February 12, 2002|
A Room With A View
1122. That’s the new digs for the next month. As the days go by, the weather gets warmer, and greenery appears, I’ll be watching from my climate-controlled pad. As opposed to last year, I won’t be allowed out of the room. The fear of infection, colds and flu linger in the minds of many here on the 11th floor. Therefore my room is the safe harbor, where such vessels will not enter. Or at least shouldn’t. Guests wear rubber gloves and surgical masks. The air is new and recycled through a machine. The sweet smell of Lysol permeates the air. It is quite the safe harbor.
I do have a great view here. It’s of the East River. Ah, the East River. Garbage barges barreling up the river, oil rigs sauntering down, the occasional dead mob informant bobbing along this way and that, what more could I want? 🙂
Show Us Your Tubes
If I was down in New Orleans this week, I would get my beads via that suggestion (liken to a similar suggestion that most men shout at the ladies in the Mardi Gras crowd…think about the rhyming possibilities…). Ha ha! It took a day to get used to the catheter they placed in my chest. It was a tad sore and felt heavy yesterday, but today, I didn’t even pay attention to it. That was until my mom tripped on the hosing going to the IV drip and caused a slight yank. Yep, I yelped like a little schoolgirl. No harm done though.
Inherent Risk
I apologize for not having updated early. I also apologize for not writing back to all the e-mails I have received. With the insurance battle over, I had to set my mind on the road ahead. Preparing mentally and emotionally can be quite exhausting. I am thankful to all of my confidants, friends and family members for their gracious listening and probing. We had some great conversations, huh?
One of the most interesting topics that had me up till 4am last Tuesday was that of friendship. I always have a slight predicament whenever I meet someone new, more specifically someone who I know I will be interacting with more in the future. What do I tell them? I can’t hide the fact I have cancer. I don’t want to hide the fact I have cancer. But telling someone you have cancer who you just met over a dinner is not easy. It essentially is a weight. When I say weight, I mean that the person has to come to grips with life, sickness and death when he/she meets me. Those are heavy subjects that many don’t want to carry. Questions arise. “What do I do with these subjects (of life, sickness and death)? Do I continue to engage Art or solemnly move away? Do I really want to have these things on my mind?”
Once someone does accept the load and accepts the facts surrounding me, then much ground is covered. There is an amazing amount of engagement that occurs with matters of emotion and the heart. It is wonderful to get past the superficiality and facade that we all put up. The insides, the guts, that’s where a man lies.
I started to really ponder if I should be meeting new people last week. Should I try to meet new people? Should I make new friends? What happens if I die? Won’t they be hurt? Wouldn’t it be better and more loving to not give them hurt, if that were to happen? What about older friends, do I stop interacting with them so as to not heap more hurt upon them?
Well, to a certain extent I don’t (and I am sure you don’t) want to hurt anyone. This life has enough hurt, why heap anymore on someone? Why set someone up? But then I realized (after much discussion) that this is a selfish approach. Why? Well, it throws out that person’s personal choice in the whole matter. I am not giving the other person any options in letting them decide. Instead, I would be essentially controlling, manipultive and selfish. To a certain extent, it would be a power trip to make others decisions for them. That’s not very loving.
So what’s the solution? Well, it’s education. I make sure people nowadays know what they are getting into with me. They have a decision. Stay put, or enter into my life, an unpredictable adventure filled with harsh hazards, enticing oases and joyful pit stops. If people want to enter, they are free to, but it’s my job to make sure they know exactly what could happen to me. The facts remain: The mini-transplant is new, so all of the details surrounding it are “works-in-progress.” In a study at an English hospital, six patients with relapsed Hodgkin’s Disease were given this treatment. For three it worked, for three it didn’t work. Here at Sloan-Kettering, only two have been done on such patients, with outcomes still pending. Who really knows what could happen?
How does this all tie in? It took me a week to get my arms around it all, but finally the word came to me that sums all of this up. Risk. Life is a risk. More specifically love is a risk. (There must be a million quotes floating out there about this very topic, but with limited internet and library access, I’ll just have to convince you with my own words.) To put yourself out there, to love someone, essentially comes down to a risk. ìWhat happens if I drop the facade and that person sees me for who I really am? Will he/she still be my friend? What happens if I see the other person dropping their facade and I see who they really are? Could I accept them? To love is to risk getting hurt, rejected and betrayed. But to love also is the risk of missing out on the experiencing of happiness, adventure and joy (or essentially the meaning of life). Somewhere along the lines it comes back down to the same old theme, the importance of our decisions and our choices.
The Future
Today I started my chemotherapy and immuno-suppressants. I was supposed to have side effects. I sat around all morning waiting for something to hit. Nothing. Nothing. (The prayer calendar is working!) So I got up and enjoyed the day, talking, flirting (with the nurses, always a fun pastime) and reading. The rest of this week is more of the same. Next Wednesday is transplant day. (Billy, if you are out there, you best be eating well! We need strong cells! Get to work son!) After that, it’s strictly monitoring the new immune system.
There really is not much excitement in this whole procedure. No surgery, no casts, no mind-altering drugs. It boils down to someone else’s blood doing all the work, in order to kill off the bad and heal me. No action on my part will achieve anything. Now that’s a risk. It’s a risk to believe that. It’s a risk to do that. But I choose to. Let the hazards, oases and pit stops come.