Author: Rachel Roman

Couldn’t You Just Cry

Rachel Roman, , Leave a comment

It was May 25, 1986. I woke up on an overcast Sunday morning and put on some gym shorts, a boxy unisex t-shirt, and tied the laces on my pair of trusty sneakers. I will never forget my first pair of Nikes. I had them out of the box and on my feet before our station wagon pulled out of the shoe store parking lot. I, had a pair of Nikes. I wore those babies until the laces bled.

Likely that all of us fit in the
backseat of that Buick.

The t-shirt was screen printed with a logo and the words “Hands Across America”. We were participating in a monumental event with millions of people holding hands across America from coast to coast – raising funds to combat hunger and homelessness in the United States. Our place in the chain was near Forest Park and the Washington University campus. I don’t remember many specifics about the day (other than my sneakers, RIP) but I do recall my mind trying to understand how it was possible for everyone in America to be holding hands at the same time. While it wasn’t nearly everyone in the US, it was an unimaginable feat. I could feel the expansion.

I recall watching the Olympics in the 80s and 90s with a similar wonder – excitedly looking up the different countries and their flags in our fancy set of bound encyclopedias. The ones my parents undoubtedly took out a second mortgage for and propelled three young future college graduates with. I loved spinning our world globe to find the far away places like Japan and Switzerland, Brazil and Bangladesh. My love of old globes continues to this day. Any time I see one for sale at a thrift store, into my trunk it goes! I marveled at the feat of carrying the torch from Olympia, Greece, all the way to the host city of the next Olympic games. Many different hands stewarding the journey, keeping the flame lit and the spirit alive until the lighting of the giant magic cauldron of the equally enthralling opening ceremonies.

Florence – 1998

In January of 1998 I packed a large REI backpack and boarded a plane in Chicago with a few of my best friends in college. We landed in Florence, Italy, for what was indeed the experience of a lifetime. Five months studying and living abroad, hopping on trains, crossing borders, breathing in culture, art, architecture, food and wine at every turn. And a brewery’s worth of pints at the Lion’s Fountain in our beloved Firenze, Italia. The time of my life. I remember an overnight train from Budapest to Prague, abruptly awoken in the middle of the night by Slovakian guards asking to see our passports. At the time I felt a little Agatha Christie and a lot Ethan Hawke. What an adventure I was on! The freedom I had to live on the fly and take in the treasures that Europe had to offer me.

Last night I found myself looking out into the night over my city. Stone and cement, glass and steel, buildings standing tall and proud in the sky. Glowing lights on the steeple of the downtown cathedral. Street lights creating warm halos. Walkers and dogs taking in the delightful change in temperature before retiring for the night. A simple scene. The peace of sleep just a few short hours away.

Across the way stands the city courthouse. It is a building I have long admired. Hard to fathom how these buildings were built without the technology we take for granted today. The top of the courthouse resembles an Egyptian pyramid. Many nights I find myself staring at it inquisitively.

Downtown St. Louis, MO

The pyramid roof on the top was designed to resemble the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus which was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. The roof is made of cast aluminum and is topped by two 12-foot high sphinx-like structures with the fleur-de-lis of St. Louis adorned on the chests.

Beginning in 2012 the lights changed to rainbow colors for the start of PRIDE. Colors have lit the the columns and change with the happiness of holidays and the tears of tragedies ever since. Tonight it was lit in blue and yellow.

Beaming the colors of the Ukrainian flag.

I felt a quick surge of pride followed by the slump of sadness. I would be going to bed with the security of knowing my next days activities, the choice to make my own coffee or run out for a latte, answering my emails with a robust WiFi connection. The sun would rise, the birds would chirp, and I would still be cloaked in an amazing amount of freedom and security.

Tomorrow, Ukrainians would wake up – if they were fortunate to sleep at all – and run to catch trains, race to the border, hoping for safe harbor and kind neighbors and relatives and even strangers to take them in. Not knowing if they would ever return to see their homes or the night sky over their beloved homeland. Leaving loved ones behind to resist and fight against the forces set into motion by the hardened, cold heart of one maniacal man, who has changed the course of Ukrainian life and world history forever.

Couldn’t you just cry?

Last year I endeavored to walk to the Arch daily on the road of recovery after finishing my cancer treatments. Some days were quiet and reflective, and other days were musical and inspirational. One morning the voice of J.K. Rowling – author of the beloved Harry Potter series – came streaming into my ears. It was the audio from her 2008 commencement speech at Harvard. She spoke of two themes – the positive effects of failing – and the revolutionary power of empathy. I know all about failing. Done it many times. She is correct. It works. It has a growth effect like no other. But it was her words on empathy – rooted in imagination – that captivated me. I replayed it over and over as I looped around the legs of the Arch and back to my apartment.

‘Unlike any other creature on this planet, humans can learn and understand, without having experienced. They can think themselves into other people’s places…….many prefer not to exercise their imaginations at all. They choose to remain comfortably within the bounds of their own experience, never troubling to wonder how it would feel to have been born other than they are. They can refuse to hear screams or to peer inside cages; they can close their minds and hearts to any suffering that does not touch them personally; they can refuse to know.…….If you choose to use your status and influence to raise your voice on behalf of those who have no voice; if you choose to identify not only with the powerful, but with the powerless; if you retain the ability to imagine yourself into the lives of those who do not have your advantages, then it will not only be your proud families who celebrate your existence, but thousands and millions of people whose reality you have helped change. We do not need magic to change the world, we carry all the power we need inside ourselves already: we have the power to imagine better.‘

A fatalist I am not, but the threat of nuclear war has me tiptoeing around the quicksand. I feel more reflective, more introverted. How can this be happening? How does this end? Will it end? How can the democracy of a sovereign land be so desecrated?

Couldn’t you just cry?

While it has become our collective tendency to speak of each others perspectives and opinions with rigid and inflexible dichotomies – even the act of choosing divisiveness is an unrecognized privilege. The torch of freedom that the courageous Ukrainians are laying down their lives to keep lit, is the same freedom that many of us arguably hold thoughtlessly in our own hands.

As citizens of a callously free country and as citizens of a troubled world – we must come together. To imagine each other’s pain, to imagine our differing stations in life, to imagine our expansive and challenging histories and experiences, galvanized for the advancement of humanity over tyranny.

We can cultivate a beating heart of empathy.

We can hold hands in solidarity.

Across America.

And around the world.

Spatchcocked

Rachel Roman, , , Leave a comment

I have recently taken an odd interest in the excessive number of cluck joints around town.

You have the pleasure filled chicken churches with bumper to bumper drive thru lanes spilling out into traffic. There are the all-you-can-sauce sports spots with feathers flying out of the windows. They are raising hell, staying slim and crispy, all while we ask these poor plucks to lay more than one egg a day before we smother them in Ranch. Can we give the breast a rest, already? I am entirely spatchcocked. And also Vegan, At Times. Hence the feeling of spatchcockery. Please don’t check my grammatical accuracy on this. I am still scarred from diagramming sentences and identifying dangling participles in elementary school. Fairly confident this is not Merriam-Webster approved.

By now you may have a little panic alarm going off in your head. The language! *giggle* I dare you to say spatchcock out loud 5 times in a row. You have now smacked up, flipped, and rubbed down a pornographic piece of poultry. Life is best lived outside of your comfort zone, people.

A few days before Thanksgiving, I walked into a local coffee shop a few blocks from my loft in the heart of downtown. A brisk and cloudy morning, the smell of caffeine cocaine brimming in the air. Inside sat a few digital nomads – straightening messy buns and brushing crumbs off cardigans for their next virtual call. A retiree or two, unfussed about getting the worms. And to my left, two familiar friends from the neighborhood. We will call them Bartles and James.

If you live in St. Louis, you may have already dropped your handle of afternoon gas or spit out your sandwich at the plausibility of decent human life ‘downtown’. That garbage dumpster fire collection of empty buildings, wild west gun fire, and an intermittent sea of red in the summer. Contrary to perceived popular opinion, there is life downtown. It is actually breathing. We may have recently come off of life support and are re-learning the art of fine motor skills, but we are here. And ready for the rebirth. I digress.

Back to the wine coolers.

Bartles and James were talking somewhat officiously, with the playful body language of two young men detailing the previous night’s escapades. Bartles is never without a cigarette or cup of coffee. Always an opinion or an inside scoop to share. James speaks with a voice made for entertaining; delights at the tango of intellectual banter.

Oat milk latte! The barista called my order. Promptly whipping out my nut milk hippie card for verification. I ain’t mad about it.

Looking up, I caught their eyes.

I thought that was you! James smiled.

I smiled back and said, So this is the new coffee spot, eh?

Bartles had retired from his longstanding coffee shop a while back, leaving downtown’s former Central Perk a constant moving target. Where there was legit java and outdoor seating, you could find these two and a handful of other ‘regulars’ from all walks of life. Gathering to tell tales, debate and lament the issues, laugh and smoke. Rinse and repeat. Refer back to the concept of ‘life’ downtown. Not only is there life, it is actually quite intelligent.

We quickly went into the holiday pleasantries. They were having a Friendsgiving gathering, and James was cooking the turkey.

Are you brining it? This is the small talk that has come out of my mouth in every pre-Thanksgiving conversation that I have ever had. In my entire adult life. Thank you, Ina.

I bet you’re brining it. I said without hesitation.

No.

You’re frying it! I said, feeling clever.

Noooooo. James’s grin crinkled and he knew he had me in the precise spot he wanted to land his plane.

My hamster wheel of a brain stopped when all I heard him say was SPATCHCOCK.

Spatchcock? I felt hot, uncomfortable, and curious all at once. Nonplussed. We are talking about a turkey, right? There was no hiding the flush on my face or the absence of any quizzical quip.

His eyes were alight with my captive audience. Instantly knowing that I had absolutely no idea what that strange word meant. We did a brief cat and mouse until it was explained that spatchcock was not only a fun word to interpolate into a conversation, it was a revolutionary, if not very obvious way to cook a finger lickin’ good turkey. Dr. Google technically defines spatchcock as ‘a chicken or game bird split open and grilled’. Dr. Google also defines the slang meaning ‘in this figurative sense is indeed mainly British. It means to stuff things together inappropriately.’ Leave it to the Brits. Inappropriate indeed!

Okay, so now I know you guys aren’t filming a porno at your Friendsgiving, I thought.

‘You understand this is the bus to the school, now, don’tcha?’
‘Of course; you’re Dorothy Harris, and I’m Forrest Gump.‘

Relief and laughter slammed into each other.

An accomplished chef, James went on to tell me in great detail about the cutting of the backbone, the cracking of the wishbone, the tucking of the wings, the basting, and the drastically reduced cooking time. Culminating in the perfectly prepared bird. I reflected quickly on all of the bags of freezer burned breasts I had begged to behave over the years.

Bartles grinned and pulled on his coffee, likely wishing it was a cigarette. He was hosting and it was going to be a full house. Transplants and lifers, old dogs and dreamers.

Downtown is alive.

And well.

The Pink Lady and The Panhandler

Rachel Roman, 8 Comments

It’s been a while, eh?

I made a little promise to myself. I am my own secretkeeper this time.

Try telling yourself a hope-filled secret and tucking it into your pocket every once in a while.

Not everyone needs to know your business. It’s fun.

Last week I stopped at a red light after exiting the highway. A familiar frequented red light where I look at my phone or check the time. Pull down the visor mirror and inspect for spinach. Quit singing along before the driver next to me starts staring. A simple setting of self-absorption.

To my left, on the gravel of the side of the road, was a woman. Thin build. Average height. Worn jeans. Backpack. Stocking cap with blonde hair poking out behind her ears. Hard living on every thread of her jacket.

My ability to determine someone’s age has evaporated. You are either 18 or 82. Young or old. Apologies to every 40 year old I thought was 60. You are floating in the sea of my middle aged oblivion.

Her smile was timid. A shred of hope in the many lines on her face. Was she my age? Did she have a home? Did she have a Mom? Where had those boots taken her? How many places had she been to that she wasn’t a willing passenger? My mind hummed. There was no sign asking for help. No sad story scrawled out on cardboard. She spoke with her smile.

I smiled in reflex, rolled down my window, and gave her a hearty South City hello.

The shred of hope met my eyes.

I didn’t have any cash. I glanced back at the light. Still red.

I looked over at my empty passenger seat. There sat my on-the-go snack. A perfect Pink Lady apple. They are ambrosia. Crisp and sweet.

Do you like apples, I asked.

I do, she said, taking the apple from my outstretched hand. Thank you, she said.

Stay warm, I said, the snowstorm is coming.

I will, she said.

I looked back at the light. It was green. I smiled back at her.

She waved and I drove on through the intersection.

Would she be there the next time I stopped at that light? Would she stay warm? Would life give her a break?

I don’t know.

But I do know that she gave me something to smile about.

Thank you, pink lady.

50 Ways to Leave Your Lover.

Rachel Roman, , , , 18 Comments
You’re still here?

Oh, hello there. You’re still here? Paying attention? Wow. We’ve always been here you say. I haven’t been. Hiding under a quilt of anxiety and overwhelm. Partly on purpose, partly without warning. The lobster set in a pot of tepid water and before long it’s boiled him. It has been real. And disorienting. And frustrating. And humbling. The cancer worm opened the door for the pizza delivery man and invited him in for a slice. His mother in law and cousin were along for the ride in his van, so why not invite them in too. Quite a trio, the creepy pizza man, his opinionated mother in law, and their obnoxious cousin who moonlights as a bill collector. All doing the YMCA with the cancer worm. Inside my house. They made fast friends. I was soaking in a bath upstairs and came down to a keg party where no one thought to roll up the rug. A real slosh fest with me holding the mop. Sober.

I don’t need another hero.

This blog started as an idea for an outlet to share my cancer stories and updates. So many updates. One forum for creative expression and simultaneously a reflexive diarrhea dump of facts, feelings, and emotions. I had always wanted to write, hadn’t I? Yes. Yes I had. This was it! My chance to shine up this turd and make a good story out of it. All the while not having to obligatorily and monotonously update 50 people on my latest white blood cell count via text message. As the saying goes, we make plans and God laughs. I don’t know if it is God who is laughing, but my plans were shot to shit. So if you ever get cancer, do yourself a favor and try to just live (or survive) in the minute and worry about your memoir long after the dust settles. At the very least wait until your port gets taken out. Nothing like having a semi-permanent medical device protruding from under your collarbone like a nubby horn on a prepubescent billy goat. Staring you square in the face every time you look in the mirror. Don’t forget you have cancer today! Tawny, my trusted ’80s video vixen, Tina Turner in Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome port device is still in. Staring me down daily. We are frenemies. I appreciate her no bullshit approach to being violated. Mad respect. But go on and get gone already, girl.

Shitter’s full. Moose out front shoulda told ya.

My last blog post was on July 15, 2020. Eight months ago to the day. I made three posts to this humble little engine that could before it abruptly ran out of gas. My Dad has this expression for when things don’t go quite right, ‘Slow ‘er down, she’s suckin’ mud.’ I heard that many times growing up and I say it quite frequently to myself as an adult. Cousin Eddie would have just said ‘Shitter’s full, Clark.’ While I had so much to say during this cancer tale, so many thoughts and feelings swirling in my head ready to jump out, conversations and humorous observational experiences to recount, I just couldn’t get started. Nothing flowed. I’m going to write today came out of my mouth practically every day, yet I couldn’t summon myself to do it. As the days piled up, the side effects did too – the physical ones that I could feel and touch and the mental ones that became the weight stack that tried to break me in half. Historically, I am the one that makes people feel better. But I felt worse. And with that realization came a sense of guilt I can’t really describe. In this world of oversharing, I actually did want to share – to encourage, to update, to tell all the caring people supporting me what was going on, to thank them, to tell them I was going to be okay…but the cancer quicksand didn’t give me room. To breathe or to write. Not every day was suffocating. There were days of prednisone highs, a thousand acts of kindness to be grateful for, smiles and silliness to see me through……but most every high predictably came crashing back into to the slop. Just stuck there, sucking mud.

Locked and loaded.

In addition to being able to relate most situations in life to a Seinfeld episode, I hold dearly an addictive love of and deep connection to music. The melodies that move you, the lyrics that speak to your soul. I have a few go-to stations I’ve created on Pandora. One being a curated mix of Elton John, Fleetwood Mac, Van Morrison, and Paul Simon just to name a few. The storytellers. Music was my solitude during treatments. Each chemo session starts with a series of ‘pre-meds’ – basically the meds that will hopefully make you barf less and eat more in the days to come. My favorite part of ‘pre-meds’ was the open up the port, lightning bolt to your brain, diesel fuel dose of Benadryl. The dose intended for my body to not instantaneously reject the poison that would follow. The dose that took me on the sleepiest rocketship ride to sheep jumping over moon. The nappiest naps I’ve ever taken. The sweet calm before the chemo drug storm. I was always sure to put in my air pods, turn on one of my stations and let that Benadryl drift me to a place where the lyrics were my life for an interlude. Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters, ‘Until you’ve seen this trash can dream come true, You stand at the edge while people run you through, And I thank the Lord there’s people out there like you’, Landslide ‘Can the child within my heart rise above? Can I sail through the changin’ ocean tides? Can I handle the seasons of my life?’ Into the Mystic ‘Hark now, hear the sailors cry, Smell the sea and feel the sky, Let your soul and spirit fly, Into the mystic’. Music is woven throughout my cancer story. Music has become the dearest of friends that I will never be able to repay for it’s kindness. One song that has consistently shown up for me is Paul Simon’s 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover. Oddly relatable. Lighthearted and simultaneously deep. It has played at the strangest times this past year but always when I needed the reminder – I have choices. Indulge me and follow this bouncing ball…

The problem is all inside your head, she said to me
The answer is easy if you take it logically
I’d like to help you in your struggle to be free
There must be fifty ways to leave your lover

I didn’t want cancer, I didn’t ask for it to turn my life upside down, but I could and I would give it the heave-ho.

She said it grieves me so to see you in such pain
I wish there was something I could do to make you smile again
I said I appreciate that and would you please explain
About the fifty ways

There were the days I knew I had this thing licked. There were the days I thought it would never end.

She said, why don’t we both just sleep on it tonight?
And I believe in the morning you’ll begin to see the light
And then she kissed me and I realized she probably was right
There must be fifty ways to leave your lover
Fifty ways to leave your lover

But I made up my mind to make it. And I did.

You just slip out the back, Jack
Make a new plan, Stan
You don’t need to be coy, Roy
Just get yourself free
Oh, you hop on the bus, Gus
You don’t need to discuss much
Just drop off the key, Lee
And get yourself free

Me too, Paul. Me too.

And get yourself free. I’m not totally free. Far from it. My next scan is in May. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. But I’ve just begun the work to address the mental toll all of this has taken. I want to take a high speed train back to the vibrancy I once knew intimately, but I have to clean up the mud first. And the pizza party. Thank you for offering to help. Every single one of you. Until our next story telling hour……

The 17 year cicada.

Rachel Roman, , , 12 Comments

May 22, 2020

Friday morning I woke up in the hospital, fingers and toes crossed that my biopsy would happen. Thursday had been a day of indulgent mental bingo. And a tad bit of gluttony. Hospital room service. I didn’t particularly have an appetite. But how can one pass up choosing an item from each category. Spring rolls? No sodium restrictions here, baby! What’s that you say, TWO dessert selections? Don’t mind if I do!

COVID. Chaos. Cancer. Cicadas. Why the hell not?

Back to the bingo. Trying my best to read, I looked up and realized that I had consumed the same paragraph three times yet didn’t remember any of it. I flipped on the TV and tried to remember what shows were on each channel. The enticement of finding your favorite movie beyond the next click. Hospital TV’s do not have a ‘Guide’. I need a guide in most aspects of my life. So this was actually quite humorous. Channel 63 – Dirty Dancing. Wait was it 36? Or maybe 64? I remember a shopping channel and a court show and then. Commercials on 64. Should I go back to 36? Well shitballs! I’m back at Channel 2 again. Wasted a good hour or more scrolling channels and never settled in on anything to watch. A little cancer worm had started to burrow in my brain.

My phone was sitting next to me. Somehow staring at me. I felt a nudge to share my chirping box of cicadas. My immediate family knew. I should let my friends know. I am in the hospital. I have cancer. No, Rachel, there is still a possibility that the watermelon seed you ate as a kid actually grew into a melon. Pick up the phone. I am not a phone talker. Ok, text message it is! You can’t send this news out over text message! Uh, yes you can, and you will do it with a flourish of positive emojis! The cancer worm in my brain then took a big satisfying poo, found a blanket and said, ‘I will be staying a while.’

I sent out a few text messages. To the friends that I knew would be outside my hospital window in an hour dressed in gorilla and banana suits. The ones that would find a way to smuggle in a Costco size box of CheezIts. The ones that would buckle in and not complain about the bumpy ride. The Lady Tribe, the Boca Babes, the BBQ Broads, the Southsiders. Looking back, how poignant was it to be reading Glennon Doyle’s remarkable book ‘Untamed’ when this grenade landed in my lap. My girl Glennon writes (we are down like two flat tires, ya know) “What the world needs is more women who have quit fearing themselves and started trusting themselves. What the world needs is masses of women who are entirely out of control.” Yes! Yes! All the yes. I have a pack of goddamn cheetahs.

http://www.emmaandbelladesigns.etsy.com

I was wheeled into the biopsy room under the security of a thin hospital blanket. The fuzzy blanket that Nurse Jackie gifted me was instantly more special. Interventional Radiology. Sounded more like I was going in on a 72 hour mental hold with a broken leg. No, no, silly girl – a straightjacket is not necessary attire! We’re just going to bop a turkey baster sized needle into your chest and see what this melon is made of.

Again I found myself looking up into fluorescent hospital lights. This time there was no art on the ceiling. There was no small talk from the doctor. The room itself, without hesitation, said, ‘If you’re here, you got something, sweetheart.’ The procedure was actually quite unremarkable. I had plenty of anesthesia. But the cancer worm in my head was watching Jerry Springer. In my slippers. Asking for a Diet Pepsi. On ice. Make yourself at home. Squatter’s rights.

I was ready to go home. My ‘rule out the big stuff’ doctors appointment on Wednesday checked me into the hospital, and now it was Friday. I missed my bed. My pillows. Joel. JoJo. Going home would make things normal again. But they weren’t. Had they ever been? Normal is something that had come and gone.

My nurse Alex came in the room with a big grin on her face. She said that if they monitored me for a few hours for turkey baster complications, and if I ate something, and didn’t hurl, I could go home. She knew how badly I wanted this. Alex, the menu please! Room 331! Oncology! Ballas Burgers are on me!

My biopsy was performed on the Friday of a long holiday weekend. Saddled with a side of COVID. My oncologist was pushing to get the results back as soon as possible. His hope was Tuesday. But more likely Wednesday. ‘Don’t be alarmed if you don’t hear from me on Tuesday,’ he said. ‘I will let you know as soon as I know.’

I got dressed and packed up my belongings. Do not forget your phone charger. It’s a good one. Why do you always forget your phone charger? Then you’ll buy the cheap gas station replacement. It will work for a month. It will tell you it is unsupported. You’ll tell it you support it. Then you’ll unplug and plug it in ten times. Then you’ll blow on it. Wipe it. Curse it. It still won’t work. You’ll remember leaving the good charger in the hospital room. You will lament your own forgetfulness. And then you’ll buy another charger.

Wheelchair declarations.

Alex asked me if I wanted a wheelchair ride out of the hospital. Oh gosh no, I can walk! Wheelchair? I have cancer, not a broken leg. I strapped on my new backpack bag from Nurse Jackie, and hoisted my overnight bag over my shoulder. And I stepped out the door to freedom. But my breathing was labored. On impeccable cue, the cancer worm shouted from the den WHAT IS FOR DINNER! ‘Alex, I think I will need that wheelchair.’ The porter came in shortly after, and the gravity of my reality sunk in. The foreseeable future was going to be very different. And I was rolling right into it.

I carried a watermelon.

Rachel Roman, , , 8 Comments
Club Med.

May 21, 2020

My hospital phone rang and startled me. Hospital phones are funny and have a curly cord and big buttons. User friendly. Yet somehow I managed to hang up on the caller twice before figuring out how to answer this jitterbug. It was a med student in his hospital rotation. So I gathered, he was a low talker (Seinfeld) and had a very thick accent. He went through a litany of questions regarding my symptoms and any changes I had noticed since yesterday. This must be the equivalent of fry duty at McDonalds. I worked at McDonalds one summer in high school and was put on fry duty for a short staffed busy Saturday shift. I left that full day after dropping a thousand fry baskets, covered in grease, and ready to get promoted to the drive-thru. Back to the med student. He was kind and empathetic but I’m sure he was ready to start using his stethoscope.

Today was my Mom’s birthday. Happy Birthday Mom! Ya kid’s got cancer. I’m sure she would have preferred a gift card. I don’t think we will ever forget this strange, coincidental, bond of circumstance and timing. More on that later…

By mid morning the resident doctor came in to talk with me. He was tall and handsome and I was more concentrated on who of my friends I might be able to set him up with. Focus Rachel. You have cancer. “So how big is this thing?” I had seen the CT image of my chest in the ER and it was jarring. Once I was oriented with what the black areas were (air) and the white areas (bone) and the fuzzy areas (heart and esophagus) my eyes locked in on the BIG blob that was my tumor. “I think I need a visual, like a vegetable size reference,” I said. What are we really working with here doc. My brain immediately visualized a grapefruit. I feel like that’s the terminal size. Death by citrus. The doctor paused and looked back at the portable work station computer screen in my room. With his head tilted, he seemed to be doing some internal math and turned back to face me. “Its the size of a medium sized watermelon.” Death by melon. “Wow. That’s big.” That is all I could say. I really don’t remember much of our conversation after that.

A few days later I was talking to one of my dear friends. “He picked a watermelon? That is the least standardized size fruit,” she said. I laughed. It was true. And funny. There are mini watermelons, and hybrid watermelons, seedless watermelons, giant 4th of July drip off your chin, feed a whole BBQ sized watermelons. Joel helped me with some calculations and moving forward we decided that a cantaloupe was a much better consistent visual reference.

The rest of that day was bright and blurry all at the same time. I was waiting for a biopsy of this melon and they were doing their best to rush it. But Covid again was making scheduling difficult and they decided that I needed a negative Covid test before proceeding. If you ever wondered what that test feels like, well you actually probably don’t. Take a long toothpick and put a bristly toilet brush on the end of it, jam it up your nose until the back of your brain feels like it needs to sneeze. May come out with some grey matter on it. That about sums it up.

My jitterbug phone rang late in the afternoon and it was a voice I didn’t recognize and he sounded rushed. “Hi Rachel, this is your oncologist, I’m on my way to see you, I’ll be there shortly.” Had I brushed my teeth? I immediately thought about things that didn’t matter, like my gray roots from two months of no hair color. Was I wearing a bra? Fifteen minutes later and he was in my room, tall and efficient. And again the computer screen in front of me lit up with the CT images of the unwanted melon. Which was actually sitting in between my real, God given, potential money makin’ melons. I jumped right in. “So you think it is cancer? Is there a chance it could be something else?” He paused, looked down and then looked me straight in the eye. “I could look over there and see a duck. It has white feathers and orange feet and a beak and is quacking at me. But I can’t confirm that it’s a duck until a veterinarian tells me.” Oh god now we are doing barnyard references. First non-standardized size fruit, now ducks. But I knew what that meant. Precisely. “I need the biopsy to confirm it, but we are looking at cancer. Very likely lymphoma.”

‘I carried a watermelon.’

Back in December 2019 I ran in the St. Jude Children’s Hospital Half Marathon in Memphis, TN. This was my 3rd time doing this race. While some may consider this a form of self-inflicted torture, somehow the charity and the experience have kept me signing up. (I hear you non-runners. I am somewhat of a ‘shuffle runner’ myself.) The week of the race I woke up with a terrible and odd chest cold. An angry cough with sidecar of chest pains and it was socked in like a bad storm. How was I going to travel there and run the race with this devil raging inside my chest? I had so many thoughts of disappointment – in myself, in the timing, in the letting down all the good people who donated to support me and St. Jude. In the end I went. I just had to and I’m stubborn. If you didn’t already know that about me. I traveled solo, and woke early the morning of the race ready to rock. This event is one of the most inspiring experiences. About halfway, the race course winds its way through the St. Jude hospital campus. The staff, and patients and families that are able, come out to cheer on the runners. These brave kids – bald, weary, fighting – usher you through a half mile stretch with signs and bells and cheers and ENERGY. It is emotional to say the least. Little did I know that this beast of a chest cold was the golf ball. That grew into the grapefruit. That grew into a non-standardized size melon. So to reference one of my favorite movies Dirty Dancing, ‘I carried a watermelon.’ For 13.1 miles. I haven’t settled on the meaning of this sequence of events or reconciled that these two things were indeed strange bedfellows. I ran a race for cancer research while I unknowingly had cancer growing inside me.

Hello.

Rachel Roman, 18 Comments

So begins the adventure of telling my most recent story. This is a chapter I never thought I would write. But one that I am embracing and going to figure out as I go along. Writing has always been a secret love of mine. One I put on the shelf a long time ago. At an age when you think things are dumb and that you aren’t any good at them. Well the branch has been shook and I’m picking up the apples. Some are bruised. Let’s see what happens.

I’ll be taking the next few days to recount the past four weeks to get to the present…..

May 20, 2020

I went to my doctor to figure out what in the world was going on with me. Two plus months of quarantine and I thought I had a lingering pinched nerve in my neck. But my breathing had recently become labored, a rough cough took hold, and of course….I thought I had Covid 19. Honestly I was sure of it. When you convince yourself of something it becomes true, right? What else could it be. The whole world was just waiting to get it. And I had it.

By that afternoon I was questioning my self-credentialed MD when an x-ray revealed a ‘BIG mass’ in my chest. I had left my primary doc’s office to have blood work and a chest x-ray to ‘rule out the big stuff’. I can’t say that my nerves weren’t a bit on edge as I waited in the changing cubby outside the x-ray room thinking of Covid, cancer, death, brain tumors – all the ‘big stuff’. I put my top back on and the nurse came in twice to apologize for the wait. At that point I was mildly sweating, analyzing my own breathing patterns, and Googling Make-A-Wish to see if I could be the first 43 year old to get to meet Mickey Mouse…..

“Your doctor is on the phone, she would like to talk to you.” Oh lordy Moses. “Rachel, they found a BIG mass in your chest. I’m so sorry. I need you to go to the hospital to have a CT scan so we can see what this is.”

I hung up the phone with tears in my eyes. Totally peeved about this damn Covid mask and my COPD style breathing. This. Is. Not. Happening.

It was a long walk out of the hospital. I am surprised I remembered where I parked. This. Is. Not. Happening. I called Joel and broke the news. This. Is. Not. Happening. I started my car and backed out of my spot and was half way home on the highway when I decided to call my Mom. She’s been through the ringer and back with her own health, and I would always scold her for holding back and not telling me bad news or how her doctors visits went.

She took a deep breath and 2 hours later met me in the parking lot of the hospital ER. She and my Pop just waiting there to let me know ‘we got you’. They were both wearing oversized plastic rainbow rings – the kind they put on cupcakes and give out at themed birthday parties. I was like Mom, I’m straight! LOL. She put one on my finger and said this is a symbol of hope.

Covid has made a wanker of everything ‘normal’. I’m not sure what normal really means these days or if I even want to be associated with it, but when you are carrying a ‘BIG mass’ in your chest and you have to go to the ER, normal works. Joel coming in with me works. Mom and Dad in the waiting room works. But nothing was normal and I waved goodbye to my parents and was escorted in by a nurse. Alone.

Secret potty and my rainbow ring.

My ER nurse was named Jackie. Nurse Jackie. Somehow I end up relating most situations in my life to a scene from a movie or an episode of Seinfeld. Reference earlier paragraph for my thoughts on ‘normal’. Nurse Jackie was young and sweet and not on any drugs to my knowledge. And she was better than a flight attendant handing out peanuts when it came to showing me the secret ER potty. Did you know every ER room has a secret potty? Thank god it was only for #1. But a #2 would have made for a very funny story. More on Nurse Jackie later…..

Wheeling into the CT scan was pretty surreal. I gave two Top Gun Maverick thumbs up salutes to Nurse Jackie and she gave ’em right back to me. The ceiling of the CT room had three graphic panels over the fluorescent lights. It was a garden scene with a pond. It looked like a hybrid of a basement Bob Ross painting and homemade stained glass hobby project, but I’ll give them a solid C for effort in the anti-anxiety department. Can you imagine the thoughts that people have had looking up at those lights? Am I dying? Am I cured? I was actually more concerned about if I could hold my breath at the right times during the scan and getting scolded by the wizard running the machine. Rule followers worry about these things.

Nurse Jackie came back in to my ER room and said her shift was ending and she was sorry that I had to be there alone and that she would keep in touch with the doctor about my scan results. Her concern was real and it touched me. I thanked her for showing me how to use the secret potty and she refilled my water cup with more crushed ice. Something about crushed ice. It is far superior than cubed. When in a foam cup. It lasts forever and becomes the delightful soothing slush crush of a snow cone without any juice. Sorry Earth. I am a responsible sworn-in citizen of the planet and have a reusable water bottle. I promise.

By the time the doctor came back to my room I had completed a totally random text conversation with my ex husband. He was redoing our old kitchen and sending me progress pics. It was oddly calming to me to have this exchange. I felt some guilt in not telling him where I was, but what would be the point. I’d meet my fate soon enough. Let’s talk about paint colors. Agreeable Gray goes with EVERYTHING.

“I’m so sorry.” He opened the radiology report on the computer screen in front of me. “The mass is LARGE and is causing significant pressure on your heart and lungs. You have fluid on both. Your left lung is not at full function. The radiologist indicates that this is lymphoma.” My Covid COPD fish out of water breathing shallowed even further than before. The doctor continued. “If you were my wife or daughter I would admit you immediately. We need to biopsy and confirm the radiologist’s findings. I’m so sorry you are here by yourself.” Thank you Covid. You continue to be the turd in the punch bowl of 2020.

My hospital room had a view and my primary doc had encouraged me to pack a bag. I navigated putting on some PJs while wheeling my IV around this foreign space and then I started dialing. Joel first, he has my heart. Mom and Dad second, I knew they could wait a little longer and would have the most questions. I felt an odd sense of peace as I made those calls. I’m getting answers. Just not the ones I wanted. We all absorbed the shock together and we all felt it separately. I don’t know how much my Mom cried that night after we hung up the phone and I don’t know how I was able to stay so calm.

I am not sure you could classify what I did that night as sleeping. They wake you up frequently to check your vitals, take your temp, take your blood, make every control in the room beep. All solid reminders that you are not in your own bed with your own pup snuggled up at your toes, and not wearing bright yellow standard hospital issued gripper socks. At some point in the early morning I sat up from this fog and looked over at the window. My overnight bag was sitting on the couch and next to it was another bag that I didn’t recognize. Of course my first thought was THIEF! Wait, it was an additional bag. My bag was still there. Jesus Rachel get it together. I got out of bed and tried not to rip the tangled vacuum cord of my IV out of my arm. Wheeling over to ‘the bag’ that the intruder had left, I was so curious. On top of the bag was a folded sheet of printer paper turned into a homemade card. Nurse Jackie. Tears welled in my eyes knowing she really did feel bad that she was going off shift without knowing what my CT results were and knowing that I was there by myself facing some serious unknowns. The bag had a warm fuzzy blanket, chapstick, lotion, a notebook and pen and her handwritten note telling me it was all going to be ok. Thank you Nurse Jackie. Nurses are very special people.