The New Normal

Writing this from LA, from a friend's. She's quite sick, many people reading this know to whom I refer. We went yesterday to a chemo center in Beverly Hills, on Wilshire and Doheny, right across from industry hang-out Kate Mantilini's and smack dab in the middle of agency row. I used to read scripts for ICM, years ago, so often walked this stretch. What you see, in addition to the many geriatric citizens who live in the nearby luxury hi-rises, are the agents, sharply dressed, walking fast, looking many things: apprehensive, smug, elated--but never relaxed.

At the chemo center, everyone is forced to relax. My friend and I entered the elevator to the second floor with a couple in their sixties. She had very bloodshot eyes and a hesitancy; her husband was the sort of older man who has a smile for the younger ladies, in a completely friendly way; we joked about whom would get in the elevator first, and he later held a door for me with a flourish. My friend and I checked in and then, she was led to one of the private rooms. The center is mostly open space, and all around the periphery are BarcoLoungers, and in them are people, receiving chemo. Before my friend was diagnosed with lung cancer, nearly five years ago, I thought chemo was some sort of radiation, not, as is the case, something dripped into you intravenously. As my friend received her treatment, I walked to reception to get coffee; to the ladies room; downstairs to get a sandwich, and each time I did, I passed people receiving chemo. More than half of them were in their 30s and 40s, and aside from two, none looked sick. At all. They looked like me, except that they each had an IV going as they watched the little TVs set up on swivel arms over their chairs, or read the newspaper, or napped. I saw the older man, holding his wife's hand--he was the one receiving chemo. He winked at me.

As my friend was finishing up, I waited outside her door and looked at the rows of people, leafing through magazines, talking on their cellphones, conferring with nurses and doctors. I imagined the roads they took to get here -- finding out diagnoses; finding ways to cope -- and knew I wanted to write about this place, to spend a week here. Why, I am finding hard to explain, but I think the simplest way is to say, it felt so normal. Obviously, for the patients and their families, and caretakers, there are unquantifiable amounts of fear and sadness and anger and strategizing, and yet the room betrays none of this. The room is very calm. Not serious-calm, just calm. Maybe it's because here, the curtain on cancer has been lifted; the reality and face of what cancer is (versus what we, who do not have cancer, might hypothosize it is) is, at least at this juncture, about putting one foot in front of the other and getting done what can be done. It's a new normal. I am not exaggerating when I say, one really nice looking young guy seemed about as anxious as if he were watching an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond, which he may well have been doing.

This new normal is everywhere in evidence for my friend. Tubes, draining things out or pumping things in, are a part of the day. Well, so they are. So are milkshakes and TV and gossip and naps, all things I am happy to partake of.

Comments

[allan]

I have always held you in utmost regard from what I know of you from your writing and this blog. But you have leaped way up there with what you're doing for Cathy. I don't know if one could or should call it love, but that's what it feels like. Just read her post and had to come over here and tell you that.

[lucerne loot]

What a pal you are, Nancy. My fridge needs to be cleaned out too ....

I just read your "Crying and Digging" piece. There's a lot going on I didn't know about, and will come in handy some day. Reminded me of Edward Abbey when he died. Had his buddies haul his body way out into the desert, sans red tape. Only marked by a pile of rocks. Natural burial or not, there's no upside to death and dying.

Long-time reader and Slab City commentator lucerne loot.

[Ricki]

spent some time in OHSU's unit like the one you describe. A tube came out of a patient's arm and we were all immediately evacuated, while the area was treated like a toxic spill. That's the stuff being dripped into bodies. The staff in these places are incredible: humor and warmth and attention to detail must be a prerequisite.

[Kerry Madden]

Thank you for this post, Nancy...It was so good just knowing you were with Cathy all week - steady, funny, swapping stories. I'm really sorry I missed you, but I felt like I saw you. You're amazing and you're a true friend...all heart.

love
kerry

[Bradley J. Fikes]

Beautifully written. Thank you for allowing us to see this through your own eyes.

[KateCoe]

The cool thing about Nancy in person, besides her great cookies and good looks, is the way she expresses what she's feeling that puts everyone at ease. It's great to see Cathy be herself, and Nancy's got a way of making everyone be their best selves. Does that make sense?

[KateCoe]

The cool thing about Nancy in person, besides her great cookies and good looks, is the way she expresses what she's feeling that puts everyone at ease. It's great to see Cathy be herself, and Nancy's got a way of making everyone be their best selves. Does that make sense?

[nancy]

And Kate really means it! Geez, guys, you're making me feel weird here. In truth, it was amazingly wonderful to be with Cathy, and to be with all that were with her, too. She's said, several times, "I don't deserve my friends." I asked her if she thought, it was a fluke, and she had to back down. (Cathy! Backing down! Imagine!) On the way home on the plane, I realized, she is at the center of a group I care a great deal about; people I admire and only ever feel more privileged to know. More to come.

[Amy Alkon]

Cathy's friends are a testatment to the person she is. In a town of a whole lot of bullshitters, she has a whole lot of people who are truly there for her.