Part 18 (1/2)

From: Carol

To: All of Carrie's friends

Sent: Sept. 7, 2001

Thanks so much for your letters and e-mails about Carrie, and for your love and prayers. She's nearing the halfway mark in her chemo and radiation, and in the midst of all this, a couple of weeks ago she found and moved into a new little house she's renting in Franklin Hills. She spent her first night there last night. She's still driving herself to the hospital for treatment.

Her att.i.tude and energy have been amazing. She cheers up the rest of us.

She has named the tumor in her lung Yuckie Chuckie, and has created two j.a.panese-action-cartoon characters called Kimo and Radi, who exist for the sole purpose of zapping Chuckie. She looks upon the treatments as her heroes. She makes it a point to go out somewhere every day, even if it's only around the block. Just last Thursday, she and her sister Jody hit a nightclub to hear a friend sing. I don't know how long she can keep this up, but she's raring to go to the mall with me this week, to look for dishes and sheets.

Meantime, I feel so helpless (because I am). Aren't mommies supposed to kiss it and make it all better? I wish I could go through this for her. The doctors will wait a bit after her course of treatments is over, and then they plan to operate. The lung will probably have to go, but they said she has a fifty-fifty chance for a complete cure. She's young and determined.

Carrie told me she has reached a Zen-like state after having gone through the fear, the anger, and all the other c.r.a.ppy demons after the shock of the diagnosis. She even feels that this whole experience may be a ”gift” of some kind. She says she's putting things into perspective-things that would have sent her up the wall in the past simply don't matter now. Keep the good thoughts coming... .

Love, Carol

From: Carrie

To: Mama

Sent: Sept. 8, 2001

I hated having to leave my cabin for the craziness in L.A., but I get that I have to be out here for treatments. Anyhow, this is a charming little furnished abode on a quiet cul de sac, not too far from the hospital, so it's not so bad.

Mama, I've started writing about this particular journey. I figure I might as well make the most of it! Here's a story about what happened yesterday. Hope you like it.

This man, Harold, in chemo wasn't looking so hot when I walked in, all chalky and breathing hard, and generally looking like he shouldn't be ambling around but should be in a hospital bed. When I checked in for my treatment today, Harold was becoming a bit code blue, you know, choking and all of that, and it was awful. I tried to bury myself in a Time magazine, but I kept hearing Harold (I couldn't see him from where I was sitting, but I could see his lovely worried-sick wife, who was trying to get someone to do something!). They had given him Dilaudid in order to sail through today high as a kite, so he was out of it, and I mean OUT OF IT. Now the nurse (think Louise Fletcher as Nurse Ratched in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest) says, ”HAROLD CAN YOU HEAR ME,” and Harold says, ”Yessssss,” and the doctor who finally came down to see him said, ”HAROLD ARE YOU IN PAIN?” And Harold said, ”There isssss nooo such thinnng as paaaain.”

I mean for chrissakes he's on friggin' Dilaudid! What a dumba.s.s question. It made me happy this j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. wasn't MY doctor, 'cause even on Dilaudid, I would have jumped outta that La-Z-boy, tubes and all, and socked him clean across the jaw for asking such a stupid question, and billing me $350 bucks an hour for his ”expertise.”

Anyway, I felt so bad for Harold, and tried to hide my face more and more in that Time magazine, and then Nurse Ratched (in a cutesy, singsong, ”s.h.i.+rley Temple” voice) tells Harold, ”OK HAROLD, WE'RE GONNA GO GET SOME NICE FRESH AIR ... NOW, WON'T THAT BE NICE?” Which is a friggin' lie because they are going to wheel him to emergency and he'll probably be in the hospital until he dies, and AGAIN I thought, G.o.ddammit, I'd sock her, I swear I would. How dare anyone patronize someone like that?

Jesus, the indignity. It was the first time it dawned on me that sometimes these healthcare ”professionals” look at people who are sick like they are sick AND r.e.t.a.r.ded. They use baby talk, for cryin' out loud! We are NOT babies, we're just sick, and I'll tell you something, just because Harold was on Dilaudid didn't make him lose his facility for complex thought. He was simply somewhere else, and that dumba.s.s doctor and Nurse Ratched didn't have a clue that he might've been that way because he was loaded to the t.i.ts on synthetic heroin.

Then Nurse Stella loses it and yells at the other nurses in a strained nasal tone (I swear she could have given Louise Fletcher a run for that Oscar she won). Meantime, I'm still trying to continue reading Time, really concentrating on an article about nuns and Alzheimer's research and this one nun who is 106 years old. She is still totally lucid, but her ninety-one-year-old nun pal isn't.

Anyway, getting back to Harold. I heard him say a couple of funny things. No one caught them except me. But I didn't laugh out loud, because Harold and I both know that it wasn't really funny. It was gallows humor to the nth degree, although even that becomes funny when you're staring at the hangman and he's got spinach in his teeth.

Anyhow, before the doc and Nurse Ratched wheeled him out, Harold said, ”I'd like to thank my producers, my wife, and you, Doctor ...”

I thought it was hilarious.