Still Incurable, Still A Killer

I  just lost someone I cared about to liver cancer. She's the third one of my acquaintance. And she will be greatly missed.

First was Mary Jo. We served on a nonprofit board together many years ago. I knew she owned her own company in St. Paul, much more than I knew about many others on that same board, because that space, when empty and silent, became a regular meeting space for one of the board committees we both served on. One day another member made a phone call. It was the kind that goes, "If you want a chance to say good-bye, you better get your ass down here pretty quick." It was, of course, much more polite than that, but, being the busy person I was, it taught me the hard way that when the subject was liver cancer, quick did not translate to a  month or so.

I didn't not make it before it was too late.

The second was my sister-in-law, the one married to my ex's brother. Pamela fought the diagnosis with everything she had and could do, including trying some treatments she had to travel to Mexico for. I don't know if it was the strength of her fight, or the early diagnosis of her disease (since most cases aren't caught until very near the end when pain drives one to the doctor and all kinds of other causes are ruled out) but she lived about 4 years knowing how ill she was.

I wasn't too late this time.  Still busy living and working, I managed to put it off by putting it out of my mind, but one day I was startled out of my procrastination by the stray thought that there couldn't be much time left, no matter how long and well she had fought. I had a vase of tulips delivered. It turned out that she was alert enough to appreciate them for as long as they survived with any semblance of flowerhood left in them, but she was heading downhill fast at that point.

I had a delivery out in that neighborhood around then, and decided to take some time off workafterwords to  try to invite myself by for a brief visit on the way home. Do note that where she lived was about 165 miles from where I did. A quick visit just didn't happen. I talked my way over the phone into a provisional stop, contingent on how she was at the moment I arrived, knowing and agreeing that her condition might easily prevent or end any time we might have together. As it happened, we had about 15 minutes. She was in a hospital bed in her home, looking to have lost about 300 pounds by then. She'd been a large woman, about as big as her generous heart. Now there was little more than a skeleton curled up in her bed.

However, she was alert and welcoming. She'd loved the tulips, probably her last bouquet she could appreciate. We chatted until her nurse shooed me out, emphatically. I spoke with my niece for a bit before heading home, and was unsurprised to hear shortly of a family funeral to attend. I was and still am grateful that something prompted me to those final gestures while they actually meant something, not just one among a plethora of condolences. Pam was quite religious and would have attributed them to God. I'm not, and am simply glad it happened as it did.

The third I just heard about today. Her name was Christine, and both she and her husband have been very active members of the Sterling and Stones club where I spend my spare time. I had not even known she had liver cancer. Unlike many of us, she was never one to talk about the latest ailment or treatment or fight to get a medical appointment. One person I talked to earlier today had known, and knew of another who had recommend an oncologist since getting a local and quick appointment was proving impossible. Yes, she'd gotten her diagnosis while up north avoiding the summer heat, but the small northern community had little access to hospitals and less to qualified oncologists. They decided to come back down here for treatment.

This was my year in the club to spend less time at the lapidary wheels with my back to the room, and more time working with metals and interacting with other club members. As a result, I got to know Christine a little better. She was one of those people who was always cheerful, never letting her personal problems show. I remember her working on a recent acquisition of small opals, slowly polishing away the bad rock to reveal the multicolored treasures beneath. She never was bothered by my question for permission to watch her process, and not just because it was accompanied by drop-jawed admiration for both the quality of stones and her skillful technique. She was also willing to answer any question, from a "Where do I find...?" to a "How do I ...?" If she had an answer, she'd share. If not, she could point out somebody who might know.

As it happened, the couple were getting ready for a Monday chemotherapy treatment. She'd had to wait for her blood sugar to drop before starting, and it finally had. They were going to take their RV over to a town diagonally across the entire metro area tonight and avoid morning rush hour traffic to arrive fresh and early for chemo. But she became ill yesterday, finally winding up getting rushed to the hospital by the EMTs, with her heart giving out before their hopes did.

There was no chance to say, "Good-bye." This time I can only hope that she knew how much she was liked and appreciated, and not only by me. She will be greatly missed.