Nostalgia for the Present

I am reading all of my doctor’s published medical papers. Yesterday’s discussion with him seemed almost collegial. It’s funny, I could hear him talking to the residents across the hall about my case; they call me “The Student.” 

Unfortunately, the Student’s blood work showed little improvement and so the Student must have continued chemotherapy along with steroids and anti-malarials and the Student must prepare for a lifetime of immunosuppressant drugs. The Student keeps a graph and spreadsheet of her test results and wanted the white blood count to dip further than it did. Because of the chemotherapy’s effects on her ovaries, the Student has probably just given up the opportunity to give birth to a child. The Student is hoping for better on the next visit.

Dr. S, a very, very tall, pale blue eyed, bald doctor was truly caring; speaking slowly and kindly to Patricia and I, showing concern and walking us over to the chemo room himself as he explained more about the treatments and his hopes for my recovery , and perhaps one day, remission. There are no words for the chemo room--beds laid out, a handful of people hooked up to tubes of nuclear liquid off IVs, a young scared looking girl watching a portable DVD player as the poison drips. "You're a member of the Cytoxan Club!" Dr. S said, trying to sound light. In there, as I avoided looking too closely, we talked about cardiac health and Systemic Lupus and Dr. S recruited me into his NIH study. Funny, I had just been joking that if I didn’t get into a PhD program, I’d offer myself up to the National Institutes of Health for experimentation. Maybe I can still get both. The study gets me some free healthcare, some free travel, and may help me avoid dangerous blood clots and further cardiac involvement. I am, for this reason, hopeful. I also like the idea of being Patient X. Patricia says she loves going to my doctor’s appointments—“You’re like my own Mystery Diagnosis!” she says kissing my forehead. 

This morning I was still trying to shake the chemo room. And so we packed up the kids and went south. A beautiful New Mexican sky above us, we drove toward Socorro and I told the story of my dad’s storefront church there—how I was mortified because of the windows that let people see in as we prayed and sang. Earlier in the week, my dad and I had breakfast. He told me how my grandma made a promesa that if he returned safely from Viet Nam, she would walk from Deming to the church at San Antonio. And so today we drove south to San Antonio to also give thanks for my dad’s safe return and my own and to see my grandma’s own careful path. We went first to Tomé, where the entire jornada lays flat beneath the hill, where folks stopped to assess the threats ahead of them as they moved further from the water source, the rio. After the slow walk up, with my heart pounding, I stared out at the jornada del muerto not knowing what to pray for. Black volcano burned rock beneath my feet, bright morning sun above me, I felt as solid as land, and as fleeting as the coiling cold airstream. All day it was like this; the laughter in the car, the singing along, the green chili cheeseburger at the Owl Café while Patsy Cline played—Patricia put a quarter in the jukebox for me—the snow birds, the homemade fudge from the General Store and the sunset drive north to pink-blue Sandias. 

This has happened to me for so long now; the terror of my body opening me up like some morning glory at dawn. My nostalgia for the present.