Fern Reflects
Like so many, we’re taking a break. Turning off the news. Trying to save our sanity for the years ahead.
Joe is in the basement painting. I’ll take this one alone. We both had colds this week. Walking around the house, coughing and hacking, looking out at the frigid tundra of our backyard, I was reminded of where I was eleven years ago at this time when I learned that I had carcino-sarcoma, a cancer that my doctor told me not to go online to read about. So, of course, I did. And learned that the mortality rate was fuget-about-it.
Divorce. Disease. Political despair. Writers write. Below is a column I wrote for the Ames Tribune in the days when this town still had a real newspaper. The column was published in 2014. And I’m still here.
Good News, Bad News
If there’s anything I’d rather not do in winter, it would be driving home from the Mayo Clinic after a four hour abdominal surgery. Ice fishing might be a runner up. In a matter of days, your life can turn around. I know. Mine has taken a number of spins.
One day, I was making plane reservations to visit a friend in sunny Arizona. And the next I was hearing pathology results. I knew from the sound of the doctor’s voice and his suggestion that Joe get on the phone, that he was delivering bad news. Indeed he was.
I had a tumor, a very rare, very aggressive tumor, he said. He called the tumor a “bad actor.” He added, “but it depends upon what stage it’s in.” Before I had time to pack a robe and slippers, I was scheduled at the Mayo Clinic.
“They’ll be very interested in you.” My doctor in Ames was reassuring, moving quickly to make the arrangements. In all his years of medicine, he had not seen this type of cancer. Ever.
My best friend’s gynecologist in New York had seen only one in almost 30 years of practice. I don’t mean to brag — but that’s how very rare my cancer was. The tumor was a biphasic (two-component) cancer, two types of cancer in one. Kind of like a Certs mint.
Maybe I sound glib but mostly I was terrified. Utterly and completely terrified. I still am, but only sort of. Because the good news, following the very bad news also came swiftly.
The government should be run like the Mayo Clinic. A team. Always on your side. The results of the blood work and the scans were read the same day. The results were delivered kindly, intelligently, without spin. A decision was made by a team who was working together and beyond competent.
There’s a lot of paperwork to be sure, but not 1,000 pages explaining a health care initiative. Except for the tumor, there were no obstructionists in this congress.
Monday, tests. Tuesday, robotic surgery. Tuesday night, the knowledge that there was no lymph node involvement. The cancer was in Stage One A; this aggressive, bad actor tumor was removed and probably lurking in a lab somewhere. Gone! Out! And not garden variety Stage One. Stage One A — the best grade possible.
Coming back to Ames, to my sunny house with a man who holds me in the night and to daughters who call everyday and friends who came with soup and brownies and cake and bagels and emailed and snail-mailed the most wonderful encouragement, I was bathed in love.
This was brought home to me in a matter of days: I am reminded what family and community means. And I am lucky.
Joe and I went back to Mayo the following week for follow-up and protocol. Radiation, chemotherapy — I will do whatever the team recommends. As a girl who received an “A” in the Stage One club, I am determined to be a star patient.
Hotels, restaurants and stores are connected to the Mayo Clinic underground, which means that we never had to drive anywhere, never had to even put on a coat. A good thing, considering that the city is frozen tundra much of the year.
A website called “Rah Rah Rochester” describes the walkways thusly: It never dips below 68 degrees in Rochester thanks to the climate controlled skyway and underground walkways.
A variety of galleria shops are also located along the underground. I see the significance of a “galleria” connected to a state-of-the- art medical facility.
For sure, The Mayo Clinic is not a tourist destination and no one goes to Rochester, Minnesota to shop. But I understood why a few years ago a friend of mine, following her successful surgery at Mayo, went into a gift shop and bought herself some expensive Limoges China. One piece was a porcelain carrot. Open the gold link and inside was a carved rabbit.
Perhaps this seems a silly purchase. But what she wanted was a souvenir, to remind her of the time we all have in the lovely, lovely country of still-alive.
A man I did not know, placed a small silver medal with the picture of an angel in my hand when I finished the last radiation at Mayo. I carry it in my purse, still. Above is a photo of me after the last round of chemotherapy at the Bliss cancer center in Ames, Iowa. I am holding a less sentimental gift, a tote bag from my niece, Lizzie. The message on the tote says it all.
The Iowa Writers’ Collaborative
Have you explored the variety of writers, plus Letters from Iowans, in the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative? They are from around the state and contribute commentary and feature stories of interest to those who care about Iowa. Please pick five you’d like to support by becoming paid. It helps keep them going. Enjoy:
"the lovely, lovely country of still-alive"--yes
We are so glad you are still here. Love the bag! I remember when Brenda gave you a bag that said F*#k Cancer - with all of the letters of course!