life at UCSF

It's a good thing when one doesn't have much to report about living with cancer.
A really good thing.

Life in captivity at UCSF has proven to be much better than at CPMC our previous hospital.

Staff are just as competent (as far as we non-cancer specialists can tell) but they are also more multi-dimensioned, more human. They share with us little bits about themselves and are willing to have real conversations that go beyond white blood cell chat and platelet babble.

Karen showed us her tattoos, Angie told us about her house in Hawaii and the incredible hibiscus she found, Ramella told us how she misses the East Coast summer evenings.

They also have one more level of care that was lacking at the previous hospital. In essence Tad's care was in the hand of a brilliant CEO who appeared for five minutes at the end of every day and pulled all the strings in his absence. He was prompt, business-like, cordial but not warm. During the day the only non-nursing person we saw were interns who seemed to be precocious 16 year olds who regularly replied "I don't know, I'll check with Dr Baron."

At UCSF we never see our CEO and we never see the interns but we have an "attending" physician who's a grown up, proper oncologist who visits twice a day and is in contact with said CEO. He too is a clearly a geek and it pains me to see what a hard time he has making eye contact while conversing with us but he's willing to sit, to talk, to answer tough questions. Once he even revealed a bit about himself and his family.

Just as frequently we see Nurse Practitioners who also know a lot about the medicine and can have the all-important power to prescribe. They are a funny lot but the recipe seems quite simple: picture a physician, take away all the narcissism and add a heart. Voila.

Another subtle difference but an important one is the way we are recognized as a couple. The previous hospital was by no means uncomfortable with us being gay but it was simply tolerated. Here staff purposefully support us, openly express care for us as a family, regularly inquire about us as a loving unit worthy of respect and, dare I say, celebration.

To add a cherry to the cake we know several people who work at UCSF so it's quite sweet to have old friends pop in and say hello, lie down on the beds with us and watch some TV or bring us yummy stuff from the cafe.

The next few days will be the hardest. Tad's immune system is slowly disappearing because of the chemo. The last, most aggressive LEJ was given to him on Tuesday. LEJ is Tad's name for it: Leukemia Eradication Juice (I came up with Leukemia Obliteration and Vivacity Enhancing Tonic ie L.O.V.E. Tonic but Tad thought that was way too touchy-feely). On that day a nurse had to be present all day in case his vitals plummeted from the toxicity of the Juice. For the first time we saw them bring in a bottle using ALL the precautions (mask, gown, double gloves!). The worst thing he experienced was a throbbing headache.

What is clear to us now is that when Tad arrived for Round One, unbenownst to us, his immune system was already shot through with leukemia. His whole experience of chemo was far more complicated by multiple symptoms, none of which has reared its ugly head this time around. He will no doubt hit the low point in about three days (this is called the Nadir which makes me smile and think of Ralph every time I hear it).

As I write this I wonder how much his physical state coupled with our emotional states might have had an effect on these professional relationships. Perhaps the first team, like us, was far more concerned about Tad's death and simply didn't want to get too personal. Today when people walk into his room they find the two of us mostly relaxed, openly loving, reading, writing, watching TV, giggling, usually only crying when cards and other expressions of love arrive. The specter of his death seems to have taken a step or two back and we're all breathing a little more freely for it.