Ibby's Cancer

Steve Caputo is a long time friend. He is an attorney and we have worked together through a housing corporation and a refugee center. In August, his vivacious, well educated, compassionate daughter, Ibby, was diagnosed with Acute Leukemia. On September 25, she sent out the email that follows from her hospital in Boston. I share it with their permission and with the firm conviction that her struggle and compassion will touch your soul.


"Hi,

I wanted to share two experiences I've had recently. The first was a few days ago.

A doctor around my age came in during morning rounds. Brigham and Women's is a teaching hospital, so many of the doctors rotate, and I am one of their learning tools. Once I figured this out, I started to resent it and have not had much patience for the young, inexperienced docs. When I first got admitted and diagnosed and my carefree life suddenly snapped into something else, I was obsessed with the age of my doctors, especially the one who told me at 1:27 AM on August 27th that I had Acute Leukemia. She looked like me. Long brown hair, dressed well, young smiley, she even had on a turquoise ring. It was like the mirror was telling me I was sick.

Anyway,the other day a young doctor comes into my room an asks me how I'm doing. I respond by asking, "Mentally, physically or emotionally?" because I am never sure what they're asking after. She said all three so I told her: I woke up depressed,I had crazy dreams and my stomach is cramping.

Then she came around the other side of the bed to listen to my lungs, etc. and she asked me how long I've been here and how I was diagnosed. I told her the story you already know: I came in a month ago because of an infection and fever; I haven't left since.

Then the most amazing thing happened. She started to cry. The doctor. She put her hands on mine and then hugged me. She said she had a Buddhist prayer wheel she would try to find to give me. She hugged me again, still crying. I told her she was a good doctor. She kept apologizing for crying and after she had washed her hands and face at the sink, she stood in front of me and said,"It's just, I'm 28, and it could be me in that bed or one of my friends".

When she left I experienced an incredible stillness. I'm her and she's me. I suspect other doctors have had this thought and I suspect other have denied it--I can tell by the way they treat me--but this doctor had this thought and let me know it. She calmed something in me.

Now I have to tell about another experience.

I woke up yesterday morning tormented by such horrible anxiety, I couldn't lift my head off the pillow and yet I couldn't keep it still.

I felt like I was suffocating. Like I wanted to crawl out of my skin and escape. Be someone else. Be on a ferry to Marhat's Vineyard. Be working at the radio station or coffee shop. Be having a completely inane conversation. Anything else. It lasted almost all day long, until around 2 pm I curled into a crying ball with my head in the lap of my brother. I'm a strong fucking independent woman. I've never experienced vulnerable like this.

Steve stroked what is left of my hair. When the moment passed, he said, "See, you got through that moment."

I've been on a steady stream of Valium since then and I finally feel on top of the panic, at least for right now.

During that panic, though, for a moment while in the fetal position, my higher self kicked in and I realized how lucky I am: I'm suffering in a hospital, where people are nurturing me, where they are fighting for my survival, where I can get drugs like Valium, where I'm consistently being loved and supported by family and friends. I thought about all the other people in this world who are also suffering--experiencing intense claustrophobia in their pain. Most don't get the perks I get.

I shared this thought with a nurse much later on in the day and she advised me not to think about other people's suffering. I did not say this to her, but I think ignoring other peole's suffering is like ignoring the inevitability of death. Blink. It's still there.

These experiences are some of what being sick is like for me.

Love,

Ibby




Her website is ibbycaputo.com