Where You're Treated Matters -- Helen and Harry Gray Cancer Center

I've heard horror stories from cancer patients and their caregivers about their experiences with cancer treatment in various hospitals and medical centers. From people being shuffled off into solitary confinement for the lonely hours of intravenous drips to a serious lack of communication on the part of medical staff with such relevant information as a loved one's terminal condition, the list of complaints is often long and scary.

That was not my mother's case when she was treated by the Helen and Harry Gray Cancer Center and I can prove it. After more than two years, I can still tell you a little something about the people who cared for her. That's because they were memorable for the compassion and kindness they showed my mother throughout her treatment.

What can I tell you about Dr. Dowsett? Behind his serious demeanor lurked a good sense of humor, and sometimes he would make a wry, unexpected comment that had us laughing. He always sported a really spiffy tie, thanks to his bargain-hunting wife, also a physician. My mother loved that he appreciated his wife's efforts to make him a "GQ" guy. If I asked about a new kind of treatment in the news, he would explain what was and wasn't appropriate in my mother's case. That may not sound like a big deal, but it demonstrated to me that he was up-to-date in his knowledge of advances in radiation practices for cancer treatment. That instills confidence in the patient and family.

My mother adored Shelley, the radiation nurse who checked her in on each visit to radiology. "You remind me of Meryl Streep!" she would say as Shelley took her vital signs. With a calm, patient manner, Shelley would smile sweetly, never mentioning that she was much, much younger than the Oscar-winning actress. Never rushing my mother, always supportive, Shelley was a reassuring presence during exams.

Diane was the nurse who would always stop by to say hi while we were waiting in the radiology lounge. Cheerful, approachable, she always wanted feedback on what was working and what wasn't working. This genuine interest in helping us get my mother through cancer treatment counted for a lot. Diane, like my mother, loved good movies, and she introduced us to the joys (and convenience)of Netflix. When my mother was too ill to go out, we signed up for Netflix and she had the chance to see some really good movies.

Carl and the other "kids" in the radiology meant a lot to my mother. That's because they always treated her with affectionate respect. Carl used to surprise my mother when he spotted her waiting for her chemotherapy. He would sneak up, appearing at my mother's side to offer a big, friendly greeting. She was thrilled for him when Carl graduated from school and was hired as a full-time radiation tech.

Anne, the nutrition expert, was literally a life-saver. As a lot of cancer patients do, my mother lost too much weight before we were able to reverse the trend. Anne sat with us in her office, explaining how to feed a cancer patient who also happened to have diabetes. With a hearty laugh and a quick wit, she offered encouragement and sage advice, and she helped us understand my mother's frustration with the need to eat and lack of appetite, offering positive solutions to get her back on track.

With a radiant smile and twinkling eyes, Denise was one of the kindest, gentlest people in the oncology department, which was good, because she was the one taking blood samples. I remember her as "the hugger", who would wrap her arms around my mother and tell her how happy she was to see her again. My mother looked forward to seeing her on visits to the hospital and to receiving that hug.

Karen was my mother's oncology nurse, always sashaying in and out of the treatment room with the patience of a saint, no feathers ruffled even on the most hectic of days. What I liked about Karen was that I could call her with a question and she would get back to me with the answer. She was always good at sharing tips about managing the side effects of the cancer drugs my mother was receiving, clearing up any confusion and helping us to know what to expect.

When Karen had a day off, Donna would often fill in, dispensing my mother's chemotherapy drugs. A very experienced nurse, she was always available if there was a problem. I ran into her at the grocery store after my mother passed away and I felt compelled to thank her for all of the wonderful treatment she and the others provided. They made chemotherapy bearable for her.

Marcia? Oh, full of life and passionate! On her stark white lab coat, she used to add her own whimsical touches, like big, colorful buttons. Marcia, as a nurse practitioner, was the one who explained things about over-the-counter medications interfering with the chemotherapy. If one pain reliever didn't work well enough or was dangerous on certain treatment days, she had no qualms about prescribing another. Comfort was paramount. Marcia was a problem-solver who liked things to go right for patients, so she often went out of her way to make good things happen.

Dr. Bob's office was like a whimsical version of what a doctor's office would look like on the Cartoon Network, and I think it defined him not only as a doctor, but also as a human being. There were illustrations done by his young patients taped up to the walls, along with a Sponge Bob Square Pants figure. The jungle-print drapes, solar-powered pith helmet, and photograph of him jogging in Africa amongst a herd of elephants were all part of a decorating blitz by Marcia and a few others in the department to celebrate Dr. Bob's vacation in Africa. You've got to love a guy who does such serious work and surrounds himself with very "unserious" stuff. Dr. Bob was a straight-shooter as an oncologist. He was big on quality of life, something my mother really appreciated. Dr. Bob always treated her with respect, making it clear that it was her decision on when to say enough was enough. It made it easier for me, when her health had seriously deteriorated, to ask her if she felt she was ready to go into hospice care. As a result, we got a lot done in her final weeks, tackling the things that mattered most to her and fulfilling her wishes.

I could go on and talk about the valet parking attendants, who always hustled to get the car back as quickly as possible. My mother loved the greeter at the front desk and even the "gift shop lady". I appreciated Dr. Dowsett's and Dr. Bob's schedulers. They offered appointments that fit my mother's physical limitations and need to rest.

Does the Helen and Harry Gray Cancer Center sound to you like a scary, cold, or unfeeling place to go if you have cancer or like a patient-focused medical facility where the staff is welcoming and warm? A cancer treatment center is always more than just a single doctor or nurse. It takes many people to get the job done. With a disease like this, especially if the cancer is manageable, you and your loved one are likely to spend a great deal of time there. All the more reason to make quality of life and treatment a priority by picking a good cancer center.

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When Hope Fades

The hardest thing about cancer is when hope fades, when over time, there are so many complications it becomes almost impossible to stay in the battle.

Cancer can be a very tough foe. Sometimes it's exhausting to do what is necessary to live. It's like you're always running in place and getting nowhere. But when you start running backwards, it's heartbreaking, because you know you are falling behind, with no way to catch up.

I read a news report the other day about Robin Gibb of the Bee Gees, in a coma after battling what the press speculates is liver and colon cancer. What makes this most heart-wrenching is that  he declared himself cancer-free in March of 2012, after he said tests showed no signs of the disease. Over time, Robin Gibb has been like most cancer patients, running back and forth to the hospital for treatments and for medical emergencies. This time, the news doesn't look good. Pneumonia is complicating his already precarious health situation.

It comes on the heels of the premiere of his latest musical endeavor, "The Titanic Requiem", with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, written for the 100th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic. Too ill to attend its premiere, it is a piece he worked on through his illness with his son, Robin-John. Like many cancer patients, having a goal to meet seems to have helped him cope.

When I was in high school, I scored my first super 8mm art film with The Bee Gees' tune, "The First of May". I recall lots of apple blossoms and sunlight in my shots. It was the first time I ever learned how to splice and edit film. Years later, I danced the night away under the sparkle of a disco ball, as the Bee Gees sang "Staying Alive". I once even saw them in concert in Passaic, NJ. For me, the Bee Gees were a part of the good times and bad times in my life, a way to recall the memories through song.

Celebrities are often larger-than-life characters, never quite real, but when they get cancer, they become very human. That's because those of us who have loved ones with the disease, or who have lost loved ones, know the toll on the human heart. Cancer is the great uniter. We understand the struggle, so we offer our hopes and prayers to our brothers and sisters, even those we don't know.

Cancer sometimes creates so many obstacles that it is almost impossible for the body to make progress. Sometimes, just when you think you have the disease licked, just when you think things are turning around, those complications turn everything upside down and you get slammed into a brick wall. That's when the soul starts to give up, to say enough is enough.

I've known cancer patients through the years. Some were supposed to be just fine and they suddenly succumbed to the complications of the disease. Others, who were expected to die, somehow managed to survive. It's not always easy to predict the course of cancer on the body. Sometimes there are vulnerabilities that don't show up on a scan or x-ray. Sometimes things happen over which we have no control.

Hope is very often the first casualty in the battle with cancer. When hope fades, things seem to quickly spiral out of control, crashing down around our feet. That's because we need hope to find the courage and inner strength to fight cancer.

Sometimes we find hope in the strangest of places -- in the words of a stranger, in a sunbeam streaming through a window, or within the heart, in a moment of sudden clarity, when we know whatever happens, it happens for the best. We've done all we can and it's time to let go and let God take the helm. It's that sense of peace that we so desperately need. That's the sound of love rising up, reminding us that we are not alone, that there are people who love us, whom we love, enriching our lives through the darkest of days. Where there is love, there is hope that whatever happens, we will get through it as we need to get through it. Seek the peace within the heart. That truly is the music in every soul, and every soul has a song. For Robin Gibb and every other cancer patient struggling, I wish you hope, courage, peace.

UPDATE: As of April 24, 2012, the media reported that Robin Gibb awakened from his coma and was communicating with his family. Still frail, diagnosed as having advanced colorectal cancer, the singer has vowed to perform again. He's not ready to give up or give in. Who knows? He may yet elbow that fat lady off the stage!

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