I had a magic moment in the bathroom.
No, not my bathroom. My bathroom has a toilet that continually leaks, two bathtub knobs that don’t work right, and somewhere, ah somewhere, there is a leak into the neighbor’s home. The neighbors keep telling me about it, and, of course I smile and respond that I’ve told the house owner about it, plus two architects and three plumbers. I’d be happy to tell the guy who sells newspapers around the corner if they would cheer them up.
But back to my bathroom moment.
Oh…. only I use my bathroom. As I am still dealing with the “L” word, all household butts have to use other household bathrooms. My bathroom is mine, all mine.
The bathroom in question is located in the local movie theater. It is not mine all mine, but is more of a “whosoever” bathroom. Yesterday I took my kids to see Charlotte’s Web. Before we left I gave them something to eat and we went to our respective bathrooms, only to hear “I’m hungry!” and “ I gotta go pee!” as the opening credits arose. Well, I held out as long as I could, but somewhere between “pig” and “humble” I took Andrés, my four year old tiger, to the bathroom. He chose a stall, and chose well for someone who is new to the game, while I went on autopilot and automatically chose a good stall using all the prerequisites that I learned and mastered years ago. After, we washed our hands and then….and here comes the magic moment, I taught him to use the electric hand dryer. I pushed the on button, and held his hands under it. He stood there while I rubbed his hands together, not really getting it. I went over to the other electric hand dryer, turned it on, and began rubbing my hands together. He looked at my hands and then repeated what he saw, doing an A+ job. This went on for a few seconds, and then he looked up at me and a huge grin spread across his face. It was a magic moment, and he looked absolutely “radiant”.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
Hairy Guilt
Sometimes I don’t feel worthy to have leukemia….
I have what might be called a “good” leukemia, which sounds rather oxymoronic if you are the one with it. However, my leukemia responds very well to one round of chemo, 7 days of shots, 28 in all. Then of course I have my neutopenic fevers, caused by low white cell counts and unchained bacteria. But….. when all is said and done, if the chemo has done its job my travails through the valley of Hairy Cells lasts about five months. I go weekly for medical checkups to check my counts, but now as an outpatient who comes and goes and doesn’t eat raw fruit and vegetables, takes a daily shot at home, and swims again. Life returns to normalcy pretty quickly if fevers are kept at bay.
Meanwhile Miguel, my hospital room mate, continues to suffer from lymphoma, will be in the hospital at least a month, is going through a marrow transplant that has left him shaking, coughing and practically bedridden. Some of the patients I began with I still see, without hair, using canes, gaunt and receiving debilitating chemo. One child sits in the waiting room, no hair and with a face mask, while his parents sit next to him and hug him. Marcelo is struggling with his second round of lymphoma, has a wife and young child, and is hoping that a transplant will give him years to watch her grow. One man, what was his name? also struggles with something….what was it? and hopes to watch his children grow.
I feel like a man with a nasty hand burn who needed to go to the hospital burn ward. I took my place among all the burn victims, and the doctors labored to save my hand and help me on the road to recovery. And when I left the ward I left all those who could not heal easily; the disfigured who are condemned and relegated to center their lives around THE CLINIC, while my life I basically label as my own once again.
I have entered a door into a world of great pain and uncertainty, a world controlled by a cruel disease that kills little children as well as leaves widows and widowers to mourn. I entered a world where the future is always in question, where no one is “cured” and where future pains bring out the trembling question, spoken quietly, …. “Has it returned?” This new world is a waiting room where we all sit, and know, although we don’t say it, that some will no longer sit because they will be dead, and others will take there place.
But I, I have a “good” luekemia, and for that I only stand in the doorway of this world, fully expecting to leave it, hopefully for good. And, if I do return again, for a third time, it will most likely be to stand again in the doorway and befriend those who can’t leave so easily, some who won’t leave at all.
I have what might be called a “good” leukemia, which sounds rather oxymoronic if you are the one with it. However, my leukemia responds very well to one round of chemo, 7 days of shots, 28 in all. Then of course I have my neutopenic fevers, caused by low white cell counts and unchained bacteria. But….. when all is said and done, if the chemo has done its job my travails through the valley of Hairy Cells lasts about five months. I go weekly for medical checkups to check my counts, but now as an outpatient who comes and goes and doesn’t eat raw fruit and vegetables, takes a daily shot at home, and swims again. Life returns to normalcy pretty quickly if fevers are kept at bay.
Meanwhile Miguel, my hospital room mate, continues to suffer from lymphoma, will be in the hospital at least a month, is going through a marrow transplant that has left him shaking, coughing and practically bedridden. Some of the patients I began with I still see, without hair, using canes, gaunt and receiving debilitating chemo. One child sits in the waiting room, no hair and with a face mask, while his parents sit next to him and hug him. Marcelo is struggling with his second round of lymphoma, has a wife and young child, and is hoping that a transplant will give him years to watch her grow. One man, what was his name? also struggles with something….what was it? and hopes to watch his children grow.
I feel like a man with a nasty hand burn who needed to go to the hospital burn ward. I took my place among all the burn victims, and the doctors labored to save my hand and help me on the road to recovery. And when I left the ward I left all those who could not heal easily; the disfigured who are condemned and relegated to center their lives around THE CLINIC, while my life I basically label as my own once again.
I have entered a door into a world of great pain and uncertainty, a world controlled by a cruel disease that kills little children as well as leaves widows and widowers to mourn. I entered a world where the future is always in question, where no one is “cured” and where future pains bring out the trembling question, spoken quietly, …. “Has it returned?” This new world is a waiting room where we all sit, and know, although we don’t say it, that some will no longer sit because they will be dead, and others will take there place.
But I, I have a “good” luekemia, and for that I only stand in the doorway of this world, fully expecting to leave it, hopefully for good. And, if I do return again, for a third time, it will most likely be to stand again in the doorway and befriend those who can’t leave so easily, some who won’t leave at all.
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