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The Cancer Center seemed a little bleaker and colder during my last session. My husband usually accompanies me to my sessions but I was alone for the first time.
I noticed the woman in the cubicle next to me, as we had both been there at the same time for the past 4 weeks. She was also alone, getting her treatment, wearing a bonnet- the bonnet type hat many women wear who have lost their hair to chemotherapy.
Conversation isn’t the norm at the center and I settled in my chemo chair, while the staff prepared me. They usually start me off with a drip of Benadryl – just to make me drowsy enough so I won’t be fully aware of what’s going on. The infusion nurse, a nice young man, then says “ok, let’s filler up.”
I had my iPad and a book to distract me, and noticed the woman next to me was engaged with her cell phone. The time passed and, as it happened, we both finished treatment at the same time.
I’m not an intrusive person and tend to be a little on the private side—but there was something about this little woman that was touching. So upon leaving I walked over to her cubicle, gave her my best smile and asked her how she was feeling. We had a pleasant exchange and As I turned around and started to walk away, I felt someone tugging on the bottom of my jacket. I turned around and it was my bonny bonnet lady who asked me sweetly “will you be here next week?”
It was just a chance human encounter, a sharing of compassion, a little touch of kindness and concern. A reminder that even in our own distress, reaching out to others makes life more pleasant.
I just finished reading the post and all the comments so far. I’m touched by all the kindness shown here, especially by those of you who are currently going through treatment. It seems that no matter the trouble our minds or bodies are experiencing, we can always reach out to others with an encouraging gesture. God bless you all and especially you, Marjorie, for your post and for starting a conversation that is life -affirming.
So gratifying to read your positive comments. Thank you, Linda.
Marjorie, I always made it a point to smile at the patients sitting next to and across from me in both infusion centers where I was treated. I will never forget one woman who responded by striking up a conversation that turned out to be the first of several over a few weeks. She told me she had been through eight clinical trials in eleven years of nonstop treatment. She had lost everything — her husband had left, her kids were gone, her house sold into bankruptcy — and she had moved into a tiny apartment right near the hospital. This was her entire life now. She was Jewish, like me, and once or twice I softly sang her something from Fiddler.
Near the end of my treatment cycle I no longer saw her. Perhaps it was just a schedule change for her. But I don’t think so.
She has stayed in my memory.
And what a memory. I was just thinking that you should have sung to her, when I read your sentence that you did just that. Bet she loved it.
My neighbor’s mother died at home. She was in a semi-coma beforehand. I sang “Beautiful Dreamer” to her—an old fashioned Stephen Foster song, reminiscent of a peaceful lullaby. Music does have charms, Martin, and it soothes the soul.
I love the way you respond so personally to posts, Marjorie, and truly I don’t mind a bit that you keep calling me Martin, but I am sorta curious….
Mike, don’t know where I got that myself, but please excuse. I can usually track mis-associations but come up empty this time.
There’s no mistaking, however, that we share a common love for music and singing and I’m always delighted to hear you are still using your talents to entertain. Love a song and dance man.
As I retired health care professional, I can assure you that all we want from our patients are nothing more than a little consideration and simply act of kindness. The one act of kindness like a hug of thank you motivated me more than anything to keep working. It is not just a job, we are in a caring business, if someone is not committed to that they will not last long.
So little to expect for giving so much. Thank you for serving a purposeful life.
As of last week’s PET scan results my wife is officially clear of cancer. The first year and a half of retirement was not at all what I had planned. Doctors, hospitals, insurance companies, etc.
One thing I noticed was that of all the facilities, the people at the cancer center were the most caring … from the oncologist on down. Why? I think it’s because they are in the “business” of working with people who may be staring the end of life in the face. At least in our experience it seems this brings out the humanity in everyone involved. The world could use more of this.
Mazel tov to your wife and her appreciative husband! So happy for you both.
I got nothing but warmth and good cheer from the nurses at both infusion centers where I was treated, and I made it a point to give it back by trying to be the funniest, most cheerful patient they saw all day, and by asking them about their own lives. I couldn’t imagine the generosity of spirit that had enabled them to choose a specialty where so many of their patients were going to die.
So glad to hear about your wife. A celebration is in order!
Great news to hear. Praise The Lord.
Eludom, wonderful news on your wife’s recovery. The caring staff at the cancer center was central to her well being. Wish you both much happiness.
The nurses at the infusion centers around the country are very compassionate and seem to fill the rooms with kindness. I can’t imagine how they are able to decompress when they head home, but they are very close to angels in my book.
You just try to focus at the work in front of you, trouble shoot, problem solving, etc. Then move on to the next task in front of you. Focus on the best of any outcome. Try to forget what was behind you and keep moving on to the next task, the next patient, the next problem to solve, etc.
I’m in total agreement, Dan. There is also a high level of competence among Infusion nurses. They are like angels, keeping a watchful eye on their patients.
Thank you for this, Marjorie. A small act of kindness can sometimes mean so much.
You’re welcome, Andrew. There’s nothing like the comfort and grace of another human voice.
Thank you for sharing and reminding me that it’s people that make this world wonderful and life worth living.
The memo from my old hospital I worked for the past 40 plus years was “People Helping People”.
So true, Nick. Thank you for your comforting thoughts.
Thank you for your post. Each of my chemo sessions were longer which allowed for more interactions. I began each weekly session with taking my vitals and blood work. After the lab results I met with the oncologist. That was followed by a blood transfusion. This was required by my low hemoglobin, usually 7.0 or so. After that the actual chemo cocktail was administered. 5 to 6 hours were required to do all of this.
I’d bring a protein/carb drink, water and a protein bar to snack on. I’d dropped from a fit 170 lbs. to 135 and was on a special diet high in protein and nutrients. Many foods were off the list. For example, I could eat grape jelly, but not grape jam!
I always scheduled the earliest possible appointment, about 7:30 am and after the decision to proceed my spouse would go out for breakfast and bring me back a McDonald’s oatmeal and we would split a latte. My taste buds were way off, but there was something about the drink that broke through my olfactory haze.
I’d read or watch YouTube videos on my Android phone. It was difficult to write in that chair. As the morning progressed there would be a shuffle of patients coming and going by. Some were friendly, most were quiet and serious. A few were obviously distraught. Connections were usually fleeting, although I had several longer conversations with a few who perceived I was an old hand at this and reached out to discuss my experience and had questions about what to expect as their therapy progressed. I was polite, positive and honest; I expressed that I did experience some setbacks but perceived each to be useful steppingstones. I stressed how thankful I was to my doctors and the staff, and the necessity to be one’s advocate.
The nurses were the best. On occasion I’d bring them boxes of chocolates. The attending nurses would stop by to check the drip, confirm that I was okay and ask if I had any needs. We’d briefly chat and once assured that all was well they would move on. However, there were two incidences. Prior to installing my port the chemo was administered via a vein in my arm. The solution was caustic and caused quite a burning sensation in that vein. Infusion was interrupted and additional saline dilution was necessary in order to proceed.
Another time I experienced a flush of heat and alerted the nurse. She took my temperature and determined it was slightly elevated. After consultation with doctors I was told there concern that I had a serious infection. I was directed to leave at once for the hospital. It was determined I did have a pseudomonas infection from a nephrostomy exchange several days earlier. I was told sepsis had set in. The tubes were removed, new surgically installed and I underwent hospital treatment for a week. After release a couple of weeks of antibiotic treatment continued.
After several cycles of chemotherapy, I moved on to immunotherapy. My hemoglobin had improved sufficiently that blood transfusions were no longer necessary. With shorter stays there were fewer interactions with other patients.
During my most recent meeting with my oncologist even though I did not have an appointment I dropped off a couple of boxes of Godiva chocolates at the nursing station in the infusion room. I will continue to do so on a regular basis.
Norman, you are not only a brave man, but a generous one. The chocolates are a wonderful idea.
Norman, you are not only a kind soul but a very thoughtful one.
Wish all my patients were just a little like you instead of an angry 13 years old pregnant teenager yelled at me at 3 am in the morning for not come in sooner to give her an epidural to take care of her pain and “suffering”.
Oh boy. That angry 13 year old was angry at a lot more than just you and her labor pain. I worked with teen moms for several years and 13 tells a whole sad story.
Norman, pain and suffering are a lonely thing, as only we know the reality of what we experience; but the kindness and compassion of a loving heart is healing.
Wishing you the best.
Marjorie, I once made the observation to another cancer patient that the disease was a lonely one. I hadn’t thought about that until you mentioned this attribute. Much of what I experienced I did not share, and even my children who live a considerable distance away and don’t see me very often were unaware of my situation until I shared it after I reached “stability”. I did develop different methods to cope with that “loneliness.” I am an advocate for the practice of small and frequent kindnesses.
Norman, talking about cancer can be overwhelming. In general, people find it difficult to process, especially with all the devastating complications it brings.
i feel most comfortable saying I have good days and bad days whenever the subject comes up.
Disease aside, we are still the same people we always were, trying to cope everyday with a disease no one deserves to have.
i am not able to pursue the life .i had but I am so grateful for my writing—One of my last pleasures in life; because it suffuses me with more life to reach out to others—granting me the ability to fight for every blessed day.
….. And you call me a good egg?
Yes, Dan and what’s more, you bring a spirit of camaraderie to Humble Dollar.
As you might imagine, Marjorie, I can easily picture the scene. At the infusion center I go to, folks often offer smiles to one another, but rarely converse.
My infusions typically last more than three hours, and initially lunch was a highlight. Elaine and I would discuss the surrounding eateries, and decide where she’d pick up food. But this has had an unfortunate downside: I’ve come to associate these eateries with my chemotherapy — and now I simply can’t eat their food.
Jonathan, I always feel a little wonky after treatment, so I opt for a nap—but we’ll have.to think of something special for you to look forward to after treatment.
We’ll put the French fries on hold for now.Best wishes.
Nice story Marjorie, and very kind. Little kindnesses go a long way in this world – my mother and my wife were/are great examples of this. Good luck with your treatment.
Just not satisfied being nice—you had to be honest, sincere and guileless. Thank you Rick
I found what works to show I am completely honest, sincere and caring is to use a sense of touch, like holding their hands and perfect eye contacts.
A thoughtful act; well done. Thanks for the reminder.
Thank you for your generous comments OldTGuy.