A friend developed lung cancer which had advanced to Stage 4 before doctors diagnosed it. They told her that surgery was not an option because of the location of the tumor. Instead, they recommended chemotherapy. The drugs made her hair fall out and caused nausea and vomiting, but they stopped the tumor from growing. Her medical care providers warned her that would eventually start growing again and that she would eventually die from her lung cancer.
At the end of September, she received the news that her latest CAT scan showed her tumor had grown. The doctors recommended weekly infusions of a new experimental drug. On October 3, 2012 she started chemotherapy–again. So far the treatments’ side effects have been limited to extreme tiredness and rare experiences of nausea. Her appetite has diminished in part due to the painkillers she takes for her chest pains. She counts her lack of reactions as a blessing.
Two weeks ago I went to work for her as an attendant. I show up every morning and fix her breakfast, set a spot for her at the dining room table and sit with her as she eats. My presence guarantees that she will eat something every morning. During her last chemo treatments she had stopped eating regular meals, which, although understandable, weakened her physically.
I fix food at my house and take it to her so she has food to heat up at lunch and dinner. She promises me she will eat. So far she is.
Toward the end of our first week together, she ased, “Would you go buy me some cigarettes?”
“Cigarettes? Are you nuts? You have lung cancer. What’s wrong with this picture?”
She looked at me and said, “I’m terminal. If I want a cigarette, I can have one. The doctors said so.”
Her reaction stopped me cold. The logic was clear. Her condition would kill her whether she smoked or not.
I walked over to the drugstore and bought her brand.
Every morning she eats breakfast while I tell her stories about my day. She tells me about her visitors, her life and her friends. She talks about her doctors and trips to chemo. When she’s eaten all she can, we step out on the patio to continue our conversation. She smokes. I rock in the wrought iron chair.
When she finishes her cigarette, we take our morning walk. We have even bullied her little dog so he comes with us. I have said I would never have a dog because I would have to pick up its poop. Mornings you will find me picking up dog poop because my friend wants her dog to go along with us.
Tod6ay as we sat down to pancakes and sausage, a special treat because she had to do some unpleasant business this morning, she said, “Would you do something for me?”
“What?” I learned a long time ago to ask what the person wanted me to do so I had a chance to say “No” if I didn’t want to do it.
“Would you go buy me a pack of cigarettes so I can have one before we walk?”
“I feel like an enabler, you know. I shouldn’t be buying you cancer sticks.”
As she walked down the hallway to find some cigarette money, she said, “They worked, didn’t they. Can’t say that for many things these days.”
We both laughed until tears ran down our faces.
She handed me the money. “Look at it this way. For once the Surgeon General of the United States knew what he was talking about.”
I walked to the drugstore and bought the cigarettes. When I returned to her house, we went to the patio so she could smoke a cigarette before we walked.
NOTE: She gave me permission to tell this story.
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