Not too long ago, I was reading a newspaper article about the 2015 winners of Write From the Heart.  It’s a writing program/contest for teens in Idaho sponsored by The Cancer Connection Idaho, a non-profit with a number of resources and programs to support cancer patients and their caregivers.  The writing program for teens is for both teen survivors of cancer and for teens who have friends or family with cancer.  One of the winning essays had me laughing from the realness of it.  The 19-year-old writer named Kaylee shared,

“There are plenty of movies made about cancer and hospitals but there are things that movies just don’t prepare you for, like considering what underwear to wear when you show up to be examined in the emergency room. I, of course, did not think of this and arrived wearing ones that said “Thanks for visiting,” right on my behind. The nurses sure got a kick out of it while they examined my crack. You’re welcome guys. No one can prepare you for the small side effects of cancer. You always hear about the nausea, but no one tells you about having to get up and pee 5 times in the night…”

She’s right. There are things that happen for which you never prepared yourself…you just never saw them coming.  “You want to inspect what part of my body?” And by the 5th or 6th medical professional that asks the same thing and you’re thinking there is no greater humiliation…until you find yourself in the emergency room where all bets are off.
On one such visit the still-in-training nursing assistant (also known as a CNA or a CAP) waltzes in with an EKG.  “Um, what’s that for?”   “EKG,” he says.  “Why,” Kathy and I ask.  He doesn’t appear to have an answer except along the lines of that’s what we always do. Tiny stickers are attached all over my body — legs, arms, torso, and a little too close to the ‘girls’ when another staff member comes in and decides we don’t need the EKG.  Great.  Wouldn’t it be nice if the tiny stickers were removed?  They weren’t.  Instead, we’re just going to hook me up to one of the heart/respiratory monitors.  More stickers.  Different stickers; these are larger and square. The wires (6 of them) attached to the stickers.  Also attached to me is the blood oxygen monitor (a clip on the index finger) and a blood pressure cuff that automatically takes BP once an hour or so.  We’re up to 8 wires/cables attached to my body.  (And a bunch of stickers we never used for the mystery/unneeded EKG).  It’s all good. I mean, I’m just laying there, right?
By “laying there,” of course, I mean playing with the respiratory monitor. I notice that when I take a deep breath I can make the line move to the top and/or bottom. And, if I laugh, I can make it wiggle.  this provides loads of fun to entertain during the “laying there” portion of this visit. I never did set off any alarms. Oh well, that’s a goal for another day.
While I’m  playing with the monitor, I get 3 bags (about a liter each???) of saline fluids, plus a mess of antibiotics. That’s a lot of fluid. A lot. And, it’s a VERY cold room. With the cancer and the suppressed immune system, I get the super-clean, cold-air-constantly-being-refreshed solitary confinement room.
Eventually, I have to pee. It’s just science. The body can’t handle that much fluid without going.  There’s no bathroom in the room, and I’m all hooked up to, well, everything. I tell Kathy about my predicament. She, noting the wires, suggests they make me use a bedpan. “Oh, hell no,” is my response.
With no bathroom, the option, to me, is to get to one in the hallway. Unfortunately, I have a seriously compromised immune system on this particular day, and it’s an Emergency Room with people who have a crapload of germs and who have likely also used the hallway bathroom. We compromise with the nurse & CAP by agreeing to a “bedside commode.”  This is basically a chair with a bucket. You use it as you would a regular commode. The CAP (did I mention he was new?) brings one in. Oops, no bucket. He goes to find a bucket, and gets it set up. And looks at me. I’m like, “I’m going to need…um.. some…something to clean with.” He stares a moment while I stare back hoping he understands. He finally does — I’m sure it was just a heartbeat, but it felt like forever. When he returns with proper supplies, he notes that this is good because he’ll be needing a sample. I wonder if I can be more humiliated when I realize that this means one can’t discard the cleaning supplies like one normally might if, in fact, there’s going to be lab work. I confirm this with him. “Oh, right,” he says. “So I’m going to need a way to dispose of them,” I explain. He pulls up a trash can.  Yes, I can be more humiliated.
With all the accoutrements lined up, I finally pull myself out of the bed — still attached to 8 wires. He frees me from the blood pressure and the blood oxygen monitors (small favors). 6 wires left. He will not undo those. So then I stand there, starting at him. He’s not moving. “I’m good,” I say. He’s still there. Kathy has tried to model good behavior by stating as she leaves the room, “I’ll just wait in the hall.” He does not move. “Could I have some privacy,” I ask. “Oh!,” he says. Sure, yeah, I’ll be just out here.”  By “out here,” he refers to the small outer room.
The room has the appearance of privacy, but it’s really all about the extra-sanitary status of the room. There’s a door to the hallway on one side. Another wall has a door to a smaller, outer room where there is a computer to input all my info and a window through which the staff in the outer room can observe the patient in the inner room. Then, there’s a curtain AND a door from the outer room to the hallway.
He’s still in the outer room…door not closed…window (with blinds) still open. “Um,” I say, could you actually leave the whole room so I can have some privacy?” He’s clearly trying to get some info input into the computer (part of his job), but I’m pretty sure it can wait. He finally gets my not-so-subtle hint and leaves. He even closes the curtain; I close the inner door. Note: the curtain appears to be the universal hospital sign for ‘do not enter’ — staff always knock twice or call to you before entering through a curtain. It’s an interesting phenomenon.
Once the CAP is out, I have to figure out how to navigate a chair w/ a bucket while wearing a hospital gown that is open in the back, but NOT tied at any point all while tethered via 6 wires to a machine 4-5 feet away. It’s….interesting. Comical, really. I completely lose the hospital gown. I’m praying no one comes in (there’s another door, it’s not locked). The event is like a mash-up of Cirque du Soleil and My BIg Girl Potty. Sure, it’s successful and possibly even artistic, but in the end you’re sort of wishing you could have a do-over and pick a rerun of M*A*S*H instead.
In the end, Kaylee is correct. There are some things that you just never considered would happen. In the beginning you think it’s all nausea and hair loss, but there are so many other things that are more present in the experience that people don’t talk about. From the sleepless nights expelling excessive quantities of saline fluids to the selection of one’s garments, cancer has a brilliant way of keeping us humble. And that’s before the shower the next day, when the pain meds have worn off, where you keep peeling away stickers found all over your body. This is when we realize the truth: these un-planned, un-prepared-for experiences are all a conspiracy to ensure healing through laughter.