You know what’s crazy ?I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Seattle Cancer Center.
I am driving to Seattle from Portland. It’s a 3 hour drive up the I-5.
I am crossing rivers of sparkling blue so beautiful I expect salmon to leap out of the water and do a pirouette in front of me.
I am driving through red wood trees that stretch to the clouds. The hills are so green, they glow like irradiated leprauchans.
The air is cool, 54 degrees. The sky is clear and pure.
They say it rains too much in Seattle. Not today. Maybe it will rain twice tomorrow, because there is a force field in the sky preventing negative energy from permeating this morning.
We are driving to Seattle to go to the Cancer hospital there.
It is Chemo Tuesday and my mother needs another round of a powerful cocktail to knock the cancer for a loop.
As I pass the Seattle Seahawks football stadium off the 5, and look at Puget Sound beyond, I am overwhelmed by the beauty.
Ships in the harbor sail against a green back drop.
In the distance, I see Mt. Ranier. It is a white Triangle of mass that explodes through the landscape, filling my eyes, touching the sky.
It is so unbelievable, so white and pure, it doesn’t seem real.
I wonder if my mind photo shopped the image and is tricking my eyes.
As we exit for the hospital, I notice that this glass taj mahal of healing is on the lake front.
The beauty is post card wonderful.
I visually inhale Lake Union. It is shimmering, placid. Just then we turn into the parking garage beneath the hospital.
Beep.
My mother is at the wheel. She grabs her parking ticket and the gate rises.
She is a good driver and shows little effects of the regiment of chemo that she has been going through for weeks.
Her hair is white and thin from the medicine. But her eyes are blue and her optimism brimming as we slowly enter the dark perimeter.
As we spiral into the bowels of the Earth, I am amazed how dark it is. The concrete is cold and yellow from eerie over head lights. The ceiling is low and feels like we are driving into a cement coffin.
Mom spirals to the 2nd level, then the 3rd, and the fourth.
The cars are wedged in parking spots like sardines in a can.
Each slot says Compact Only.
Mom is hesitant to whip in, instead looking for a space with room to maneuver.
Every spot is filled.
Man there are a lot of sick people here, I think to myself.
Finally, we see 2 spots.
She pulls in, opening her door to see the white line that guides us into spot, C 265.
She writes it down on a piece of scratch paper and puts it her bag.
“Chemo Brain,” she will later tell me. “I don’t want to forget.”
Chemo Brain?
Wow. This is really happening.
Mom has breast cancer. I came here thinking I might be saying good-bye.
Then a funny thing happened on the way to the funeral home. A miracle came a knocking. The doctors put her on a new cancer regimen and she responded immediately. I don’t know that the cancer is gone; she still has many more tests to go, but it has shrunk discernibly.
Alarm and pessimism has been replaced with optimism and light.
Instead of getting her affairs in order, mom says she is going to take her little dog Tucker to Italy this summer and walk the country side.
I smile thinking about that.
We exit the car and stretch. It feels good to stand.
The garage is cool and on an angle. I feel myself wanting to fall down the concrete ramp.
We get in the elevator with a woman wearing a surgical mask. She blinks warmly appearing to smile.
I watch the blue fabric crinkle by the edges of her mouth. Her eyes are deep brown and she appears serious, sick.
As the doors close, I think about breathing her oxygen. Am I contaminating her air space, or is she contaminating mine?
I think about holding my breath for a floor or two, but it seems rude and I breathe normally.
Ding.
The door opens.
“After you,” I say politely.
I see her face scrunch, presumably into a smile.
“Thank You,” she says, her words gobbled up by thick fabric.
I let her go first. I exit through the narrow hallway and emerge into the lobby.
It is bright and filled with happy paintings and art.
The wall is composed of windows that open to the sky and the lake beyond.
I can see the sun filtering through the tall trees, emanating from a crystal blue sky.
I am struck by the juxta position of imagery I have just experienced in the last five minutes.
I have driven through sunshine and blue skies and green hills. I have seen the harbor and the football stadium and the lake. Then I drove into dthe cavernous, darkness of the parking pit. I am now standing in the midst of sick cancer patients who can see the beauty of life’s eternal promise just beyond the glass lobby doors.
I’m struck by the magnitude of the moment.
“Over here,” my mom motions. “We have to sign in.”
We move to a waiting area filled with people.
It is wall to wall patients, bundled up in warm coats and hats. Some are wearing blankets, some are sleeping. Many people in this room are wearing thick surgical masks and scarves on their bald heads.
A woman near us is slumped in a chair. She looks so sick. Her skin is jaundiced and she is weak. Her eyes are barely open, but I can tell it is difficult for her to even grab a breath. A loved one is kneeling beside her, offering her comfort, telling her that if she is going to be sick, the bathroom is nearby.
This artistic waiting room, close to the lobby of hope is somehow very dark and drab.
I believe there are too many people here, crammed into one space, all feeding off each other’s sickness.
I stand by the wall near the lobby.
I need to see the light of the sky filtering into the room. I gaze beyond to the lake and watch a sail boat float across the water.
I look at my mother amidst the sick people in this room. She is radiant, like a beautiful fashion model.
She is wearing makeup that makes her look decades younger. She has earrings that are fun and she has a sparkle to her gaze. She is wearing smart, fashionable shoes that are comfortable, but also make a statement. She has jewelry and a stylish sweater that is one part warm and one part lady cool.
I look around the room. It is dark and sick. There is stagnation of hope. People appear to be clinging to life. I wish I could refract the sunshine from the lobby into this place to warm the souls of those whose eyes are shut, whose systems are shutting down.
There is a strained whisper as people talk in hushed tones.
“MR. PORTER”
A nurse screams. Her voice carries across the sickness like an explosive grenade in a smoky battle zone.
A man gets up. I assume he is Mr. Porter. He shuffles his feet in a slow motion march. I watch him move. I don’t think he ever actually takes a step. Instead, he somehow moves, ice skating, slowly, across the carpet.
The nurse waits patiently for what appears to be 30 seconds. Everyone that can watch Mr. Porter walk, does.
I wonder what he is battling. His hair is thin and there’s a pink hue to his skull. He is not wearing a mask, but he is obviously battling something evil that has zapped his strength. Still here he is, responding to the call, getting up from his seat, shuffling across the floor to the nurse who will hopefully take him to a place where sickness can be exterminated.
“How ya doing today, Mr. Poter,” the nurse says stabilizing his body as they walk through the door.
I gaze around the room. I can’t tell where Mr. Porter was sitting. Somehow his chair is now occupied with another sick person, somewhat indistinguishable from the rest.
The mood here is somber. Smiles are harder to find than pots of gold at the end of rainbows in the desert.
Sickness knows no favorites. There are Asians and Caucasians and black people. The constant theme seems to be thick dark clothing, a lack of energy and a jaundiced pigmentation.
I’m given a sticker that says thank you I’ve been screened Tuesday. I wear the sticker out of respect for those before me. I am so happy that I am not being seen or screened, touched or pricked.
I am here accompanying my mom who has had a minor miracle. Her tumor has shrunk dramatically and optimism is alive in the kaleidoscope of her existence.
On the way up she was quick to tell me about how thin her hair is now. She will tell me how tired she gets and how quickly it comes over her.
But compared to the people in this room she looks like an Olympic decathlete.
“Elizabeth,” The nurse yells.
“That’s me,” she says. “Gotta go get my blood drawn.
I smile and watch her walk easily to the nurse and through the door.
Many in the room gaze at me with sunken eyes hiding above blue surgical masks.
I am uncomfortable and need air.
I walk through the lobby and step into the Seattle morning
It’s my first taste of Seattle that isn’t filtered through parking garage or waiting room.
I breathe in. I feel the cool air that has floated down from Canada, filling my lungs. It is pure and refreshing like a scuba tank under water.
I feel like a lumber jack ready to chop a tree. I feel like a sailor ready to sail the sea.
I walk into the circular drive and take in the splendor that is the lake.
I look back at the hospital. It is shimmering and glass encased.
It is like a beautiful bottle containing so much sickness, so much despair, so much hope.
I don’t want to look at the hospital any more.
I look at the lake. I see buildings set on the cliff. I imagine what it would be like on a Seattle Sumer day to sit on my deck and grill a chicken glazed with honey mustard sauce. Would a Mexican beer be the right beer here? Or would I suddenly have to do like the locals and drink hoppy beers with funky names that are pretentious and endemic to this rainy kingdom?
I feel the sunshine rain down upon my face. There is no chance of rain today. Only blue sky and air that is medically approved for maximum rejuvenation.
I close my eyes. The inside of my lids are orange and warm. There is a moment of calm. I wish I could let everyone in the waiting room feel this equanimity in their life.
I open my eyes and turn from the lake.
I look back at the gigantic glass building and see my mother in the entry way.
She is waving.
She is done with the blood draw and it is time to go upstairs.
More to come….
Life’s Crazy™