Reflecting

February 29, 2020. Huntsman Cancer Hospital. 48 hours and counting down. Four months have passed since the recurrence put her in the hospital. Unaccountable fatigue and a persistent urinary tract infection were the first symptoms. Her lab results returned with creatinine flagged with the letter H, worse was to follow. And like that, a recovery on an upward slope, abruptly halted. Our beautiful fall plans texted back confirming our cancellation. Flashback to April 2015. Diagnosis: Breast cancer - stage 4. And then it began. When life is measured by your next appointment, your next pill, your next test, and your next question; on a scale of 1 to 10 (1 the lowest and 10 the highest), how would you rate your current pain level? 8 weeks of chemotherapy. 2 port implants, 1 permanent. 3 blood transfusions. 1 reaction requiring an ER visit at 11 pm. Hospital admittance was not until 5 am. 5 overnight stays at an intensive care room barely able to fit the bed. 3 weeks of searing pain and torture due to an rectum fissure infection initially misdiagnosed as hemorrhoid. Every complaint dismissed as just a bad side effect from her treatments. 1 mastectomy surgery. 13 lymph nodes removed. 6 weeks of radiation therapy. 2 reconstructive implant surgery, 1 initially failed. 1 Latissimus Dorsi Flap surgery, a partial slice of a muscle from the back and grafted to the breast area to rebuild and heal the damaged area. 1 adverse anesthesia reaction post surgery, resulting in a mandatory ambulance ride to ER, only 4 blocks away, and another overnight stay in the hospital. 5 overnight stays at U of U Hospital, for bladder and metastasis cancer diagnosis. 2 bilateral nephrostomy surgeries. 1 prematurely removed. 12 months of bilateral nephrostomy tubes/bags. 1 failed immunotherapy treatment. 5 overnight stays at Huntsman Cancer Hospital 18 months of oral chemotherapy. Back in the room. 48 hours until discharge. Signs of an early spring and hope abound. I comment, "Not everyone is so privileged to have such a view," while snapping photos through the scenic window. "For the price paid, we could stay at the Ritz." In the reflection, I see your smiling bald head nodding. March 20, 2020. A global pandemic. COVID-19 is added to all of our trauma list. That fall, we completed our postponed adventure, but the air was filled with complaints. I even added my own - breathing is hard, it's constantly fogging my glasses, it scratches my nose, and it rubs the back of my ears raw. I want to rip it off my face and shred it apart. My mental anxiety is teetering. She takes my fidgety hands, squeezes them, and reassures me with steely eyes peering over her mask, "…this too shall pass." Paula and I are eternally grateful for the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th… (and counting) chances provided by the selfless labor of the doctors, nurses, researchers, scientists and staff who on our behalf, made it possible for us to continue to be human a little longer. We are the recipients of the best care, from the best minds - traced back to the very person who first asked, "What hurts?" With that question, a dialogue begins. Thank you for asking! [Image description: Main elevators in the Huntsman Cancer Hospital, Salt Lake City, UT. Paula K. Rudd. May 2021]