That said I'm blogging about something that's very important and special to me. The incredible people who have come into my life in big and small ways over these past 2 years. Last week I wrote a letter and mailed it to three places. Siteman Cancer Center at Barnes, the Oncology-hematology offices at Hulston Cancer Center, and 5 West at Cox South. I'm *so* grateful that if I had to go through this horrendous experience, I can at least say that I was blessed with amazing knowledgeable people to help me through it.
So I just want to share the letter that I wrote with all of you:
September 28 is not my favorite of days. It was not so bad last year because we had a “1 Year of Kicking Cancer in the Face” party. You see, September 28, 2009 is the day that gave us the news that my husband, Nathan Dunn, had Acute Myeloid Leukemia. He was 24, and I’d just turned 26 the month before. We’d been married a little over 2 years and had just been starting to think about having children and our plans for the future- plans that were instantly derailed at 8:00 that Monday evening. But as heart wrenching a moment as it was- discovering in one fell blow that you are not, in fact as invincible as your youth would lead you to believe- it was also the moment that brought into our lives some of the most incredible people I’ve had the privilege of meeting. It’s now two years later and on September 29th it will be 8 months since we lost Nathan to complications due to the treatment of his AML. He wasn’t quite 26 yet. The journey was long, difficult, painful and basically the only type of rollercoaster that I revile. But I had the most incredible team come alongside of me when it happened and I don’t know how we would have done it without them.
I’m convinced that there is a special type of crown in heaven for the medical caretakers of cancer patients. It’s a sad truth that the people you see the most are the people who are doing the worst and there is so very much unpleasantness that is brought on by cancer, radiation, and chemotherapy- both in people’s bodies and in their attitudes. I have no idea how you deal with it all, and still treat every patient with such kindness and respect. A lot of people take out their bad days on you, but you can’t take your bad days out on any of them. I would just like to let you know that you make a difference. You make such a difference. I took care of my husband for 16 months, and from that time I know that I could never do what you do, yet there you are, day after day, night after night, caring for and about dozens, sometimes even hundreds, of people who are as sick as can be. I hate the circumstances in which I met you, but I’m very glad to have gotten the chance to meet you.
In particular: Dr. Robert Ellis, I will always be grateful for the compassion with which you broke the news to us and so glad that we didn’t “shoot the messenger.” We always felt like you were seeing, not just Nathan, the AML patient, but Nathan the person. Thank you for never making us feel rushed even though you are very busy, and for always taking the time to make sure we understood what was happening, what the plan was, and why. I also enjoy your sense of humor and will not forget the time that we came into the hospital for a maintenance round of chemo and you saw me in the hall later and asked how things were going. When I told you he was already finished with his first round you exclaimed, “Well… Well… Shiver me timbers! That’s about the fastest I’ve ever heard!” I’ve never been so delighted to hear pirate speak in my life.
The other Oncology-Hematology physicians, and staff at the Hulston Cancer Center: My interactions with you were fewer, as I often had to work during the day, but we never ran into a doctor, nurse, or tech who was anything less than kind and many of you knew Nathan on sight and greeted him even if you were not the one taking care of him that day. There were times when it felt like I was married to a rock star celebrity rather than a cancer patient. Of course I thought Nathan was special, but it touches me that you all seemed to think it as well.
5 West Nurses, PCAs, and staff: Every single one of you is worth your weight in platinum. Gold isn’t even good enough. You all became like an extended family to Nathan and me, and to this day you encourage me and care about me. You’ve cried with me, you cared for my dear husband and took care of me as well. I will never be able to say thank you loud enough or long enough to convey how important and amazing I think you are.
Dr. Keith Stockerl-Goldstein, Rebecca Thompson, and all the other Barnes/Wash U. staff in the BMT/Leukemia division of Siteman: We met you later in the game, and you saw the best and worst of Nathan. You saw him with his ready smile even when dealing with terrible pain and sickness and you saw his stubborn pride when things started getting really hard at the end. Dr. Goldstein- It was easy to forget you didn’t live at the hospital; you were there so often. I think we saw you every day for 2 and a half weeks once. That kind of dedication is inspiring and touching. Rebecca- You cared about Nathan, and it was really evident. You went to bat for us with insurance and prescriptions, you called us to check up when Nathan was in the hospital in Springfield, you told me what to do when I was so panicked that even the most obvious of choices were unclear to me, and you went out of your way to visit Nathan several times during his last week in the ICU (and I saw the tears that you tried to hide.) At some point it felt like it became more than just your job, and that still means so much to me.
If it is a war against cancer, then in one way or another Nathan and I were taken off of active duty. But you are all still out there in the trenches, fighting the good fight, saving as many lives as you can and enriching the lives of those you can’t with your kindness, your thoughtfulness, your patience and the small bit of your heart that you invest in all of us touched by the horrible disease. I’m honored to have served beside you in my small little way. Shortly after Nathan’s death I got a card from a group of people, and someone had anonymously written. “F@*k it. In my eyes, he won.” That’s how I feel. Cancer doesn’t win, even if people die. I think the human spirit is greater than that, and I think each and every one of you is proof. I would sometimes be asked if I was a nurse because I picked up on medical jargon so quickly. My response was always, “No, I’m not a nurse. I just pay a lot of attention, cause I think he’s pretty important.” I learned about one type of cancer because I thought my husband was special. You learned about cancer because you thought he was, too. You thought he was and you think that every other husband, wife, mother, father, child is as well. And for that I cannot thank you enough. But I at least want you to hear it today.
Thank you.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
On September 28th my goal is not to focus on what cancer has taken away from me, but on all of you and the profound impact you have made on my life.
Thank you.
Happy Kick Cancer in the Face Day.
Hug your loved ones for me today.
Renée
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