I have to say that reading Keith's blog about the vanilla flavored "stuff" for the feeding tube really made me smile. Like any good joke there is a wonderful, marvelous insanity to it. Who comes up with these ideas? How much have they really thought about their product and its uses?
I am always delighted when Keith finds these little funny details in life. It is that observation of the absurd that makes living with him so great. He notices the ridiculous and the sublime. He appreciates the beauty of living and the delicious silliness of it all.
He will be getting dressed and turn to me and become "Borg Keith." Fiction suddenly starts to feel like reality when your body starts to sprout tubes and wires. It's all serious. It's all important. And, it's all just a little bit bizarre.
Machines surround him with unseen rays bombarding his body -- targeting the evil cancer cells. Didn't this happen to Bruce Willis in 12 Monkeys? Should we just tattoo a bar code on and get it over with?
The chemo pump clicks and buzzes for a few seconds. And I thought cell phones were intrusive! I find myself afraid to hug my husband because I might jostle some piece of technology. I think back to all those days when I became exasperated with Keith and told him "it's like you are glued to the computer!" Again, fiction becomes reality. The computer really is glued to him now. Can I take it back? I want a hug. I want to snuggle in bed and watch silly television shows.
Modern medicine is very efficient, very scientific, very logical. It is also very cold. It lacks the warmth of the human heart and the breath of kindness. Cancer abstracts talk about cost effectiveness and trials and mortality and morbidity. Doctors try to be professional and detached. Studies talk about drugs and methods and formulas and protocols.
But, during all this efficient, modern treatment there needs to be something more. Something enlightening and spiritual if you will. This patient is not a patient. He is a man. A husband. A father. A grandfather. A co-worker. A nephew. A cousin. A son. He is gentle, but sometimes impatient. He procrastinates over yard work and house repairs, but will fix a computer in a flash. He will take a drive across the state on a whim and sit in the sand and build castles with his children. He will get up in the wee hours of the morning after working late at night to pick up a daughter from the airport. He will pile unopened mail on his dresser, then wonder what happened to the debit card he was waiting for. He will tell me I'm beautiful when I feel like a wreck. He will mean it, too.
Humanity cannot be forgotten in the rush to heal. Love is healing too. Caring, compassion and empathy should be the cornerstones of medicine. The will to live is powerful. It is spurred by the amount of love and support we feel from those around us.
My husband. My best friend. My lover. My companion.
Cancer does not define you. Love defines you. You are surrounded by it -- enveloped in a swirling cloud of affection. It is also a powerful a medicine in your arsenal against this disease.
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3 comments:
Dear Catherine: It is your old roommate here.Your sister emailed me about what was going on.I posted silly advice on Keith's site, but was having trouble with my computer and was unable to leave a message on your blog. Somehow, much to my complete amazement since Michael is out-of-town, I managed to fix it. For now --any how.
This just completely sucks since Keith is one of the "good guys". I'd like to say something profound and insightful, but I've got nothin'. This is the best I can do: September 11, 2001 happened a month after my heart surgery. Michael had returned to Montana and I was staying with my in-laws in Missouri. I was still in "re-hab" walking, walking, walking and more walking. I had to focus to balance myself on the thick soles of my athletic shoes -- everything seemed so unfamiliar. On that particular day (9/11), when I wanted to be with Michael and was afraid of what the terrorist attacks meant to military personnel, I still had to do my "damn walkies". I remember thinking: "So this is what you do; you put one foot in front of the other and you keep going." That is the best I can come up with, Cathy. I know that this is tough stuff and my best advice is to take it one step, one moment, at a time.
Of course, we love all of you and are thinking of you, Keith, the kids and the grandkids.
One more thing -- a little bit of medical humor: Back when I was hospitalized Michael introduced himself to one of my nurses as "Major K-----".Later that day this nurse asked me if my husband's first name was "Major". I read Keith's blog today. His medical team sounds MUCH smarter!
Joanna,
Good to see your post here. I was tempted to pull your advice into my tips column on the blog but decided it was too whimsical. Though when in the hospital, I WILL use it for sure.
And I must confess, my medical team does sound and appears to be very competent. They're good people, as are you.
Keep yer heart pumping strong. We'll tell stories about these days years from now.
kk
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