Writings of Constance Ore ( 1937 – 2010 )

When I went in to the oncologist’s office this morning for the requested blood draw following the three additional injections of Neupogen, the waiting room was nearly empty with the exception of three young women. One of the three was holding a tiny baby wrapped in pink; the mother was frail and fair and quite beautiful with the telltale pallor of illness on her face. 

The readings of the draw showed a remarkable improvement over the Friday’s results – and this was the first time that such a thing happened.  Everything was better!  The doctor even met with me with me though this was unscheduled. . . . “Perhaps I should do a little dance!” I suggested, but to this he looked at me with great gravity.  “It is better, yes, but I trust you are remembering that you are a great distance from what is referred to as ‘normal’ ”  but then he continued, “But it is good news because now you can return to your chemotherapy on Thursday as planned, and then we will hope that you will not drop as low again.  You will go down, but not as far.  Then we will know that you are responding to the therapy.”  I still thought a little dance might be in order, but of course I applied restraint and only moved my feet back and forth a bit. Jubliation! [click to hear Charles play a happy song]

Immediately, the prayers come to mind.  It is as though I have been sliding down a slope, unable to find a handhold to stop myself and all of that community of people who have said to me, “You are in our thoughts and prayers” extended a great collective hand over the edge to reach me and not only stop the descent, but to pull upward. Exultation!

“In the meanwhile. . . ”  Each life has that part of the story moving along with it, and in ours, one segment is Alphie, our nine month old chocolate lab.  While Charles is in Michigan and I am with friends in Lincoln, he is at a kennel where one of the objects of this time will be a bit of discipline.  While he appears to have wonderful bloodlines, his line of ancestors have endowed him with huge size, huge mouth, mighty muscles, and boundless energy.  In our four daily walks around the forty, the latest thing he was doing was picking up dead tree branches and carrying them along, head held triumphantly high.  The branches were getting larger and thicker daily to the point where you would look back over your shoulder and say, “Oh my word!” and leap off the path because he would be coming at great speed carrying a small tree.  The discipline is needed to assist him to understand that jumping up on ourselves and any other persons, most particularly dear children and grandchildren, is not good, even if his motivation is joy and delight.

The nurse responded to the extremely low white blood count with some urgency – resume Neupogin shots today, she said, and continue across the weekend.  Since these shots must be administered in places that do not contain muscle, another nurse advised that this is not a good time in life to be “buff”.  For the very first time, I have a gratitude for those upper arm undersides that flop about a bit because they are ideal places to accept these medicines.

One of the aspects of my present life is the unreality of total vulnurability to infections, which in turn, I am told, can be extremely serious threats to my well-being. Every surface, every sneeze, every child is potentially a bearer of unseen germs filled with enmity toward this present body, and I must be armed with great caution and disinfectants. No, no! to church, store, library, theatre, almost any place where two or three are gathered together.  “How long?” I ask, “A while. . .until your blood is better” I am told.         

Winter came back to Nebraska today, with snow and cold and gray skies.  Charles is on a short tour in Michigan presenting his music with a college choir and brass choir.  He reports that the spaces and organs are marvelous, and a bit of me sits there in a pew saying “Bravo!” in response to his work which is unfailingly wonderful.  Meanwhile I am in Lincoln in the home of friends being cosseted outrageously. 

This morning was another blood draw. This is the weekly event which permits a glimpse at the internal workings of the bone marrow. Last week showed drops in all sorts of places, and this week, the blood draw seemed to be a bit more optimistic. There were more small gains than losses, however, the white blood cells dropped even more, and a call to the health nurse in the oncologist’s office is intended to inquire about the significance of that.

The blood draws began in earnest when I first entered the hospital in early January. At the beginning of the testing, blood was taken every hour, first from one arm, at the inside of the elbow where a large vein appears, and then from the other. The persons who came with their kits on their arms arrived through the night; they would tie a stretchy band around the arm above the elbow, and sometimes they would ask for a fist, sometimes not. They would always check the identification band to make sure they had the right person and the right tests aligned. I did not watch the needle enter the body, but rather instructed all molecules to be at rest. “Stick” or “Poke” they would say, and then the needle would enter. Now of course, as a complete novice to such things, I do wonder how they can be sure that the needle doesn’t go right on through the wall of the vein to find who knows what, but always, these technicians found their mark. One young woman with red hair, a wispy voice and very fair skin came most often in the nights, and each time she proceeded very slowly and carefully. Her touch was remarkably gentle, and her needle entry was the kindest of all.

Another said cheerfully, ” I know you are looking at all these vials and thinking that we are draining you dry, but really, this is less than two tablespoons.” It gave me something to consider at those hours between three and four AM – people working through the night at the hospital gathering information, analyzing it, and in the process, helping to determine my future.

On this day the weather is making a statement of great contrasts; one moment there is a snow storm, and shortly thereafter, the sun will be shining and the clouds will be moving southward in great dark and light shapes. Birds seem to be a bit puzzled by the whole – sitting quietly in the plum and willow branches when the snow is whipping about and flying forth when the sun comes.

When one lives an ordinary life filled with ordinary things and events, even as years pass, and age groupings change, the landscape within remains constant. I don’t think the term “cancer” held any sort of meaning to me since my parents and sibings were never afflicted with the disease. This fall a dear friend died of leukemia, and I spent some time visiting with his widow thinking about what it might be like to have the best loved life’s partner die. It never occurred to me that within days I would be someone who would be the recipient of the phrase, “She has cancer”, with my husband in the position of health and continuity. It feels as though I have shifted over one pace into a universe which has existed all along – one which is filled with a huge population of people of all ages.

At the first session of chemotherapy, I was led into the “chemo” room. There it was, larger than our home’s living room and kitchen. . . filled with light blue recliners lining the outside walls. Next to those a small table, and on the other side, the IV stand. There were other chairs down the center of the room for those who might be waiting, and magazines and papers were all about. A refrigerator filled with snacks and drinks for the people who spend time in the room is at one end, and there are the curtains on tracks around a number of the blue recliners in case privacy is required.

The people in the room were in various stages of receiving the chemotherapy. Many of them came in smiling, joking perhaps, and as they settled in, newspaper in hand, the top buttons of their shirts or blouses were opened, and the IV needle was inserted into a “port” which is a small opening implanted into the upper chest of a person which in turn permits repeated entry into the body without exhausting the blood veins.

I was struck by the everyday-ness of it all. How many of us there are! As I mentioned before, the Vidaza is injected right under the skin, so that is a different experience.

Now the once familiar physical self seems far distant as each day a new nuance emerges. “Oh, so this is what I can do now”. Different thoughts entirely occupy the mental self; for the first time, this life appears to have a conclusion, an apparent earthly ending not unlike picking up a book and noting that the bookmark is near the last chapter. It takes getting used to. Naturally, one hopes each day for a very long epilogue, or perhaps even another book in the series.