I had been promising Mohamed and Suhur that they could decorate my Christmas tree for nearly two weeks. It started when we drove down to Temple Square in Salt Lake City to see the Christmas lights. On the drive, Suhur spotted a car with a Christmas tree on top of it. When she asked me what it was and why it was there, I tried to explain it to her. Later that night, I showed her a decorated Christmas tree and told them they could decorate one at my house. And now, the night was finally here.
I had flashes of terror for the days leading up to the event, remembering how our Halloween Pumpkin Carving fiasco had transpired... 2 kids turned into 7. And of course, to fight away those terrible thoughts, I decide that instead of just decorating a Christmas tree, we better decorate sugar cookies, too!
When I got to the apartment to pick up the kids, we talked for a few minutes around the table while the kids got ready to go. After tinkering with their broken toilet (for whatever reason, they decided it was bad that the back filled up with water and tied off the little pump so that it wouldn't), we hit the road with only one "plus-one", Ayan.
I turned up the Christmas music in my car and we half-way sung along to the songs they knew. The song "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" came on and Suhur got thoughtful and asked, "Krista, you see this man they call Santa?" I admitted I had never seen Santa because he comes at night when the kids are sleeping. She kind of nodded and kept looking out the window, obviously listening closely to the song about "the man they call Santa." She asked another question, "What is 'to town?'" I explained. Then she got serious, "So this man they call Santa, he will come to my house, too, if I am nice and not naughty?"
Obviously caught off guard, I stumbled over my words. How do I explain this to a 9-year old Muslim refugee? I lied. "Santa visits all the nice kids."
"You think I'm nice, Krista, right?"
"Yes, Suhur, I think you are very nice."
"And not naughty?"
"Not at all."
"So then if you think I'm nice, this man called Santa will, too! And then he can come to my town and visit me!"
I smiled and nodded.
Then, I thought furiously about how I could make that happen without blowing my (and "the man they call Santa's") cover.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
My life on a stage.
April 19, 2008.
An honors theater class at the University of Utah put on a production about the Celebration of Life-- about Cancer survivors. They had three survivors that they featured and Andrew was one of them. To prepare, they met with Andrew numerous times and spoke with me a few times about certain stories and feelings and aspects of the entire experience.
An honors theater class at the University of Utah put on a production about the Celebration of Life-- about Cancer survivors. They had three survivors that they featured and Andrew was one of them. To prepare, they met with Andrew numerous times and spoke with me a few times about certain stories and feelings and aspects of the entire experience.
The night of the performance, the entire family came out to support it.
It was kind of indescribable. I had sent them some bloggings that I had done during the experience and about the experience as my contribution to their stories-- it was easier than trying to relate them all to them orally. At one point, "my character" was shown off to the side, telling a part of a story. It was after Andrew's character "Kyle" was telling the others that his wife slept up at the hospital with him every night. Then, my character was off to the side in a spotlight telling her part of it. As she spoke, it was incredible, painfully familiar. She stood off to the side of the room and recited,
I don't sleep well at the hospital. The nurses are constantly bustling in and out of the room, the IV tower acting as a lifeline is constantly alerting the nurses or this or that, and Andrew would have fits of fevers or chills. I spent the nights staring the ceiling only pretending to sleep as the nurses would enter the room.
By the time light was shining through the hospital room window and I could hear the activities of a shift change outside the room, I would be aching to get up. I would gather my belongings, kiss Andrew's forehead and assure him I would be back later and to call if he needed anything. Usually, he barely stirred.
His face was gray and swollen, his eyes sunken. His hair had long been gone. No more blonde locks, no eyelashes, no eyebrows. He looked emaciated and pained. I'd smile at the nurses as I passed their station. Sometimes one would ask when I'd be back. The answer was usually the same. I would be back after work. To call me if they need me.
I never worried about him while he was up at the hospital. Chances were good that I would pass another willing "babysitter" in the parking lot coming to sit in with him. I stopped in the lobby and bought my coffee. "Right on time," the man would remark. I would force a smile, thank him, and head for my car.
Once my car started, I would stare blankly at the dashboard. Taking a deep breath, I would back out and head down the winding hill towards our house. The traffic was all headed the opposite direction as everyone rushed to start their days. Like clockwork, the tears start. First, one tear sliding out the side of my eye. I brush it away quickly. I lecture myself and try to concentrate on my drive. Silently, the tears fall freely down my face. I rarely remember the drive. Sitting in the driveway, I check my face to make sure it's not too red, gather my belongings, then pull myself from the car.
My neighbor says good morning. I feign the most cheerful voice I can muster and return the greeting. "How's Andrew?" I smile. "He's good..." It's not a lie. For his condition and what they've done to him, he really is good. She doesn't need the details of his emaciated body, his sunken eyes, his graying face, and his comatosed state of being. I let myself inside, strip down and turn on the water to the shower.
The water is refreshing. The heat is comforting and cleansing. It brings more tears. I have to get them out before facing the world again. Before going to work. Before calling and reporting to the family. Before heading back to the hospital. This is my moment.
I take it, turn off the water, and start another day.
***
My mom was nearly sobbing... our entire line of family was crying... I was crying. It was a side of me that remained hidden from most of my friends and family during that time... and suddenly it made sense to the family that had mentioned to Andrew and others that they "never see Krista cry..."
The play was very well-done... I was definitely impressed that it was put together by a bunch of freshman theater students, only one of which was a theater major. My mom staked out the professor after the production and Q&A period and thanked him. She cried as she told him that she always wondered how her daughter could hold up and how she did it. He had showed her. The students' professor promised us a film of the production.
Very very strange to see your life story played out by different characters by different names. Very, very surreal.
God hates me.
I used to have dreams that someone was in my house.
I would creep slowly up to the front hallway where I could hear them coming in just to confirm that suspicion. When I got there, the intruder would jump out at me. I would scream, but nothing would come out. Then, I would turn to run, but my legs wouldn’t work. I’d fall, pull myself up, try again, and fail again. I always woke up right before the intruder jumped at me.
That’s the same feeling I have now. Then, I was only about 6 or 7 years old. Sure, it freaked me out, but I would find sanctuary in my parents’ room for the remainder of the night. Now, I’m not sure when I’ll wake up from the nightmare.
Mostly I remember the dream because of the literal part of it-- my legs not working. The concentration and frustration experienced with each time I go to stand up or to walk is overwhelming. Like it can’t possibly be that difficult to move... but it is.
I already cried. I couldn’t do it at work after the doctor called. I hung up the phone and made myself appear busy shuffling through random papers in my office while I repeatedly swallowed that lump in my throat. After I felt a little stronger, I sent around a text to the family members: "Doc just called. Scans don’t look clear. Indicates MS and not just one time flare up. Diagnosis is difficult and not quick. Don’t call me just yet. At work." I couldn’t have them calling me. Not at work. I knew as soon as someone called, I would break down this barrier I had been trying to build up. I answered a few text questions, gathered my things, and calmly told Brian I was leaving. He gave me almost a pained look, as if he knew it wasn’t good, and said, "I hope you feel better..." I thanked him, turned, walked down the stairs and opened the door and the tears had already started. My sunglasses covered the red watery eyes, but I still hoped no one would be in the parking lot. The further I walked from the door, the harder the tears came. Hard, but silent. I attempted to exchange small-talk conversation with our neighbor through my tears-- it was a weak attempt. In the car, the tears poured faster.
I unlocked the door, opened it, pulled myself inside, and closed it. I slouched back against the door and slid down to the floor sobbing. The house was empty. Quiet. And I didn’t know how I would tell Andrew. I let myself sob loudly to myself for a few minutes, then gathered myself for his phone call. I couldn’t get past "The doctor called," before I was crying. I don’t remember what he said entirely. The only discernible word was, "Fuck," over and over and over. After crying to him for a few minutes, I sat down to try to write and get some emotion out... and a knock came on my door. It was almost expected. I knew my mom would be on her way. Had she called, I would have said no. She knew me. So she just came. I opened the door and she hugged me and we cried some more.
For the next 3 hours, my mom scrubbed my kitchen and started my laundry. I’m not sure what I did. I probably got in her way. I paced. I moved things around. I talked to Andrew again. He moved his plane ticket up to Sunday instead of Tuesday. I just wanted to crawl in bed. I let my mom convince me to go back home with her.
On the drive, she asked, "Why does all this happen to you!?" I answered, "Well, Kara would probably shoot herself. Brea would be too ornery. And Adam... Adam would never leave home. The way I see it, I’m taking one for the team here." She laughed. It was kind of true.
I’m not sure I even believe this is happening yet. I could still wake up. It seems to surreal to think that so much shit can happen to one couple. Shit like that just doesn’t happen...
I like how Andrew put it:
"God fucking hates me."
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
MRI, take 1.
I left work early and headed to the clinic for my cervical spine MRI. After completing my paperwork, I settled into the waiting room, hoping to get through a few pages of the book I was supposed to have read for school. Unfortunately, I was paired in the waiting room with a couple of very talkative older men. I politely smiled to their comments and responded shortly to their questions. I was not in a talkative mood. The nurse called my name and I anxiously gathered my belongings and limped after her.
The MRI was highly uncomfortable. My claustrophobia caught up with me as I lay in the tight dark tunnel trying to block out the sounds of machinery around me. I closed my eyes and kept them closed through the entire duration. My breathing quickened and it took every bit of concentration I had to keep from hyperventilating. "Krista, you need to hold very still, please," the radiologist's voice came through the intercom system. "Ok," I choked out quickly. Apparently my breathing was altering my image. When the radiologist informed me that I was done, I couldn't get out of that tunnel fast enough.
I pulled in my driveway, she called me back. Apparently the radiologist sees some kind of lesion on my spine or spinal cord (I can’t remember which) and he thinks that’s what’s causing this. She was vague about what it could be, but she knows me well enough to tell me that "it could be nothing" over and over again... yet, she still told me that she had called the neurologist, sent her the results, and the neurologist was going to try to see me tomorrow instead of Monday.
She said that until then, I "grit my teeth and bare it."
So now, I get to sit alone and think of all the horrible things that it could be (and the things that it could be that are not so horrible) and wonder how the hell I’m going to get any of my reading and homework done when my mind is so out of it that I can’t do anything.
I’m tempted to get a bottle and order a pizza and drown my worries.
The MRI was highly uncomfortable. My claustrophobia caught up with me as I lay in the tight dark tunnel trying to block out the sounds of machinery around me. I closed my eyes and kept them closed through the entire duration. My breathing quickened and it took every bit of concentration I had to keep from hyperventilating. "Krista, you need to hold very still, please," the radiologist's voice came through the intercom system. "Ok," I choked out quickly. Apparently my breathing was altering my image. When the radiologist informed me that I was done, I couldn't get out of that tunnel fast enough.
I pulled in my driveway, she called me back. Apparently the radiologist sees some kind of lesion on my spine or spinal cord (I can’t remember which) and he thinks that’s what’s causing this. She was vague about what it could be, but she knows me well enough to tell me that "it could be nothing" over and over again... yet, she still told me that she had called the neurologist, sent her the results, and the neurologist was going to try to see me tomorrow instead of Monday.
She said that until then, I "grit my teeth and bare it."
So now, I get to sit alone and think of all the horrible things that it could be (and the things that it could be that are not so horrible) and wonder how the hell I’m going to get any of my reading and homework done when my mind is so out of it that I can’t do anything.
I’m tempted to get a bottle and order a pizza and drown my worries.
The ball starts rolling.
It had started in L.A. with my shoulder and neck. It was a strange numbness that just slowly spread down my neck and shoulder into my arm and fingers. My girlfriends were concerned and nearly took me to the Emergency Room to get checked out while we were on our trip. I convinced that that it was nothing and that there was no need to ruin our trip with doctors and hospitals. "I'll go as soon as I get back to Utah," I reassured them.
As soon as I got back from L.A. after Spring Break, I called the doctor to get in. The strange spreading numbness was now accompanied by a very recognizable delirium. On my trip, I had attributed the delirium and exhaustion from late nights and heavy drinking. When the feeling never left me, I was worried. I was anxious to figure out what it was, and more importantly to make it go away.
The doctor got me in that Monday and she put me on some new antibiotics-- Prednisone-- to see if it could cut back on some inflammation if that’s what it was. She assumed it was a strange complications of the shingles I was sure I had before the trip. I had seen her before we left to get antibiotics for it. She scheduled an appointment for me to meet with the neurologist, but was only able to get me in on April 7, 2008. She said it would work for now. The date seemed way too far off to be comforting. It was March 24. April 7 was 2 weeks away! However, she told me that if it didn’t work, I was supposed to call her back on Wednesday.
It didn’t work.
The numbness spread into my leg, causing an uncomfortable limp as I attempted to walk with a leg that was essentially "asleep." It was only on my left side, but it was uncomfortable. I wanted it gone. I called the doctor back.
She went into motion immediately. Suddenly, my appointment with the neurologist was to take place on Monday, rather than the 7th of April. She called me back about 15 minutes later and told me that she wanted me to have an MRI that day. She asked if there was a specific time that worked best for me. I was at work, so either way I would have to leave. I was anxious to figure out why the left side of my body was "dying." She scheduled my MRI for 3:15 p.m that day. I called my parents' house to report what I had found out. My sister volunteered to go with me. Andrew had left that morning for Virginia for his Print Conference for school. I told her there was no need-- I had accompanied Andrew to many such appointments and they were uneventful-- she would have to stay in the waiting room anyway. She told me to call her if I changed my mind. I thanked her and told her I'd be fine.
I would be fine. I was sure it was just some sort of weird chemical imbalance or something nutritional-related, perhaps. It was nothing.
It had to be nothing.
As soon as I got back from L.A. after Spring Break, I called the doctor to get in. The strange spreading numbness was now accompanied by a very recognizable delirium. On my trip, I had attributed the delirium and exhaustion from late nights and heavy drinking. When the feeling never left me, I was worried. I was anxious to figure out what it was, and more importantly to make it go away.
The doctor got me in that Monday and she put me on some new antibiotics-- Prednisone-- to see if it could cut back on some inflammation if that’s what it was. She assumed it was a strange complications of the shingles I was sure I had before the trip. I had seen her before we left to get antibiotics for it. She scheduled an appointment for me to meet with the neurologist, but was only able to get me in on April 7, 2008. She said it would work for now. The date seemed way too far off to be comforting. It was March 24. April 7 was 2 weeks away! However, she told me that if it didn’t work, I was supposed to call her back on Wednesday.
It didn’t work.
The numbness spread into my leg, causing an uncomfortable limp as I attempted to walk with a leg that was essentially "asleep." It was only on my left side, but it was uncomfortable. I wanted it gone. I called the doctor back.
She went into motion immediately. Suddenly, my appointment with the neurologist was to take place on Monday, rather than the 7th of April. She called me back about 15 minutes later and told me that she wanted me to have an MRI that day. She asked if there was a specific time that worked best for me. I was at work, so either way I would have to leave. I was anxious to figure out why the left side of my body was "dying." She scheduled my MRI for 3:15 p.m that day. I called my parents' house to report what I had found out. My sister volunteered to go with me. Andrew had left that morning for Virginia for his Print Conference for school. I told her there was no need-- I had accompanied Andrew to many such appointments and they were uneventful-- she would have to stay in the waiting room anyway. She told me to call her if I changed my mind. I thanked her and told her I'd be fine.
I would be fine. I was sure it was just some sort of weird chemical imbalance or something nutritional-related, perhaps. It was nothing.
It had to be nothing.
Breathe. Just breathe.
"Krista? This is Dr. Banks. I've got your test results here. Your Brain MRI shows that there are some abnormalities in your brain in an area that is indicative of Multiple Sclerosis. I can see 2-3 lesions similar to the one on your spinal cord. I'd like for you to see me first thing next week. At that time we can talk about treating your symptoms now, as well as talk about some long term treatment options available for M.S. Could you call my office first thing on Monday morning?" I held the phone to my ear and stared blankly out my office window. My eyes watered up, but I fought them back. I wouldn't let myself cry. Not here. Not now.
"That should be fine," I answered. The call ended.
I sat and stared out the window for what felt like several minutes. It's not possible, I thought to myself. This shit doesn't happen. It can't be possible, I tried to comfort myself. Pressure was building behind my eyes and I knew that I couldn't possibly face the world any longer today. I tried to gather myself and force my tears back a little further to give me time for a clean break from work. But first, I knew I needed to spread the word. My mom was probably aching to call and ask if I'd heard anything.
I couldn't talk to anyone at the moment. The tears were too close, and the setting just not right. I decided to send a text message: "Doc called. Scans showed 3 lesions in brain. Looks like MS. Don't call me yet." I sent it to my mom, my dad, Andrew's mom, and my sisters. Then sat, wiping tears that had managed to sneak past my barrier. I had to get out of there. I had to get home. I waited a few minutes, gathered my things, and took a deep breath. I didn't want Brian to see me cry. I walked by his office and said, "I'm leaving for the day, I'll see you on Monday." He looked at me with pained eyes. He knew something wasn't right. I was happy he didn't ask. He just said, "Ok. You take care of yourself and get better. I'll see you on Monday." I nodded and forced a smile and began walking down the stairs to escape. Each step brought the tears closer to the surface. I put my sunglasses on, knowing I couldn't hold back much longer. By the time I reached the last couple stairs, the tears were pouring down my face. I walked down the alley to the parking lot seeking the solace of my car. I hoped no one was in the parking lot. The lady from the café downstairs was unloading things from her car.
"Hi, how are you?" she asked cheerfully.
I once again choked back the tears that had already taken a hold of me. "I'm doing alright, thanks, how are you?" I did a terrible job of hiding the emotion in my voice. I didn't sound convincing.
"I'm doing good," she answered, "Do you work every Saturday?"
Great, I thought, she wants a full conversation. "Pretty much," I responded, "I take Tuesdays and Thursdays off for school, so I work on Saturdays to make up for it."
"Well that explains why I see you around here so much on the weekends!"
I laughed a forced laugh, "Yeah... have a good one!" I answered back, abruptly ending the conversation as I reached my car.
I turned the ignition and the tears returned with force. The drive home was a blur of sobbing and hitting the steering wheel. When I pulled into my driveway, I once again gathered myself and hoped no one would be outside. I hurried to the door of my empty house, opened the door and let myself in. I closed the door, turned and slid down the inside of the door to the floor. There was no need to hide the sobbing now. It came with force. I sat sobbing against the door for a few minutes, completely oblivious to anything and everything around me. This was my moment. My moment to be angry, devastated, and alone. I took it.
This can't be happening to me.
This shit doesn't happen.
It was surreal.
I had spent so much time convincing myself that I could not have Multiple Sclerosis. I was certain.
And now... I was wrong.
"That should be fine," I answered. The call ended.
I sat and stared out the window for what felt like several minutes. It's not possible, I thought to myself. This shit doesn't happen. It can't be possible, I tried to comfort myself. Pressure was building behind my eyes and I knew that I couldn't possibly face the world any longer today. I tried to gather myself and force my tears back a little further to give me time for a clean break from work. But first, I knew I needed to spread the word. My mom was probably aching to call and ask if I'd heard anything.
I couldn't talk to anyone at the moment. The tears were too close, and the setting just not right. I decided to send a text message: "Doc called. Scans showed 3 lesions in brain. Looks like MS. Don't call me yet." I sent it to my mom, my dad, Andrew's mom, and my sisters. Then sat, wiping tears that had managed to sneak past my barrier. I had to get out of there. I had to get home. I waited a few minutes, gathered my things, and took a deep breath. I didn't want Brian to see me cry. I walked by his office and said, "I'm leaving for the day, I'll see you on Monday." He looked at me with pained eyes. He knew something wasn't right. I was happy he didn't ask. He just said, "Ok. You take care of yourself and get better. I'll see you on Monday." I nodded and forced a smile and began walking down the stairs to escape. Each step brought the tears closer to the surface. I put my sunglasses on, knowing I couldn't hold back much longer. By the time I reached the last couple stairs, the tears were pouring down my face. I walked down the alley to the parking lot seeking the solace of my car. I hoped no one was in the parking lot. The lady from the café downstairs was unloading things from her car.
"Hi, how are you?" she asked cheerfully.
I once again choked back the tears that had already taken a hold of me. "I'm doing alright, thanks, how are you?" I did a terrible job of hiding the emotion in my voice. I didn't sound convincing.
"I'm doing good," she answered, "Do you work every Saturday?"
Great, I thought, she wants a full conversation. "Pretty much," I responded, "I take Tuesdays and Thursdays off for school, so I work on Saturdays to make up for it."
"Well that explains why I see you around here so much on the weekends!"
I laughed a forced laugh, "Yeah... have a good one!" I answered back, abruptly ending the conversation as I reached my car.
I turned the ignition and the tears returned with force. The drive home was a blur of sobbing and hitting the steering wheel. When I pulled into my driveway, I once again gathered myself and hoped no one would be outside. I hurried to the door of my empty house, opened the door and let myself in. I closed the door, turned and slid down the inside of the door to the floor. There was no need to hide the sobbing now. It came with force. I sat sobbing against the door for a few minutes, completely oblivious to anything and everything around me. This was my moment. My moment to be angry, devastated, and alone. I took it.
This can't be happening to me.
This shit doesn't happen.
It was surreal.
I had spent so much time convincing myself that I could not have Multiple Sclerosis. I was certain.
And now... I was wrong.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Not it.
"You know who else has M.S?" My mother intended to continue on with a string of people in the neighborhood that I knew who were living with the disease. I almost laughed.
"I don't have M.S., Mom."
"Yeah, I know... but still." She sounded unsure, like she was still trying to convince herself. We continued the drive toward my house in near silence. I stared out the window or rested my eyes. My body ached and my mind was reeling with all I had to do. Spring break had passed and school was charging forward, with or without me.
It was Saturday and I was supposed to be at work. I had called my boss, Brian, to let him know that I was having more tests run that morning and would be in when I was finished. Now I was wishing I had told him I wasn't coming in at all.
I got home and emptied my belongings from my mother's car. She had insisted I bring my laundry to do at her house over the weekend... I never did get to it. After she left, I took a few moments to myself to relax and be alone. With the past week's events, it was much needed. I pulled myself from my daze and headed to work.
The work day was long. The doctor was on-call at the hospital and had promised to call me as soon as she reviewed my MRI from that morning. The order even said, "Page Dr. Banks STAT with results." I sat working quietly in my office with my phone nearby in case she called. I tried not to think about it. I tried to convince myself that it was some kind of fluke-- maybe dietary-- maybe it could be something stupid like my potassium level or B12 level. It had to be something embarrassingly stupid.
At about 2:30, the phone rang. My heart skipped a beat. The number was unfamiliar.
It had to be the doctor.
"I don't have M.S., Mom."
"Yeah, I know... but still." She sounded unsure, like she was still trying to convince herself. We continued the drive toward my house in near silence. I stared out the window or rested my eyes. My body ached and my mind was reeling with all I had to do. Spring break had passed and school was charging forward, with or without me.
It was Saturday and I was supposed to be at work. I had called my boss, Brian, to let him know that I was having more tests run that morning and would be in when I was finished. Now I was wishing I had told him I wasn't coming in at all.
I got home and emptied my belongings from my mother's car. She had insisted I bring my laundry to do at her house over the weekend... I never did get to it. After she left, I took a few moments to myself to relax and be alone. With the past week's events, it was much needed. I pulled myself from my daze and headed to work.
The work day was long. The doctor was on-call at the hospital and had promised to call me as soon as she reviewed my MRI from that morning. The order even said, "Page Dr. Banks STAT with results." I sat working quietly in my office with my phone nearby in case she called. I tried not to think about it. I tried to convince myself that it was some kind of fluke-- maybe dietary-- maybe it could be something stupid like my potassium level or B12 level. It had to be something embarrassingly stupid.
At about 2:30, the phone rang. My heart skipped a beat. The number was unfamiliar.
It had to be the doctor.
Friday, December 07, 2007
The Rock
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
It was a summer day, school was out, and neither Megan nor I had to work that day. Jerry had been itching to hang out, so he came over. Payday had come and gone and it was time to re-up. Megan and I each took the opportunity, then sat around with Jerry trying to figure out, what next?
Then, brilliance! Beautiful day, brand new sacks, and the mountains only moments away. Jerry decided we needed to learn to roll a joint and that the canyon was a good place for that. We headed up Little Cottonwood Canyon to "The Pipe."
Jerry said he knew of the perfect place. Megan and I followed him blindly over the big water pipe, into the brush, until he came to this massive rock. "This is it," he stated proudly. Megan and I looked at this monstrous rock in front of us, then at each other, then at Jerry. "Great. Now what?" We asked sarcastically. Jerry circled the rock a few times, deep in thought, then used a neighboring tree to monkey his way up on top of the rock. "What are you waiting for?! Come on!"
I looked down at my flip-flops and thought, "Fuck." Megan tried to mimic Jerry's monkey-moves to get up the rock. She fumbled around clumsily and Jerry told her to just try to run. So she tried again, using the tree to get up as far as she could, then "running" up the rock. Jerry grabbed her hand and pulled her up.
My turn.
I decided the only way I was getting up that rock was without the shoes. I took them off and tucked them away underneath some brush. Hesitantly, I maneuvered around the tree, mimicking both Jerry and Megan's moves. The rock was hot from the midday sun and I wasn't entirely thrilled about putting the soles of my feet to the heat. I placed one foot on. I could feel my foot heating up and the moisture gathering from the heat. I had to move fast. I reached my hand up as far as it could go. Jerry laid on his stomach and reached down towards me. I only needed to"run" up the rock about 2 additional feet to reach his hand. With my foot slipping on the rock, I repositioned, took a deep breath and lunged up and forward. I screamed impulsively as my feet slipped on the rock while I tried to gain inches. Jerry grabbed my hand and pulled me up.
The view was spectacular. We were aware of all who were walking past using the popular trail, but they remained oblivious to our position. We sat in a small circle, whipped out the papers and the fresh new sacks we had purchased not long before, and the lesson began. Mostly, we laughed and smoked and talked and smoked. After smoking nearly an entire sack and an indeterminate amount of time later, we decided we should probably head down.
We all crab-walked along the sharp edge of the rock, trying to scout a good way down. "How do we get down, genius?" I asked Jerry sarcastically. He laughed in his high pitched giggling laugh and stammered a bit. "Usually there's a rope. But I don't see a rope." We all laughed uncontrollably while we searched for an escape route. Jumping was out of the question. The drop was borderline too far. It was possible-- for those with shoes. There was no way in hell I was going to even attempt a jump in bare feet. One of us laughed and announced, "I have to pee."
Jerry's face was contorted with thought. He turned, lowered himself to his stomach and inched down until he was holding the ledge and stretched all the way down. His feet stretched out for a branch on the tree we had used to climb up and caught it. He bounced a bit on the branch to make sure it was secure then looked at Megan and me. "Climb down." We both laughed at how ridiculous it seemed to use Jerry as a human ladder, but, it was our best option.
We took turns climbing down Jerry to the safety of the tree, and then further to the ground. "Wow, that's a big rock," we laughed.
Jerry swung his feet away from the tree and kind of ran/fell backwards off the rock until his feet hit the ground.
"Perfect," he announced triumphantly. "Let's go home."
We laughed amongst ourselves as we shimmied over the big pipe over the river and towards the car. It was late afternoon and time to find some food.
It was a summer day, school was out, and neither Megan nor I had to work that day. Jerry had been itching to hang out, so he came over. Payday had come and gone and it was time to re-up. Megan and I each took the opportunity, then sat around with Jerry trying to figure out, what next?
Then, brilliance! Beautiful day, brand new sacks, and the mountains only moments away. Jerry decided we needed to learn to roll a joint and that the canyon was a good place for that. We headed up Little Cottonwood Canyon to "The Pipe."
Jerry said he knew of the perfect place. Megan and I followed him blindly over the big water pipe, into the brush, until he came to this massive rock. "This is it," he stated proudly. Megan and I looked at this monstrous rock in front of us, then at each other, then at Jerry. "Great. Now what?" We asked sarcastically. Jerry circled the rock a few times, deep in thought, then used a neighboring tree to monkey his way up on top of the rock. "What are you waiting for?! Come on!"
I looked down at my flip-flops and thought, "Fuck." Megan tried to mimic Jerry's monkey-moves to get up the rock. She fumbled around clumsily and Jerry told her to just try to run. So she tried again, using the tree to get up as far as she could, then "running" up the rock. Jerry grabbed her hand and pulled her up.
My turn.
I decided the only way I was getting up that rock was without the shoes. I took them off and tucked them away underneath some brush. Hesitantly, I maneuvered around the tree, mimicking both Jerry and Megan's moves. The rock was hot from the midday sun and I wasn't entirely thrilled about putting the soles of my feet to the heat. I placed one foot on. I could feel my foot heating up and the moisture gathering from the heat. I had to move fast. I reached my hand up as far as it could go. Jerry laid on his stomach and reached down towards me. I only needed to"run" up the rock about 2 additional feet to reach his hand. With my foot slipping on the rock, I repositioned, took a deep breath and lunged up and forward. I screamed impulsively as my feet slipped on the rock while I tried to gain inches. Jerry grabbed my hand and pulled me up.
The view was spectacular. We were aware of all who were walking past using the popular trail, but they remained oblivious to our position. We sat in a small circle, whipped out the papers and the fresh new sacks we had purchased not long before, and the lesson began. Mostly, we laughed and smoked and talked and smoked. After smoking nearly an entire sack and an indeterminate amount of time later, we decided we should probably head down.
We all crab-walked along the sharp edge of the rock, trying to scout a good way down. "How do we get down, genius?" I asked Jerry sarcastically. He laughed in his high pitched giggling laugh and stammered a bit. "Usually there's a rope. But I don't see a rope." We all laughed uncontrollably while we searched for an escape route. Jumping was out of the question. The drop was borderline too far. It was possible-- for those with shoes. There was no way in hell I was going to even attempt a jump in bare feet. One of us laughed and announced, "I have to pee."
Jerry's face was contorted with thought. He turned, lowered himself to his stomach and inched down until he was holding the ledge and stretched all the way down. His feet stretched out for a branch on the tree we had used to climb up and caught it. He bounced a bit on the branch to make sure it was secure then looked at Megan and me. "Climb down." We both laughed at how ridiculous it seemed to use Jerry as a human ladder, but, it was our best option.
We took turns climbing down Jerry to the safety of the tree, and then further to the ground. "Wow, that's a big rock," we laughed.
Jerry swung his feet away from the tree and kind of ran/fell backwards off the rock until his feet hit the ground.
"Perfect," he announced triumphantly. "Let's go home."
We laughed amongst ourselves as we shimmied over the big pipe over the river and towards the car. It was late afternoon and time to find some food.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
The Infusion Room
We were not entirely sure what to expect when it came time for Andrew's first outpatient chemotherapy. We walked down the long hallway to the back end of the Huntsman Cancer Hospital, crossing the skybridge into the Hunstman Cancer Institute. Andrew checked in at the front desk and we took a seat in the lobby.
There were about 10 people in the lobby with us. We were quite obviously the youngest ones there. The middle-aged women looked at us with pity in their eyes. The older-men had tired scowls on their faces. The older women spoke amongst themselves in hushed whispers. One woman sat in the corner knitting. We played handheld Solitaire games and talked and laughed.
The longest part of the wait was before being called back. Sometimes we would wait for hours in that waiting room. Near the beginning of his chemotherapy days, we were patient and jovial and pleasant. We would talk and laugh and joke and play games. As the chemotherapy started to have an accumulative affect on Andrew, the waits got quieter and he grew impatient and edgy as we waited.
Once called back, you entered a long hallway-like room with about 15 modified patient armchairs. The nurses were clad in special chemotherapy gowns and masks. They looked like the hospitals own personal HazMat team. The room was generally quiet and had a depressing feel to it. On either side of the long room there was a "kitchen." They had coffee, teas, juices, milk, and different varieties of crackers and cookies and fruits.
Andrew and I would talk and laugh throughout his chemotherapy. It was our day together. We would plan lunch and spend the day together. The infusion room provided the stark realization that we were just kids. While most remained quiet, slept, read or knitted, we joked with each other, played games, and tried to keep a smile on our faces.
The nurses would sing a song on someone's last day of chemotherapy and give the patient a homemade blanket. It was sung to the tune of Happy Birthday:
"Congratulations to you,
Your chemotherapy is through!
We wish you good health
and happiness, too!"
After about 8-10 rounds of chemotherapy, Andrew's attitude and demeanor began to deteriorate. He was increasingly sick and fatigued from the chemotherapy. Many times, the mere anticipation of the infusion room invoked vomiting. It began getting harder and harder to accompany him. His spirits were down and he was frequently edgy and bitter. The post-infusion transplants had long since stopped... he was now lucky to make it home from the hospital without having to pullover to vomit. He began changing the words of their song around for his turn.
"Congratulations to you,
your chemotherapy is through.
You now need a transplant,
so good luck to you."
The end of his infusion room days was anything but a landmark for him. All it meant was that now he would be receiving a bone marrow transplant and would have to remain inpatient for a period of time.
Another chapter begins.
There were about 10 people in the lobby with us. We were quite obviously the youngest ones there. The middle-aged women looked at us with pity in their eyes. The older-men had tired scowls on their faces. The older women spoke amongst themselves in hushed whispers. One woman sat in the corner knitting. We played handheld Solitaire games and talked and laughed.
The longest part of the wait was before being called back. Sometimes we would wait for hours in that waiting room. Near the beginning of his chemotherapy days, we were patient and jovial and pleasant. We would talk and laugh and joke and play games. As the chemotherapy started to have an accumulative affect on Andrew, the waits got quieter and he grew impatient and edgy as we waited.
Once called back, you entered a long hallway-like room with about 15 modified patient armchairs. The nurses were clad in special chemotherapy gowns and masks. They looked like the hospitals own personal HazMat team. The room was generally quiet and had a depressing feel to it. On either side of the long room there was a "kitchen." They had coffee, teas, juices, milk, and different varieties of crackers and cookies and fruits.
Andrew and I would talk and laugh throughout his chemotherapy. It was our day together. We would plan lunch and spend the day together. The infusion room provided the stark realization that we were just kids. While most remained quiet, slept, read or knitted, we joked with each other, played games, and tried to keep a smile on our faces.
The nurses would sing a song on someone's last day of chemotherapy and give the patient a homemade blanket. It was sung to the tune of Happy Birthday:
"Congratulations to you,
Your chemotherapy is through!
We wish you good health
and happiness, too!"
After about 8-10 rounds of chemotherapy, Andrew's attitude and demeanor began to deteriorate. He was increasingly sick and fatigued from the chemotherapy. Many times, the mere anticipation of the infusion room invoked vomiting. It began getting harder and harder to accompany him. His spirits were down and he was frequently edgy and bitter. The post-infusion transplants had long since stopped... he was now lucky to make it home from the hospital without having to pullover to vomit. He began changing the words of their song around for his turn.
"Congratulations to you,
your chemotherapy is through.
You now need a transplant,
so good luck to you."
The end of his infusion room days was anything but a landmark for him. All it meant was that now he would be receiving a bone marrow transplant and would have to remain inpatient for a period of time.
Another chapter begins.
Cliché.
I knew it wasn't going to be good. The parents had voluntarily left the room while the doctors came in to talk to us about fertility issues related to chemotherapy and the treatment regime planned out for Andrew. Everything was so new. Only yesterday had they delivered a diagnosis. Tonight, they were starting chemotherapy. We took it in stride... this could be handled. It was a temporary thing-- he would have treatment, he would get better, and we'd live our lives.
The doctors entered the room. There were fact sheets and information pamphlets in hand. I eyed the door. What an uncomfortable topic. I held Andrew's hand while they delivered the news. They explained our options and suggested making a sperm donation before beginning chemotherapy. He handed us a card with a number. We were to call the number when we were ready for that donation.
We sat in silence after they left. I felt the walls of the room beginning to cave in on me and I had to get out of there. I fought back the burning sensation in my eyes as I headed for the door. "I have to go to the bathroom," I choked out when Andrew asked where I was going. I stepped into the hallway. My eyes felt blurry and I suddenly felt dizzy. I could see our family gathered at the end of the hallway in the lobby. I couldn't see them-- I knew I didn't want to see them. Seeing them would evoke the tears-- and crying in the hospital was so cliché.
It was too late, my mom saw me. Their eyes shifted in my direction and I felt them peering into me trying to read my reaction. My feet were moving, but I had no control. I saw my mom and I could no longer be strong. I couldn't hold it back anymore. I couldn't pretend to be okay. The tears poured out. I momentarily forgot where I was, I forgot there were other people around. I didn't care.
My mom saw my face and started crying. I fell into her arms and she just held me and rocked me while I sobbed uncontrollably. The family around me tried asking questions and asking how Andrew was. I couldn't answer. I only buried my face into my mom's shoulder and cried. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to be anywhere but here.
"Let's go for a run," my mom suggested. "Let's run up to the top of that hill." She motioned to the mountainside immediately behind the Huntsman Cancer Hospital. She knew I hated crying in public. She knew that I didn't want to be here. But I couldn't do it. I was crippled by exhaustion.
Finally I started talking in short jabbing sentences.
"It's not fair!" I cried into my mom's shoulder. "I know, honey, I know... it's not fair." I could hear the tears in her voice while she ran her fingers through my hair. I felt the need to explain further. "It's not bad enough that this has to happen right now-- but now it's something we're going to live with forever. It's not going to go away." She couldn't respond.
I could feel Andrew's parents staring at the back of my head. It almost stung. It felt as though they were telling me to calm down so as not to upset Andrew. I couldn't deal with it. I only cried harder. My head was light and I was suddenly exhausted and paralyzed by my tears.
Reality was beginning to sink in.
The doctors entered the room. There were fact sheets and information pamphlets in hand. I eyed the door. What an uncomfortable topic. I held Andrew's hand while they delivered the news. They explained our options and suggested making a sperm donation before beginning chemotherapy. He handed us a card with a number. We were to call the number when we were ready for that donation.
We sat in silence after they left. I felt the walls of the room beginning to cave in on me and I had to get out of there. I fought back the burning sensation in my eyes as I headed for the door. "I have to go to the bathroom," I choked out when Andrew asked where I was going. I stepped into the hallway. My eyes felt blurry and I suddenly felt dizzy. I could see our family gathered at the end of the hallway in the lobby. I couldn't see them-- I knew I didn't want to see them. Seeing them would evoke the tears-- and crying in the hospital was so cliché.
It was too late, my mom saw me. Their eyes shifted in my direction and I felt them peering into me trying to read my reaction. My feet were moving, but I had no control. I saw my mom and I could no longer be strong. I couldn't hold it back anymore. I couldn't pretend to be okay. The tears poured out. I momentarily forgot where I was, I forgot there were other people around. I didn't care.
My mom saw my face and started crying. I fell into her arms and she just held me and rocked me while I sobbed uncontrollably. The family around me tried asking questions and asking how Andrew was. I couldn't answer. I only buried my face into my mom's shoulder and cried. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to be anywhere but here.
"Let's go for a run," my mom suggested. "Let's run up to the top of that hill." She motioned to the mountainside immediately behind the Huntsman Cancer Hospital. She knew I hated crying in public. She knew that I didn't want to be here. But I couldn't do it. I was crippled by exhaustion.
Finally I started talking in short jabbing sentences.
"It's not fair!" I cried into my mom's shoulder. "I know, honey, I know... it's not fair." I could hear the tears in her voice while she ran her fingers through my hair. I felt the need to explain further. "It's not bad enough that this has to happen right now-- but now it's something we're going to live with forever. It's not going to go away." She couldn't respond.
I could feel Andrew's parents staring at the back of my head. It almost stung. It felt as though they were telling me to calm down so as not to upset Andrew. I couldn't deal with it. I only cried harder. My head was light and I was suddenly exhausted and paralyzed by my tears.
Reality was beginning to sink in.
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