Godspeed, Harvey (#4 of 16)

Wow, we approach the final countdown, already to #4 on this farewell tour. It's rather shocking. It's freaking me out. I'm running out of time, space and numbers. I haven't spoken of Madonna yet and I'm not sure she's going to fit into the countdown. For shame! 

 Let's recap, shan't we? I had to go back and see what I had babbled about during this final countdown, lest I repeat myself or forget something of major importance (however that might be defined in relation to a sophomoric, self-serving blog). I did notice a theme of car-key stories; in fact, I almost picked nother key-related blog to repost but then I thought I wanted to break that chain. I have yet to pick the final three blogs but I have chosen today's entry (#4). Here's where we've been so far:

 16. Lock Me Out and Shove Me In (probably my all-tome favorite blog--why I made it #16 instead of the final post, I do not know)

15. Jesus, Upside Down (I'd do this again)

14. Turkey Trot (seriously--you had to be there to fully grasp the fun and fear)

13. Can You Hear me NOW? (I've decided this one shouldn't have made the list)

12. Shooting the Poop (there had to be at least one poop post in the final countdown)

11. Now for THIS I Went to College (probably my all-time favorite work-related blog and a touching memory of which I will carry until my dying day)

10. Friendly Neighbor, Snow-blowing Style (one of the most requested stories I am asked to verbally share with others during the holidays)

9.  Happy Capers (Another day at my adored job)

8. Let them eat cake (Because Ice Cream Cake is vital in this thing called life)

7. Of Car Keys and Dog Puke (Uh oh--keys)

6. Great California Car Trunk Incident of 1988 (Uh oh--more keys)

 5. Live Like a Dog (Because we should ALL live like a dog).

This week, aka #4 of #16, has a more serious tone. It’s a tribute to those I serve. A story of sadness, strength, and schizophrenia. I re-worked this entry so I could best honor a person who made a profound difference in my life. I’m grateful for the life lessons, the laughs and the understanding that there is no fine line between staff and client. We’re all clients.

 If you are swimming in grief or struggling with anything mental illness related or just don’t want to contemplate life and death, this entry is one to skip for now. Go back and read about me getting shoved through a window. Kiss kiss.

Preface.
Sometimes, people are put in our lives to teach us lessons. I believe Harvey was a teacher—for me and for those around her. Anyone who thinks you can’t learn anything from a person with schizophrenia and terminal cancer is sadly mistaken.

 Harvey was supposed to have died three years before this blog was written, but she was too stubborn to die back then. Talk about a cat with nine lives. For purposes of the blog, I named her Harvey. She knows why. I’m sure it makes her laugh.

 Her formal name is “Harvey the one-boob-wonder.” That’s because—well--she had one boob. They had given her a mastectomy during her first bout of cancer. She didn’t want reconstruction. She didn’t give a shit about reconstruction. What she DID give a shit about is keeping one of the two boobs.

When the cancer returned the second time, they wanted to do a mastectomy on the remaining boob. Hell-to-the-no was the reaction. So, Harvey got to go through life with one boob, which pleased her to no end.

 One.
It's late on a warm June night. Despite being late, it's still warm out. I think it's about 11 PM but I'm not sure. I am heading home after spending the day at the hospital. It's been a long day. I don't think I ate very much but I'm not hungry. I'm tired. I'm defeated. I am sad. I am definitely in need of therapy.

Walking from the hospital to my car, I stop to make a call. Standing in the brightly lit parking lot, I leave a message for my peers at work. This makes me cry. I don't want to be crying but now I am crying while standing in the parking lot of the hospital, on a warm June night. I'm sure I'm not the first person to cry in a hospital parking lot and I know I won't be the last. I'm just the current person crying in the parking lot. 

 Harvey, the One-Boob Wonder" died tonight. I knew she was going to die. I knew I would be there when she died. That doesn't make it any easier. That doesn't make it any less sad.

I’ve seen a baby be born and I’ve seen a person die. Both are wonderous in their own way. Both are beautiful and ugly and emotional and raw and relieving and painful. It is truly an honor to be with someone as they are born or as they pass. Today, I was honored to bear witness as someone died. It was indeed beautiful and ugly and emotional and raw and relieving and painful.

 And sad.

 Two.
Harvey was “my” client from the day I started working at the agency. She happened to be diagnosed with Schizophrenia. She was my age, grumpy, bitter and funny. I don’t think most people took the time to enjoy her humor. Sarcastic and witty. Easy to miss. I’ve always been able to understand what Harvey was “saying.” All you had to do is listen.

 Harvey also lived with breast cancer… not just once… not just twice… but, three times. I ask the Universe: Is Schizophrenia not “enough?”

Is it not enough to spend your life hearing voices of which are relentless, hate-fueled, distracting, loud and angry?

Is it not enough to spend life swimming through paranoia, not knowing what is true and what is not true?

Is it not enough to fear everyone, to wonder if the cashier really is cutting your arm with your keys or if you are just feeling that as part of your symptoms?

Is it not enough to have people cross the street when they see you coming because they don’t understand why you are talking to yourself and look disheveled?

Is it not enough to be judged, day in and day out?

Harvey didn’t give a shit about those questions. She was “fine, just fine,” as she’d say.

Harvey, dealing with Schizophrenia and breast cancer for the third time, had two words when it was suggested she have chemotherapy for the third time. Those two words were not “yes, please.”

 It’s when I am filling out Harvey’s “Five Wishes” papers I notice the symptoms of her mental illness seem less “intense.” I pay a little closer attention. I realize her symptoms have eased up just… as her medical condition falls apart.

 This is so very unfair. You might think that any decrease in the severity in symptoms of mental illness would be a blessing. In this case, it is not--Harvey has insight she probably wished had never come. No one should ever have insight at times like these. Harvey knows she is dying and she knows she is mentally ill and she has full insight into these facts.

 her body is failing her while her mind is waking up. I am less than entertained by the Universe.

Three.
For some reason, through the muck of paranoia & delusions, Harvey trusted me. She let me take her to chemo treatments and to doctor appointments, she let me watch as the doctor examined her one remaining boob, she let me talk her in to blood work when she didn’t want blood work. In return, I went through many a drive-through with her. Who am I to deny a cancer-ridden client of a Frosty or a large order of fries? She loved Frosties. At times, a doctor or her mother or some staff person would tell her she shouldn’t eat Frosties as they aren’t healthy…

Everyone should have full access to a Wendy’s Frosty when desired. Chemo? Frosty. Bloodwork? Frosty. Oncologist appointment? Frosty. Healthy? The lady is dying. She’s appeasing us by taking part in treatment that is killing her to keep her alive. I was quite clear with people when they say such stupid things to her: Shut up and let her have a friggin’ Frosty.

 Four.
Harvey was scheduled to have a hysterectomy. Her mom flew in from the West Coast to be here for the healing process. Her mom didn’t get to town very often, so it was fabulous to see her. It was supposed to be a simple operation.

 When they opened her up…all they saw was cancer. They sewed her back up and called it a day. Harvey, the one boob wonder, was full of mediatized breast cancer.

 The fact that she didn’t have a hysterectomy pissed her off.  She was none-too-pleased that cancer made it impossible to get a promised hysterectomy. She didn’t want to hear it. She wasn’t going to do chemo again—this would be round three—and she didn’t want to lose her hair—this would be round three of that, too. Harvey didn’t want any more pills or doctors or surgery or mammograms. She was done, done, done.

 You know what? She finally agreed to try round three of chemotherapy, mostly to shut all of us up. So, her hair fell out, the hair grew back and the cancer seemed to shrink to a “size” that left her alive. Her mom went back to the West Coast, I took her for Frosties, and mental health treatment went on as planned.

 Five.
Harvey was stubborn beyond compare. She never complained about pain, lying through her teeth about how she was feeling, refusing to take pain pills and basically denying anything is amiss, even on the worst of days. Maybe she honestly didn’t know she was in pain. Maybe the pain in her body was “less” than the pain in her brain. It’s the stubbornness that kept her alive, I’m sure.

 But even terminal stubbornness cannot stop terminal cancer.

I watched Harvey waste away, legs refusing to work as they once did, eyes floating around in her head, weight leaving, appetite dwindling, color fading. And yet, she plugged along, saying, “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

She was not fine but I smiled anyway.

Six.
Harvey started complaining of pain. This was very unusual for her and thus we took immediate notice. She started taking pain pills—something I had never seen her do in all the years I have known her. She stopped eating pizza at 3 AM. She wasn’t angry at the world. She had all the signs of a bowel obstruction and that was not a good thing.

 Harvey and I went to the emergency room. She scowled and squirmed and wanted to go outside and have a cigarette. When a doctor finally showed up, she told him she was “fine.” I shook my head in disagreement. She was not fine. Harvey repeated herself: “I’m fine, I’m fine.” She then asked for a cigarette.

 I know she is dying. I know the doctor knows she is dying. I know Harvey knows she is dying. I sat quietly next to her. No one who is dying should ever have to sit alone in an emergency room. Her mom was not going to get here in time--she can’t catch a plane in enough time. She won’t make it. We found her dad, someone of whom I didn’t even know exist until he showed up in the emergency room. Harvey was in too much pain to even acknowledge her dad.

 She was standing up, naked, screaming for someone to bring her Heroin. Yes, heroin. That got attention but it did not get her heroin. Hell, I would have gone out and gotten her Heroin had I known how. I covered her with a sheet and coaxed her to sit down and talk with her dad. There was no sitting down, only pacing. She did talk to her dad. Thankfully, she also got more pain meds.

 The surgeon came in and tells Harvey she needed surgery. She has a bowel obstruction of which is so severe he must do surgery. She wants nothing to do with surgery. Nothing. NOTHING. AT. ALL. She yells at him she is not going to have surgery.

No more cutting.

No more pain.

No more surgery.

She swore at us in a most determined fashion.
NO.
MORE.
SURGERY.

 You know what? I'm embarrassed to say that she finally agreed to surgery, mostly to shut the surgeon, her dad and me up. She did it for us.

Seven.
The surgery was nothing more than opening and closing her up. There was nothing left inside her on which to operate. [I’ll spare you the description given to me by the surgeon.] They wheeled her back to a hospital room and left her dad and me to be with her, one on each side of the bed. I wiped her brow, just as she has indicated in her “Five Wishes.” I talked to her. A pastor came into the room, so I left, giving her Dad time to process what was happening. I returned to find her looking at me. My reassurances were more for me than for her.

 I stood there silently for the final moments of life. She had earned some peace and quite.

 Suffice it to say she died a true champion.

One.
It's late on a warm June night. Despite being late, it's still warm out. I think it's about 11 PM but I'm not sure. I am heading home after spending the day at the hospital. It's been a long day. I don't think I ate very much but I'm not hungry. I'm tired. I'm defeated. I am sad. I am definitely in need of therapy.

Epilogue.
The next day, I went to work as usual. Only it wasn’t as usual. Some co-workers came and talked to me, giving me plenty of time to process. I don’t know what I said but I do know what I was thinking:
Harvey, I hope you are up there kicking God in the shins and demanding to know why you had to suffer so much in this life.

Give him a kick for me.

Heck, give him two kicks.

 After you are done kicking him, enjoy having two boobs and no pain.

Enjoy being free of the voices that tormented you for so long.

Enjoy thoughts of your cutie-patootie oncologist.

Enjoy being free of all this nonsense.

Thank you for all the laughs. You really did crack me up.

Thank you for dying so calmly, so quietly, so nicely, so peacefully for me, for your father.

I’m sorry your life was cut so short but I’m glad you had those three extra years.

Gave you three more years to teach me things, and for that I am very grateful.

Godspeed, Harvey, double-breasted wonder.