Ashes to Ashes — a.k.a. No Country for Young Men

"Now what fresh hell can this be?" – Poet, writer & humorist Dorothy Parker (1893 - 1967)  Note: Apparently this was her constant refrain whenever her doorbell rang

A harpist is strumming Coldplay as I sit typing on my laptop in the waiting area of the UCSF Children's Hospital. As jarringly out of place as it seems, dissonant despite the soothing chords, I will admit that it calms me. Any minute now my phone will buzz, and a warm anonymous recording on the other end of the line will inform me that patient #370081 is in the PACU recovery area.  Barring any unanticipated complications, of course - my constant caveat.

He didn't even ask for food or water this morning, which broke my heart a little more.  He knows the drill.  We are here for yet another spinal tap, his quarterly "intrathecal" chemo dose to round out the new treatment algorithm-rhythm we're on: nightly oral chemo, weekend antibiotics, monthly IV chemo infusions, the 5-day steroid pulse every 28 days, and this quarterly spinal chemo whopper.  Six different chemotherapy "agents" still.  But we've got the rhythm down, and all is going great outside of this medicalized parallel existence: James has mastered the transition to 1st grade in his Spanish immersion program, he is beloved by his classmates, he's even diligent about his homework.  Not to mention he's got some truly impressive moves on the basketball court and averages 6 goals a soccer game.  And Grace The Unflappable continues to knock our socks off.

But there's a slight difference today here at the hospital.  Along with his spinal tap chemo injection, a separate host of doctors (a pride? a school? a murder?) are performing a small surgery to rule out a "secondary malignancy," which would be an additional cancer caused by the chemo itself.  How’s that for a mind-bender?  Fingers crossed they will call me any minute with good news & he will be in the clear.  If they find anything concerning, they'll do an immediate biopsy and we’ll play the waiting game.

Right this very moment, they have a camera threaded up through his tiny urethra into his bladder and are injecting die into his kidneys.  All the experts - oncologists, urologists, supercalafragilisticologists - "expect everything to be normal."  That said, the experts were "expecting everything to be normal" when we took him in the day he was diagnosed with leukemia.  And nothing, not anything, has been as expected over this past year.  While I have fought to stay positive and upbeat despite some of the truly brutal realities that James and all of us have endured, I am accustomed to bad news in a way that seems to be a tragic global norm these days.  Hurricanes.  Harassment.  Hate.  Mass shootings.  Imminent war with North Korea.  Inane Twitter exchanges from our leadership that remind me how low we have sunk.  Violence.  Racism.  Xenophobia.  The utter perversion of power.  Donald Trump absurdly tossing paper towels at Puerto Ricans amidst pleas of “we are dying here”... I can’t help but think of Marie Antoinette.  Let them eat paper towels! And also at this very moment, very close to home and to heart, scorching wildfires killing yet more loved ones and rendering one of the most beautiful areas on earth - lush, rolling green hills and fecund landscapes - to a state of Armageddon-like ashes.  I can taste the ash in the air.  It is hard for my children to breathe.  Recess at their school has been cancelled, their after-school sports postponed until further notice.  The air outside the window now is eerie, ashy, post-apocalyptic even - with a terrifying white-orange glow.  What the hell is happening??  

This is not the country I want my children to inherit.  I don't want my daughter subjected to the whims of selfish men in power.  James still fights for his life daily, and I am confident he will prevail.  But this is no country for young men.  What will he learn about character, about morality, about the definition of success?  About how too many successful men treat women?  What are the lessons modeled for him across this country right now?  I feel ashamed at what my children must navigate.

The harpist has started playing the theme song to Game of Thrones.  What??  My phone still hasn't rung.  They said if all was normal the procedure would take roughly ten minutes.  It can only mean they have seen something abnormal and they are taking longer to do a biopsy.  Taking a deep breath physically hurts. ***

Perhaps to distract myself I’ll tell you a little story.

A couple of weeks ago I went up to San Francisco for a "girls night out" with one of my closest friends, who was in town to present at a conference on women in leadership.  I met her and a bunch of her college friends for dinner.  I adore her, and they're a lot of fun as well as impressive - accomplished, attractive, open, curious, smart women.  One of them had made a reservation at a place I hadn't been for 20 years but remembered far too well.

They were sitting against what we used to call the "banquette" when I walked in, where Pat the drunk hostess used to shepherd guests at lunchtime so she didn't have to walk them all the way to the back.  I had interviewed with the manager, a handsome man named Tim, at the large circular wooden table next to where they were sitting.  That was in 1997.  He'd grilled me on my lack of waitressing experience, then told me I was "well-groomed" and hired me on the spot.  One of my first duties was going straight to the kitchen every morning upon arrival to whip the cream by hand - 3 tablespoons of sugar to a quart of cream in a metal bowl with a wire whisk and a lot of wristwork.  Then I washed the large glass windows with windex and old newspaper and got ready for the lunchtime regulars, which sometimes included the mayor.  I'd quit once the summer was over and headed back to college for my junior year.

They still owe me money.  I'm okay with it.

I recount this history with amusement to the group of women I am with.  We laugh as they indulge my brief reminiscence, and the conversation continues.

And then I see an old memory.  Lance.  I kid you not; Lance was - is - his name, and he is still there behind the bar.  My 19-year-old former self starts quaking a bit in disbelief and a strange nostalgia.  I tell my friend I recognize someone and will be right back.

The bar is crowded with old money San Francisco clientele rubbing shoulders with the latest VC royalty and start-up kings.  Three bartenders in long white coats stand behind the bar, and Lance is the one who approaches, bringing a cocktail to the woman on the stool next to mine and asking what he can get me.  I muster a squeaky, "Lance, hi!"  There is a faraway pain behind his bloodshot, tired eyes - or is it my imagination?  He has a lot of white hair. Without missing a beat, he responds warmly, hospitably: "Hi, how are you?" "You probably don't remember me, but I used to ..." My voice trails off as he breaks in, "Of course I do. Caty. I remember." We have a strange how-funny-here-we-are-twenty-years-later moment.  I ask him how things are.  He shrugs, "I'm still standing.  Still working here, obviously."  He winces a bit.  We all have our stories.  And then he adds,  "I'm sorry, I'm a little flustered."  I am slightly taken aback, assuming he is cutting the conversation short. "Oh!  Of course, I'm sorry, you must be - it's really crowded and I'm distracting you from your job." "No, that's not it. Frankly ... I was always a little flustered around you," he says.  I look at him, confused.  Wait, what??  I thought I had been the one with the secret crush.  I stammer something very uncool along the lines of, "Jeepers, really?  Okay, golly then, well ... I didn't mean to fluster you but ... thank you for saying that.  I'm married now.  Two great kids."  Oh Lance.  I'm so very old, and you're so very kind.  

The conversation lasts 20 seconds longer and my awkwardness subsides.  I'm happily married, my crush is long gone, and I feel strangely validated.  It is simply nice to reconnect.  He does ask as we say our goodbyes if there is anything he can get me - "on the house."  I ask him for a bowl of whipped cream and take it back to the ladies with seven spoons.  Closure.

*** They still have not called.  I check my ringer again.  It works.  Back to distraction. ***

The adventures continue that evening.  We settle the bill, and for old time's sake walk up two blocks to an infamous dive bar called the Mauna Loa to play a round of Half Court Hoops - the basketball arcade game in the back.  We walk in and as expected, the mean age is 23 or younger.  I head to the bathroom as my friends order some beers and four beautiful, nubile young women wait in line in front of me.  I determine from their conversation that three of them are also named Katie.  Varied spellings.  I chime in that my name is Caty as well, yet another spelling that they say none of them has ever "even, like, heard of!"  They cackle at the glory of it all, this random serendipitous convention of Katies in the bathroom of the Mauna Loa.  I laugh too, though my insides are rolling their eyes.

I walk back and find my friends deep in conversation with a group of gentlemen who for some reason have latched on to our contingent.  Perhaps it's "seduce a cougar!" night and we’ve been mistaken for willing prey. One of them corners me, the newcomer a.k.a. fresh meat, as I widen my eyes at my friend to help me escape. “What’s a little lady like you doing in a place like this?”  I explicitly roll my eyes and flash my wedding ring, saying, “Not that you were necessarily asking, but I’m off the market." He laughs good-naturedly and introduces himself anyway, and we have a brief conversation.  It turns out that he and his group of friends are firefighters from the Mill Valley Fire Department.  I thank him for his service and realize he thinks I am mocking him.  I say "No, truly, thank you.  I was in a scary car accident with my children a few years ago, and a group of firefighters came and rescued us.  I admire what you do and the choices you've made to do it." He says thank you, perhaps caught slightly off-guard by the unexpected sincerity in this pick-up bar scene, and then looks me up and down.  "Wait, you have kids?  How old are you?"  I reply, "Yes, I have two kids and I'm happily married.  I'm 40."  Firefighter Kyle: "Wait, I hope we are joking here.  There's no way you are 40.  I'm 28."  "Good for you, Kyle!  I'm still 40."  And he exclaims louder than he should, "Well, what the hell am I doing wasting my time??"  It's taken a strange turn, this conversation.  He sounds almost hostile.  I almost apologize until I get angry instead.  "You're acting like I don't even have a right to exist. You just approached me."  "Right, and I wanted to hit on you!"  "But I told you not to bother within 10 seconds of you talking to me.  Remember?"  I hold up my ring again.  He relents and says, "I'm sorry. You're right. I'm a little drunk. You did tell me that. I'm sorry."  He softens. "Are your kids okay now, by the way?  You know, after the accident." I hesitate for a split second and then respond. "Yes, in a manner of speaking.  My 6-year-old has cancer."  It slips out before I really realize it.  And then he asks me all about it, incredulous.  I answer honestly. I finally extract myself to rejoin my friends, who have migrated to the other side of the room where t's finally our turn for the Hoops game.  By way of goodbye, I say, "Be good, Kyle.  Don't forget ... you're a hero." He freezes. "NO! I don't even know your name, but you're MY hero.  You're the kind of person I do what I do for.  You're the hero."  And he points his beer bottle at me and salutes.  I am fairly certain he is crying.  "And by the way?"  His voice is indeed choked up.  "If you were single, I think I would have hit on you. Even if I had known you were 40."  Oh Kyle, my boy.  The earth moved, and Leslie Mann smiled.  That must felt like true praise for you to bestow upon this old gal.  What more could a girl ask for?  You are probably out there right now, fighting the gusting winds and the scorching blazes that rage so close to us now.  Thank you.

I called Charlie to debrief the night on the way home.  I was amused but also strangely moved.  I didn’t care about the compliment, actually, as vanity has dropped far down my priority list this past year.  But I do care about the power of a real conversation, a real moment of connection - no matter how far apart your lives, ages, experiences may be.  Oh Kyle.  You're flawed, and ... you're still a hero.  When I am in trouble, when my family suffers, when my husband and I are helpless to save the people we love, who do I want with a crowbar at my car door?  Donald Trump?  Steve Mnuchin?  These so-called "leaders" here to protect and support our citizens?  Fuck them. You have not devoted your life and sense of self-worth to power, money, and conquest.  You have chosen meaning.  I want you there.  Godspeed.

***

11:39am - They just called.  The urologist wants to speak with me.  I am heading back upstairs.  My stomach is in knots.  I know it is a tumor.

11:43am - All is clear.  Picture perfect, the urologist said.  They were extra thorough.  James is next to me now in his recovery room, sleeping soundly until the anesthesia relinquishes its hold on his body.  Soon, we will be in our car, listening to a favorite book on tape, and heading south to the comfort of home.  We are so, so lucky.