So we're here today at our second home. Most of the world knows this place as Hollings Cancer Center, at the Medical University of South Carolina. I call it our second home for a variety of reasons: first, because we do seem to reside there at times. Second, because there has not been one staff member that has treated us as if we were just another patient, a number on a list of things to do, or as a small intrusion on their busy schedule. Every receptionist, assistant, nurse, doctor, research coordinator and volunteer has gone above and beyond with every single appointment, question, treatment, or problem we have had. I cannot speak for others who have been here; but for us, we like that we are recognized, called by name, asked about our day, our lives, our family. They remember trivial things like our love for camping, or photography, or that we have a new puppy. They ask about our son who will soon be part of the US Marine Corps; they ask after our daughter who is in law school.
Our oncologist is an amazingly patient and compassionate man. Dr. Golshayan has never seemed hurried, distracted, or as if he would rather be somewhere else when he is seeing us. He speaks with a slight accent I can't quite place, and always, always, always fills us with hope when we visit. Not false hope, as in a pat on the back and "you just let me worry about it" hope; he tells us of research studies and new drugs and new treatments on the horizon. He always spells out specifically what he wishes to do, and never lets us forget there is a next step, a next way, a new hope that may be just what we need. He goes over every test with us and lets us know exactly where we stand in terms of progression of Gerald's cancer, but always mangages to do it in a way that does not take away our hope. I can think of nothing worse than having no hope. Gerald and I are both devout followers of Christ, and ultimately our hope is in Him. But we do feel He sends us very special people to guide us on this journey. People to encourage us, inform us, and help us make safe and appropriate decisions for Gerald's care.
Today is a special day. We have been approved to take part in a research study for a medication that may slow the progression of Gerald's bone metastasis, and relieve his pain more efficiently. We are very excited. It is an IV infusion that he will take every two weeks for six weeks. He is getting the first dose today, so he has to wait after he receives the infusion to ensure he has no ill effects. They gave him Benadryl and Tylenol to prevent a possible reaction to the medication, so he is lying in the recliner sleeping. It's much more comfortable than the straight-backed chair I'm sitting in, but it's all about him today, so I'm good. I keep watch over him even though he has excellent nurses. I look for even the slightest hint of anything "hinky" (yes, it's a medical term) just like I always do. I'm getting hungry, as he will be when his drugs wear off. We take turns picking out places to eat when we're here (by the way, the staff is awesome with suggestions for dining as well) , and today it's my turn. I'm thinking the Boulevard Diner in Mount Pleasant, but we'll have to wait and see if he feels up to it.
There are many noises going on around me. The infusion lab at HCC is a busy place. There are people here getting chemotherapy, blood, study drugs, and medications for other chronic illnesses besides cancer, like Sickle Cell Anemia, organ disorders, and Chrohn's disease. Everyone has a story. The man sitting across from us tells us he has a chronic kidney problem that causes him to come every so often for treatment. He states if he misses an appointment, he could very well die, because it's the medication that keep his kidneys functioning. He is very small in stature, his flip-flop clad feet not even touching the floor below his chair. He has a very round face, speaks with an impediment of some sort, and is very nervous about his treatment. Tina, his nurse as well as ours, puts him at ease with her quiet voice and confident manner. He sits back in his chair, still a little nervous, but smiles at her, and relaxes his arm for the IV placement. Bells are going off on the other side of us, and Tina, having deftly started the IV, moves on to the beep; it is an elderly gentleman with prostate cancer who is receiving a Zometa infusion, and the IV pump is yelling at her that it's finished its job. He is hard of hearing, and is yelling everything to her: "CAN I GO NOW? ARE WE DONE HERE?" She reassures him and leans forward to speak directly into his ear. "Yes, sir. Let me take the needle out and you can go. I'm going to call your son right now to come in and get you." He leans back, resting in the fact the he can soon go home.
Two nurses at the desk are arguing over where to get their lunch, and the ward clerk on the unit is laughing at them, telling them as large as their hips are, neither one needs any lunch. They playfully take a swat at him, and he scoots our of their reach, laughing. The patients that have cubicles around the desk laugh as well.
Like I said, everyone here has a story, a sadness, a difficulty to deal with. Just like us, they probably don't think about it most days, but on the days they have to come here, it helps to have it feel just a little like home, just a little like what's going on with you matters, really matters, to them.
