I needed no infusion of coffee the other morning for my trip over to the Norris Cotton Cancer Research Center at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Regional Medical Center.
Cool, crisp, sweet Green Mountain air did the trick to clear my head and excite my senses.
The night before, my brother, bless him, tried to load me up with a zillion questions for my first Prayer Session with Dr. Liz and Dr. Trevor. But whatever advice and concern he expressed through his line of reasoning got lost somewhere in the 40 minutes that it took me to drive from my place in Rochester, VT to Hanover, NH.
You'll have to forgive me, Bill, but I just became too entranced by the magic show offered to me on this particular morning.
In Vermont, that cool, crisp, clean mountain air I mentioned earlier creeps down from the summits in the pre-dawn hours and settles as dense fog, like an expertly-applied egg-white layer of chiffon, into the entire length of the White River Valley.
The Sun's first infusion of warmth kisses the fog's uppermost layer and then and only then, like the thinnest and purest and whitest of warming gossamer, layers upon layers slink back into the mountains, like a cat.
This spectacular revealed itself, before me as I drove through the Valley, as if it were a gift created just for me--and for me alone. If I had just one more day to live, this would be its High Point.
Two other points, if I may: I had all the major roads and highways virtually to myself on this particular morning until a couple of white-tailed deer slowed me down outside of Bethel. I also had to put on the brakes north of Harford to let a moose cross the interstate.
What compelled me to get on the road at so early an hour? The answer is simple: experience.
I learned the Hard Way, during my War against Non-Hotchkins Lymphoma -- and from my experiences with schedules for consultations and treatments in Florida -- that, if you book an appointment in the PM hours, you'll be twiddling your thumbs for an hour or three while the doctors scramble to catch up with their appointments.
Tip the the Rookies: best to book the first available appointment of the practitioner's day -- the earlier, the better.
And so it happened that Dr. Liz and Dr. Trevor had an 8 AM slot open on my appointed day, and I gladly took it. The available literature asserts that Liz is one of the leading medical specialists in the USA who knows how to treat (a) lymphoma, and (b) chemo-caused blood disorders.
Trevor is a Fellow at Norris Cotton who waited several years for the opportunity to study with Liz. He put his own internal medical practice on ice for three years for the honor and privilege of working with her and the rest of her extremely talented team.
In short, Liz and Trevor are exactly the people I need in my life at this particular point in time.
(My 7 AM arrival meant I would have to present myself to "The Vampires" at that un-Godly hour for the prerequisite Blood work, but I had no problem with that because Liz and Trevor would undoubtedly have my lab results in their hands by the time we hooked up.)
Before I continue on-and-on about my new medical team, I am reminded of the fact that my fellow metaphysicians would ban me from practice for life if I failed to mention something about the Dartmouth-Hitchcock campus.
In 20 words or less, the hospital / medical school complex is designed to make you feel better even before you walk through its doors.
The openness and airiness of the atria gave me the sense that I had entered an ultra-modern library, or art museum. I also sensed that the architects and the builders went far, far out of their way to create a 1.8 million square foot, un-hospital-like complex which they deftly designed to be hidden -- unobtrusiveness would probably be a better concept to describe it -- within the rocky and rolling and oak-laden foothills of the White Mountains.
Now that I have satisfied my fellow Metaphysicians, let's get back to the Medical Physicians...
Dr. Liz and Dr. Trevor had a complete mastery of my medical condition, plus she had an ability to explain what is happening to me, on the lymphatic front, in both highly-scientific terms, and in ways a nine-year old would easily comprehend.
We spent over an hour together in a casual but focused conversation, getting to know one another and going over lab results, biopsies, medical notes from my Florida oncologist, and filling in some gaps in my records. Then, the time arrived for them to do most of the talking.
Let's start with the Boss:
Yes, Liz said, the lymphoma was under control -- but to get there, the chemo crashed my body's ability to make other components of my blood. Yes, she added, matters were serious, and no, my condition wasn't life-threatening -- yet.
Yes, she said, the team at Norris Cotton could help me -- and Trevor would be my Main Man in the quest to restore my health to full vitality.
I noticed that Trevor absorbed every one of Liz' words as though he was listening to the Dalai Lama. And for her part, Liz left it all up to Trevor to translate her Common Man explanation to me, regarding what was going to happen next, into some form of medical-ese.
This exercise proved to be Dr. Trevor's strong suit. Except for a snippet here and there, the clinical explanations he offered me soared way over my head. So he downshifted intellectually to terms a high school senior might grasp.
Yes, he explained, there were new and improved forms of chemotherapy that could goose my overall blood counts -- mentioning IVIG as the chief ingredient. (Don't ask me what IVIG is: I have a hard time understanding that Rituxin, the main line of treatment for lymphoma, is made out of Rat Spleen.)
Fact is: I trust these folks, believe in them, and have faith in their recommendations.
Gentleman and metaphysician that I am, I would never inquire about a woman's age. But snoop that I am, and if I had to guess, I'd say she's in her mid-to-late 40s. As the medical director of Norris Cotton, she is clearly at or near the summit of her profession.
She graduated from Ohio State University. I have the distinct impression that, while 106,000 other Buckeyes and their faithful crammed the football stadium, Liz was in the lab, studying and learning the mysteries and secrets and the wonders of bone marrow.
I also have a feeling that she wore red platforms and pink anklets with lace fringes even back then.
Trevor got his sheepskin from Williams College -- nicknamed "The Ephs" for some obscure reason ( I think it has something to do with a "cow") and continues the preppy tradition of wearing cotton tattersall button down shirts, sailboat ties, penny loafers, and Docker slacks.
If he hadn't gone off to medical school, I have this distinct impression he might have hooked up with either the CIA or a Think Tank, to research, develop and then guide, using a joystick, a robotic Fly, carrying several ounces of Plastique, up the nostril of an Islamic terrorist.
Either that, or he would have been off to the World of Investment Banking.
Anyway, Dr. Liz and Dr. Trevor, from Dartmouth-Hitchcock's Norris Cotton Cancer Center, are on my Team now.
And I feel as though I am One Lucky Duck.
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