Doris, our 12 year old daughter, is spending yet another weekend held captive on
the seventh floor Pediatric Care Unit at MCV Hospital in Richmond. During the last five
months since her diagnosis with acute lymphoblastic leukemia, she has spent nearly every
other weekend in the hospital undergoing intravenous chemotherapy. This is in addition to
once a week outpatient clinic visits for chemo injections and spinal taps. Added to this
mix are occasional unexpected inpatient hospital stays for complications resulting from
this powerful treatment regimen.
These weekend visits get tedious very quickly. My wife and I stay with Doris in
shifts; when I'm not here with Doris, I am at our home in Fredericksburg with our other
three children. Most of the time Doris feels relatively fine, avoids her room except for
sleep or an occasional movie, and hangs out at the nursing station where all the action is.
When the play room is open, she and other kids go there to play board games and make
crafts. She goes to other rooms to visit new friends. On occasion, I've had to recruit
nursing staff to help track her down.
"Have you seen Doris?"
"Describe her."
"She's about this tall, has an IV pole, no hair, wears a floppy hat."
"You said her name is Doris?"
While Doris directs traffic at the nursing station, I sit in the patient visitors lounge
and try to pass the time reading newspapers, magazines, and books. She's at that age
where she wants one of us--more preferably her mom--to be there with her all the time,
but she doesn't want us interfering with her social interactions lest we impinge upon her
budding independence. Sound familiar?
"Dad?" she asks, IV pole in her hand.
"No," I say, not looking up from the newspaper.
"I haven't asked you anything yet," she says, stomping her foot.
"No," I mutter again, trying hard not to make it easy.
"No, what?" her voice demanding an explanation.
"No, I don't have any change and no I will not escort you down to the main lobby
again."
In a softer face and tone, she pleads, "Can we order pizza?"
I have the patient visitors lounge to myself this weekend. Am I the only patient
visitor? With patient solitude I try for a moment to listen. I realize that I've grown
accustomed to the characteristic sounds in this hospital: the intercom page, the alarm beep
of an IV pump, the screeching, rattling, protesting wheels of an IV stand as an anxious
young patient makes his nth lap around the ward. However, I'll never get used to the
sound of a child's crying, which occurs frequently.
I've not grown accustomed to some of the sights. The facial casts worn by parents
and family members as they step off the elevator onto the seventh floor. I know first-timers when I see them. Or the parent who takes refuge in the lounge, unable yet to read
(like me), manages only a glazed stare at the opposing wall of the lounge. I see children in
more tenuous circumstances than my child. I count my blessings and hurt for the others at
the same time. Such experiences collide with my own uncertainty and fuel the fire of
melancholy.
Our welcomed discharge arrives, finally. This is usually late on a Sunday or
Monday night. A sigh of relief envelopes us as our brains command our weary bodies to
move quickly down a long lonely corridor to a deserted parking garage. Doris maintains
the pace, how I do not know. She is asleep before we pull out onto the street.
Once home, we drop our bags and have a family reunion of sorts. Mobilized forces
return to base! Weekend exercise a complete success, reports commander Mom. Of
course, for Doris this isn't an exercise, it's the real thing. It's her fight for survival and the
rest of us provide her support. The rest of us feel helpless and scared but try to act like
we're not. Doris seems neither helpless nor afraid, demonstrating a sunny optimism and
courage in the face of a deadly disease.
The next morning we wake in our own beds, in our own home, and
normalcy--more like chaos but it's ours!--returns for another week or two. As for the next
go-round, we spend not a moment's time anticipating.