In this article, the author shows gratitude for the receptionists, nurses, and nurse practitioners who help cancer patients survive the unendurable.
Written by: Susan Gubar
Article re-posted from: nytimes.com
“I want to write a hymn to caretakers,” I inform my dear husband.
“They can be resented,” he responds. “They’re seen as takers — they take away your privacy, your independence, your responsibilities, not just infringing on your body, but also on your space. To add insult to injury, they’re healthy!”
Astounded by the volubility of this quiet and gentle man, I have to ask: “Is this a gendered issue? A fear of loss of control — just a tad?” I pick up my knitting.
“Think of your mother,” he instantly replies. “She thought the nurses were stealing the stuff in her room. And how did Mary-Alice feel seeing a stranger in her own house, telling her where to sit, when and what to eat, putting everything away in the wrong places?” He is mourning the losses incurred by his first wife during her untimely dying.
In the pause that ensues while I honor his grief, I untangle the wool around the circular needle, start pushing the stitches toward the tips, and Sally comes to my mind.
“You are a hard stick,” Sally said when she managed to push the needle into a vein that she called “tiny and a roller.” The only name large enough to read on her tag was Sally. Though I have miserably small veins, Sally never “blew” one. With extraordinary patience, she warmed my left arm, strapped on a tourniquet, and tapped her fingertips over the narrow blue channels. I was so relieved that there wouldn’t have to be a second or a third stick and many black-and-blue bruises. People like her make cancer patients as comfortable as we could possibly be under frightful circumstances.
For me, it started with a nurse named Eunju, at least I think that is her name. I was coming out of a major abdominal operation and not quite “with it.” Eunju did not merely give me ice chips in a plastic foam cup. She also sat with me through many hours of that long night, sharing her concerns about her family. I could feel myself becoming not just a wounded thing, but also a human spirit with curiosity and compassion for someone else, a stranger who was so kind and caring.
How indebted I am to the tact and dexterity of countless other caretakers. Their names will mean nothing to you. They became lifelines for me.
What would I have done without Annetta, who phoned back when the surgeon was too busy so she could explain where to park beforehand and afterward how to circumvent the answering service in case of an emergency. How would I have survived without Yvonne, faxing instructions to a hospital on the upkeep of a PICC line (a catheter on my arm)? At our first meeting, she sighed, “Oh, my dear, you have really been through it!” Where would I have been without Alesha, giving me a hug with a schedule of the anti-nausea pills that had to be taken in decreasing amounts after the chemotherapy? Alesha is the only person in the world who I do not correct when she calls me “Sue.”
These receptionists, nurses and nurse practitioners are actually caregivers, not caretakers, I silently rebuke my husband (though I know he would agree with me). They come into our lives without second names, but their dedication helps innumerable cancer patients endure the unendurable. I salute Sally Jordan, Enju Campbell, Annetta Jenkins, Yvonne Kiefer and Alesha Arnold, wanting to say, quite simply, thank you. And though you are legion, I will keep on trying to learn your full names.
Amid this unspoken rumination, I drop a stitch. Then it dawns on me as I fish for it. My husband was thinking about people entering into one’s private space. Even if they do an excellent job, such aides are a constant reminder to the sick of their own incapacity, their inability to care for themselves. But I had brought up the subject out of illimitable appreciation for him!
Though my husband has flushed every drain implanted in my body, though he has injected me with countless medicines, though he has filled multiple prescriptions, though he has driven me to and from each operation, infusion and test, he does not think of himself as a caretaker or a caregiver. Because of him, I don’t need to learn the name of a stranger taking care of me in my house. And speaking of the house: while I am too fatigued to do more than recline on a blue couch, he takes care of the busted water pipes, the electrical outages, the broken washing machine and all the other home ills.
My heart clinches at my own stupidity, clenches with adoration of him. I’ve recovered the dropped stitch. He doesn’t imagine being thanked. I tighten the yarn around my fingers and cherish his name.
