Finding humour (and a love song) on the stage of a new journey
“I keep my pants up with a piece of twine
I keep my eyes wide open all the time
I keep the ends out for the tie that binds
Please say you’re mine, and pull the twine.”
Roger Miller – adlibbed parody of Johnny Cash
“I’m coming in with you,” says Sue.
“I’ll be okay,” I reply.
“If it were me - would you let me go in alone?” she asks.
“Touché.”
What with pandemic controls in place – it isn’t always possible – but, since my blood cancer diagnosis, Sue accompanies me on appointments.
She is with me at the moment of truth with my haematologist/oncologist – a no-nonsense and supremely competent Big C Warrior. I’m pretty impressed with my doctor - and she wins over Sue’s heart the first time she drops an f-bomb.
The Big C Warrior describes what I’ve embarked upon as “a journey.”
A whirlwind of appointments, pokes, procedures, and cocktails begins.
Sue is in full agreement with my assessment of the people and the care I am receiving at the Simcoe Muskoka Regional Cancer Centre. I have not found a single thing to complain about. Think about it - during a pandemic - compassionate professionals without exception – that’s pretty amazing.
To our American family and friends (whom we miss dearly!) – I know you’ve been warned of the dangers of socialized medicine… but jeez…
First things first – before we begin my cocktail (boy, did I ever get the wrong impression when I heard about that part of the regimen) – there are two biopsies to get out of the way.
Sue is with me for the bone marrow biopsy – which sounds much worse than it is. My Big C Warrior (did I mention she’s athletic too?) power drives a hollow needle into my pelvic bone to extract a delectable Osso Buco core sample. The most excruciating part of the experience comes 3 days hence with the removal of the sticky bandage from my hairy buttocks.
Turns out my second biopsy is a hot ticket at the RVH operating theatre. Even the masked scalpers pacing the sidewalk have none to sell. So Sue has to drop me off - with a hug and a kiss – but I am clearly distracted – what with a sold out show and all.
Dressed in my gowns and waiting backstage, I am visited by the Affable Anaesthetist (say that 5 times fast). He wants to practice his lines and then gives me a tablet – “it’s for the stage fright,” he says.
Prior to the curtains rising, I am struck by the bright lights – the beehive of activity as lead actors take their spots and supernumeraries flitter back and forth in the background.
I get into character.
“In the room the nurses come and go talking of Michelangelo…”
My surgeon has executive presence. Small of stature – yet her eyes are spellbinding – and they’re all I can see, as the rest of her features remain well masked.
She has the air of a Sorceress – one that spreads good in the world – but I wouldn’t cross her. I can tell - she knows of what she speaks: “I’m going to remove a tumour from under your right arm – about the size of a peach.”
“Peach” – she says it crisp - with emphasis. In his prime, Jimmy Stewart could not have pronounced the word any better.
“Do I dare to eat a peach?” I inquire.
The Sorceress shows no interest in my interrogation.
I am placed on my back on the operating table – arms out straight – Jesus fashion – and the supernumeraries strap me into place.
On this day, the Sorceress has an Apprentice – a young woman – of even smaller stature with a delightful Middle Eastern accent. She’s as earnest as they come. The young Apprentice is tasked with reading me my Miranda rights.
She is near my face – and details the stage blocking – plus possible side effects.
“This position reminds me of the time I spent on death row,” I tell her.
The Apprentice struggles with my cultural reference.
“Thank God the Governor called…” I reassure her.
The aforementioned Affable Anaesthetist searches for a hairless spot on my being – apart from my skull – no such terrain can be found.
The Sorceress directs him to give this poor Vaudevillian the hook.
“Let us go then you and I with the evening spread out against the sky like a patient etherized upon a table...”
I trail off as he pushes the plunger.
I awake in my dressing room waiting for word from the heartless critics - where I have time to think about the nature of journeys – and the people you meet along the way.
My prognosis is not stark – in fact – should this current regime meet its objectives (and it usually does) – I can expect a period of reprieve – they don’t talk cure – but the bastard cells should lay low for several years.
And what does this do to my psyche?
It makes me think about my roll of twine – that finite resource of time that each of us has – but no one can see.
We give it a tug each day from a black box dispenser that keeps the inventory well hid.
“Live each day as if it were your last!” some would say.
But if I were to do that – the mess would be immense.
Laundry on the floor would be the least of it - socks inside out – vertical toilet seats – AWOL toothpaste caps…. And our alphabetically organized spice drawer would be total chaos… “Basil always comes before Rosemary!” Sue would cry.
I can’t live each day as if it were my last – but I can try to view this experience as a gift.
No one knows how much twine is left in their roll.
But this journey can help me keep top of mind the importance of each strand spent – of each moment and connection.
I can be more conscious of the filaments of my twine – and try not to let one go to waste in anger or in distraction.
I am wheeled out front of the revolving doors of RVH where Sue waits for me.
She drives us home and - in spite of my hangover (thanks to that Affable Anaesthetist) - I am mindful of every filament I spend.
Sue tucks me into a comfortable position with pillows, blankets, and tea.
“Please say you’re mine – and pull the twine,” I whisper in her ear.
- 30 -
