CANCER: The Help

Saturday evening, Bastille day, my four week break from my common life in Seattle ended. It's back to the salt mines for me- solo parenting, cancer treatment, work and basically scotch taping my existence together. 

Much like the Sesame Street days of yore, I wish to dedicate this blog to the word "help."

Now the word itself is both a noun and a verb. Louis XVI really got the concept of the word as a noun- in that: "Don't talk that way in front of the HELP" kinda way. And while I hardly wield the power and decidedly opulent lifestyle of Louis, I do understand the need to rely on people regarded as "the help." 

In one of my dream career moments, I wanted (and still do, promise Carolyn Chow!) that I wish to return to school to pursue an ARNP degree. What can I say? I'm a people person....However several good friends try to discourage me from my pursuit. They state: "Sweetie, you'll never cut it as a nurse. The doctor's treat you like shit."  Now in my paradise known as Seattle, I'm accustomed to empowered nurses, informed receptionists and articulate volunteers. And I think- well who gets treated like that?

While at chemo camp in Ohio, I was exposed to a whole new reality of cancer treatment. It went kinda like this: "Hey, I'm the doctor. I'm in charge. And everyone in the building without the title of Doctor is to be regarded as either wall paper or the help." Oddly enough though, everyone outside of the Doctor circle seemed cool with those arrangements- except me. 

I was all, "what do you mean you gotta ask the doctor?"  "Just when exactly to you expect him to get to me?" and "Well, go get the doctor for me so I can ask him myself." You know- just being my usual direct and oh so diplomatic self. And in return, I got what I deserved- blank stares and downright glares in that "just who in the Hell does she think she is" kind of way. But really, in my opinion doctors are just people who need to move their bowels just like I do- on a good day, of course. 

Whereas, to me, the people that are often regarded as "The Help" are god-like creatures who bring a sense of humanity, care and compassion to those of us in our time of need. Yes, I loved the receptionist who would always wave me in and say: "You don't need to sign in. I got you marked off Ms. More." I really appreciated the lady who walked around in the lobby and passed out donuts (again with the donuts?). And let's not forget Ken, AKA the water-boy who checked in on me with such regularity- offering me treasures of water and yes, more donuts- that I felt like a marathon sprinter. 

And let's not forget those kick-ass Dayton nurses: Patty and Deb. I need to give a serious shout out to those ladies who seriously toil under work conditions that to me felt down-right inhumane. Clad in their blue chemo gowns and latex gloves, they worked like busy bees, pollinating each and every one of us with our special concoctions that keep us alive. It's grim work, chemo. Some will make it. Others won't. But these ladies- and all those like them- remind us that we're actually fighters- and we're a team- in it together- for life. They encourage us to keep turning our faces towards the sun and look on the bright side when really all you want to do is curl up in fetal position in a dark sleeper cell cave in Afghanistan. Premium cable be damned. 

And what about the verb help? Well, it's not an easy word for me to say out loud.  Saying "I need your help" to me is tantamount to admitting I slept with my sister's husband. I have three of 'em. You figure out which one it was...(kidding!) In other words, it's taboo for me. Period. But, I decided that upon my return, invoking all the best speech therapist tricks of the trade, I will practice saying it out loud. First, in private of course. I expect my friends will marvel, mouths agape, as I impress them with my new found skill set.

You've been warned. Once I get really good at this, your phones will blow up. You'll begin treating my emails like I'm a Nigerian prince who only needs you to pony up $1,000 to help me attain my inheritance. And my text messages- ignore them at your peril. 

I better end here. I have a date with my bathroom mirror.