You find out who your friends are.
I hate that saying because a) It's True, and b) it's deceptive.
In the first 24 hours we discussed all the aspects of how and when to inform the people in our lives that we have been thrust into the world of Stage Four Pancreatic Cancer.
I had no need or desire to tell anyone anything, other than the barest details required for functioning which in my mind meant basic information in order to secure my employment.
But that's just me. I'm a frustrated hermit. I can be content for days and days without any human contact.
Rich, on the other hand, is a People Person. Not only does he have a network of friends that rivals anything Facebook could engineer, unlike Facebook, there is Nothing superficial about it. He genuinely cares about how our announcement will affect each and every person that is close enough to receive the news from him directly.
It's important to note here that at this point, we were sans biopsy and therefore could only offer Stage Four Pancreatic Cancer. Four words that deliver a preconceived notion of doom and gloom.
I just watch and listen. He IS the captain of this ship after all. By prior agreement, we have determined a hand picked group that will be our point guards. Unbeknownst to them. He bestows the boon with such grace and affection that each person expresses gratitude for the burden. His brother will be in charge of the family; Inky will be in charge of the local throngs of guy friends; Wade will be in charge of the family/friends on the Eastern Shore; Denise will keep everyone in the Master Gardener's Program informed; Buddy is in charge of the Friends of Dorothy. Listening to him speak to these people, I cannot be sad. I am astounded at the ease with which he announces the state of affairs, and then seamlessly glides into assurances that he will be fine, interspersed with attempts to answer their stunned questions, and then jokes about the doctors using chemo while he uses the Three Stooges and Mel Brooks.
Even at this early stage Rich realizes what the future may hold and he's trying to make things as easy for me as possible—point people I trust who will shield me from the throngs. This is how we proceed—Rich will take care of his peeps, and I will take care of Rich. It is not spoken; it is understood. And like every day since we met, we relax into the rhythm that is Us curving around and into each other.
I was thinking it would be nice if there was some kind of announcement I could mail out for this. Yep, Hallmark needs to get all over that. It would be easier on both sides. Mass mailing, apply stamp and drop in the mail. The recipient would open it, deal with the shock in their own way and not have to worry about What To Say. After adequate processing they could call or write or pretend they never got it and we could all just move on in whatever way seems appropriate for all involved. I've given considerable thought to what such a missive should look like. Not as formal as a wedding invitation, but a bit more dignified than a baby shower invitation. This is after all, the announcement of a major life endeavor. I would like it to read as follows...
We just received a diagnosis of Stage Four Pancreatic Cancer
We are hopeful and determined
Please understand that we are shocked and exhausted. We are in for the fight of our lives so we will be unable to expend energy to take incoming calls or return phone messages.
Your prayers and best wishes are most appreciated. We promise to call if we need something that you can provide.
Then...for those who can't read or follow written instructions I would put a similar message on my answering machine. Because hindsight IS 20-20. And despite having point people in place, I was shocked by the messages left on our machine and the calls I dealt with. The calls come in three stages. FIRST: they express concern and “if there's anything you need, just call.”
SECOND: ...”It's me again, hope everything is going okay. We're here if you need us. Give us a call and let us know what's going on.”
THIRD... “Uh, yeah...left you a message....you haven't called back. Really like an update on what's going on. Call me.”
This last call is dripping with enough major attitude that I get an adrenalin rush from resisting the urge to rip the phone out of the wall and smash it through a window. I feel huge incentive to call them back to apologize profusely for failing to fill them in on the gory details, fifteen second conversations with doctors, and assure them that their concern means so much to us. In my defense I would explain that if I were to call everyone who feels entitled to be kept in the loop, I would have no time to go to work, do laundry, cut the grass, clean the house, or tend to my personal hygiene let alone take care of Rich. Sorry. My bad.
Once I made the mistake of answering the phone instead of allowing the machine to get it. The caller was demanding to know if Rich was “going to be able to golf this summer” because he was running the golf league and had to set up whatever it is that one has to set up for a golf league. After I confirmed that he knew Rich was in the hospital, and why, I just couldn't think of how to respond. I apologized for any inconvenience this was causing him and thankfully he forgave me but...”just have him call right away, so I can get this league going.”
Thankfully, these people are the minority, but one is too many. Three is a freakin' nightmare. I feel like the major car wreck on the side of the road that every one is slowing down to gape at.
I cringe at how bitchy and ungrateful I must appear here. I understand that 95% of people mean well, and they care about Rich. What 95% of these people don't understand is that I am exhausted. I have a 40 minute drive to get to his bedside at 7 am, at work by 8 am; visit him at lunch time; visit him after work, 40 minute drive home to do what chores I can and play the messages on the answering machine. Each of them just wants one phone call, but their requests combined are not just one phone call for me. I just can't repeat the story that many times. That's what I thought my point people were for—I call six people and each of them calls six people, et cetera. Work with me, people, it's your basic pyramid scheme for crissakes with no membership fees!
Here's your sign.... If you weren't calling me every now and then to chat BEFORE this happened, I do not feel obliged to report to you now.
Okay, bottom line here is that I'm not a people person. Not in that light and happy, sweet and snappy sort of way. But I get points for being at all times polite. Rich said so.
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