Rain would open her survival bag: an aromatherapy-oil roller to dab onto her right wrist — a great antidote to the clinical smell of the ward — and her phone and headphones to get into her own world. She told me meditating helped her, so I usually get some work done, unless she was in a talking mood, and she sat for the whole round telling me things she said I needed to know.
On her chemo day, Rain ate lightly, so I carried a bag with crackers, oatmeal, plain yogurt, and cold drinks such as iced tea, or orange juice.
After chemo, I would drive her back to the apartment Lukas had rented for us and helped her to bed. I offered Lukas to pay some rent, but he absolutely refused to take my money.
“I should be paying you for being there for Rain.”
“Lukas, I am here because I love Rain.”
“I know. You have my absolute respect for what you’re doing. Listen, Rolf, anything you need, anything at all, I am just a call away. When this is over, we’ll talk about hiring you for our family business. We need a new webpage and someone to manage it.”
Lukas was a stand-up guy. To think I wanted to punch him in the face not long ago.
Slowly, over time, Rain fell into a routine. For the first few days following a chemotherapy session, she was ill. Then slowly, she began to feel better, and by the time the next session came around a week later, she was almost back to feeling her normal self, only for it to start all over again.
If Rain felt fine, she wanted to cook dinner for us. Usually, she had no appetite so I cooked just for myself.
She had lost all her hair again, but she refused to wear a wig because she believed, in her heart and in her soul, that she would have hair again.
“How many treatments are left?”
“I’ve got seven at the moment and then a break. I’m into my fourth, so only three left!” She tried to keep her voice light and optimistic, but knew she failed. There was hardly a way to say she was having lifesaving treatment, having poison pumped through her veins every week, and sound upbeat.
“You need a bone marrow transplant.”
“I know. Trust me. The big question is whether they’ll ever find the right donor,” said Rain, exhaling a long sigh. “We couldn’t find one so far.”
I had read some facts about bone marrow transplant (BMT) on the internet. How you come out of the BMT depends on the skill of the transplant medical team, your attitude, and a good match for bone marrow.
We were in one of the top national centers for BMT, and Doctor Brown was leading a great team. So we had the first base covered.
Rain had some weak moments during her treatment. There were many nights when she cried herself to sleep while I held her in my arms. But she never gave up. She never lost hope. She was a true fighter. All her energy was focused on beating her cancer. So we had second base covered, too.
Third base, however, was a very difficult one to cover.
Seventy percent of the people who need a bone marrow transplant can’t find a donor whose bone marrow is a good match. Imagine being in that situation. The doctors know that they can save your life, but they can’t find the bone marrow to save it with. The closer the donor is to an exact copy of you, the greater the chances that the new bone marrow and your body will be able to live with one another.
Rain didn’t have any close relatives or siblings. Finding a marrow match was going to be very very very hard. Almost impossible.
“Test me. I’ll do it,” I said to Doctor Brown. Sadly, I wasn’t a match.
Fate was pounding at Rain’s door. It was loud, impatient, and pounding mercilessly on a door she had kept locked for a year. It was time to let fate know he wasn’t welcomed and fight back. I needed more people in our corner. People with huge hearts, willing to fight with us.
Luckily for us, I knew exactly where to find them.
There was one person I knew who would be able to reach Middletown’s heart. I took my phone out and made the call.
“Hello, Grace? It’s Rolf… Yes, I am calling you precisely about her. Yes, I found her. No, sadly she is not well. Listen, I need your help.”
CHAPTER 14: RAIN
I rubbed rouge onto my cheeks, considered my reflection in the mirror, and frowned. I was pale and thin, and my eyes, which I used to think were too big for my face anyhow, were now massive, with pale, purple shadows underneath.
I looked sick, but there was not a lot I could do about that. I was sick.
I had one more treatment left, one more session of having the horrible, cold poison pumped through my veins. One more round of the vomiting, the shaking, the nausea, the tiredness, and then I was done with chemotherapy and could start living whatever time I had left again.
How we choose to react in a crisis is referred to as ‘fight or flight’. Stand your ground, or run to the hills. After the initial shock, I made up my mind I was up for the fight.
However, not every day was positive. Far from it. There were days when I seemed very lost in a long, dark tunnel, with nothing but a dim, barely-flickering light ahead. I had two choices: dive under the duvet, carry on crying and feel helpless; or get back and fight each time I got knocked down. A couple of times I chose the former. Mostly, I picked the latter.
I held on to that light, I trusted that it would eventually burn brighter and that I’d be out of the tunnel.
Rolf was generous in his offer of help. He fought at my side, but he wasn’t sitting where I was. This was my fight and no one, not even him, could have it for me.
My weight dropped, and my face grew thinner and paler. Then my eyelashes and my eyebrows fell out, too, and I felt bare, exposed, and sick whenever I looked at myself in the mirror.
It is said that Winston Churchill remarked during the Battle of Dunkirk, ‘If you’re going through hell, keep going.’
This was my war on cancer. I couldn’t go back, and there was no escape. I had to keep going.
Another mantra that helped me was Abraham Lincoln’s ‘One day at a time.’ On bleak days, I’d remind myself not to look back, as there was no point. I wasn’t going to look too far ahead and think that the worst was going to happen.
Instead, I just dealt with the here and now. Just get through today. Then try again tomorrow.
When I was made aware that BMT was the only chance I had to defeat cancer, I felt hurt confused, depressed, and helpless. I never knew my biological parents; I was all alone in the world with no blood family.
It wasn’t long before I realized that these emotions were like highly contagious germs. They not only infected me, but also infected Rolf, the nurses, the doctor, and all of those who cared about me.
After my first chemo, I left the hospital, with a bag of anti-sickness drugs, I was handed a pack of retractable needles and a sharps bin. Following chemotherapy, I would need to inject myself daily with medication to boost my white blood cell count, which would have been impacted by chemo.
When I got to the apartment, I retreated to the bedroom and locked the door. I pinched my thigh skin, as instructed, injected, and quickly popped a chocolate mint in my mouth to confuse my senses, while I put the used needle in the yellow sharps box, hidden in my wardrobe. Julia, the nurse, called the next day to make sure I was okay, which I was, though I never got used to it.