When I arrived at my last chemo treatment at the
infusion clinic this morning, I walked in and jokingly addressed the nursing
team with “Hey, where’s my graduation cake?” It was met with a round of blank
stares, looks askance, and no explanation or response other than a note or two
of sarcasm. So, I let it go.
But, just as I was being set up for treatment, they assembled
at my station, all beaming the cat ate the canary look, and yes, did in fact
present me with a “Classic Coconut Chemo Cake.” Seems I’d stumbled on something they’d
already planned, and if I hadn’t been dehydrated, I’d have dropped a few tears.
These people are the crop’s cream, the heap’s top, the
show’s best, the pong in my ping, onion in my ring and the aforementioned cat’s
pajamas. I’ve been a nurse for 35 years, and I know topnotch bedside (and chairside)
care when I see it. Especially when I’m the recipient of it.
But, it’s never easy for a caregiver to be on the
receiving end of care; we’re all good nurses, but terrible patients. I’d challenge
you to get a nurse anywhere to say different. As health care providers, we
really need to work on that.
I sure do. Knowing how to well-receive helps the healee,
the healing and the healer.
Thus far, this phase of treatment(s) for my Rad Chemo has
been steered through history with the innovations and applications of machine,
substance and techniques arrived at via scientific technopop-pioneering and/or the accidental miracles of poetic caveman bumblings.
You know: it’s rather like how Diane and I operate
(see: “The Dioecians – His and Her Love.” Go on, now. Buy the book. Save a
world.)
So, let’s not mix metaphors and put our chickens in
the cart before we take the long way around the horses. Today is a day to
breathe a bit easier and really feel like we’re steadying on.
Much as I’ll
still be in the grip of these damnable side effects for a while, I hope to
trade ‘em in at the end of all this for a new body, thinking cap, pathway to
better health, and a refueled imagination.
More as we go, El
