Medicine, the Arts and the Humanities

A few years ago, when Katie had her orientation to Dalhousie’s School of Medicine, there was a welcoming event for the class of 2010 and their families. Bob and I were   in attendance that day. I remember being impressed with the message presented by a Doctor Ron Stewart about the need to make room for the Humanities and the Arts in medicine. I felt excited for Katie that such a Liberal educational approach would be part of her experience at Dalhousie. I mention this now, because I realize that my journey as a cancer patient at the Odette Cancer Centre at Sunnybrook has often been made easier by the efforts of the staff and volunteers to humanize the experience, to care for the spirit as well as the body.

When I was in chemo, I often had to wait (while the lab checked my white blood cell count, for instance). My friends and my books got me through those hours; but if they had not been there, I could have knitted a blanket square or I could have worked at completing the many puzzles that lie on tables throughout the facility. My sister Catherine has entertained herself by doing both of these activities when she has been at the hospital with me.

With daily radiation on my schedule in July, I have been noticing the sights and sounds of my domain. Every day, I walk down a curved hallway to my radiation bed and PRI2. Against the wall of this hallway are what appear to be modern sculptures in bright blue and purple foam, but which are actually supports designed for other patients whose cancer requires them to lie within these shapes. While the chamber that houses PRI2 is mainly clinical in nature, there are a few touches that make it less so. There is, most obviously, the water-colour painting on the ceiling of three fish. Each of them is of a different size, with scales of bright orange and yellow, and with a frond or two of seaweed floating nearby. One day last week, I was moved to PRI3, where I got to see another work of art above me: a floral pastel.

The sounds of radiation, the buzzing, clicking and whirring of the machine itself, are not the only auditory stimulation I experience as I lie perfectly still during my treatments. I first hear the voices of the two technicians as they list numbers for the coordinates of my position. This coded conversation takes about three or four minutes. Once I am set, I am abandoned to computer technology. Christina or Haq call out “Here we go!” as they exit the room and turn on the lights. (They are off when they prepare me each day.) Next there are 17 BINGS before the machine starts its work. I have counted them many times. In the background, is the most pleasant of sounds, music on a CD, to entertain me in my isolation. For the first 7 days, it was always Norah Jones’ Come Away With Me. In fact, one day, they forgot to turn it on, so I reminded them to do so. I like that album. Lately, they have been playing a mix of songs I have not enjoyed as much. Maybe I should put in a request every day or bring in my own favourites. Famous Blue Raincoat would be my first choice.

A week ago, I met a new doctor: Dr. Geoff Bovett, an oncologist who works with Dr. Dent. He will see me every six weeks for follow up in the Beatrice Study. He’s a nice fellow, a Scarborough boy. He attended Thompson Collegiate, and was proud to tell me that he won the English award every year in high school. I meant it when I commented that I was pleased to hear that he had gone into medicine. After all, we need well-rounded doctors, don’t we? I must ask him if he is a Dalhousie graduate. When he examined me, he noticed that I had developed a mild infection in the cavity created by my incision. I have treated it with a prescription, Clotrimaderm cream, and all seems well now.

As of today, I have completed two thirds of my radiation appointments. I am experiencing some expected side effects. The exposed skin has turned pink and feels quite tender. To counter this, I apply Lubriderm to the effected area several times a day. I also feel more fatigued than usual, but a nap takes care of that – I have always been a good napper. In spite of my symptoms, I continue to do the things I enjoy. I golf regularly, have played a little tennis, read voraciously, watch too much television, and go out for lunch or dinner at every opportunity.  I realize that I have done nothing but pamper myself all month. I have yet to complete any of the projects that I planned for the summer; although I feel a little lazy, no one else seems to mind, so why should I?