Two of my stories -- Number 72 and I Should Not Have Rushed You Through the Rain -- are up at CONNOTATION PRESS. Flip sides of the same moment, the stories center around a patient's last meeting with his oncologist. Editor Meg Tuite (and author of the gripping Domestic Apparition) interviews me on the stories, inspired by my father's experience with his health care providers.
Thank you Meg for publishing my work. Peace...
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Thursday, July 07, 2011
Mountain Pose
He stood on his porch and breathed in, long and full. Behind his ribcage, on the left, a twinge. He acknowledged the pain and bid it away with his exhalation. Sun filtered through leaves, dappling him in light and shadow. He focused on the red bird in the hedgerow. He raised his left foot into the cleft above his knee. Breathe in. I will beat this. Breathe out. Bad energy. He balanced on his right leg, a statue. A flurry of wings. He remembered the needle sticks, the crimson-filled vials, and wobbled in the small breeze.Lying in the dewy grass in corpse pose, the stars of heaven above him, it was hard not to let worries take over his breath. He thought most of the burdens on his wife and teenage daughter. He thought of his yoga students missing class, of no longer learning at the feet of his guru. He itemized unfinished projects. The moon rose over the tree line, a huge white ghost, the air so clear he discerned craters and mountains. He focused on the largest indent and breathed but the holes in the moon reminded him not of a face but of lacunae, the holes in his body left behind by marauding white blood cells that multiplied and multiplied until they conquered the red cells and built their own fortresses: lemon-sized lumps circling his kidney. His breath leaked out and he bolted up with a choking sound.
After the surgery he slept, his body too weak for anything else. People fluttered in and out of his room, angel shadows leaving fingerprints on his forehead, his cheek, the top of his hand. He remembered what he taught his students, to breathe out bad and breathe in good, and he surrendered to his breath. On each inhale he imagined golden sunshine flooding his bloodstream, his organs, his muscle and bone, then pushing dead cells and other debris through his lungs and pores on each exhale. Days passed. He breathed gentle arpeggios and dreamt of standing in a glade of redwoods, birds circling his head, mountains towering above the treetops. Fingertips tented in prayer position, he raised his hands over his head, feet rooted to the earth, and breathed.
***
Inspired by my friend Joe, a yogi who survived a 16 hour surgery this week that removed a kidney and other tissues eaten by cancer. He faces his ordeal with more courage and grace than I could ever imagine, supported and guided by his strong spiritual core. In life, there are those rare individuals who always teach, even under the most dire circumstances. Joe is such a person.
Please continue to give deeksha, to Joe, to your enemies, to any who suffer. Imbue the world with grace. Peace...
Friday, December 04, 2009
His Name Was Bill
Too much work. Too many patients to keep track of. Three still in Infusion to see now, Number 72 first. Sure could use a coffee, something to eat, but that new nurse keeps paging me. So I’m late? Everyone here in the hospital is late. Not my fault they called a staff meeting for nine this morning just to announce furloughs. Won’t change a thing for me – as long as Jensen Martell keeps throwing money at us to do trials of their wonder drug, I’ll be hustling these floors.
Waiting room’s packed. Two cops are guarding the bathroom door. Must be felon treatment day. Prisoners get cancer too, and since we’re a state hospital, we get them all.
At reception, the patient charts are stacked in piles all over the desk. In no particular order. I pull Number 72’s chart. Where’s the damn clerk – off to lunch? Why does she get to eat?
Patients fill all the seats in the main room, two surrounded by police. They’re sipping Hawaiian Punch and watching Jerry Springer on the television. Chemo day must be like vacation for them. One of the patients is in leg chains. I don’t find Number 72 in the other, smaller infusion rooms. He’s been in the trial for nine weeks. It surprises me he’s lasted this long. Tough old guy, wish I could remember his name.
I open the chart, it’s at least 2 inches thick. Where’s his CAT scan? I need the damn scan.
I head back to reception. Number 72’s head scan is lying on the desk. She hasn’t even put it in the chart . I wonder what else is missing? His bloods? Urine? Nope, they’re all there.
I throw the CAT scan against the light box. White lines of the skull and jawbone show up clean and sharp on the right side; the left side is a black hole. Not good. Not good at all. Jensen Martell will not be happy their silver bullet’s tarnished, at least in this population. I may have to terminate the trial, this regimen just isn’t working. And that means I can’t hire a medical fellow for next year.
Damn.
A nurse rushes past, carrying a tray of syringes, gloves, and tape. The ID hanging around her neck tells me her name is Marge.
“Where’s number 72?” I ask.
Marge looks at me blankly, then juts her chin towards the main room.
The third prisoner’s back from the restroom. Six cops line the wall, guns holstered. I find my patient in the fourth chair, the one in the corner by the window. He’s sitting upright, not leaning into the seat. His hands cradle his knee caps. Today a woman is with him, too young for his wife, probably a daughter. I’ve seen her before, too.
I pull the curtain and the rings rattle along the rod. Number 72 startles, his eyes look up, scared. Hers do, too. There’s no stool to pull up, she offers her seat but I wave her down.
“I have your cat scan results,” I say. He nods, almost imperceptibly.
“The tumor’s grown,” I say. “There’s mets to the lung and a blotch on your lymph node, under the ear. You know what this means?”
He nods. His daughter reaches out for his hand and squeezes it. He grasps her fingers hard.
“You can’t continue with the trial,” I continue. “The nurse will come in a few minutes to tell you about your palliative care options. We offer hospice, you know. And if you need to see a social worker, we can arrange for that.”
My stomach gurgles. I glance at my watch. If I hurry I can get to the cafeteria before they close.
“Any questions?”
“Daddy?” she asks. “Any questions?”
He grunts something unintelligible. She leans toward him but he grips the sides of the arm chair and tries to push up. When the daughter reaches behind his back, he shoots her a defiant look. She steps back towards the window. He tries again. I wonder if they have grilled chicken today, remember I need to pick up Ellie from ballet class on the way home. On the third try, he finally stands, swaying in front of the chair. His right arm trembles toward me.
Number 72 has a surprisingly firm hand shake even though the bones themselves are so frail they could snap if I grasped harder.
“Thank you,” he says. He collapses back into the chair. Sweat beads his forehead.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
I open the curtain. The cops and robbers are still there. Behind me, the woman cries softly. I pause; four minutes before the salad bar closes. Marge the nurse enters the curtained room. I walk to reception, lay the chart on the pile. The elevator whisks me down to the main floor.
“Bill,” I say out loud. “His name was Bill.”
***
I wrote this last night. Shortly after posting, my father, the patient in this story, passed away after a year-long struggle with a sinus cancer. I will miss him...
Peace, Linda
Waiting room’s packed. Two cops are guarding the bathroom door. Must be felon treatment day. Prisoners get cancer too, and since we’re a state hospital, we get them all.
At reception, the patient charts are stacked in piles all over the desk. In no particular order. I pull Number 72’s chart. Where’s the damn clerk – off to lunch? Why does she get to eat?
Patients fill all the seats in the main room, two surrounded by police. They’re sipping Hawaiian Punch and watching Jerry Springer on the television. Chemo day must be like vacation for them. One of the patients is in leg chains. I don’t find Number 72 in the other, smaller infusion rooms. He’s been in the trial for nine weeks. It surprises me he’s lasted this long. Tough old guy, wish I could remember his name.
I open the chart, it’s at least 2 inches thick. Where’s his CAT scan? I need the damn scan.
I head back to reception. Number 72’s head scan is lying on the desk. She hasn’t even put it in the chart . I wonder what else is missing? His bloods? Urine? Nope, they’re all there.
I throw the CAT scan against the light box. White lines of the skull and jawbone show up clean and sharp on the right side; the left side is a black hole. Not good. Not good at all. Jensen Martell will not be happy their silver bullet’s tarnished, at least in this population. I may have to terminate the trial, this regimen just isn’t working. And that means I can’t hire a medical fellow for next year.
Damn.
A nurse rushes past, carrying a tray of syringes, gloves, and tape. The ID hanging around her neck tells me her name is Marge.
“Where’s number 72?” I ask.
Marge looks at me blankly, then juts her chin towards the main room.
The third prisoner’s back from the restroom. Six cops line the wall, guns holstered. I find my patient in the fourth chair, the one in the corner by the window. He’s sitting upright, not leaning into the seat. His hands cradle his knee caps. Today a woman is with him, too young for his wife, probably a daughter. I’ve seen her before, too.
I pull the curtain and the rings rattle along the rod. Number 72 startles, his eyes look up, scared. Hers do, too. There’s no stool to pull up, she offers her seat but I wave her down.
“I have your cat scan results,” I say. He nods, almost imperceptibly.
“The tumor’s grown,” I say. “There’s mets to the lung and a blotch on your lymph node, under the ear. You know what this means?”
He nods. His daughter reaches out for his hand and squeezes it. He grasps her fingers hard.
“You can’t continue with the trial,” I continue. “The nurse will come in a few minutes to tell you about your palliative care options. We offer hospice, you know. And if you need to see a social worker, we can arrange for that.”
My stomach gurgles. I glance at my watch. If I hurry I can get to the cafeteria before they close.
“Any questions?”
“Daddy?” she asks. “Any questions?”
He grunts something unintelligible. She leans toward him but he grips the sides of the arm chair and tries to push up. When the daughter reaches behind his back, he shoots her a defiant look. She steps back towards the window. He tries again. I wonder if they have grilled chicken today, remember I need to pick up Ellie from ballet class on the way home. On the third try, he finally stands, swaying in front of the chair. His right arm trembles toward me.
Number 72 has a surprisingly firm hand shake even though the bones themselves are so frail they could snap if I grasped harder.
“Thank you,” he says. He collapses back into the chair. Sweat beads his forehead.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
I open the curtain. The cops and robbers are still there. Behind me, the woman cries softly. I pause; four minutes before the salad bar closes. Marge the nurse enters the curtained room. I walk to reception, lay the chart on the pile. The elevator whisks me down to the main floor.
“Bill,” I say out loud. “His name was Bill.”
***
I wrote this last night. Shortly after posting, my father, the patient in this story, passed away after a year-long struggle with a sinus cancer. I will miss him...
Peace, Linda
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Waiting...
This past week I spent a lot of time waiting. Waiting for airplanes to arrive and depart, waiting for luggage, waiting to sleep, waiting to wake. But mostly, I spent a lot of time waiting in a reception room with a vaulted glass atrium ceiling and a fountain surrounded by pots of tropical plants. The magazines were all old and scattered about small tables like the ochre and rusty leaves that crunch under our shoes when we cross the yard. The people sitting in this room all looked old, too. And scared.
I've never spent much time sitting in a waiting room with cancer patients. I was an intruder there, the healthy, the well one, sufficiently detached from their individual hells. After several days, I got to 'know' these patients: the biker-looking dude with his tee sleeves rolled up, speaking through a tracheotomy; the wrinkled black woman, silver hair in a tidy, dignified chignon, wobbling on the arm of a nurse; the slight woman, my age with neatly-pressed khakis and a red cardigan who seemed so self-contained most mornings but on the last day wept quietly while speaking with her doctor; the dark-haired man with intense blue eyes who came out from behind the radiation treatment doors on the second day and shook his head at his wife sitting, his back shuddering in little spasms. And of course, my father, acting friendly, informed, strong. Confident, for me maybe, or for himself. And if you looked closely at me, at my eyes, maybe you'd see fear there, too.
I think of these people, I wonder and worry and pray for them.
And so I wait... 20 days done, 12 more to go. Peace, Linda
I've never spent much time sitting in a waiting room with cancer patients. I was an intruder there, the healthy, the well one, sufficiently detached from their individual hells. After several days, I got to 'know' these patients: the biker-looking dude with his tee sleeves rolled up, speaking through a tracheotomy; the wrinkled black woman, silver hair in a tidy, dignified chignon, wobbling on the arm of a nurse; the slight woman, my age with neatly-pressed khakis and a red cardigan who seemed so self-contained most mornings but on the last day wept quietly while speaking with her doctor; the dark-haired man with intense blue eyes who came out from behind the radiation treatment doors on the second day and shook his head at his wife sitting, his back shuddering in little spasms. And of course, my father, acting friendly, informed, strong. Confident, for me maybe, or for himself. And if you looked closely at me, at my eyes, maybe you'd see fear there, too.
I think of these people, I wonder and worry and pray for them.
And so I wait... 20 days done, 12 more to go. Peace, Linda
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Watermelon Mountains...
I am always awed traveling across the country, be it by car or plane or train or motorcycle - I've done versions of all four modes. Flying over the panhandle of Texas as the foothills grow into the New Mexico border always makes me pause. The Sacramento mountains, called the Watermelon Mountains for the way they glow in sunset, swell gentle at first, then pierce upwards in snow-grizzled peaks. Furrows chunnel the slopes holding up mesas, as if the fingers of God raked through the earth.
It is barren here, and magnificent and wild.
---
I'm pimping Public Health here in San Diego. It's part of my day jb, yet integral to all else in my life. With the economy tanking, our nation will be hard-pressed to make any advances in health; indeed, my biggest fear is we will see the 'system' we now enjoy crumble. Dreams of insurance coverage for all seem as distant now as they did 40 years ago...
---
Going to conferences has it's upside - food, food, FOOD! San Diego is fabulous. Tonight I went with a friend to Little Italy for the express purpose of going to Extraordinary Desserts. Alas, we detoured to Indigo Grill for some 'light' Native American/Mexican fushion fare. The cup of torilla soup was in a bowl larger than my serving plate at home, and the stacked beet salad was... indescrible. We rolled out and down India Street all the way back to our hotels at the harbor.
---
THE WRITING... BRIGHTER THAN BRIGHT revisions are finito! Just in time for NaNoWriMo. Tomorrow's direct flight back is dedicated to fleshing out the NaNo plan of attack.
READING... SIDE EFFECTS by Allison Bass. The story of scientific fraud behind Prozac and Paxil drug development and marketing. Research for PURE... Reread ATONEMENT and sobbed for 15 minutes last night after finishing the heart-wrenching section about Robbie slogging through france to get to the beach. That last scene... perfetto.
Dad started radiation and chemo this week. Any spare, warm wishes appreciated... Peace, Linda
It is barren here, and magnificent and wild.
---
I'm pimping Public Health here in San Diego. It's part of my day jb, yet integral to all else in my life. With the economy tanking, our nation will be hard-pressed to make any advances in health; indeed, my biggest fear is we will see the 'system' we now enjoy crumble. Dreams of insurance coverage for all seem as distant now as they did 40 years ago...
---
Going to conferences has it's upside - food, food, FOOD! San Diego is fabulous. Tonight I went with a friend to Little Italy for the express purpose of going to Extraordinary Desserts. Alas, we detoured to Indigo Grill for some 'light' Native American/Mexican fushion fare. The cup of torilla soup was in a bowl larger than my serving plate at home, and the stacked beet salad was... indescrible. We rolled out and down India Street all the way back to our hotels at the harbor.
---
THE WRITING... BRIGHTER THAN BRIGHT revisions are finito! Just in time for NaNoWriMo. Tomorrow's direct flight back is dedicated to fleshing out the NaNo plan of attack.
READING... SIDE EFFECTS by Allison Bass. The story of scientific fraud behind Prozac and Paxil drug development and marketing. Research for PURE... Reread ATONEMENT and sobbed for 15 minutes last night after finishing the heart-wrenching section about Robbie slogging through france to get to the beach. That last scene... perfetto.
Dad started radiation and chemo this week. Any spare, warm wishes appreciated... Peace, Linda
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Horn tooting
is not something I'm particularly good at. But today deserves a little self-promotion: my first publication in THE SUN, a well-regarded print literary journal out of Chapel Hill, officially hits the newstands today.
And I won a writing contest.
I'd forgotten about the contest, actually. Back in May, I was deep in a flurry of submission activity: conferences, contests, agents, editors. I'm usually pretty organized about keeping track of what went where, so yesterday's email from Paula Berinstein of THE WRITING SHOW was kind of like finding a forgotten twenty tucked in last season's blazer pocket. But oh, so much better.
THE WRITING SHOW is a great resource for writers, lots of podcasts on the entire writing prociess, from idea formulation to editing to publication and marketing. They run several contests; I submitted the first chunk of BRIGHTER THAN BRIGHT to the Best First Chapter of an Unpublished Novel contest.
Prizes galore: the glory, of course, perhaps the greatest reward of all in this oft discouraging business; mentoring/coaching from Joe Nassise, a well-regarded fantasy novelist; an upcoming interview; and CASH enough to qualify as a PW "nice deal."
Which leads me to another reason to toot horns... our beloved Moonrattie, editor extraordinaire, anonymous author of EDITORIAL ASSISTANT, and friend to writers everywhere, has a friend in need, someone with stage 4 lymphoma who needs financial help paying for PET scans and other diagnostics. With a father newly-diagnosed with stage 4 head/neck cancer, I have total sympathy for this woman; I cannot fathom how my family would deal with our devastation if we had to worry about money and insurance. I'm investing some of my winnings in a raffle for a chance at Moonie's editorial acumen.
Go HERE ==> MISCHIEF FIGHTS CANCER to find out more. Please, pay your blessings forward.
Peace, Linda
And I won a writing contest.
I'd forgotten about the contest, actually. Back in May, I was deep in a flurry of submission activity: conferences, contests, agents, editors. I'm usually pretty organized about keeping track of what went where, so yesterday's email from Paula Berinstein of THE WRITING SHOW was kind of like finding a forgotten twenty tucked in last season's blazer pocket. But oh, so much better.
THE WRITING SHOW is a great resource for writers, lots of podcasts on the entire writing prociess, from idea formulation to editing to publication and marketing. They run several contests; I submitted the first chunk of BRIGHTER THAN BRIGHT to the Best First Chapter of an Unpublished Novel contest.
Prizes galore: the glory, of course, perhaps the greatest reward of all in this oft discouraging business; mentoring/coaching from Joe Nassise, a well-regarded fantasy novelist; an upcoming interview; and CASH enough to qualify as a PW "nice deal."
Which leads me to another reason to toot horns... our beloved Moonrattie, editor extraordinaire, anonymous author of EDITORIAL ASSISTANT, and friend to writers everywhere, has a friend in need, someone with stage 4 lymphoma who needs financial help paying for PET scans and other diagnostics. With a father newly-diagnosed with stage 4 head/neck cancer, I have total sympathy for this woman; I cannot fathom how my family would deal with our devastation if we had to worry about money and insurance. I'm investing some of my winnings in a raffle for a chance at Moonie's editorial acumen.
Go HERE ==> MISCHIEF FIGHTS CANCER to find out more. Please, pay your blessings forward.
Peace, Linda
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Gratitude is relative...
I get this weird wired energy walking down Eutaw Street, past the mob loitering outside Lexington Market, murmuring "wanna buy, wanna buy". What's for sale? Drugs, specifically smack and crank. I feel a voyeur watching the swift, furtive exchanges, money for baggies concealed in downturned palms.
Watching the desperate joy (yes, there is community here on this street) makes me think lots of things. This blog entry, for one. But mostly I ponder why indulging in these substances must be so stigmatized relative to the societally blatant acceptance of tobacco and alcohol.
I also consider my luck in this life, despite my recent pity-partying: my children are vibrant, healthy beings; I have a strong, supportive partner; my job pays well and satisfies me (most of the time) intellectually and emotionally; I have my mind, my body, my breath; today, the sun warms my earth.
With time, gratitude becomes relative. When a loved one is diagnosed with cancer, the words stage 4 squamous cell sound like a blessing compared to last week's multisyllabic melanoma. Six weeks of radiation and chemo seem infinitely shorter than seven.
This morning, I woke, a kernal of a mantra playing in my head. I wrote it down, and fear disappeared...
Worry
Cloaked
in desperate quiet,
sneaky
mind-snatcher,
time-catcher,
cocainated nerves flare
a dull burn;
synapses flood,
spilling
into dark
futility.
THE WRITING... it goes, it goes, ever so slowly, but I am revising a climactic scene that requires much tender care.
Peace, Linda
Watching the desperate joy (yes, there is community here on this street) makes me think lots of things. This blog entry, for one. But mostly I ponder why indulging in these substances must be so stigmatized relative to the societally blatant acceptance of tobacco and alcohol.
I also consider my luck in this life, despite my recent pity-partying: my children are vibrant, healthy beings; I have a strong, supportive partner; my job pays well and satisfies me (most of the time) intellectually and emotionally; I have my mind, my body, my breath; today, the sun warms my earth.
With time, gratitude becomes relative. When a loved one is diagnosed with cancer, the words stage 4 squamous cell sound like a blessing compared to last week's multisyllabic melanoma. Six weeks of radiation and chemo seem infinitely shorter than seven.
This morning, I woke, a kernal of a mantra playing in my head. I wrote it down, and fear disappeared...
Worry
Cloaked
in desperate quiet,
sneaky
mind-snatcher,
time-catcher,
cocainated nerves flare
a dull burn;
synapses flood,
spilling
into dark
futility.
THE WRITING... it goes, it goes, ever so slowly, but I am revising a climactic scene that requires much tender care.
Peace, Linda
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