Tag Archives: side effects

Missing the Life

The table is set, and our maid is furiously working in the kitchen to finalize the Thanksgiving prep.  Through the embassy my husband secured a turkey, though I told him it was an exception made only for our guests.  I close the glass french doors to the balcony; the sun streaming in on this hot summer day in November is inhospitable and I turn on the air conditioning unit located above our dining room table.  I light the candles, all shades of fall and markedly out of place on this summer day in Buenos Aires, but it is Thanksgiving, and I aim to give our argentine guests an authentic taste of the holiday. I check the time–they will be here soon.

After two bottles of wine and a sampling of everything from the turkey to the stuffing to the pumpkin pie, our argentine guests are laughing and playing with the baby on the floor while our toddler sidles up to their teenage son, curious about the smartphone he holds.  The argentine general reaches for the baby and brings him to his lap, cooing and beaming, wishing aloud for a grand baby of his own.

His wife leans toward me.  “Look at this,” she says with a loving smile, “he can’t keep his hands off babies.” She links her arm through mine and launches into a story, one of many she keeps handy, about her husband and his weakness for kids.

She heads toward the kitchen before they go to thank our maid for her efforts and delicious cooking, and just before they exit our apartment and slide into the elevator, doles out the biggest of hugs.

“Thank you,” she looks me square in the eye, “this has been the most lovely experience we’ve ever had.  Thank you for showing us this tradition of family and love.”

“Just a typical Thanksgiving full of screaming kids and too much to drink!” I laugh and blow her a kiss as the elevator closes and we hear them descend, knowing this is my last scene of the day.  The boys, napping, and the maid cleaning up–the perks of diplomatic life–allow my husband and I a moment alone.

“Do you think they suspected anything?” I ask him as we sit in the living room, overlooking the park four stories below, alive with argentines and their beloved dogs in the summer sun, while the remnants of the meal lay scattered about the dining room table, awaiting their second showing.

“I don’t think so,” he leans back in his chair, a fresh glass of wine in hand, wistful.

 

I remember the toast he gave as he started off the meal, awkwardly attempting to explain Thanksgiving to our guests, the argentine general and his wife and son, and ending with a toast to those things for which we are thankful.  His eyes stall on me as he expresses his gratitude for his family, and I know he is remembering our visit to Hospital Aleman yesterday, the news, the waiting room, crowded, solemn.  Remembering the follow up trip to Starbucks as we digested the information: cancer in the lymph node, at least one, possibly more.  A follow up with the surgical team scheduled.  A breakdown in the back of the coffee shop, a fellow patron staring while desperately trying to seem uninterested, a second trip to the napkin holders to dry my unyielding tears.  He stops mid-sentence during his monologue, trying to compose himself, finishing the toast with strength and poise.  I glance at our guests, managing a weak smile.  I hold my breath, and they do not notice.  But if they look closely, I’m sure they’ll see his cancer all over my face.

***

It’s a date I always remember.  The birthday of my high school best friend; I remember the year I made her a cake and she told me it was her favorite gift.  No matter the year, no matter that the depth of our friendship has dramatically changed, I always remember.

This year, however, I remember differently.

Driving in the car with my husband, the boys in the backseat, we are on our way to dinner, to the home of friends who now live in DC but once lived with us in Buenos Aires.  It’s dark, even though it’s early.  I glance at my iphone before heading inside and notice the date: November 23.  But tonight, I don’t remember my high school friend and her inclination for fast, tight hugs and high pitched squeals.  Tonight I remember November 23 one year ago, in the dermatologist’s office in Buenos Aires.  A seemingly ordinary Wednesday.  Waiting in a crowded room with other patients, all looking just as anxious, as I resist the urge to vomit in the nearby bathroom.  It will be a false alarm, I tell myself.  We are called by the doctor into her office, separated from the waiting room by paper thin walls.  I feel the eyes of all the other patients burning into my back as we wait, holding our breath.

It’s cancer, she says.

An hour later we are seated at the Starbucks across from Hospital Aleman in downtown Buenos Aires, trying to make sense of the spanish phrases, make sure we understood, make sure there was no possible way that my interpretation was wrong.  An hour after that, I am home in our downtown apartment, in the arms of our maid, crying in the kitchen.  Having lost her husband to cancer five years earlier, she is all too familiar with my fears.

“Have faith,” she says, looking at me through sad brown eyes, before escaping into the laundry room.

“Should I cancel Thanksgiving?” I ask my husband as I pick up the toys scattered in the living room, moving books back to their shelves, righting pillows, folding blankets, trying to put my life back together.

“No,” he says without missing a beat, “why would we do that?  Besides, everything’s ready.  And it’ll be fun.”

But neither of us are convinced.

***

Our friend’s home is a treasure trove of reminders of their life in Argentina–wild game hung from the wall, antique maps framed in the entryway, cow-hide rugs warming the dark wood floors.  The welcome is warm and the kids whirl themselves into a frenzy of toys and games of chase as the adults take turns watching and drinking and holding the baby.  While our hostess busies herself in the kitchen, I settle in with an argentine red and her birthday gift, a picture book of their time as a family in Argentina–a highlight reel of their adventures, their travel, their once-in-a-lifetime memories made.  And as I look at them, posed in front of glaciers, standing at the Chile/Argentine border, drinking Malbecs at estancias, riding argentine horses, I feel something I haven’t in a while: longing, an ache, and the sting of envy.  I see in this book what our life should have looked like.  I see the memories we should have made.  I close the book.

On our way home, I ask my husband if he remembers which day he was diagnosed.  It’s  not a fair question; I know it was a year ago today.  And I can’t decide if he is truthful when he replies that he’s not really sure.  We are both playing chicken, seeing who will blink first.

“I miss Argentina,” I say after he reveals nothing, “I buried it somewhere down deep, and tonight it all came up to the surface.”

A phone call to our dermatologist friend, a Thanksgiving meal, and three days later, our life in Argentina is over after only six months.

“I know,” he says with a side glance as he turns on his blinker and slows at the light, one more turn before we’re at our DC townhouse.  “Did you see their book?  I can’t believe all the things we’ve missed.”

***

The boys sleepily fill up on Thanksgiving leftovers for lunch–a full day of romping with cousins and friends has left them utterly exhausted.  My husband steps into our galley kitchen but I intercept him with a tight squeeze and he doesn’t let go, burying himself in my shoulder.  This morning his rash was back–my pits are the pits!, he puns–and this afternoon his leg has swollen.  The cancer is gone, yet somehow it lingers, always lingers.  We sway back and forth to music only we hear, and I catch our oldest son staring at us over his sandwich.  I wink at him, toss him a smile.

He stares silently for a few seconds, elbows resting on the rustic dining table that he’s covered with stains, then drops his sandwich, a smile spreading across his rosy cheeks.  “You guys look like you’re married!” he proclaims, pointing out our embrace, getting his sidekick to look our way, his face covered in jelly.

We laugh but my husband still doesn’t let go.  My toddler, growing up, already learning what love looks like.

“Well that’s good, because we are!” I laugh, and breathe in the scene–two beautiful towheaded boys, a warm, sunlit home, the boys’ artwork taped to every available wall.  They have lost interest in us and begin shouting at each other, each one mimicking the other with growing volume until they end the game in a fit of giggles.

I am still wrapped in the embrace of the man I married only four years ago, and from this vantage point it’s pretty clear:  we actually haven’t missed a thing.

 

 

 

 

 

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Side Effects

“This is it? Where’s the entourage?”, I joke as the doctor moves past me to his chair in the corner, trailed only by the nurse practitioner and research coordinator today. The cramped room, normally packed with interns and fellows, all eager to examine my husband’s betraying body, seems strangely vacant even though there are still five of us for today’s checkup.

The joke goes unacknowledged.

“A number of people have died on your arm of the trial,” the doctor dives in, “most were frail, old; probably dying due to high toxicity in the body. I would’ve have allowed them to participate, but it’s a national trial and I don’t have much oversight. So, in any event, your arm of the trial as been suspended pending further review”.

I feel the blood drain from my face and then heat creeping up my neck; I grip the seat of the chair with my arm locked at my side, a reflex to keep myself from falling. I try to listen to the words he’s saying as he continues, but I only hear the word “died” on repeat in my head. I try to focus on the doctor. I remind myself that my husband is healthy, alive, sitting next to me.

I take a breath.

“How many people died, exactly?” I ask, hoping I seem unaffected.

“Around six or so, out of four hundred”, he says.

“And how many of them were old and frail, in their eighties, as you said?”

“I can’t say for certain”, he responds, crossing his leg, left ankle atop his right knee. He wears a pin in the shape of a heart with the letter M on his lapel. I focus on this as he speaks, “and this was all in the first twelve weeks of dosing.”

“So, to clarify, none of them after the initial twelve weeks?” I press him, wanting to know if my husband is at risk.

“Again, I can’t say for certain, but I think most of them did. We’ll know more after the review in six weeks, at which point we’ll let you know if the trial will continue or if we’re done,” he uncrosses his legs and sits a little straighter, pointing his body toward the door.

I glance at my husband, seated by my side, a buffer between the doctor and me. He has not spoken. My silence is his cue.

“So, I might be done with the trial in November? And then what happens?” he speaks, shaking off the surprise, stepping into his proactive patient role.

“Then that’s it, you’re done,” the doctor says, opening his hands. Ta-da!

Just moments before, I think to myself, we were scribbling notes about TSH levels, waiting for blood work results, thinking my husband’s high TSH levels were indicative of a pituitary gland side effect. We were worried about the wrong side effect.

We recap the news but it is clear that there is little else to discuss at this point. The doctor rises, shakes my husband’s hand, then mine.

“See you in six weeks,” he says as he strides out of the small room.

Some chit chat ensues, some tying up of loose ends. The nurse practitioner mentions a waiver she’ll provide for my husband for work, the research coordinator tells us to follow up tomorrow for the blood work results. All light and fluffy comments: have a great week! and see you soon!

We walk out of the cancer center at Georgetown and into the autumn sunlight, handing off our valet stub and waiting for our car’s return. I rest my purse on a cement pylon and lean into it, supporting the weight of the news. The breeze blows the first of the fall leaves across the circle drive and the scent of crisp leaves mingles with freshly-laid asphalt–a strange combination. I watch as college co-eds traverse the parking lot in groups, excited chatter, their enthusiasm written on their faces. An odd juxtaposition, these young students, entering and exiting the cancer center. I feel our life changing again, I feel us entering another state of flux, and I watch book bags full of knowledge bounce in front of me on the backs of students whose biggest challenge is a paper, an exam, an unrequited love. I watch them jealously, longingly.

“How are you doing?” my husband asks, leaning into my sight line and trying to make eye contact.

“How are you doing?” I volley back, wondering which part of this news hit him the most.

He shrugs as the car pulls up, scattering the co-eds, and we are back in motion.

“It’s just ironic,” he throws over his shoulder before he slides into the driver’s seat.

I remember a few hours ago, lunch on the other side of the Potomac, sitting across from my husband at an overpriced by lovely restaurant in the heart of our town–our favorite. I sip my latte and listen as he explains all of his career options and possible moves come the end of his clinical trial in May. I gaze out the window as the city bustles with lunchtime traffic, taking another sip. He continues exploring every option, every possibility. I pepper him with questions. The waitress delivers our lunch but he doesn’t slow down–too much to consider. I see a nanny walk in front of the window, talking on her iphone while pushing a stroller that cradles a sleeping toddler.

He pauses a moment to take a bite, then looks up and asks, “so, what would you like to happen?”

I consider the question as I cup my latte with both hands, trying to warm my chilled body with the hot ceramic mug. I am not ready for the cool weather.

“I’d like to not move for a little while,” I smile at him. I remember the four different homes in less than eighteen months, then shrug, “but I don’t know how much control we really have once the Air Force decides to put you somewhere after the trial.” I look again out the window, the tree-lined street hinting at the change of season with a few stray leaves, the busy pedestrians in long sleeves. The sky is a crisp blue, and despite the changing season, the sun still warm.

“I love this city, and I’d like to stay for a number of reasons; our family and friends are here,” I pause a moment, flashing back to the backyard party we threw a few weekends ago, a crowd full of faces who love my husband all gathered under a dark mid-September night sky, smiles lit up by patio lights and candles, raising their glasses to toast to his health. Knowing true friendship—one of the best side effects of cancer, I think to myself, then continue. “I’d like to know where our kids will go to school, I’d like to not pack up our stuff again, but namely, I’d like you to have continuity of care. Doesn’t that count for something? Can’t we be to stay here for a while based on that alone?”, I ask, hopeful.

“Well, in theory,” he leans back in his chair, his turn to contemplate the city just beyond the window, “but at least we have until May to figure it out and weigh all of our options”, he finishes his last bite and then picks up his coffee. “It is a great town,” he adds with a twinkle in his eye.

We are driving home again on this all-too-familiar route. “I stay in the left lane, right?” my husband asks as we leave Georgetown, crossing the Key Bridge. I nod but the question is rhetorical, he knows this part of town all too well. He is preoccupied by the news, distressed about what this means for our “plans”. I am preoccupied with six deaths. Always back to dying. The familiar sense of the unknown settles between us. Our life, only a few hours ago, was headed in a certain direction. We had options, we had time. And now on the drive home, it’s all up in the air–again.

***
Now it is morning, and again I clutch my warm mug and wrap my sweater tighter around me as I try to shake off the morning cold. My son brings me a credit-card sized brochure that he’s pulled out of his daddy’s wallet–he is always leaving it within their reach.

“Look, mommy! My favorite book!” He flashes the small packet and it registers as something important. I ask him for it, and his small hand presses it into mine. He watches me for a second, then decides to read another favorite book. I open it up: a credit card-sized quick-reference for my husband listing all of the possible side effects of his treatment.

All the information anyone would ever need, all in this tiny little brochure. And yet, even now, I am still unprepared for the side effects.

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