I took my sister up to Stanford for her chemotherapy last
Monday. I never wanted to learn about oncology, even second hand,
but life has a way of taking you places you never intended to
go.
I took my sister up to Stanford for her chemotherapy last Monday. I never wanted to learn about oncology, even second hand, but life has a way of taking you places you never intended to go.
My sister is fighting Hodgkin’s disease lymphoma. If you have to have cancer, Hodgkin’s disease is the best cancer to get. Treatment entails chemo and radiation. But historically it was the first cancer to be deemed curable; it is still the most curable cancer, with a cure rate of 95 percent.
My sister is on the Stanford Five Plan. She has an excellent oncologist. She has a huge ferocious network of family and friends who keep her spirits up by making her dinner, sending her love and chocolate and pajama-grams, giving her kumquat trees, praying for her recovery, and taking her to chemo appointments.
So last week I picked her up early in the morning and we drove to Palo Alto in the diamond lane. We parked in the parking garage and walked into the clinic, which is a huge, beautiful, high-ceilinged, spacious building, full of light.
Usually I uncritically enjoy light and space, woodwork and artwork. But I found myself looking askance at the amenities. Cancer treatment is horribly expensive. Even if one has insurance, the co-payments are shocking. Every CTT, every blood test, every anti-nausea drug drives the price tag higher. Where did the money come from to build this beautiful building? Should the money not have been spent on research instead of architecture? Is this the building Death built?
Some members of the American Cancer Association were giving to patients daffodils in vases hand-decorated by children. My sister accepted a vase. I calmed my ambivalence about the beautiful building. Probably it was built by money from grants and donations. Not the building that Death built, nor yet the building that Fear built. Probably it is the building that Hope built.
My sister signed in at the first station. We waited. She had her blood drawn. We walked upstairs and signed in at the second station. We waited.
A nurse called my sister in: she weighed her, took her vital signs, and put us into an examination room furnished with an internet connection that patients are allowed to use. We sent some emails to cousins.
An intern came in and examined my sister. Her bloodwork results were good; her white cell count was back up after a scary plunge the week before. The intern left. We waited.
The panel of oncologists came in. My sister’s oncologist talked with her. There was much rejoicing over the great bloodwork results. The panel of oncologists left to be swiftly replaced by the nurse who oversees the research project my sister is participating in. More talk; more rejoicing.
We walked to a third area and checked into a third station and were called into a third room, this one very large, graced with a huge picture window, and furnished with chairs much like dental chairs. My sister slid into one. The nurse started her IV and ordered her blood work results and her drugs.
We waited. My sister worked on some paperwork from her office. We waited about an hour. Procedures in pharmacy are being revamped to improve quality control and reduce errors. The revamping process is at that inevitable stage where things take longer. In the meantime, we waited.
My sister’s drugs arrived from the pharmacy. This week, my sister received her two “push” drugs. The nurse pushed slowly on the syringe; we were done in 10 minutes. On alternate weeks, my sister receives two drip drugs. That takes an hour and a half.
The drip drugs cause nausea, so an anti-nausea drug is administered with them. This works well for my sister. The push drugs may cause temporary or permanent nerve damage. So far, my sister has only felt some tingling in her right thumb and index finger, thank God.
We were done. We drove home. I would rather have skipped learning about cancer. But I have learned something new about my sister. I always knew she was generous and loving. I never suspected that she was so brave.
