One hot hen

 Feb. 29 - There’s a lot of trepidation this morning. Deb rushes back and forth gathering ‘must have’ stuff for her tote bag, most of it, as is increasingly the case, misplaced: her memory is getting nearly as patchy as her hair.

Her already cropped hair is thinning in a most random pattern. While Deb models a dozen different headgear ensembles - with Vikki adjusting the various scarves to hide the bald patches - I make French toast (out of Junior, our tenderly raised loaf of bread). We laugh a lot: Deb’s feathery checkered do looks like a downy new chick’s, and we determine this is why Fred-the-Rooster (who she inherited when she moved into the cottage) is so enamored with her. She is one hot hen.

But things get tense as it’s time to go. The car is packed, and Deb emerges in a get-up that demands a double take. Or two. Some authentic ‘let the sunshine in’ knit hippie pants; green clogs; a grey sweatshirt covered with a baggy white button down and topped with a bulky moth-eaten but favorite wool sweater. Around her head she’s wearing a green and turquoise floral silk scarf (with a black beanie underneath) and an orange sarong from Thailand covering her neck. She’s brave, but not happy. We concur that it goes against your survival instinct to deliberately poison your body. And then we press on.

The drive to St. Helena is long. At first she chatters, then quiets. I keep thinking that Deb and I should be on the open ocean again; not here. 'Racing a boat to Hawaii, laughing our way across mountainous seas, her long tangle of hair wildly blowing in the wind; not scalped, sober, in a mood as if she's going to the guillotine. On occasion we need to stop: the winding road that meanders up and down the mountains, combined with her anxiety, makes her queasy.  I play Pavarotti (La Boheme) to soothe her. After a stop to buy some mints at one of the few markets along the way, we’re there.

What a gorgeous place! It looks more like a spa, with a grand walkway and water feature, art and sculptures, beaming attendants. But of course it’s not. Deb goes through the paces: IV, blood tests, consultation, finally the drip. Her Doctor is divine, and we catch him off guard (oh, I cannot say, but it was funny) and we are belly-laughing, HARD, and he tells Deb she is doing well.

Originally I’d planned to visit the library and get some work done, but instead I keep her company and play more music: this time, a Scottish band we both like – Capercaille - as I pop in and out: tracking down a nurse to get her something for her headache, straightening her blankets, getting water, a banana, more warm blankets …  But I am neither angel nor saint nor warrior. I love my friend. I'm not of the means to write a charitable check and be done with it. Deb asked for help and company (and now that I am here, I see the need - not desire). And I have a perverse curiosity – like someone slowing at a car wreck – because I can’t really believe this whole process (even though I have witnessed it before). It gives me the heebie jeebies, it makes me want to throw up, cry, and bolt: especially when the nurse comes in with the plastic bag of chemo – and she’s wearing a hazmat suit. I watch my friend’s crumpled body take the drug, thinking ‘this could be your cousin or niece’ (and it has been), but statistically speaking, this could just as easily be you too.

It’s a long day and wraps up with the ever-so-pleasant Doctors and staff providing Deb acupuncture, aromatherapy, a shoulder massage. But as we walk out the elegant glass doorway, she breaks down in sobs. We have a quiet ride back to the cottage (driving ever so slowly because of nausea) where Vikki has played ‘advance’ and started a fire, warmed up the soup and the bread.

We have a joyful feast. I’m thrilled that Deb’s appetite isn’t lost, so she can eat, enjoy, and get healthy. She is oddly energized. But her attention span and interests have become muddled, as she spontaneously asks some off-topic question, starts a wild goose chase for a black shawl, solicits help in remembering to take certain pills, and impulsively calls me in to show me a basket of seashells she’d collected in Malibu. At midnight.

Finally she goes to bed, undisturbed by neighbors across the rutted dirt road who are arguing loudly. Every night a handful of men gather around a blazing Weber grill that’s propped up just behind the plywood sign advertising “FREE PILE OF STUFF.” It’s just occurred to us we never see any lights on: they don’t have electricity. But clearly they have beer … Deb’s house is safely set back, but the noise carries. Soon I hear the ‘whack- whack – whack’ of chopping wood but Deb is in her room softly snoring. I stoke our fire one more time and call it a night. Tomorrow will be full: Vikki has paperwork for funds, Charles should be arriving with more wood, and Deb is determined to have an official hair buzzing ceremony. And I will make more soup.

Tonight I am saluting the cancer patients; and the doctors, nurses, friends, family, supporters volunteers and donors and everyone who strives for their comfort, good health, and dignity during this ordeal