Peggy Thomas writes nonfiction books for children and is a happy empty-nester with her husband (and cancer survivor), Francis. Her most recent book is "Thomas Jefferson Grows a Nation."

Peggy Thomas

I’m mixing myself a drink because I got one of my Christmas presents early this year. I pour my first glass of polyethylene glycol (sounds like the stuff you put in a car radiator) and water. Splash in the Gatorade and lots of ice (tips on the Internet say that it is better cold).

I give a toast to my husband Fran for his thoughtful gift — a colonoscopy.

Recently, we were both rocked by the news that a friend had died. We had met Beth in the lymphoma clinic where her husband Dennis and my Fran were being treated. Dennis was a month ahead of Fran in his treatments, and we looked forward to updates on what to expect. Both men had bone marrow transplants, and both were doing well, but apparently, silently, Beth had been riddled with cancer herself. Less than a month after her diagnosis, she was gone. Heartbreaking. Another couple we knew suffered a similar fate.

Statistics show that caring for others takes a toll on the caregiver’s emotional and physical health. It’s natural. All the time that Fran was sick, I thought about nothing other than getting him well again. Every time a reminder postcard came from the dentist’s office I ignored it, and making an appointment for my annual physical was the last thing I wanted to do when I was driving an hour to and from the chemo clinic several times a week. But that’s where I went wrong. Ignoring my health wouldn’t have helped Fran or the family. If I had fallen sick, our kids would have had to pick up the slack, and the stress would have spread exponentially.

I knew all this. I had read the caregiver brochures they handed out at the hospital that said to take time for myself and accept help from others. And I did. Sort of. But I also gained 15 pounds and hadn’t seen a doctor in two years. Don’t do what I did.

If you are a caregiver, pick up the phone right now and make that long overdue appointment with your doctor. Or, like my husband, make an appointment for your caregiver. There is nothing that says “I love you” better than a gift-wrapped colonoscopy for Christmas and a mammogram for the New Year.

Give each other the greatest gift of all — another year together.

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Give yourself and your caregivers the gift of health. 

A Colonoscopy for Christmas

Editor’s Note: This piece was submitted by a contributing writer and does not represent the views of CURE Media Group.

I am the luckiest girl in the world being that I was the last patient in the world to receive Bexxar radioimmunotherapy before it was removed from the marketplace at the beginning of 2014. I was told that if I remained symptom-free for a year after treatment, I would have a 50/50 chance of beating follicular non-Hodgkin lymphoma. As the journey had been underway for over 10 years, I aimed for the gold and currently remain symptom-free.

However, since this life-saving treatment, I've had two very close brushes with death, which highlights the fact that there are no guarantees in life. Within the first year post-treatment, I survived a nearly fatal auto accident where a woman ran a continuous red light (while on her cell phone and turning around to check on her children) while I was crossing a 12 lane highway. The second brush with death involved an adverse reaction to an injection of a radioisotope Technetium during a nuclear cardiac stress test which unexpectedly landed me in the hospital this past June for two days.

So what have I learned from all this? Never take any day for granted.

No Guarantees in Life or Cancer

My husband and I are riding in the elevator to the sixth floor for his third chemotherapy treatment. We’ve got the routine down. Every three weeks he goes in for four to five days of nauseating, lose-your-hair, diarrhea-inducing, yet life-saving chemo. The wheelchair is filled with things that will make his stay more comfortable: his own pillow and blanket because the hospital ones smell funky to him, his laptop, headphones, ginger chews, knit cap to keep is bald head warm, water bottle …. But the most important item, the one that will help him the most, doesn’t fit into the wheelchair. It’s his sense of humor.  

“Quick,” he says handing me a pen. “Write something on my butt.”  He pulls his sweat pants down just enough to reveal the upper portion of one cute buttock.

“What?” I’m flummoxed. Not because of what he’s asked me to do (I’ve known him too long for this to be a surprise. We have pictures of him with a Sitz bath on his head celebrating Cinco de Mayo), but because I don’t know what to write.

“For the skin check,” he says, “Quick.”

I’m not quick enough. The elevator stops and the doors open. Thankfully no one is standing there to witness this mid-day mooning.  Fran pulls up his pants and I pocket the pen and we head down the hall.

Once we’re shown his room, we have just a few minutes before the inevitable skin check. It’s kind of like inspecting a rental car for dings before you drive off the lot. Two nurses will do a quick visual scan of a patient’s back, elbows, knees and feet for signs of pressure sores.

As neatly as I can, I write a greeting in blue ink. I toss the pen and stifle a snicker.

Barb and Mary, who have cared for Fran before, come in. Fran does his bit showing them his back, his elbows, his knees, feet, and.... He turns and drops his sweats.

The nurses reel back laughing. One leans out the door. “Hey, guys. You have to see this!” 

The way Fran sees it, these nurses need levity just as much as the patients. Nurses pump toxic chemicals into folks who are scared and in pain. Some patients lash out in anger. Some don’t make it. Nurses all deserve a jolly howdy once in a while. And so does Fran. For the next few days these beautiful women will be measuring his urine and rating his stool. How humiliating.

Now that Fran has established his reputation as the smartass that he is, he has to keep it up. On his fourth visit to the floor I write, “6 West is the Best!” And the fifth time a simple smiley face decorates his derriere. What I 

 write is, “Thank you!” in bold, all caps.

"Thank you for taking such good care of me! Thank you for being gentle when you stab me in the chest to connect the mediport. Thank you for laughing at my stupid jokes. Thank you for talking me down when I’m scared in the middle of the night…. "There is just not enough room on his tight little tukhus.

There is a special place in my husband’s heart for these women who have shared some of the worst moments of his life. And I’m not jealous. I love them, too. He wouldn’t be here without them.  And as evidenced by the big hugs and smiles Fran gets whenever he goes back to visit, I think the feeling is mutual. 

As one nurse said, “I tell that story to everyone. He’s a legend.”

Patients with cancer aren't the only ones who need a little levity in their lives. 

The Naked Truth About Healing With Humor

It begins here, a squeezing in my solar plexus. A sensation rises inside, pops my eardrums and shifts my scalp. I inhale as if for the first time. Then let it go like a silent prayer that rises skyward. It’s the physical reaction that seems to accompany gratitude. I’ve felt it many times: when my kids are all home; when the sun lights up the autumn maple next door. But more so in the last eight months, since my husband was diagnosed with a rare lymphoma.

During Fran’s first round of chemo, when reality was raw, and my security shattered, I walked the hospital halls pretending to study the artwork. Giant koi swam past the thoracic clinic. Sunflowers brightened ambulatory surgery. But it’s the somber Birchfield paintings on the first floor that I was drawn to. His mud-green, grey and brown matched my insides. I could walk into those brushstrokes and disappear.

I’ve been here long enough now to know there are 68 steps between floors, the cool Dyson hand dryers are in the third floor bathrooms, and that free tea and coffee are available in the hospitality room. I should tell those waiting in line at Dunkin’ Donuts, but I don’t. I don’t sign the hospitality guest book, either. I’m a ghost floating through the corridors. I don’t want to make an impact here; don’t want to call Roswell Park Cancer Institute home, although it’s the only place I feel safe.

Upstairs, nurses push computer carts and patients maneuver chemo poles and count laps. Walking among them reminds me how useless I am. I have no purpose other than waiting. Waiting for Fran to need something, waiting for the next bit of information to trickle in from the doctors, waiting for side effects to kick in, waiting for the kids to come home. Waiting.

I head to the solarium that faces south over Lake Erie and the Lackawanna windmills. The clothes dryer is spinning, but otherwise the room is empty. I curl up on the sofa. How often I’ve envied Fran’s plastic mattress and stiff sheets. I hug myself and try not to cry. It’s tricky to relax just enough to fall asleep without allowing a breach in the armor. I need to keep fear in its cage.

The door opens. Someone checks the dryer. Without my glasses, all I see is a fuzzy form in blue. The beads in the woman’s corn rows click as she folds her clothes. She’s obviously a veteran of this cancer caregiving thing.

There probably was once a time when she didn’t know about the free coffee, or didn’t need to wash a towel and underwear, or keep a toothbrush in her purse.

I’d only started my residency. Will I have to do laundry someday, or put my name on cafeteria leftovers in the mini fridge? Will I have memorized every brush stroke in “Ice Skating in Niagara Square?” Pressure builds. Like a ship beached on a sand bar, my hull cracks. A tear escapes. I hug tighter. Don’t cry in front of a stranger.

The woman gathers her laundry as quietly as she folded it and leaves. I weep into my sleeve.

The door opens again. I stop breathing. I hope it’s not a whole family. I just want to be alone. If I pretend to sleep maybe they’ll go away. I need sleep.

Something warm lands on my feet, my hip, my shoulder. The weight of the heated blanket melts my muscles. My steeled interior collapses. Such a gift. My ears pop, and my scalp shifts. I breathe volumes. The chemo will work. Fran will be well.

Click, clack. A blur of blue slips out the door. Lifting her up in prayer, I exhale.

—Peggy Thomas became a caregiver to her husband, Fran, after he was diagnosed with triple-hit large B-cell non-Hodgkin lymphoma. A year later, after chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant, he is doing well and is back at work. Thomas is a writer of fiction and non-fiction for children and a frequent speaker at schools and libraries.

I don't sign the hospitality guest book. I'm a ghost floating through the corridors. I don't want to make an impact here; don't want to call Roswell Park Cancer Institute home. But when a stranger offers comfort, I'm filled with hope.

Peggy Thomas

A Colonoscopy for Christmas

No Guarantees in Life or Cancer

The Naked Truth About Healing With Humor

A Stranger's Small Kindness Makes a Big Difference

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