Dear Julie

Dear Julie

by Charles Lawrence

Dear Julie,

I know what it’s like to lie awake at night and wonder what’s going to happen to you. 

A doctor thinks I have lymphoma—the blood cancer.   I’m going in on Thursday for a CT scan of my body and an MRI of my brain to see if it’s spread.   At least that’s why I think they are doing it.  I’m not bothering to look any of this up.   I think it’s better not to know.

I’m not telling my family or anyone else.   You’re the only one who knows because I think someone should know where I am and what’s happening.   I’m at Sparrow Hospital in Lansing and I’m giving your name as an emergency contact.

I don’t want to worry anyone because I might not have it, but I’m tired, Julie.   Really tired.   I thought it was just working long hours, but frankly by 2pm I’m ready to fall into a coma.    I went to the doctor with symptoms of fatigue.   I was hoping it was Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, but I really don’t think that’s what this is.   

My blood work is coming back normal, but the doctor says I could still have this disease and have normal blood work.    She’s consulting with other doctors to see if her suspicion could be correct.

Frankly, I have my doctor’s number on speed dial and I’ve got the shortest route to the ER written down just in case I’m headed for a catastrophe.   I don’t know.  

 I feel like I should go to church on Sunday, but I haven’t been in years.  Kind of feel like an atheist in a foxhole.   Probably not right that I start going to church now, because I’m not sure how I feel about there being an afterlife.  I think it’s possible, but not probable.

I’m not sure where memorial services are held for non-church goers---the Holiday Inn?  I don’t know if I want a memorial service held at a place where the Rotary Club meets every other Wednesday at 12pm. I don’t want to sound morbid, but I guess I have to think of these things.  I might not even have lymphoma, but I’m ever the Boy Scout and want to be prepared.  

I’m thinking of all the things I want to do that I might not be able to do.   I guess I should make a Bucket List.   I’ve never kissed a woman from another country.  Or one who couldn’t speak English.  I’ve never gone skinny dipping.  I’ve never performed music in front of others.   I’ve never grown Sunflowers or gotten lost in a maze of corn.  I’ve never seen Paul McCartney play live.   

I guess I should make a list of things that I have done.   Counting my blessings and all.   I’m not sure if anything I’ve done is worth writing down.   I’ve gone to work.  I’ve supported myself.  I’ve wondered what I want to be when I grow up, but what am I leaving behind?

I know we had plans.   A snowboarding trip to Vermont, but you know how uncoordinated I am. I’m sure I wouldn’t have made it down the bunny slope.    I probably would’ve spent half the trip on crutches.   I would’ve loved to have hiked the Appalachian Trail, but I feel so weak that I’m sure I would’ve stumbled half the time if we tried that now.

I’m thinking of buying a camera and recording my medical journey.  Maybe I’ll post it on You Tube or Facebook.  I need to connect with others going through a similar experience.   I’m sure there are support groups, but I don’t want it to be some “woe is me” crying experience.  I’m going to fight this thing.   I’ve always been a bit of a fatalist, though.   The glass is always half empty with me, you know.  Maybe I should change my attitude.   That would be a sea change.  I’m not sure which will be tougher, battling this disease or changing my world view.  

I’m going to start reading books about people who have overcome adversity----Helen Keller, FDR, Christopher Reeve.   I know there are people far worse off than me.   I guess that should make me feel better, but somehow it doesn’t.   I really want to call all my friends and tell my family, but I don’t want to worry them or burden them with this.  I’ve heard illness can bring people together or tear them apart.

As for work, I’m not sure what to do.  I don’t know what the prognosis is.  Like I said, I’m really tired. Beyond description.    I have to work to keep my insurance,  but putting in a full day seems impossible.  There is family and medical leave, but I’m not sure how that works.   Will I still be insured if I’m not working?   I really don’t know.  I have a feeling I’m going to be fighting with the insurance companies while I fight this disease.    It’s going to be a real drag, to say the least.

I’ve started thinking of when I want to die.   I think I’d like to pass on during the Winter, when everything is dying.   I’ve always like the cold.  I plan on catching as many snowflakes on my tongue as I can.  I imagine staring out my hospital window, watching the icicles slowly make their way to the white fluff on the ground.     When the nurses aren’t looking, I’m going to go out and break one off and suck on one until I sharpened one end and keep it under my bed in case someone with chemo brain tries to attack me in the middle of the night.  Call it survival.

I guess all of this is premature, since they haven’t told me what’s wrong with me, but trust me, something is wrong with me.

Sorry if some of this is disjointed.  My thoughts are everywhere now.   Frankly, I’m terrified.  Anyone who is sick and puts on a brave face is only doing that for the people around him.   I wish I knew where I was going after this.    Being eternally unconscious seems doesn’t seem so bad I guess.  At least there would be no pain and no terror.   If there is a place to go, I hope it’s as fun as Disneyworld and as warm as a family fireplace at Thanksgiving.

I don’t blame you for not wanting to deal with this, Julie.    I don’t think women want to be with sick men.    I think it’s hardwired in people to let the sick go away to an elephant’s graveyard and lay down and die.    Thinning the herd I guess.  

If you want this to be a goodbye letter, I understand.    I did look forward to a future with you and we had one helluva past.

Let me know what you want to do.  I’ll wait to hear from you.

Love,

Dave