Tinsel

I first met Tinsel about six months ago.  Yes, Tinsel is her birth name.  She told me her parents were crazy hippies who were most likely cracked out, or drunk looking at a Christmas tree when they came up with her name.  She made jokes about her unusual name all the time.  To avoid having deal with people constantly questioning her about her name, she went by "Tiny".  The name was quite fitting for her.  She stood no more than 4'5" and must have only weighed 80 pounds.  She was a little pocket lady.  She reminded me so much of my own grandma, in many ways.

Tiny kept to herself most of the time.  She lived at a senior center close to the hospital, so she would get shuttled over for her daily treatments.  She arrived very early in the morning and was finished with her treatments by noon, most days.  Tiny was an extremely private lady.  When she wasn't in a treatment, she stayed in her hospital room.  I never once saw her out chatting in the common areas, or even conversing with friends/family in the hallways.  There are countless patients that prefer to be left alone while going through their cancer battle.  I completely respect their decision to do so.  When I was first diagnosed I was nervous, shy, and closed off to other patients, as well as, to the hospital staff.  All I wanted was to get in, and get out.  I didn't want to face my cancer diagnosis straight on.  I hoped I would go through a few treatments, procedures, and possibly a surgery and my cancer would be gone.  I wanted to keep my illness hidden.  That, obviously, didn't work out in my favor.  It is now five and a half years later, and I publicly blog about my on-going cancer fight.  I am happy that I am no longer the girl I was 5 years ago.  I was painfully naive to think I could keep such an enormous part of my life a secret.  I'm not sure how, or why, but I knew that Tiny and I shared many traits.

As I walked by Tiny's room that Thursday(I cannot tell you how I remember what day it was, but I do), I noticed her bookshelf was overflowing with all different types of books.  I thought to myself, "that could be my icebreaker", so I gingerly knocked on her door.  She answered with a soft, high pitched tone, "come in".  I walked through the doorway and introduced myself.  I asked her if she had read all of the books on her bookshelf, or if she was just hoarder?  She smiled sweetly and told me she had read them all, most of them twice.  I asked her which was her favorite.  She instantly replied "A Room With A View" by E.M. Forster.  "Have you read it?"  I shook my head and said "no, I haven't".  She nearly jumped out of her bed and raced over the the bookcase.  She relentlessly shuffled through her collection until she found it.  She clutched the book in her small hands and walked towards me.  Tiny handed me her worn-in copy of the classic novel, and told me I must read it.  I told her I most definitely would.  Then she asked me to bring her a copy of my favorite book the next day.  As soon as I arrived at the hospital the following day, I walked straight to Tiny's room totting my copy of "The Frog King" by Adam Davies.  From that day on, not a day went by that I didn't visit Tiny.  We started our own little book club.  Our daily meetings starting by discussing the books we were currently reading, but as the days passed we grew closer.  She told me about her family, friends, her life's adventures, and about her cancer.  I gladly let her into my personal life, as well.  Our friendship and our bond blossomed over the next few months.  Tiny was my escape to calmness and serenity amongst a sea of chaos.

Tiny grew up in a small town in Massachusetts.  She had one older brother and a younger sister.  She made it perfectly clear that she did not suffer from "middle child syndrome".  She was always close to her parents and her siblings.  Sadly, they had all passed away before her.  Her parents died of natural causes, her brother passed away when he was 24 in a car accident, and her sister had succumb to cancer two years ago.  Her husband was also deceased.  They were married for 48 years when he had a heart attack.  They never had any children.  They enjoyed traveling and were always up for an impromptu adventure.  She said they never stayed in one place long enough to set down roots.  She also told me she never regretted not having children until she got sick.  Being alone and serious ill took a toll on her mental state.  For the first time in her 86 years of life, she felt depressed and lonely. She went on to tell me that the only thing she looked forward to was our "book club meetings".  When it was time for her to report back to the senior living facility she would slip back into that dark place in her mind.

Last week, I met with Tiny first thing after checking in at the nurses station.  Her demeanor was different that day.  She seemed aloof and preoccupied.  We had a nice little chat before it was time for me to head down for my treatment session.  As I was walking out of her room, she called out my name.  I poked my head back in to see what she needed.  She asked me to come back and see her after I had my treatment, before heading home.  I found her request unusual, but I graciously obliged.  I nodded and told her I would see her in a few hours.  My mind wondered why she wanted to see me again that day.  I was curious about what it was that couldn't wait until the next morning.  Once my treatment had run it's course, I said my "see ya tomorrows" to the nurses and fellow patients before heading back to Tiny's room.  As I walked closer to her room, I could feel my anxiety level rise.  I was nervous about what she had to tell me, or show me.  I was entirely unprepared for what was about to happen.

I reached Tiny's hospital room, took a slow deep breath, and walked through the door.  Tiny was still in her PJ's in bed.  I thought she would be dressed and ready to go back to her apartment at the senior center.  She had the blinds drawn, the lights were dim, and her TV was on the church station(that was not uncommon for Tiny, but it felt strange in that moment).  Once Tiny's eyes met mine, she reached out her hand toward me.  She asked me to come sit with her.  She had already moved the chair next to the bed for me.  My heart was racing.  I was extremely apprehensive about the whole situation, but I walked over and sat in the chair next to Tiny.  She took my hand in hers.  She was so tranquil and spoke with an incredibly soothing tone.  She quietly asked me to retrieve her rosary from her bedside drawer.  I continued to hold her hand with my left hand and gently opened her nightstand with my right hand.  I grasped the rosary beads and passed them to Tiny.  She turned her head slightly toward me and asked if I would pray with her.  As many of you know, I have various qualms about organized religion.  I was, however, brought up Catholic, like Tiny, so I didn't hesitate to pray with her.  Tiny closed her eyes and recited a lovely prayer.  As she was reciting the prayer, an uncomfortable feeling came over me.  I turned to look into the bedside drawer that was still somewhat ajar.  My heart skipped a beat as I saw the open and empty bottle of pills in her nightstand.  Tiny finished the prayer and slowly opened her eyes.  I smiled at her as my eyes welled up with tears.  I told her that the prayer was beautiful before asking her about the pills.  She remained so serene, and whispered that it was her time to go.  She wanted to be with her husband and family again.  She went on to say that her fight was over, but I had to continue battling this terrible disease.  Then she thanked me for being her friend, and for making the past six months bearable.  She told me she loved me as her eyes closed for the last time.  I felt her spirit lift away and a sense of peace came over me.  I laid her hand next to her side and took the rosary beads from her other hand.  I tightly held the beads close to my heart as I recited the rosary prayers.  It has been a long time since I prayed the rosary, so I'm not sure I got the order, or the prayers right.  I just continued passing each bead through my fingers.  When I reached the end, I looked over toward Tiny one last time.  I thanked for all of the insight and stimulating conversations we shared.  I told her I loved her and I was happy she could be with her family again.  The last thing I told her before heading to the nurses station was that she has to find my grandma wherever she was going.  I told her to give her a big hug for me and to watch over me with her.  I clutched her rosary beads in my hand as I said goodbye to my dear friend.  I will cherish them always.

Tinsel's death, along with the friends and family whom have passed before me, simultaneously strengthens and weakens me.  Seeing cancer take away so many of the people I love leaves me pondering my own death.  Why am I still here?  My health continues to deteriorate, yet I'm still alive. Is this what the rest of my life is going to be like?  Am I going to have to fight for each new day for years to come, or is the end to my story near?  At the same time, the fact that my diagnoses haven't conquered me, makes me want to fight harder.  I have come to terms with my own death, but I haven't given up on a cure.  If I have to endure this pain and suffering so that others don't have to, I am more than happy to do so.  I have wanted to give-in and quit more times than I can count, but the hope that my cancer research could provide answers for others in the future is worth fighting for.