Return Home

Feeling pressure from the impending snow storm, we left for Seattle yesterday a couple hours earlier than normal. I had gone to the office early that morning, finding the side streets with a modest inch or two of snow, but the main streets only wet and the interstate in good condition. On my return trip, my concern increased as the temperature dropped and the traffic on I-5 seemed to thicken.

As we headed north unimpeded a little before 9 AM, we forwent our usual coffee stop in DuPont, still feeling apprehensive about what lie ahead. Tacoma was soon behind us. As we left Federal Way and approached that non descript segment, Mid-way, the skies darkened and I felt the truck slip a bit as we went over a patch of ice.

Then it was over. South Center was bone dry, and our entrance into downtown Seattle revealed only wet streets and the rhythmic metallic percussion of chained up busses.

So we gave into our caffeine cravings and had coffee and treats at the Eastlake Starbucks. Still, there was time to spare so we went for a drive around the neighborhoods to the east of the freeway, eventually looping back through Capitol Hill. On our return route, the winter storm seemed to regain strength, as frozen rain and then snow fell, so we hustled to the SCCA to get parked and make our appointment.

Dr. Goff was her usual enthusiastic self while breezing through Jamie’s exam and giving us the results of the latest CT scan and lab test. All good news. Jamie’s CA-125 score of 10, was followed by an “all clear” account of the CT scan except a minor blemish in her lungs, readily explained by the recent cold. Dr. Goff countered our list of questions with earnest yet concise replies (can she eat Sushi, return to Weight Watchers and Etc.) and soon we were on our way out.

So the next year looks like this; blood draws and port flushes every 6 weeks, consults with Dr. Goff every 90 days and CT scans every six months. Jamie will keep her chest port for about a year, Dr. Goff admitted some time ago that she was a bit superstitious about their removal and tended to leave them be for as long as possible.

Although snow and ice had retracted, we were still left with a cold afternoon which we spent eating pho in the international district followed a ride on the SLUT (South Lake Union Trolley) to a matinee. With Dr. Goff’s approval, dinner of course was Sushi, a treat welcomed by both of us as we had been limited to California rolls since last spring, both for very different reasons. After dinner we took the hotel shuttle for ice cream, where amongst other things, the driver revealed that the acronym SLUT had been officially banned by their corporate policy.

We slept well last night, such that even I was startled awake at 7:30 AM by the alarm clock from a deep slumber. Jamie lounged a bit while I readied myself and snuck off for a bite of breakfast, heading Jamie’s warning not to taunt her by bringing food back to the room.

The three minute commute to the clinic was a breeze as yesterday’s warning of a snow storm were a farce, giving credence to Jamie’s claim that if the Seattle meteorological profession predicts it, it will never come. As we watched the news this morning I chuckled at a reporters attempt to make a live report out of a pile of slush and a cameraman’s attempt to dramatize a street crossing thru slush so thin, a pair of flip flops would have been permissible.

When the nurse called Jamie she stepped up quickly and trotted back to the surgery room without hesitation or looking back. The removal of the abdominal port is a relatively minor procedure and now a veteran, Jamie declined nurse Pat’s suggestion that I might accompany them in the prep area and thus I was left to finish my book.

On the 2nd floor, radiology, there is a very large waiting area that has been recently rearranged with a large variety of couches, chairs and end tables. Unfortunately, this new décor also included the removal of all but one of the coveted recliner chairs. The remaining chair is located in the far corner, where the view of Lake Union is best, but the glass and its remoteness make it a bit chilly. Not minding such conditions, as soon as Jamie was gone I moved towards my favorite spot only to find a women settling into the recliner. As she arranged her things and began to read, it was apparent that she was unaware of what was beneath her behind.

I alerted her to the luxury at hand, and as she gratefully leaned back I made an offhand comment about waiting for her to leave for the restroom and then buried myself in my book.

Engulfed by the author’s tails about capturing pigeons and using them to convert his vegetarian girlfriend to omnivoreism, I barely acknowledged the woman’s comment 90 minutes later, about the temperature in the corner. Being at the end of my reading I delayed my move for a bit, only to hear “Mr. Crase” called out from the front desk.

I found Jamie lying comfortably in the recovery area attended by the familiar Pat. Jamie was smiling and recounting her encounter with Dr. Hickman (he was not today’s surgeon however) and the fact that she discovered that he was now 83 years old. On the second telling of this identical story, I tried to convey that she had already told me that, but on the third, I relinquished and said “oh, how interesting”, as I also did when experiencing some variation of déjà vu in the parking garage 30 minutes later, when the same factoid was once again presented.

The trip home was uneventful, and after some crackers, cheese and carrot sticks, Jamie quickly settled into nap position with her travel neck pillow in proper place. Her sleep must have been light, or her instincts keen, for as we approached Dupont, my interstate daze was broken by instruction to pull off at the Starbucks.

After a quick detour through the drive thru followed by a near collision with a Lincoln Town Car adorned with dozens of beanie babies and handicapped plates, we finished our uneventful journey home.

We arrived home to find the rabbits content and doing what they do best, pooping and tearing their habitat apart. Shorty’s whereabouts popped into my mind as I fed the fish and it was soon discovered that the door to the kennel was shut. Although Jamie could not observe him from the kitchen we were certain this was a sign he was home as well after his sleep over at Katelyn’s. As I approached the kennel he sleepily appeared from his den in typical lazy Shorty style, seeming unconcerned about anything.

Jamie is now resting comfortably, and in good spirits, watching the modern version of Pride and Prejudice for probably the 1,000th time. If it is possible to wear a DVD out, I think she may do it, as this and the BBC series of the same title are perpetual comfort favorites, like mac and cheese or a well worn blanket and fluffy pillow.

It is good to be on the return side of this journey, but I commented to Jamie in the waiting room that I could now comprehend the concept of post traumatic stress or a soldier’s return from war. Despite my glee for Jamie’s recovery, it is a little awkward envisioning a week or a month where this will not be the priority of our lives. This has been so emotionally intense for me, that I feel a great sense of relief, but also fatigue. As for Jamie, she shines brighter than ever, seemingly empowered by the whole experience. As I watch her I try to empathize and support, but find myself always being reinforced by her strength and positive energy.

Hooray Jamie!

Cheers!

Round six was as smooth as any of the first five as the day just sailed by. Jamie, slightly encumbered by tummy ache (attributed to angry gyros) was otherwise in good spirits and took on her tankerload of fluid with the usual gusto. Our nurse today was Christie, significant not only because she has become one of our many friends on 7 SE, but also because she is the same charge nurse who gave us a tour of the wing just before Jamie’s surgery. She deserves a lot of credit for our confidence when we started with the SCCA as her outgoing persona and earnest descriptions of the challenges ahead helped both Jamie and I feel that would be getting the best care possible.

Only Jamie can truly describe the feeling of completing the 6 + 6 rounds of chemo and receiving the continuing positive praise of Dr. Goff. So I will leave further commentary and details on what is to come for Jamie when she is ready to post in a day or two and instead leave you with just a few details of our modest post-chemo celebration.

Although her brief ailment prevented this occasion from being marked by a waterside hotel view of the Space Need Fireworks, tonight was special. We are staying at our usual post hospital abode, the Silver Cloud, where once again the Wood family treated us to an evening of upscale picnicking including some celebratory champagne. Erik dazzled us with his ever improving table manners and Madeline of course was as good as any two year and a half year old could be. After tasty desserts we retired to our room for a little hotel bed gymnastics and playtime. The kids outlasted all of us and Katrina brought things to a close when she proclaimed clean pants and pajamas for all.

Close Encounter

Will tonight be my last night of the familiar roll out sleeper chair? Will there be no more early morning visits from eager young residents looking to poke and prod Jamie for no apparent benefit?

Could be, as we sit her in the first half of Jamie’s 6 of 6 IP chemo sessions.

After a few weeks off over the holidays followed by another weeks delay due to the flu, I questioned Jamie if she was committed to continuing on or if she felt that she had pushed far enough. Her speedy conquest of the flu should have given me a better insight into her resolve, as without a quiver she said she would finish the prescribed 6th round. So with the full support of Heidi, saying that it is this week or never, we prepared for our last IP trip.

I almost got cut from the roster, feeling the threat of the post Christmas bug lurking around the corner. I hastily tried to bolster myself Friday with a concoction of Porter, Wiskey and a full dose of Nyquil before bedtime. This appeared to tip the scales the wrong way as I awoke Saturday feeling weaker and foggy.

Applying my father’s own remedy, a little manual labor, things cleared up and I went to bed Saturday night without the aid of any “medicines”. I awoke to Jamie’s prodding in the morning refreshed and ready for the day, further charged by a long hot shower.

Much to Jamie’s dismay, I was in no particular rush to gather things up and leave, now being a veteran of this routine and having realized that our prompt arrival has often been followed by inordinate amounts of waiting in our room for the process to be initiated.

After a misguided trip to the office to get my laptop chord, then back home again to retrieve it from the front seat of my truck, we were pointed north. Traffic was light and it was just 9:30 as we pulled into the parking garage. Admitting had to work a bit to get us in, the week delay having cause a little confusion. But in the end Jamie left with another set of yellow duplicates giving various levels of consent for everything from being listed in the patient phone directory to whether of not you want a priest present if the call is from St. Peter.

Today moved along at a good pace, with Christine as official day chemo nurse, but familiar Jenni doing the port access while cheerfully gloating over her travel plans to Costa Rica next month. There are few nurses we don’t recognize and tonight’s nurse is Mary. I will disappointed if the shadow like Rodger doesn’t make a late night appearance as well, always acting as my alarm for a mid night snack.

My inaccurate anticipation of foul weather let me leave my bike behind, so today’s adventures were on foot and thus a much smaller radii than I normally roam. I started at Recycled Cycles along the ship canal, making two full laps around the shop ogling the bikes and revising my every increasing want list of gear.

I then headed up the hill towards the “Ave” finding myself standing in front of a Tudor style building marked as the University Inn. As I walked along the storefront and then to the rear corner, I saw an inviting stair to the basement of the building and clearly demarking the entrance to the pub shrewdly hidden below.

Thirsty from my shopping and walking I entered, finding the low ceilings and dark woodwork as authentic as anything in the old world. I ordered a pint and then asked the barkeep the location of the “head”. On my return trip I passed an older gent who as I then walked passed the TV, asked me if I could turn it on to the football game.

I returned from the bar with my glass and the remote, and soon his Gaelic accent had charmed me into joining him. Dr. Sweeney is an 80+ year old Catholic Scotsman who now splits his time between Seattle and his family estate near Glasgow. As conversation progressed another pint was in order as I received lessons on everything from the pay rates of a WWII Captain in the English army ( A mere $2 per day) to the current political state in South Africa and the middle east.

As most of you know my past encounters with his creed have been somewhat tumultuous as many a time have I been charmed by their hospitality only to find myself poisoned by excessive amounts of drink. Now in England I am fine, with their Norman heritage they are people of moderation, but the Gaelic tribes are much more devious. Such perils I have faced amongst the secretive guttural language of the Welsh, the jolly folk music of the Irish or the seemingly sensible charms of the Scot, lured in under friendly terms only to find myself sickened beyond reason by their alluring Whiskey, Scotch and beer.

I can’t say that I wasn’t warned, as the Christian and Muslim worlds were preparing to rip each other apart on September 11th 2001, I sat in the Anchor Inn in the un assuming Welsh village of Ruthin. A lone Englishman told me of the woes of mixing with such a crowd and the deep conspiracy which they heralded. My youthful ignorance and the extreme thrusts of my traveling companion Joel, led us to dismiss such warning and continue on well into the night. On the trip home all seemed jolly as we stumbled to Ms. Ransons’ welcoming inn.

But alas in the morning the Englishman’s prophecy came to be, as breakfast was as difficult to push down as the daylight was to face.

But today, my new acquaintance, allowing his medical ethics to overcome his ancestral instincts released me from his spell, emptying the last of his glass in a single gulp and wishing my wife the best, got up to leave unimpaired and at a reasonable hour of the afternoon.

So off I went fulfilling an earlier request for Starbucks. As I marched along, hot cup in hand, I first smelt and then spied the familiar spindle of meat that marks a gyro café. Sticking my head in the door I inquired as to when they close and got a prompt “1:30 AM”. Marking this as my evening dining spot I quickened my pace back to Jamie.

Enticed by the thought of a gyro, Jamie eagerly shunned the hospital fare and sent me off a few hours later to gather our gyros. Wanting to hasten my return and avoid a possible encounter with an Irishman, I drove the truck, finding parking close enough by on this Sunday eve. As I entered the shop I was reassured by the smell and basic configuration, meat, grill and three middle eastern men vigorously working in a tight space in perfect harmony.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the dark atmosphere of the place, with the political posters, and then gruff reception at the till. These were not the gay Greeks of Kirkland, selling a commercialized version of their local fare while daydreaming of their annual, and ever increasing in duration, winter vacation in their homeland.

No these were embittered men from the other side of the Mediterranean, angrily pushing meat and onions into a dry piece of flatbread only to monotonely call out “two regular gyros to go”. Now they weren’t terrible, as we both ate our gyros in their entirety back at ther room, but they weren’t fabulous either. And thus the truth comes forth, no matter where you are from, happy people make good sandwiches. Anger and bitterness will at best leave you full but unsatisfied.