Fifteen years ago, while my wife was in intensive care following a 10-hour cancer surgery, I began chemo.
My treatment consisted of three cycles, each cycle running for five consecutive days, six hours a day. Hospitalization was the norm, but my oncologist worked with me, treating me in his office in New York City so I could be at my home in the suburbs when my daughter left for, and returned from school.
For the first cycle, my nephew drove me in and out each day, dropping my daughter off at school along the way. He'd wander about the city, maybe pick up a couple of hotdogs from a sidewalk vendor (perhaps a more dangerous regimen than mine), and then be waiting for me when I'd completed my daily drip.
For the second cycle, I decided to drive myself, since I was holding up pretty well. But by the time the third cycle started, I was feeling the effects of chemo brain, more so each day. My concentration and memory wavered, and I gave up driving for good after sideswiping the back end of a city bus. It happened five minutes after dropping my daughter off at school!
With my wife still in the hospital (no longer in intensive care), I arranged a carpooling relay. The nanny of one of my daughter's classmates would drive my daughter and me to school. I'd then wait in the drop-off circle for another mother and father, both of whom worked in the city. I'd trade places in the car with their kids, and we'd head in. Once there, I'd get some work done using a laptop computer one of my brothers had given me. I'd take public transportation home in the afternoon, about an hour and a half by subway, train, and cab. My daughter would arrive soon after, driven home by another parent.
Which brings me to the image above. It's from the final scene of Papillon, where Papillon clings to a coconut raft in the middle of the ocean. Looking up at the sky, he yells, "I'm still here!"
That's kind of what I felt like at the time. A lot had been thrown at me, but I was still down here, muddling through as best I could, hoping that things would be better on the other end.
As it turned out, things were better on the other end. I came through completely cured, my wife eventually got out of the hospital, and after a regimen of radiation and chemo, she also ended up cancer-free.
Postscript: Thinking of that movie scene now, I decided to look it up on YouTube. Funny thing is, the clip below was posted to point out a blunder — you can just make out a diver steadying Papillon's coconut raft from below.
Mistake? Not to me. The truth is, you don't get through these situations without a little help.
Photo and clip: Columbia Pictures
