the big operation, a staging laparotomy, to take biopsies of all my major organs, to take a "look see" and ensure that the cancer was not hiding anywhere else. At this time Patrick was supposed to have moved my ovaries over so they would be out of the way of the radiation treatments that were to come. By now Dr. Holladay was my oncologist and he was supposedly telling Dr. Patrick how to proceed, as the surgeon. Later I found out that Holladay and Patrick were fighting (surprise, surprise) and that Patrick did not see a need for radiation to be done on the lower mantle while Holladay was plotting a course of full mantle radiation. Because Patrick did not think a full mantle was needed he did not move my ovaries over, according to him. I often have thought that Patrick neglected to move my ovaries over and subsequently developed the theory that a full mantle was not needed.

The full biopsy was done, my spleen was removed as was my appendix since both were supposedly areas which cancer can hide. I was ripped from my breast bone to my pelvic bone and stapled closed. I looked like a xylophone. I had to hold a pillow over my stomach to cough or laugh. When I came to after the operation I remember my mother sitting there and looking over at her and asking, "Did he say anything?" She shook her head. My mother wanted me home for Christmas, she NEEDED me home for Christmas. 

The doctor came in later that evening and my mother asked if I would be home in time for Christmas. Patrick replied that he was waiting for the reports to come back from the labs. If any more cancer were found he was going in immediately to remove it, therefore, it was unknown if I would be home in time for Christmas. "At this point we need to take it day by day." 

We already knew that the cancer had spread to the upper part of my right lung. Where it was at and how much further had it gone would determine the type and stage it was at and the course of therapy I would take to combat it. The long days ticked by. I began to hate that hospital. One month earlier I had been oblivious to the "fact" that I was ill with the big "C" word. I was playing with my two babies, bitching about my ex, anxious about making rent. I longed for those days, gone forever.

Before Cancer (BC) I hated shots, loathed needles. When I was young it literally took four nurses to hold me down, one for each limb, and a fifth to administer the shot. Even as I grew older I avoided shots for as long as possible. As a sophomore in high school I was suspended from school until I received some sort of shot that was required. Between December 6th and the 22nd I had been stuck so many times I no longer even flinched when the needle came out. During the following months of blood withdraws the only time I protested was when I was asked if I minded if a student nurse practiced on me. Oh, hell yeah, I minded. By that time my veins had shrunk down to almost nothing and finding one to prick was process of trial and elimination. One time a student nurse stuck me five times and as he was going for his sixth I told him if he touched me again I would have to punch him. 

So, Christmas crept up on us and the hospital halls filled with holiday cheer, which stopped just outside of my door. Everyday a man dressed as Santa Claus would poke his head inside my door and say, "Hohoho!" and I would roll over in my bed, and squeeze out some tears. Each day my mother would ask Dr. Patrick if he thought I could go home and each day he would reply, "Not today." My mother would say that we need to make plans and finally Dr. Patrick told her she just shouldn't. "Just enjoy today," he told us, frankly and with one of those half smiles that said, "take it on the chin" and "keep your head up!" My mother and I quit planning my future on that day. We didn't start planning it again until I got married over six years later.

On the fourth day of my interment at the hospital the jolly red man stuck his head in the door and said his usual, "Ho-ho-ho!" and this time for variety added, "Do you know who I am?" I was thinking that he wanted me to guess who he was in real life, under the fake beard, false nose and red cap so I replied, "No, I am not from around here," and this red idiot replied, "Why, I'm Santa Claus!" I tried to get out of bed so I could strangle him. As she held me down my mother told him, "Go, go, go!" and his head quickly disappeared out of the doorway. She collapsed onto the bed laughing while I finally wrestled one of the pillows loose and flung it at the door, stretching and pulling at my zippered stomach and launching me into a bout of pain. 

Later that day I was rewarded for my petty meanness to the poor volunteer. I was finally taken off of the IV bottle and allowed my first "real food" in the form of a liquid diet. I was to have soup for lunch with jello, and, at long last, coffee. In anticipation I took the lid off of my soup and greeting me was the stench of cream of broccoli soup! I literally started retching, which caused my stomach to convulse, which of course racked me with pain! Through tears I called my mother, "Cream of Broccoli," was all I could wail into the phone. "What," my mother asked over and over again. "Cream of broccoli, that's what they are trying to feed me! Who does that to someone who hasn't eaten for four days?" I sobbed into the phone. I imagined my mother was silently crying with me. Much later I found out she was laughing so hard she had dropped the phone! A lot of sympathy this woman has. 

The day before Christmas Dr. Patrick came in to tell us the news. All the biopsy's had come back. I had Hodgkins' Lymphoma. In late 1985 the survival rate prognosis was good, for the first five years. After that, chances of the Hodgkins coming back increased. Because of this after the course of treatment was taken, and if I joined the approximately 85% of those who responded well to the treatment, I would go into what was considered "remission". After 15 years of being in "remission" I could be considered "cured" and I would have just as much a chance of getting HD as anyone else. Supposedly. According to statistics. 

Thank God, literally, 22 years later and no cancer. This time of year, while it is a time of family togetherness and enjoying all of the holidays of so many religions, for me is also a time of remembrance. A time when so much was thought lost, when each day was a bonus. Not often enough, I remember that time again. Each day is the only day that I know I have to make a difference. Tomorrow may never happen.