This past school year didn't provide many opportunities for rides, so my first one happened to take place this Monday, two days ago. My patient was named Dee*, and other than that I only knew that she was in her late 60's. It's kind of intimidating to approach a stranger and drive them to a doctor's appointment for a disease that is possibly terminal. On the one hand you're an intruder walking into a very personal aspect of someones often painful independent experience. At the same time, you're offering them assistance with said experience, trying in a very small way to provide help along their journey. I don't know. It was intimidating.
I had no idea what to expect when I went to pick up Dee at 10 am Monday morning. When she came down I found myself face to face with a very small black woman whose hair style ended in a hair net. My first emotional reaction was pity, but I soon learned that I was pretty far off. In fact, Ms. Dee just frankly didn't give a shit about anything, much less her hairstyle.
"I'm so tired of this shit" she whispered with a painful voice, I'm assuming due to the type of cancer she had.
"I know", I heard myself say. It's not like I knew anything about what she felt at the moment, or exactly how tired she was of what shit, but for some reason I just said it, maybe as if to let her know that I knew the sitch sucked.
We got into the car and headed toward the clinic. I figured it was appropriate to ask her how long she'd been in Gainesville, to which she replied "about 6 years". She was silent for a moment and then told me where else she'd been. "Born in Mih-sippi, live in New York about 13 yuhs". Turns out she lived in New York throughout the 60's, drinking her way up and down Manhattan on a subway's dream, living. Living. Being a 1960's fiend, I tried to get some details out of her concerning the music/culture/art/fashion/whatever while she lived there, but she replied by stating that she was simply too drunk to remember the things that had happened. What she remembered was that it was a total blast. Fair enough, Dee. Fair enough.
She went quiet again as if in memory of dark streets and bright lights. We listened to the jazz channel on XM (generally a safe bet if you don't know anything about a person getting into your car) and I got to thinking about how ridiculous this woman was and how silly my original idea of this "cancer stranger" had been. All I had was a name and an age to go with, 68 I believe, and within my own environment and background I guess I sort of pictures a religious, white haired Caucasian of sweet temper and the prudocity that comes with age. How silly indeed. Maybe it's the whole cancer thing that made me assume some of these things- not the white woman part, but the frailty part, the reserved little old lady part. I guess all cancer means is that you start to think about what you regret in your life and want to forget and what was too lovely in your life to ever forget. Turns out Ms. Dee only had the latter.
"You been tuh duh gay club?" she asked, jolting me from my personal persiflage. There was no possible way she had actually asked me what I thought she had, but when I asked her to repeat she said the same thing. In fact I haven't ever been dancing at the University Club, known widely as a homo/bi/funsexual place to dance in Gainesville, but I have plenty of friends who do including my own parents who swear by gay clubs as the best places to dance.
"No actually, but I hear it's fun (?)" I put out tentatively.
"It's the best", came her retort. "I went dancin there a while ago and had me the best time in so long. No fightin, no ugly swearin, just so much damn fun. I had nine drinks that night and my friends had to get me out of a bush that night, ahahaha...".
A couple things here. One, Ms. Dee's propensity for alcohol had become quite apparent, and even more so when she let me know that the worst part of her throat cancer was not being able to drink beer (or eat fried chicken- actual quote here). It was almost endearing. Two, she's only lived in Gainesville for a little over 5 years, meaning that the night she went out clubbing in Gainesville's only gay bar she was at the ripe age of 60 something. This was beyond endearing.
We arrived at the clinic a few moments later. I found a parking space and got ready to get out when she said under her breath, "I doan regret nuthin". It was that simple. I smiled and helped her out of the car, and we walked into a cancer clinic consisting of overly happy nurses and receptionists accompanied by underly sad patients and caregivers. I went to find us a seat but Dee just walked on back to the doctor's office without even signing in. I think she's above something like that, to be honest.
Looking around I couldn't help but notice how different Ms. Dee was from everyone in the waiting room. On some people's faces you could see the action of giving up, in a blank stare or apathetic posture. It's like their diagnosis had killed them in itself- there was no need to waste time on treatment, I have cancer, this sucks, it's over, I'm sad. So much sadness. And Ms. Dee treated cancer as simply, well, an annoyance almost. Just something that keeps getting in the way of enjoying barbecues and beer. And I think she's got a point. She's not sad, or scared, or down-hearted because there's no need to be. What's she missing out on? She's seen.felt.touched.smelled.heard it all. So where's sadness in that? She might be a develish heathen of an alcoholic, or perhaps just an old black woman from Missippi who treated her life without caution and with joyous experience. I don't think it really matters. Ms. Dee's got life, and I'm happy to have met it.
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