My friend Misty uses an expression to describe any good and felicitous moment that is beyond coincidence, makes no earthly sense and defies every rule of logic. She calls it a “God Thing.” I can offer no other explanation as to what happened when I stepped into the treatment center at Kaiser Hospital Woodland Hills in July of 2011 for my first day of chemo.
My journey there had started in earnest just six weeks earlier on June 1st with a painful rib that drove me to my GP, and a sore jaw that drove me to the dentist one week later; and I would soon learn of the connection between those two visits. There came specialists, X-rays, MRIs, blood-letting and other indignities. Along the way the word “biopsy” was spoken, and it did not take the deductive powers of Sherlock Homes to know that something was afoot; and what was afoot was made clear on June 18th when I heard those most frightening of words,
“Tim, it is 85 against 15 that you have a cancer known as multiple myeloma.”
I will not sugar-coat it. it is no fun. Nine years of treatment, close to three hundred trips to Kaiser, certain experimental drugs that can beat you up, and at least a thousand needles. Do you like needles? Me neither!
However, those are not the things I dwell upon. The median life expectancy upon diagnosis for this cancer has telescoped from just two years — fifteen years ago — to more than eleven years today. The drugs have become so refined that the treatments are not as pernicious as they were almost sixty years ago when my dad was brutalized by the rather primitive chemo therapies. I will be receiving treatment every two weeks for the rest of my life; but it is now regarded as a chronic disease, not a death knell; and I am absolutely besotted with love and appreciation for the nurses and phlebotomists and pharmacy techs and oncologists who nurture me, comfort me, keeping me alive. Super-heroes all.
Of course, I was not aware of these benefits on that first day. As I walked down the hallway to the treatment center, I was praying like mad and claiming to myself, “You’re in good hands, Timmy; you’re in good hands.”
Little did I know!
She welcomed me and said, “Hi Mr. Piatt. Remember me”? There are about ten nurses in the treatment center, and they work on a rotation that pairs them with the patients on a random basis. What were the chances that a former student would greet me and treat me on my inaugural visit? And what were the chances that her husband’s gramma is a dear friend of mine? And what were the chances that this young nurse had the most remarkable hands?
As a senior in high school, Keri was the captain of the “Guard.” Sometimes known as the drill team, or the flag girls, or the pageantry corps, or the dance guard; they performed on the street and on the field with the marching band. And as a separate spirit group, they competed in “Guard” competitions. It was spellbinding to watch them do dance routines and close-order drills with the discipline and the cadence you would associate with the Marines. At the same time, they were waving these huge flags on ten-foot poles or flipping wooden rifles. They practiced like crazy, and the flags and guns were heavy and dangerous. Many were the times they took a blow from a falling rifle on the head or the hands or their shoulders. And as they endured the pain and worked the routines, they built real strength. Keri and her teammates developed hands and forearms as strong and sinewy as Popeye’s, with toughness to spare.
These memories of the “Guard” flashed through my mind as she shook my hand. She gave me my first needle, my first IV, my first dose of chemo and the first drip of my bone-repair medication. My day had started with apprehension and wild curiosity, wondering whether I would live or die, lose my hair, get real pukey or suffer enormous pain. Instead, from the handshake on, there was an enormous calm that defies all comprehension.
Over these nine years I have experienced the most amazing care from all the Kaiser nurses — now cherished friends; yet, my first day of treatment had a special tenderness. I was in the care of a woman whose hands were uniquely equipped to allay my fears. My walking-in prayers were answered, because I was indeed in good hands, the best of hands — hers and His.
My friend Misty called it.
Tidings from Tim 