Heroic

Being a frequent flier of the Veterans’ Hospital, I have come across a great many men who have been to the edge of hell and back. Some bear scars on the outside, but just as many still nurse wounds inflicted on the inside. Some things just can’t be unseen, some things just can’t be undone, and some experiences just too unimaginably traumatic to be dulled by the passing years. Ball caps, decorated with bright embroidery cover the receding hairlines of gray and shade the eyes that once saw the unthinkable. Makes me wonder if Danté was a vet!

The eyes I’m seeing more frequently are getting brighter and the hair is far from gray, but the wounds are just as traumatic. One such young wounded veteran and I became friends after crossing paths at the hospital a number of times and sharing a lot of time together connected to our respective dancing partners – that would be our own IV poles—at the ‘other’ club med. When he told me the story of how he lost his legs in Iraq, the only thing that came to my mind was that I had met “the real deal,” replete with medals and a story of saved lives under fire. Yet in talking with him, he refuses to be labeled a hero. His attitude is simply that he couldn’t live with himself had he not done what he was trained to do. He harbors no bitter feelings and doesn’t feel like the world somehow owes him.

My friend, Isaac. He has a fancier IV pole that I do, but trust me, I'm not at all jealous!  He's getting a cocktail of all kinds of things post-surgery.  I'm getting another dose of toxic chemical goodness (aka chemo). He and his very beautiful wife are keeping me company. His scar looks amazingly like the Continental Divide. Yeah, aside from war stories, that's what we share -- we compare scars! He wins that one...I have no fancy scars to show off except that my arms make me look like a drug addict and my one time PICC line sites. Move on, nothing to see here, folks!  

My look of incredulity wasn’t the first he has dealt with. People see him in his wheel chair or on his prostheses and want to connect with a bona fide hero, but he’s not interested in being the center of that kind of attention. It struck me that he just wants what I want: to be treated as normal and enjoy the same life as everyone else and while we can’t get away from that thing that brought us together in the hospital, neither do we want to be owned or defined by it. I think the best way to put it is that there’s simply a profound sense of patriotism that frowns on the bumper stickers, but sticks to what’s genuine.

I don’t mean to paint the kind of picture where there’s some sort of “Aw, shucks, ma’am. I was just doin’ muh job” kind of exchange, but in a real sense, it’s just what we do and who we are. Professions where those routinely putting their lives on the line like police officers and firefighters are very much the same. They accomplish the heroic on a daily basis, they incur the same kinds of external and internal traumatic injuries, and they most certainly deserve the same respect as our returning armed forces veterans.

Translation:  Courage isn't falling, but getting up each time you fall. 
I put up the French version since it's Bastille Day

But there are other kinds of heroic acts where any one of us ordinary people rise to the occasion and do something that impacts or saves someone else’s life. We read about these people in the paper or on our social media outlet of choice that restore our faith in humanity - that our world isn’t full of inept or downright corrupt politicians, selfish and willfully ignorant followers of demagogues, or powerful people who wield their influence only to increase their wealth. What those heroic acts consist of are pretty subjective of course, but for the person who is on the receiving end, it means everything and sometimes it means a saved life.

It’s that kind of heroism that is quite literally saving my own life.  Earlier this week, I received a call from the Veterans’ Administration Health Care System in Seattle. The nurse on the other end of the line informed me that a bone marrow donor had been identified and that I would begin the next phase of treatment for my leukemia on July 25. The waiting is over…for now. The first two weeks will be for evaluation. At the end of these two weeks, I’ll find out what kind of transplant I’ll be undergoing as that hasn’t been decided yet. That much, at least, is news to me. At that point, the really ugly preparation begins and my immune-reboot process begins in earnest. It’s an exciting prospect of course, but it also rendered me officially freaked out. Things have become very real in short order.

Regardless of the machinations going on inside my own brain, some young man who will be unknown to me for at least a year, has done one of these heroic deeds. His decision to donate his stem cells will give me a second life. That sounds so very simple and perhaps a touch hyperbolic; and while it’s difficult for me to think about it in those terms, it’s unquestionably true.

I think the really difficult part for me to wrap my head around is that I’ve never had any outward symptoms to where I could point my finger.  All the things the hem/onc doctors asked me about were never part of my experience.  I felt like a million bucks one day and was quite literally on my way to the gym – bag packed – and the next thing I knew I was being poked, prodded, and tested ad nauseam in a hospital bed. After months of lab tests which, to me, are nothing more than numbers on a page, I’m going to be taken to the brink of death and an anonymous hero is swooping in at the last possible minute and giving me an infusion of his blood and I will rise from the (near) dead and be restored.  Comic book aficionados or people with a spiritual background probably see a number of parallels there and to be sure, they’re not lost on me. The whole process is nothing short of a pharmacological miracle, really!

So, to my unnamed donor (as of today anyway), my deepest and most sincere thanks for you doing something heroic, even though you may not see it as such.  May you receive in return, many times over, the good will and kindness you have extended to me…and may you never know the need of a stem cell infusion in your own life. And of course, may that life be long, fruitful, and filled with much joy.

To the rest of my support network – both near and far – thank you for hanging with me for what has been a rather long trip.  We have another four months or so to go, some of which may get pretty rough. I’ll need you more than ever during that time. Stay tuned…and of course, you all need to be well and stay strong where I may have some challenges there and know that you are loved very much!

Today’s music: Hero by Chad Kroeger featuring Josey Scott

I am so high, I can hear heaven
I am so high, I can hear heaven
Oh, but heaven, no heaven don't hear me

And they say that a hero can save us
I'm not gonna stand here and wait
And I'll hold on to the wings of the eagles
Watch as we all fly away

Someone told me that love would all save us
But how can that be? Look what love gave us
A world full of killing and blood spilling
That world never came

And they say that a hero can save us
I'm not gonna stand here and wait
And I'll hold on to the wings of the eagles
Watch as we all fly away, oh

Now that the world isn't ending, it's love that I'm sending to you
It isn't the love of a hero and that's why I fear it won't do

And they say that a hero can save us
I'm not gonna stand here and wait
I'll hold on to the wings of the eagles
Watch as we all fly away
And they're watching us, they're watching us
As we all fly away
And they're watching us, they're watching us
As we all fly away
And they're watching us, they're watching us
As we all fly away, whoa

Gratitude – Little Things Mean SO Much

It’s a quiet evening at the Salt Lake City Veteran’s Hospital. Normally, I leave the door ajar for ideal people-watching vantage.  Of course, that works both ways, not that I’m a particularly pathetic specimen for anyone to see…yet. With the PICC line in my upper arm, I thought it would be more convenient if I went shirtless this morning to make things easier for access to the lines when the nurses took lab blood or when it was time for chemo.  The intern this morning commented, “You look like most of the guys in the VA now.”  I had to laugh and I noticed he was right when I took my IV pole for a walk. I haven’t seen any women here and most of the men do indeed go shirtless in their rooms. In a place where we just want to be comfortable, it feels good to just forego the hospital gown fashion (although I favor athletic warm-ups anyway, and certainly when I’m of the room). It’s a small thing, but then again, the small things sure seem to mean a lot all of a sudden.

The hallways are eerily devoid of the gaggles of doctors, nurses, orderlies, and other people that make this place hum during the day.  The only noise I hear right now is the guy with dementia next door who is rather vocal. I get some work done during these hours and I also have some time to watch something on Netflix or reflect. I find that every time I come to a hospital – this time included – I find that there is something that for which I can be truly grateful. It’s not schadenfreude, but rather a profound reality that regardless of the state I am in, there are those who are working through something more challenging.

One of the nurses who attended me during my testing last week invited me to come down the hall and have a pizza lunch with the rehab patients since I would be on the ward for at least a month.  I got to meet up with a handful of other veterans who were experiencing an extended stay as well. We got to exchange a war story or two and the socialization was a welcome change to the usual. They have fun stuff going on over the weekends when this place empties out so, it’ll be a welcome change…and although the food here has been great, Domino’s hadn’t tasted so good. My dad ‘smuggled’ in a venti Starbuck’s mint mocha in for me today, so I was doubly spoiled.  As you might imagine, the Leukemia Weight Loss® plan is not yet working on me.  I was up 1.6 pounds and the nurse was suggesting that I get a drug to make me drop some liquid weight. Nope…not gonna happen! I was cheating.

I finished my third of three rounds of the Idarubicin (“red devil” chemo) and am mercifully feeling good still. I did a little reading on the Internet and found this is the stuff that causes hair loss and changes urine to a dark red color.  I’ve got about a week left of my full head of hair, so I’m enjoying not doing anything with it. I also understand that *all* of my hair will find itself rejected by my chemically altered body, including a welcome break from shaving. I’m somewhat prone to ingrown hairs, so I get a break from that! I had a survivor of ALL (really bad leukemia) who had a great big Western moustache that matched the size of his belt buckle talk to me about his experience yesterday since the topic of bone marrow transplant came up.  He told me that when he lost his hair, he essentially picked his moustache right off of his face!  I’m clean-shaven these days, but the temptation was almost palpable to let enough facial hair grow in to do something like that. I think I’ll pass on that opportunity.

All in all, today was rather tame compared to yesterday, but as my dinner was placed courteously on my bed this evening, I teared up and realized just how really good I’ve been treated. Every little detail flooded back to me over the course of the day from getting a lovely hot shower that was far from the “navy” soap up and rinse off 2-minute shower I took for granted while serving at sea to the smiles and genuine kindnesses each and every single person from the VA gave me while attending to my needs to my company sending over an IT guy to make sure I had what I needed to make my work more efficient to the calls, text messages, and hugs from loved ones made sure they knew how much I mattered…and then the flood of well wishes from literally around the world from so many places I’ve lived and loved. Every little thing added up to reinforce that I’m so very much held up by countless hands—seen and unseen. I was overwhelmed in an instant in knowing and feeling such an incredible bubble of a palpable love, it just overflowed.

Gratitude is such a shallow word, yet it’s what I have right now. I know I’ll make it thanks in no small part to the many, many healing hands – things small and great that bear me up where I just don’t see or feel or know that I need.

Thank you. Thank you, everyone for giving me what you have.