Imagine my surprise when I saw that the two-person line I’d intended to speak to had become a whole host of people lined up out the door! But I was already too committed to my speech to stop. “Don’t you have anything better to do with your time than pick on people who are doing their jobs? You should be ashamed of yourselves for your petty complaining. Can’t you think of something more useful to do?”
Remember how I’d always turn bright red whenever I was nervous or embarrassed? I’m sure I was red then, but I didn’t care. Although I have to admit that as I marched out the door, I was relieved that I didn’t know anyone in that line! Complaining over nothing? You never did. I realized that day that Susan wasn’t the only one who had changed; I had too.
7
Cancer Buddies
The summer before I was diagnosed, Dad went through an extensive chemo regimen, and he still had to have “maintenance” treatments every few months. I’m almost sure that Dr. Weens didn’t describe it that way, but that’s what we called it. Even in his worst moments, Dad never let on to how bad the chemo made him feel. He would go to treatments on Fridays, stay in his bedroom for three days, and then somehow pull himself together enough to put on a suit, go to work, and resume a “normal” routine. He carried on with a sense of humor and lived each day by not letting cancer define him. Even now, it’s almost like Dad doesn’t even know he has cancer, because he doesn’t acknowledge it.
That’s why I was so upset about Dad being “let go.” As if chemo weren’t enough to deal with, Dad was blindsided at work, twice. He met with Dr. Weens on a Friday and was told he needed chemo, then he went into the office and told his boss. Returning the next Monday, Dad was demoted on the spot after holding the same position and title for twenty years. I hated that he was being treated that way. His work ethic is unparalleled, and besides, he would only miss a handful of days while going through treatment. A few months later, he was let go due to “restructuring.” I remember going with my family to help him clean out his office. I happened to see Dad consoling a sweet custodian who was in tears over him being let go. Dad has a way of making everyone around him feel at ease. He never makes anything about him, and he’s genuinely interested in others. Within two minutes of meeting someone, Dad will essentially know where they were born, which sports teams they root for, and the names of their kids or pets. It doesn’t matter if it’s the janitor or the CEO, he finds something in common with them. What I saw my dad do with the custodian that day was one of his finest moments.
Dad losing his job was also why I felt extra horrible walking through the back gate in March after the nurse found the lump on my neck. It wasn’t like Dad could just go out and get a new job right then, because he was still in treatment himself. So Mom and Dad began talking about what they were going to do. We ate dinner as a family regularly, so this was a frequent topic of conversation around the table. Sometimes we mused about opening a piña colada hut in the Caribbean, or we talked more seriously about Dad starting his own CPA practice. Mom had a teaching degree but had become a stay-at-home mom when my older brother, Robert, was born, and had never gone back to teaching. So when Mom first said, “I’m thinking about maybe baking some cakes to sell,” I thought, Oh, great, go for it! But I also thought, How many cakes can Mom really bake and sell from the kitchen?
When Mom called me at school months later and said, “I’m moving forward with the dessert business,” I certainly didn’t laugh, but I couldn’t quite picture how it would work. Even so, I was enthusiastic and ready to help with whatever she needed.
Eventually, friends started hearing about Mom’s endeavor and, while the business was small, Mom was staying busy. She had always enjoyed baking in the midst of the commotion at home. She could get lost in her kitchen. It was a nice diversion, and I think Dad knew that too.
My parents always made time for us, and there was nothing Dad wouldn’t do for one of his kids. He might have had a stressful corporate schedule, but he was available. Dad never missed anything that was important to me. When I took art classes or drama, he showed an interest. He taught me how to rake the front yard, change a tire, and sharpen a good pencil for the SATs. Chemo was not on the agenda.
Dad didn’t know that while he was going through treatment, he was setting an example I would come to rely on just a few months later. I wasn’t nearly as scared as one might think, because Dad made cancer, treatment, appointments, and testing look normal. Maybe getting cancer and going through treatment should have been extra scary because Dad had just done it, but it was the opposite. Dad and I had the same surgeon, doctors, nurses, and oncologist, and we went to the same cancer center and hospital. It was physically difficult for Dad to watch me in treatment. He knew what was happening, exactly how it felt, the sickness and pain I was experiencing. I’d ask, “Did that happen to you?” and he’d usually respond, “Yes.” In those moments, it was nice to know that I wasn’t imaging things; he made me feel normal. But beyond that, we didn’t talk much about cancer.
When I went with my parents to my first appointment with Dr. Weens, as soon as we’d walked through the entrance, Johnny, the welcoming receptionist, called out, “Mr. Stachler, it’s nice to see you!” Then, perplexed, he asked, “But what are you doing here? I didn’t see your name on the books.”
Dad greeted Johnny warmly, saying, “I’m not here for me. I’d like you to meet my daughter, Susan.”
The smile dropped from Johnny’s face. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I chimed in quickly. “Do I sign in here?”
I think we surprised them at the front desk. A father-daughter cancer duo… It’s not exactly common. But standing next to Dad, I felt at ease. I was proud of him, or rather, I was proud to be his daughter. Looking around, I noticed some patients in the waiting room who seemed grumpy. I realized then that I had a choice. I could choose how I would act. Dad had incurable cancer, but he always chose to smile.
Watching Dad at my first appointment, I knew that I wanted others to see me like they saw him. I would smile, be kind and thoughtful, even when I felt sick and miserable or had bad days. He made it look easy by choosing to have an upbeat, positive attitude, by not making it about himself, by smiling even when he didn’t want to. Dad’s had a lot on his shoulders, but you’d never know it. That is a true hero. That takes a certain inner strength and quiet courage. I don’t know if I always succeeded, but I tried my very best to be just like him.
Dear Sue,
After you died, I made a bargain with the heavens. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to anyone I loved, but I hoped that, at least, there’d be no more cancer. It was terrible watching you suffer. Ken and I were both forty-one years old when we were told that he had lymphoma. I couldn’t believe it. Our children, your nieces and nephews, were so young. Not only was I completely aware of what Ken was up against, but I thought I’d lose him, like I lost you.
I don’t need to tell you how brutal chemo is. Forget your cancer, the treatment alone nearly killed you many times over. I’ve wondered more times than I can count what it took for you to keep living for as long as you did. And the older I become, the more I’m awed by your bravery.
I’m not the only one who has wondered. One afternoon, when Ken was three months into chemo, he was as sick as I’ve ever seen him. He was in bed, curled up on his side. I approached him quietly, wanting to make sure that he was still sleeping and trying not to wake him. He shifted slightly, and his eyes opened slowly. Faintly, he said, “Hi.”
I knelt down next to him and reached to grasp his hands in mine. The fun-loving guy you knew, the guy with more energy than anyone I’ve ever known, was leveled. Distressed, I asked, “Are you still in there?” I needed to make sure that he was trying as hard as he could. I needed him to get through treatment and come back to me, the “old” Ken.
He took a slow, deep breath and assured me, “I’m here.” Then he whispered, “I was j
ust thinking about Sue. How in God’s name did she do this?” Sue, I don’t know how you withstood what was done to you. And I didn’t know whether to be comforted that Ken was thinking of you or…alarmed.
I tried to soothe him. “No one could do this any better than you.”
“Laura.” Ken paused. “What if this happens…to one of the kids?”
“Oh, Ken,” I said, startled. “The kids are all fine.” I couldn’t imagine where that had come from. Leave it to Ken to be thinking, right then, about our children. Trying to ease his unfounded concern, I promised, “Nothing is going to happen to them.”
I adjusted his covers, in a weak attempt to comfort him, and kissed his cheek. He faded back to sleep. We never mentioned it again.
8
Dueling Patients
When we found out that Dad and I would be having chemo on the same day, I weirdly started looking forward to it. I wasn’t happy that Dad had cancer or that he needed treatment, of course, but since he did, I thought, Well, let’s do this together. All three of us—Mom, Dad, and me. I thought having Dad sit next to me would be kind of nice. It was like “bring your dad to work day,” or something like that, and I figured I’d get through the day riding on the coattails of Dad’s gregarious personality and sense of humor.
After getting my port tapped, I came to our station and saw one of our favorite nurses, Cindy, quietly talking with Mom. She held Mom’s hands in hers and said, “Laura, I woke up today thinking about you and your family. And I prayed for you. We’re going to take good care of Ken and Susan. But I want you to know that we are here for you too. We’re going to help you get through this day.”
Cindy had taken care of Dad many times before and had gotten to know my parents over the past year. She was one of the few people who knew not only about Dad and me, but also about Aunt Sue. Hearing Cindy comfort my mom, my heart just about broke. I knew Dad and I would be fine, but what about Mom?
We nestled into our recliners and popped the footrests up. Looking up at his IV pole, Dad asked me, “Want to make a bet?”
“About what?”
“Who’s going to finish first today. I bet I win!”
Cheerfully, I asked, “What do I get if I win?”
“An extra candy from the bowl. Come on, take your best guess. Pick a time!”
By then I was laughing. “Dad, those candies are free. I can have as many as I want.”
Mom joined in. “Ken! Stop it!” But she was clearly tickled.
With that, Dad stretched out and glanced over at Mom. “Hon, I’ll see you a little later,” he said and closed his eyes. That was the end of it. The silliness and chatter stopped. It turned out that Dad did chemo differently than I expected. Rather than joke his way through it, he simply checked out. The day ended up being nothing special—I just had chemo alongside my sleeping dad while Mom watched over us.
The only slightly fun part of the day was sharing a few of Mom’s cookies with the other patients, which I had started doing over the past few months. I’d stop by a few recliners in the morning when I got there, before I got hooked up for the day, saying, “I brought you some gingersnaps. Enjoy!” or “My mom made these. I thought you might like them.”
Most people were surprised and happy to get a little treat on what would prove to be, in most cases, a miserable day. “These are for me? How sweet of you.”
We didn’t leave the nurses and staff out either. I’d share samples of cakes and new cheesecake flavors that Mom was working on for her business—and some cookies too. It wasn’t uncommon for a nurse to say, “Are you the one who left us the cake?” or “Thank you for the goodies! We loved them! They were gone by the afternoon.”
A few nurses knew what Mom was trying to do with her bakery, and they were sincerely interested. It meant a lot to me when a nurse would talk with Mom, asking how she was or how things were going with the bakery.
Of course, the nurses knew that ginger helps settle stomachs, so once they’d caught wind of Mom’s cookies, they asked if she’d be willing to bring individual packets of them for patients undergoing chemo. They suggested that she make a flyer too. “You know the days here get long,” one nurse commented. “This will give people something new to look at.”
The morning that Dad and I had chemo together, I walked in with a basket filled with ziplock bags of gingersnaps and a sign that we’d printed out at home advertising Mom’s business. She didn’t want anyone to feel obligated to her—the cookies were really just meant for people to enjoy. But I set the cookies on the front counter, pinned her flyer to the bulletin board right above it, and placed a few business cards nearby, hoping that someone would call her for an order.
Dear Sue,
Ken had nodded off at chemo, and I was grateful that Susan decided to as well. Their IVs were dispensing, and I was left sitting there, trusting that stuff to work. Quickly, I grabbed a home decorating magazine to distract myself before I broke down. I had to have faith that I’d be forgiven for not praying for them in that moment. It was one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen, the two of them lying there.
That morning, Susan had brought some of my cookies to the hospital to share. I wasn’t sure if her fellow patients would like the gingersnaps I’d made or not, but I had a feeling that they’d welcome her thoughtful gesture. I wasn’t wrong. Her smile and heartfelt comments only endeared her to them more. Like you had been, she was decades younger than most of the patients. Shoot, she could have been giving away those seventies-style macramé plant holders we used to make (wooden beads optional), and they would’ve been delighted! It was amazing to see how the patients’ demeanors changed during their brief exchanges with Susan.
As for the gingersnaps? I only hoped they would be able to enjoy the cookies, if they felt well enough to try them.
9
Nuke It!
The final needle was out, the months of chemo were over. Tears of joy and tears of exhaustion streamed down my face. How did we do this? And now what? Shaking my head in disbelief, I looked to Mom for confirmation. She said, “All done, honey. You’re all done.” I felt an unexpected sense of sadness. Mom and I had gotten so used to showing up, doing chemo, and navigating the days in between. It wasn’t easy, and I wanted it to be over, but on the other hand, Mom and I had learned what to anticipate, and we had both worked to be “good” at it.
Occasionally, I’d go out with Randy or with friends, but over time, I left the house less and less. I would become physically tired when I went out, but more than that, it was the emotional drain that I didn’t care for. I didn’t want people looking at me, because I could see the questions on their faces: How’d you get cancer? What did you do wrong? I sensed some people worried about themselves, wondering what they could do to prevent ending up like me. I was also shy about the cancer. I was quietly doing my thing, and I wanted to keep it that way. I didn’t want to answer questions. I appreciated the simple, “Thinking of you.” That said it all, and I didn’t need much more than that. There generally aren’t too many people in their early twenties with cancer, and the bandanna around my head was an unfortunate giveaway that made it hard to fly under the radar.
Sometimes I’d have lunch at our local Mexican restaurant with my nineteen-year-old brother Luke, going late, when it was less crowded. We’d eat cheese dip and sit in a booth until Luke had not only devoured his plate of food, but finished mine too. It wasn’t until later that I found out Mom had given him the cash to take me to lunch! Early on, Carey and I tried to go shopping. (Mom would follow along behind us with an empty wheelchair, “Just in case you need it.” Eventually, I did.) Then we decided that our time together would be best spent at home, watching Julia Roberts movies on repeat. Stephanie, my best friend since first grade, flew in from San Francisco to visit, and even then we were stuck inside, watching TV while she modeled the wig that I never ended up using. We laughed so hard until we cried t
ogether. Anastasia, another close friend, would pick me up for dinner now and then. We’d go to Chili’s—always Chili’s. Looking back, I realized that Chili’s was the closest restaurant to our house. I’m sure she was worried that I would get tired and need to get home quickly.
Randy came around when he could, but he was in another state, having taken a summer job in Mississippi. I wanted to see him, but at the same time, I didn’t want him to see me as sick as I was. Just as he was protective of me, I was protective of him. He was being incredibly supportive—one time he even drove all night to see me for only forty-five minutes before he had to drive back to work—but still, he hadn’t signed up for this.
My brother Robert, who had also gone to Auburn, invited me out to my alma mater to tailgate and go to a football game with his friends one Saturday. I went, but it was not my smartest move. It was fun, in theory, but as the day went on, I grew fatigued. I felt like a bozo sitting in a camping chair, having my brother wait on me (which he insisted on doing). I don’t know if I was physically exhausted or if I was just worn out from all the looks and constant questions.
Although seeing people was exhausting, I liked talking on the phone, and my calls with Randy or close friends became the highlight of my day. But even then, if the person I was talking to asked how I was feeling, I’d say, “Let’s talk about something else. Tell me what’s going on with you.” On a bad day, at least I could still fake it on the phone.
• • •
The next step in my treatment was what I considered the easy part—radiation therapy. As I understood it, I’d be zapped daily with a powerful x-ray machine that would burn off any leftover cancer cells that hadn’t been killed during chemo. I’d had a broken arm x-rayed before, and that was nothing, so I wasn’t concerned about this part of the treatment. Besides, Dr. Cline, my radiation oncologist, had an unruffled, cool composure. His demeanor alone diminished any worries that I might have had.
The Cookie Cure Page 7
