Thursday, May 22 was a typical Maine spring day, which is to say not very spring-like at all; mid-50’s, rainy, a cool breeze off the ocean, a pervasive sense of the season being held back, some last vestigial ghost of winter unwilling to concede. It was also a day when the physical universe seems to conspire to thwart you. Things stick and fall and pinch. Traffic meanders like a parade without purpose, people treating green lights like an overly generous offer they dare not accept. So, delayed, harried, but no less determined, we arrived at Mercy Hospital barely on time for a 9:45 appointment.
The ritual begins as usual with check-in at Oncology, but we had a special guest this time. Veronica, aka Red Fire, aka the red wig is making a rare appearance today and the staff is speechless. Mary Rose looks stunning and is told as much by everyone who sees her once they recognize that it is indeed her. Off to the waiting room then where the standard 10 minute wait takes the usual 20 minutes. Then the exam. Mary Rose is weighed, her temperature and blood pressure are taken, the usual preliminary questions by the nurse, and then the wait in the exam room.
Dr Niegowska soon joins us in the exam room and she is her usual pleasant self, all the more so seeing Mary Rose in her saucy wig. She questions her about the past two weeks, which were very routine; the same mild reactions to treatment, the same rhythm, rise, fall and recovery. She is genuinely pleased by the progress so far. The next appointemtnts are discussed. We move on.
The Oncology treatment room is very crowded this morning. All the treatment chairs are full and mary Rose is directed to another room to wait. Upon entering I am taken aback by the sight of an acquaintance of many years occupying one of the chairs. An artist, a regular from my bartending days, someone who lived in New York while I was there going to college and who, like so many I’ve known, felt the tug, the necccessity to return to Maine. He is undergoing palliative treatment for a rare blood cancer. He is candid about outliving all diagnoses to date. He talks easily about his brushes with death, his newfound faith, the morbid rise in the value of his art. I listen to him and as I do I feel the psychic armor that I usually wear to deal with this place come crashing to the floor. I’m reminded again of the enormity, the pervasiveness, the many faces of this disease. I say inadequate things and he receives them kindly, knowing their inadequacy and forgiving the attempt without saying a word.
Shortly thereafter the very same chair is available and her treatment begins. They take some blood and send it to the lab. The laptops come out and we get to work. The report comes back and the numbers are good. The IV is hooked up to her port. The saline flows, the Benadryl is introduced. She fades for a few moments and then by around 1:00pm the Taxol is hooked up and the 3-hour drip commences. Our surreal routine continues; stubborn hard drives and network connections strangely seem more important at the moment than the fact that she is once again being poisoned. At around 3:00 I tell her I left something in the car. I slip out to get some roses, pink for obvious reasons. She is genuinely surprised although she should not be, this day being what it is. By 4:00 the drip is complete. The nurses bring her a bottle of something sparkling. There are hugs and good wishes. As we leave the hospital, the beautiful redhead on my arm attracts no end of admiring looks.
And that was it. That was chemo. The last of 8 treatments over 16 weeks. Finished. Complete.
I have been chided on occasion for describing Mary Rose’s experience with cancer, and by extension mine and the children’s, in martial terms. Don’t think of it as a fight, some people say, think of it as a journey. Sorry. Can’t do it. This is a war, and she just won a battle, perhaps the hardest battle of all to come. She stood up to chemo. Her spirit and determination never faltered, not once. She worked through it all with an undiminished sense of purpose and clarity. She kept her life going full steam, all guns blazing, and never stopped believing that with each day, each treatment, each indignity, every drip of poison in her veins she was getting better. Because she is. Yes, I call that winning.
