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.

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.

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.

It's HOW much?

Friday, June 9, 2006.

Andrew was finally taken off one of his IVs.

The goal is to ween him from IV medications and replace them with the pill form of the medication. The bad news is that the medicine we got to replace this particular IV is a hell of a lot more money than the IV. (Insurance would cover 100% of the IV medications now, however for prescriptions, there are copays and different pay scales). With this medication down, he was down to one IV once a day, and one IV ran once a week. We were making progress.

My mom was the "babysitter" for the day. She took him to pick up his new medication at the doctor that day. While Andrew was in the clinic, my mom tried to be helpful. She walked down the pharmacy to pick up his prescription. When she got down there, she quickly changed her mind and returned to the clinic. I got a call on my cell phone.

"How much money do we have in our account?" This question usually means that what is about to follow is not a good thing.

"Enough, why?"

"I'm here to pick up my prescription to replace the IV."

I continue to lead him. "Well how much is it? $60? $70?"

"It's $886.00." The only response I could muster was to laugh. Never had I imagined that I would pay nearly $900.00 on one bottle of 60 pills. I could only laugh. I told him I would move some money around so we could pay for it.

Bitching about $70 prescriptions was a thing of the past.

Philosophy over Gin.

I had signed up for the seminar in advance. It was about bone marrow transplants and what it took to be a donor. I thought it was the noble thing to do. I should put myself on the registry to try to give back what someone had provided for my family. They told people it was uncommon to be selected to be a donor. They said it was a lot like winning the lottery. I decided it would be almost as exciting as winning the lottery.

The seminar was a waste of time. It was medical lingo that danced above everyone's head. People had a lot of questions for the doctor presenting. I didn't. I already knew the answers. I felt I could have answered them better than the doctor. I had to take a little break from the statistics and the side-effects and such and retreated into the hall. Nobody from my family asked questions or shot questing looks. They all knew. I didn't need to hear the statistics on survival for transplant patients. It was too fresh to me.

I let them draw my blood, take my information, and headed home. Duncan had been at my house when I left. I knew he would still be there. During this time Andrew had to have someone with him 24 hours a day. Since all the family had signed up for the seminar, Duncan came over.

I came home to Duncan leaned up against our bed writing furiously in his notebook. Andrew was passed out on the bed. It was only 8:30 p.m. Apparently he had fallen asleep during the movie they were watching. I had a suspicion that Andrew would fall asleep before I got home. His energy level was still suffering. It was not uncommon for him to be in bed and asleep by about 8:00 p.m. I stopped at the liquor store on my way home and picked up some Gin. Gin was our summertime drink. It was definitely a Gin night. I stopped by the gas station and picked up some mixers. I was hoping I could talk Duncan in to staying and hanging out with me for awhile. He hesitated at first, but then agreed. I poured us a couple drinks, and we sat out on the back porch watching the rain and talking.

The subjects ranged over the three or four refills we poured. I told him that I had been motivated to write lately. I wanted to relearn how to play the guitar and the piano and get myself a piano. I was hoping that I could get to the point of writing music. Megan had been wanting to get together and make music. Duncan was incredibly supportive. He was interested in helping. The three of us had talked about making music since high school. Mostly, it was talk. Only Duncan had actually followed through.

We talked about writing in general. We talked about the styles that people pick up. The main subject came to be about each person's life as a story. We wondered if we would be able to get someone to pick up our story and read it.

We talked about religion and the bible and radical leaders and "god". I told him that I thought of the bible as a book of fables. I didn't mean it as a degradation of what so many people revel as a holy text. I simply said that I see it as a book of stories that are meant to teach morals and values-- like a fable. I shared that I didn't think there was anything that made the bible more sacred or legitimate than other holy texts, such as the Quran. I told him that I think that they should all be taken collectively and deciphered and interpreted. After all, the bible wasn't written first hand. The writings came second or third hand as stories were passed down, and then eventually written down. Perhaps the gin was beginning to do it's wonders. I told him that if definitely sounded more like a case of fables to me than doctrine. Native Americans and many cultures taught right from wrong with stories. The conversation not surprisingly turned to religion and the idea behind "God."

We refilled our glasses and resumed our position on the back porch. We began talking about texts in general and about accepting things with an open mind and about going against popular culture. We talked about norms and thinking for oneself; not just accepting something as truth because it is the "norm."

Duncan reminded me that he thought I had been the first person to think that way back in high school because I had said that I wanted to read Mein Kampf just for the sake of reading it. I wanted to see for myself what it was all about. I didn't want to hear about it from a History teacher. I wanted to hear it from "the mouth of the pig" so to say. He said it made him think about getting all the perspectives, then deciding for oneself. I had forgotten about all that in high school.

I have not read Mein Kampf.

I have not read the entire Bible.

I have not read the Quran.

(I am behind.)

Harsh realizations.

We were expecting a short follow-up trip to the hospital. Things seemed to be going well. He had to follow-up weekly with BMT to make sure his counts were high enough to be mingling with the real world.

We arrived promptly at 10:00 a.m. In and out. In and out. That's all we were thinking. We had made plans to go out to lunch when we were done. We drew his blood at home and dropped it off at the lab on our way upstairs to the BMT unit. It was supposed to be faster that way.

His counts came back reasonable. This was good news.
They wanted to give him a dose of methotrexate while his counts were good (this is bad news). Methotrexate is a chemotherapy agent they had injected into him numerous times before. This particular agent was meant for his spinal fluid to make sure no disease lived on in hiding in his spine. He was visibly upset. The doctors left the room. Andrew vomited. It was the first time in months that he had vomited. The mere thought of more methotrexate was nauseating for him.

We had thought the days of chemotherapy were long gone. We thought that chapter was finished.

We were wrong.

We walked out of the hospital at 2:30. While waiting for the elevator on the fifth floor, an older gentleman and his daughter joined us. He was also a transplant patient. The signature bone marrow transplant mask gave it away. His daughter looked to be about our age. The man looked at Andrew in his mask. He said painfully, "You're much too young to be going through this. How old are you?" Andrew answered that he was 23. The man shook his head. His daughter stared in disbelief. We both offered a casual uncomfortable smile. The man shook his head. "You kids should never have to go through this. This should happen to old farts like me.... not kids your age."

All I could say was, "No. Nobody should ever have to go through this." It was not just a comment to be nice or polite. I meant it.

We rode down the elevator in silence. Neither of us had much of an appetite. We just went home.

Deceased.

I got to work that day like any other day. June 27, 2006.

I looked at my bulletin board above my desk as I started up my computer. Moxie. There was a picture of her and Andrew, lying on the couch before his transplant. It was one of the last pictures we had taken before sending her to live with Duncan for a few months (until the doctors gave the go ahead that we could have our animals back). She was a terror. But we loved her. I felt guilty that I hadn't been out to see her in awhile. She had been living with Duncan for about 2 months now and I had only gone to see her once. I brushed the thought aside and turned my attention to my computer.

Thirty minutes later, my phone rang. Duncan. I got a sick feeling. I answered tentatively.

"I'm not sure how to tell you this... I'm really sorry.... I don't know what happened.... I woke up this morning, and she wasn't moving. She's dead."

My heart sunk. Somehow I knew the news the moment he called. Of course, it was Moxie. I didn't ask a lot of questions. I knew she was a special cat. She had been rescued by us and had all sorts of health problems from the beginning. From her first vet visit, weighing less than a pound to her second a week later, where she had doubled her body weight and became alive with kittenhood. She was special. I didn't cry on the phone. I assured Duncan that it wasn't his fault. Repeatedly. Then I hung up.

I looked up above my computer at my bulletin board. It hadn't been that long since I was looking at the same picture thinking that I needed to go visit her. The tears hit me. I sat at my desk and cried uncontrollably for what seemed like forever. That cat. She was a bitch. Pure demon. But I loved her. I called Andrew up at the hospital and sobbed to him on the phone. He could hardly comprehend a word I said. Finally, I calmed down and he understood. I had to get back to work.

Later that day, I got a phone call from my niece. I never answered. I was at work and didn't feel like talking to anyone. Apparently she overheard my sister telling her husband what had happened and demanded my phone number. She called and said something along the lines of, "Krista, It's me, Brooke.. you don't have to be mad anymore because I could, umm.. buy you a new cat that looks like Moxie, but only nicer than her. So give me a call at ______.... k, we're always home, just call us. K, bye." I smiled through teary eyes. What a doll. I couldn't call her back. I couldn't cry anymore at work. She would make me cry.

I found out later that she had scrounged together 90 cents from her piggy bank to help us buy a new cat. Children. I would need to wait awhile before replacing such a unique cat.

One little lie.

The late effects of the high dose chemotherapy and total body irradiation (TBI) have shown themselves. Andrew is now hooked up to a pain administrator. Morphine. It became his best friend as the drugs destroyed the cells in his mouth and throat. He hasn't been able to eat in weeks and has been receiving nutrition intravenously. Now, he can't swallow. They have put a suction tube next to his bed to suck the saliva and dying skin from his mouth. When he's not sleeping, his face is full of pain and frequently grimacing.

The doctors keep emphasizing how important it is for him to brush his teeth and keep his mouth clean. They are empathetic; they know it is incredibly painful with the current state of his mouth.

He seems to be sleeping a little less. It's evening and I'm at the hospital for the evening. He starts to stir, and throws his feet over the side of the bed. My attention is diverted away from my book.

"Watcha doin'?" I ask curiously. It's the most I've seen him move in awhile.

"I need to brush my teeth," he informs me. He reaches for his pain button and pushes it. "Brushing hurts a lot," he explains to me, almost childlike. I nod in approval. I study him for a few minutes, teetering on the edge of the bed, waiting for the morphine to take him away from his pain. His eyes close and he starts rocking, dangerously close to falling off the bed. I smile, and get up from my seat on the little couch.

"Why don't you lay down while you wait for it to start working?" I lay him down in his bed and he reminds me, "I have to brush my teeth, but it hurts, I'll do it in a minute," he pushes the button again, administering more morphine. He's out. I return to my book.

About fifteen minutes later, he's up again, stirring uncomfortably in his bed. Again, his feet are over the side of bed. He pushes his morphine button and reminds me, "I have to brush my teeth, but it hurts," I smile, wondering if he remembers that we already went through this. I nod in approval and watch him again. I'm betting myself that he falls back asleep. This time, he lays back down on his own. I smile and shake my head and continue reading.

Again, about fifteen minutes later, he sits up and says, "I need to brush my teeth." I fight back a laugh. How could I be laughing at him in this state? This time, he stands. He rocks unsteadily for a moment, then seemingly remembers that brushing is not going to be a pleasant experience and he pushes the morphine button. I am tempted to start counting backwards from 15 to see if he will be back in bed before I'm done. I refrain, but I think I would have been accurate. Again he's sitting on the bed. "I'm going to do it... I just have to get ready." I nod, "I know. You'll do it." Seconds pass. He's out again, lying uncomfortably on his bed.

At this point, I have made up my mind.

He wakes again. Same routine. "I need to brush my teeth," he tells me as I watch him with a half-smile.

"You already did, honey." I lied. I couldn't watch him keep doing this to himself.

"I did?" He sounded almost relieved. "Oh good..."

He lies back down and falls into another fitful sleep.

I smile, and continue to read my book.

Virtual Loneliness

I've started reading. It passes the time while I sit virtually alone at the hospital.

Andrew is sleeping a lot these days. I'm not really sure how much time he spends awake and coherent during the day. I'm sure it's not more than a couple hours or so.

Today is no different. I sit by his bed with my hand on his leg. It's about 7:30 p.m. I have worked all day. When I got to the hospital one of his family members was there doing the same thing-- reading. They understood my need for some sort of normalcy and would leave when I arrived. It was our time now. Our time that he spent sleeping and I spent reading.

This time, he woke up and looked somewhat confused.

"Good morning, sunshine," I joked with him. Perhaps not the best choice of words on my part.

He stirs a bit, grimaces in pain, and looks at me, "What time is it?" he mumbles.

"Almost 7:30," I answer. I see confusion on his face and then he sleepily asks, "Aren't you going to work today?" I smile. "I already did. It's 7:30 p.m. I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere."

I think I see a hint of color in his face as he panics and sits up. His IV cords jolt with his sudden movement. His eyes scan the room quickly as he asks, "You let me sleep all day!?"

My heart melts. I know he hates sleeping late. He hates feeling lazy. I stand up and put down my book. "It's okay... it's okay. You need to sleep. Just lay back down. I'm not going anywhere."

His eyes stop darting about the room and he tentatively lays back down. His breathing slows again, and within seconds, he is again deep in sleep.

Again, I'm virtually alone.

I only need a Moment.

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.