At the Cancer Hospital (2)

This “triple whammy” week has been challenging, but not in the way I thought it might be. Everything was harsher and a little longer than usual, but the side effects are still mostly annoying and not painful. I had some bone pain from the larger dose of Taxol, but not until evening Friday-Saturday, and it was easily treated with Alleve and some homeopathic lotion. On Sunday it seemed like fatigue and the worse-than-normal neuropathy were the only symptoms left to subside. And I got a little too optimistic, maybe.

Steve’s daughter Julia and her boyfriend Marc are visiting, and there was finally a movie we wanted to see at the local cineplex (Love and Friendship, a really fine film and so enjoyable). So we headed to a late afternoon matinee, which made dinner a little bit of an issue. And we went to pick up sandwiches at a local place. Big mistake on my part.

In my defense, I was counting on that Neulasta shot I got with chemo to work on my WBC count. I thought some of the bone pain might be that bone marrow kicking into high gear. But no. That doesn’t kick in until a week after treatment– Wednesday for me.

I didn’t get halfway through the sandwich before I was in the bathroom for a very bad hour. And that threw things off enough I went into the cancer center as soon as it opened Monday for blood work and scan and doctor visit and then finally a hydration IV. My WBC differential was at Zero. Now I know to stay away from public germs for a few days. So it’s good that happened before I got an actually serious infection.

Although I would have rather been in bed than sitting in the cancer center for 5 hours as the appointments unfolded, it is never a waste of time to be in that place. For a couple hours I was seated in a section with a number of people from Cold Spring, my favorite small Minnesota town, where I lived before I got married.

Behind me was one of those great groups of women accompanying a sister/colleague/friend. In their 40s, I’d guess, all trim and cheerful and each one carrying something for their companion. I’ve seen them once before. They have a lot of energy and they had gotten good news that day. At first I thought maybe it was J’s last treatment– there is definitely a different energy and bounce in the step of those folks and their companions.

They chatted behind me on all things people. Coworkers at the restaurant (golf course?) and who is getting married.

At one point one woman said: “Did you know he was a triplet?”

“He has a brother, just a brother, not a twin, right?”

“No, they were triplets, but one of the babies died.” Both brothers are getting married this summer.

“Really? I knew they had girlfriends–it’s been good for M. He’s more responsible.”

“It was in the Record.” That confirmed for me that they were from Cold Spring. The Cold Spring Record is the most comprehensive and best written small town newspaper I’ve ever seen. Nothing misses their attention in this town of 3,000.

Then a local farmer came in with his wife and mother (I could tell it was his mother because they had the same voice). I’d say he was in his 60s, and the mother, impossible to tell around here, could have been 90. They took seats across from me.

The farmer, who was missing a pinkie from a farm implement accident, had swollen hands. It looked like what you might expect from radiation, and he was sitting in the radiation area.

The women knew him, and one came over to greet him. And his ability to deflect her questions about his own condition were masterful.

“How are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m doing good.”

“We’re here with my sister J. The treatment is really working for her.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

“How many treatments do you have?”

“Oh, no treatments, they just check my white blood cells.” (This struck me as untrue– as he had the blood work and then was doing the usual wait to see if he’d go to treatment.)

“Oh. And if the cell count is good do you get treatment?”

“No, they just check the blood and my doctor looks at it.”

“But do you know how many treatments total?”

“Just the blood. They check my white blood cell counts.”

“Oh, OK. Well, best of luck to you.”

“Yes, and to your sister.”

After she left, the three talked about the family, this sister and that sister. When they were called and bounced off to the treatment room, he smiled at me. “Are they all sisters?” I asked. “Could be,” he said. “Seems so.”

Then after a bit I heard the mother saying to the wife, as they went over various stories of local families: “Do you know those boys?”

The wife responded: “They were triplets, but one of the babies died.”

When you live in a small town in Minnesota, it is a challenge to keep your story private.