Philosophers throughout human history have debated the essential nature of man. Are we basically good creatures, occasionally tempted off the road of virtue? Or do we start out bad, our base instincts only tempered by society or religion?
Anyone who's fought serious cancer in St. Louis is going to have to argue the first corner.
I have been completely overwhelmed by the care, assistance, good will and plain old love that has surrounded our family since my mother's diagnosis. The phone rings daily with a regular network of friends calling to make sure she's OK. Her email groans under the weight of concerned notes and items to cheer her up. Neighbours pop in regularly, delivering meals for the freezer or offering to go to the store. Buddies join forces to make sure her life continues as normal as possible; the painting group on Fridays, lunch dates, shopping expeditions. Nuns, priests and pastors from three different institutions (Mom's done a bit of church hopping in her time) are in touch to provide spiritual support. School friends remember debts decades old and are happy to repay; one friend of my mother's talks about how much she owes her because of the way she looked after the younger girl in their grade school car pool, my own high school friends sort paperwork, fix electronics and do heavy lifting to help out the "other mother" who kept them fed on her legendary deep dish Sicilian-style pizza at countless slumber parties.
Despite its 2.5 million+ population St. Louis is, essentially, a small town. People tend to work, live and go to school in small sub-communities where everyone knows everyone else. Sometimes I feel there are no more than two degrees of separation between anyone I meet. This, of course, can be restrictive and intrusive. But when a member of the community really needs help, people close ranks and offer their support. We don't seem to have come so very far from that pioneer spirit that brought all of our ancestors to this Gateway to the West.
Foremost amongst all these champions of good will must be the staff of St. Luke's hospital. The nurses in my mother's oncologist's office are the most consistently cheerful people I have ever met. They deal with death every day; in so many cases they know they can't win the battle, they can only ease and prolong the fight. I would have thought that would be soul destroying. And yet they come bouncing through the office, as upbeat as your average cast member at Disney World, offering light, happiness and hope. Despite the medical whites and the IV drips next to each armchair, the atmosphere in the chemotherapy room is more like a social club than a doctor's office. Buoyed by the good humour of the nurses, the patients sit around swapping showbiz gossip, talking politics and catching up on their favourite soap operas on the big TV.
Two floors down is the cancer resource centre, where an equally optimistic oncology nurse offers coaching on all aspects of life with cancer, from drug side effects to insurance issues to hair and make-up tips. One room is entirely devoted to beauty and personal welfare. People who don't need them any more donate wigs so that others can use them. We entered what felt like a small boutique and actually made a difficult task fun, trying on a variety of styles of hair and hats. Mom walked out with an adorable bob and a range of fabric hats in patterns that can take her from gardening to museums to music festivals.
All of this, of course, is part of the treatment. Doctors agree that attitude is half the cure. Stay cheerful, stay positive, keep up the good fight. This certainly isn't a pleasant time. But the essential milk of human kindness is making the battle much, much easier.
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