Good Blood, Bad Blood

“Sometimes, what you are trying to hold onto is exactly what you should let go of.” Anonymous

The first nurse I knew was my Mother. She received training at the University of Wisconsin. That would have been the mid 1930s, during the depression. I don’t think she practiced her vocation when living in the midwest. She met and married Dad. By 1940 there were two boys to look after.

I grew up in San Francisco. My parents, with my older brothers in tow, moved there during WWII. There was work at the shipyards. Dad was a welder. He helped build the navy fleet. Mom stayed home with her young family.

I was born at Children’s Hospital on California Street. That was 1946, a year after the war ended. I am the youngest son of four boys. A little sister came along 13 years later. We call her ‘the accident’.

During my infancy, we rented the top floor of a duplex on a dead end street. I started kindergarten just before we bought our first house and moved away. That would have been 1951.

We were city kids. Streetcar tracks ran down the middle of the road. We grew up hearing the clatter of steel on steel. The M trolley’s circular route stopped and turned around close to our home. A few years later, we moved again, to a suburb south of the city. 1955, I think.

We boys were growing. Mom renewed her career as a nurse. I seldom thought of her as a professional. But, I can see now how nursing suited her personality.

I get my California Dreaming ‘go with the flow’ vibe from Mom. Her stoic nature migrated into a west coast meme. She was a girl from farm country. Everyday is another problem to solve. You learn to get on with it, no matter what.

She did a lot of shift work: graveyard, swing. It’s likely she did so to help with the higher cost of our new digs. She didn’t drive. She rode a bus. She seemed to move around a lot. Probably, because she was late to the game. I don’t know. There is so much that children don’t know about their parents: their motivations, their dreams.

I’ve been lucky. Until contracting blood cancer in 2007, I enjoyed an uncomplicated health history. Oh, the radar of my life had some blips. Back in the 1960s, I had rib surgery and a ruptured appendix. But, I healed.

Then, nothing until, at the age of 61, my diagnosis sent me in new directions. The vigor in my body began a slow retreat onto the Mobius Strip of side effects. I internalized my defense. I began to write. I meditated on mortality. My constitution has been such that I’ve responded well to an incurable disease. Again, luck smoothed the path. 

Hospitals, clinics, and doctor’s offices align on the orbit I now travel. Those destinations deliver me to the company of nurses, in particular, oncology nurses. Oncology is a daunting specialty. You lose a lot of patients. You gotta be pretty chill to cope there. 

At the infusatorium, dignity collides with the intimacy of care. The sessions are long. IV drips, needles, blood, toxic drugs, side effects, checking vitals, double checking, and more.

Still, we talk. The comfort of conversation distracts us from the poking and probing, the strict adherence to protocols. I learn about the source of their motivation to specialize in oncology. Some are veterans of personal malignancies. Others may have lived through the travails of family or friends. They chose oncology to make a difference.

It’s not about cures or remissions. Life is precious. Life is fragile. Holding on, letting go. Oncology nurses bear witness to the changes. Their mission is to serve. They don’t expect easy. Thus, my gratitude for the infusatorium and the balm of compassion. The most important skill is listening. They hear us.

*******

Yes, it began with Mom.

Dad passed. She moved to Northern California with little sister. She spent the latter years of her career in the state hospital system. She cared for an emotionally disabled clientele. Perhaps this perspective helped reconcile the whirlwind of parenting. She did not expect accolades. Nose pickers and trouble makers, we dead end kids were a problem she had to solve everyday. But, those days were over.

The Smith gang all launched in modest blue collar ways. Now, we celebrate the poignancy of each remaining orbit. The meteor of Alzheimer’s recently struck one brother. The others are far into their eighties. Then, there’s me. I hold on to some things. I let go of some things. I’m in good company.