Emmaus Walk / Debra Tomaselli

Maybe this helps me remember to count my blessings

“Tomaselli,” the medical assistant called. My husband and I headed her way.

“Hey, Natasha,” I said. “How are you? Is your son headed to college yet?”

She laughed, shaking her dark curly hair. “Not yet,” she said. “He’s only 2.”

I knew that. I’d been coming to this chemo lab for three years. I remember when Natasha was pregnant with him.

We chatted as she prepared a place for me.

Minutes later, my nurse, Diane, arrived. With confidence, she accessed my port, recorded my vitals, and checked my records.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

“Better,” I said. “I actually had short outings outside my house every day last week. That’s a first!”

She smiled.

I remembered how she once told me she’d been an oncology nurse for decades. She’d talked about the changes in drugs and the advance in treatments that she’s witnessed through the years. I’m one of her studies.

Another nurse, Arlene, spotted me and came over. “I’m sorry I didn’t identify myself when I saw you in church yesterday,” she said. “HIPAA [privacy] rules prevent us from saying we know you from the chemo lab.”

I laughed. “You’re right,” I said. “I recognized you, but couldn’t quite place you!”

Moments later, the two nurses were reading names and numbers aloud from my wristband, comparing them to labels on two bags of clear, syrupy fluid that soon became my IV drip.

I smiled. I felt peaceful. There’s nothing scary about coming here anymore.

After all, it all started three years ago, with four months of chemotherapy. Ever since then, I’ve had continuing treatments every six months.

Gosh, am I thankful for these nurses … their skill, their care, their efforts.

I’m also thankful for those professionals behind the scenes, those I can’t see, those who research the drugs, those who compound the medicines, those who donate to develop ways to keep me, and others like me, alive.

Because this treatment didn’t exist when I was first diagnosed.

So, although it’s been a long haul to get where I am today, which is somewhat functional, I come with a smile. I come with hope. I come with faith. I come with thanks.

It’s what I give. It’s all I can give.

And they like it.

The nurses know me. They share their stories with me. I love to listen.

Today, one said she’d planned to study music in college when she read a memoir written by an oncology nurse—and the rest is history. Another said she was once crippled financially by a lengthy hospital stay, and she understands that suffering goes beyond the physical. Another shared concerns about an unemployed friend, shedding a few tears in the process.

These people are more than nurses, they’re friends.

Today, as I walked around the lab, dragging my IV pole, it didn’t even feel weird. It wasn’t hard to realize how much stronger I am these days. It wasn’t hard to be happy. It wasn’t hard to be joyful. It wasn’t hard to be faithful.

In this season of thanksgiving, it wasn’t hard to be thankful.
 

(Debra Tomaselli writes from Altamonte Springs, Florida. She can be reached at dtomaselli@cfl.rr.com.) †