FInding Compassion

Today's world often seems absent human compassion. The media inundates us daily with tragic stories of cruelty, abuse, and death. There are wonderful stories of compassion in our midst, though. The following is a story of caring and compassion among some of the world's most incredibly ill people, searching for hope and miracles.

Anna is my dearest friend in the entire world. She and I became close friends years ago when we both received our cancer diagnoses. We have tried to live each day fully and with hope for the future. Anna is now dying.

Anna was diagnosed with ovarian cancer several years ago. In the years following her diagnosis she has had major surgery and three long regimes of chemotherapy. In the initial regime, Anna lost her hair. The following regimes left her with agonizing mouth sores and painful peeling skin.
Anna chose to stop her chemotherapy last December. The side-effects from the drugs were intolerable and her monthly blood tests showed no sign of cancer remaining. She had also begun to feel continually dizzy with a marked decrease in her ability to balance and walk.

Anna continued to loose control over her hands and legs in the following months and I became frightened, even terrified. I began my campaign to convince Anna to travel with me to the Mayo Hospital in Scottsdale, AZ, my home away from home for my own cancer treatment. By mid-May, now in a wheelchair, Anna contacted Mayo and made her first appointment for the following week.

One week later, Anna and I found ourselves on the road to Arizona in my Subaru, our suitcases and her wheelchair stuffed in tightly. Anna and I did not need music or entertainment on our long journey. We talked continuously, sharing our life stories and our hopes and dreams. We also talked about our fears and our faith.

I stayed with Anna for three weeks in Scottsdale, perhaps the most remarkable three weeks of my life. It was there at Mayo, surrounded by great illness, that we experienced the true beauty of life.

Scottsdale is hot in May, hotter yet in June, but during our first week of testing at the Mayo I pushed Anna the half mile up the winding road from our hotel to the Clinic each morning and back again each late afternoon. We chattered continuously on our short walks and waved at fellow patients staying at our hotel as they drove by in their vehicles.

I took Anna each day to the appointments and tests that had been scheduled by the three doctors who were managing her case, an expert in internal medicine, an oncologist and a surgeon. Within days we were on a first name basis with the other patients in the waiting rooms who like us, talked quietly or read books and magazines, waiting for their names to be called for their appointments. Each and everyone one of us was fearful at some level of what the future held for us and yet we asked after each other and shared words of encouragement.

Joe was 71 years old. His wife Dorothy was 69. Joe brought Dorothy to Mayo and they had recently diagnosed her with kidney cancer. Dorothy was frail and Joe looked after her every need. They held hands as they sat side-by-side in the waiting rooms during our time there, she in a wheel chair and he in the chair immediately to her right. It was obvious that they adored each other and would be lost without the other. I admired the love and compassion that they shared together. Joe and Dorothy asked about Anna's progress daily as testing continued.

Stan was elderly, perhaps in his seventies. His wife had died years earlier and he was alone at Mayo. He had been diagnosed weeks earlier at his hometown hospital with lung cancer. He had come to Mayo for help. Though he was alone he was amongst friends as we all asked about his progress.

Mary was recovering from a hip replacement at Mayo. Her husband had brought her to Mayo and he walked by her side everywhere they went. Mary needed to use a walker as she recovered from her surgery. She was also blind, with a seeing-eye dog. The dog was confused by the walker, but he still attempted to guide Mary through the Clinic during the day and through the hotel in the evening, where they stayed down the hall from us. Anna and I got to know Mary, her husband Jack and the dog, whose name I can't remember, very well. When Mary was well enough to leave and return home we all had tears in our eyes as we said farewell.

Chad was 59. He was going through chemotherapy for prostrate cancer. He was alone and did not mention family. You would never know that he was sick by looking at him. He was so darn handsome and he was always smiling. He had the kind of smile that appeared not only on his lips, but also in his eyes. He had many laugh lines, probably from a lifetime of laughing. He always had a smile and a wave for us.

We spent that first weekend alone in Scottsdale at the mall buying clothes, shoes and best of all, wigs. Anna and I bought matching wigs and wore them back to the hotel. Our friends from Mayo who were staying at the same hotel laughed so hard when we arrived back on that Saturday night with our shopping bags and new hair!

By the second week of our stay at Mayo the summer heat had become oppressive. We turned to the shuttle van driver at the hotel for help in getting us to and from the Mayo Clinic. Though I often got up early in the morning to walk outside by myself to clear my mind, mid-day walks had become unbearable.

The hotel van came complete with a wheelchair loader in the back so Anna could be rolled on and loaded into the van with little effort. The second week of our stay, and all of our remaining weeks at Mayo, we met the five gentlemen who operated the shuttle during each of the shifts. These men were truly some of the kindest men that I had ever met and they watched over Anna as they helped her on and off the van, always concerned with how she was feeling. We shared our stories with them, and they with us.

It was later in the second week of our stay out at Mayo, following days of blood tests, x-rays, CTscans, MRI's and physicals, that we finally were given Anna's diagnosis of Paraneoplastic Syndrome. Normally, our body activates cancer-fighting antibodies or while blood cells, known as T-cells, to combat the cancer. With this syndrome, instead of attaching only the cancer cells, the body attacks the similar proteins that are found in your brain. Anna's immune system was destroying her brain.

Paraneoplastic Syndrome is rare. It is so rare that Anna and I sat together with the oncologist specialist as he called around the world to no avail to find any case where the syndrome has been successfully treated. I held Anna as she cried after hearing the diagnosis. I cried too. The doctor looked as us with the kindest of eyes, knowing that he had broken our hearts. He did promise that he would continue to research and make contacts to find possible treatment paths forward.

Anna and I were quiet on the ride back to the hotel that afternoon. I am certain that the van driver knew that we had received some very bad news as he watched us in the rear view mirror, our eyes red and our mascara smeared. I sought out the driver on duty later that evening, while Anna spent some time alone in our room, and I shared our news from the day. They had all been so kindly to us and I wanted them to know how much their compassion meant to both of us. He cried.

Anna and I remained out in Scottsdale for one more week as the doctors worked to develop a possible treatment path for a highly rare disease with no successful treatment identified to date. The doctors were patient and kind, and they seemed to want so desperately to help Anna.

Our fellow patients, those we had come to know so well in the various waiting rooms the prior weeks, seemed to take Anna under their watch, offering to help us in anyway possible. These were our new friends. They were living with and battling liver cancer, bone cancer, breast cancer, brain cancer, pancreatic cancer, ovarian cancer, prostrate cancer, and host of other cancers and terminal illnesses, and yet each and every one of them shared their concern and kindness with two strange women from out of state.

Anna and I returned home in late June. In early July Anna began experimental treatment for her Paraneoplastic Syndrome. Mayo is monitoring her progress with the treatment through her doctors at the local hospital here. Anna's weight has dropped 45 pounds in the past two months and she has now lost most of her motor skills, including her ability to read, write and walk.

I continue to encourage Anna to fight for her right to live for many years to come. Anna is dying, though. I know that. Together Anna and I have prepared an outline for what we would like in our individual funerals, including songs and prayers that we hope would comfort those that we leave behind. Guests are not to wear black or grey. They are to celebrate our lives.

During these past months, as we individually and together came to terms with our health and our futures, we have been blessed with the kindness and compassion of family, friends and strangers. To all of our friends from the Mayo Clinic, thank you and take care.