This post follows on from Resilience & Wonder: a Beginning.

I did not want to keep the hematologist appointment this July to check my iron levels. If I put it off, I wouldn’t have to follow up with possible iron infusions. But I knew I just needed to get on with it.

I’ve been doing this for several years, on the verge of recovery from severe anemia, waiting for the blessed relief of menopause.

At these checkups, an infusion is usually scheduled as well, just in case. This time it was missing, blood draw and doctor only. The first indication of how off this was going to be.

“That’s ok,” I reasoned, “I have to pick Abigail up from sailing at 3:15. At least I won’t be late.”

Typically, after the blood draw, I wait forty minutes or so for the array of iron values to come back from the lab. The quick lab turnaround time costs a fortune. My doctor sees me when some of the numbers are there, and we talk and wait for the last ones. And of course, the number he needs most arrives last.

We make small talk about recalcitrant toddlers (his) and the vagaries of kids in their 20s (mine) and eventually, the number pops up in my electronic chart and he scratches his chin and says, “Hmmm. I’d be happier if you had the treatment.”

But this time, at the beginning of the appointment, he said, “You know what, since you don’t have an infusion scheduled, there’s no need to wait.”

I will not do this again.

“We’ll call you if you need one. And by the way, there’s a new iron product that I’m happy with. It will give you the full dose in one go, not the usual five visits.”

I was elated. Those five hospital visits, each with a subsequent recovery day, take out a good part of a month.

We talked about side effects and protocols for the single longer visit and I left, hopeful.

And Then

I didn’t hear back for a week, let it go, finally called, left a message, and received no reply. Highly unusual for this efficient Dana Farber Department. I called again three days later.

“Oh yes, Mrs. Geffken,” said the ever-polite Thomas at the front desk. “You do need an infusion. Shall I schedule that for you?”

We did not talk about how many visits.

I carved out a day and went, a bit nervous about possible complications. My daughter was camping on a Boston Harbor island that night with her sailing program. No need to pick her up, the day clear for a four-hour procedure.

Getting her to the harbor with all her gear was more stressful than usual. I hadn’t put GPS on. New roadworks held us up for half an hour and she nearly missed the early trip departure. I eschewed my usual harbor respite and headed straight for the hospital on the other side of Boston.

As the nurse got me ready, I asked about side effects. She was confused.

“No, you’re scheduled for the usual low dose.”

What?

“Dr. E. definitely said I could have the large dose in one go.”

“Do you remember what it was called?”

Good grief, how do I know, I thought. I’m not the doctor here.

She messaged him. Back came a stunning reply. “I have no idea what she’s talking about. I have absolutely no recollection of that conversation.”

I was floored.

“I don’t know why he can’t remember. But … I know I’m not wrong.”

The poor nurse was flustered. She tried to get the IV line in, and my vein collapsed.

“Oh dear, you’re never going to want to see us again,” she said, not far wrong, and dashed off for the sure hands of Lee, one of the senior nurses.

At least Lee slid the IV in effortlessly.

With the new iron product name in hand, my nurse checked supplies in the dispensary. Light began to dawn. They had none.

Apparently, a few days after my checkup there was a nationwide shortage of the in-demand product. Supply chain woes. I was out of luck.

Then the doctor remembered he had indeed promised me the one-day dose and messaged profound apologies.

“Oh good. At least I am not going mad.”

Even the low-dose infusion takes a few hours, mostly waiting to see if you have a reaction. My blood pressure usually drops and takes a while to stabilize. Left alone with lunch and my thoughts and the steady saline drip that follows the iron, I remembered my words of a few days before.

The Salty Quill: to Go or Not to Go

I had been offered a place at the Salty Quill Writing Retreat for Women. A week on a private island three miles from the coast of Maine. Up to twelve participants, the island caretaker, and a chef to make the meals. No one else on the island. All day free to rest, write, walk, and rest some more.

“But I am getting along fine, writing at home,” I had said, as I considered the expense. I had a grant that could cover the retreat but wanted to steward the money well. “I’m already on a roll with writing. Do I really need to go?” That was the week before.

The nurse warily checked on me.

“Do you know what?” I said as she took my blood pressure. “I’m bloody well going to Maine.”

“Yes, you go,” she encouraged, having no idea what I was talking about, but eager to see me happy. “And about those four other infusions, you take your time scheduling them. Do what works for you.”

So, I did. It took until late August to squeeze in all the appointments. And I sent in my full payment for the September retreat.

When it Rains, it Pours

The month got madder and madder. The day before the six-week sailing ended, my nineteen-year-old son took a trip he didn’t tell us about. He flew south, found his way to the coast, and walked from Virginia Beach, Virginia to Ocracoke Island, North Carolina, close to 200 miles. He was gone for about two months. For the first few days, I had no idea where he was. It took about two years off my life.

One day I went for an infusion and one daughter called to tell me a relative of her husband’s had just died. Another infusion, another daughter’s dog was hit and killed on the road outside their house. They had just got back from working in Alaska for three months. I tried to dispense comfort but had little in the tank. Why had I decided to focus on resilience?

I read John Eldredge’s, Resilient: Restoring Your Weary Soul in These Turbulent Times … and went camping after the final infusion.

Not what the doctor ordered, but even he did not have his act together, so, whatever.

After All, More Wonder

As we dragged all our gear the mile and a half from the ferry dock to our campsite on Peddocks Island, I was beyond exhausted.

It was going to be a camp for my two sons and husband, but with youngest son gone, I jumped into the gap.

Abigail also decided to join us. It was where she’d sailed to and camped the day of the ridiculous first infusion. “The island is scintillating with butterflies,” she said. “You’re going to love it.”

“The island is teeming with biting flies,” oldest son said. “Take bug spray.”

They were probably both right, I thought, and went.

Abigail and I set our alarms for 5 a.m. on our last day there. With the Great Horned Owl still hooting, we bundled into layers, grabbed our sketching kits, and stole out into the woods.

This island used to house a World War I and II-era fort that defended Boston Harbor and was now in complete disrepair. We were camping on the ruins of a former battery. We walked the rumpled road, pierced with weeds, saplings, indeed a whole gangly wood now grown up on the once bald east hump of the island. We emerged onto the former parade ground. The crescent moon and morning star were brilliant above.

The first robin of the day stirred and chucked at us in annoyance as it began to forage. A gull soared, calling, across the sapphire sky, joined by an early jet roaring overhead from nearby Logan Airport. We were not so far from the city.

We crossed the shadowy parade ground, which is still mowed and clear. Here retired major league baseball players had put on an annual exhibition game for the troops, a century ago, and all the baseball newsmen of the age considered it their annual holiday. A young stag watched us, unperturbed, then moved off for the old orchard by the shore that still drops its scraggly apples.

We stopped at the island’s ferry dock. Leaned on the rail facing Hull Gut, the narrow channel between the island and the mainland town of Hull. Fishing boats streamed through, engines high against the rushing water of the channel.

In silence we watched the dawn come. The sun rose, a burning red ball, directly behind the tower on the Hull peninsula. It was quietly glorious, mingled with the occasional plane. Shades of lavender land faded into the haze of horizon.

I drew.

With the sun up, I moved to a log on the beach and sat, pondering why I sketch. On the log was a beautiful crab claw I had left there the evening before. I listed some prosaic reasons. Then drew the claw and wrote,

“I am clawing my way up from canyons of chaos.”

Ah, yes. That was more honest.

And yes, in September I was going to Maine. My son, whose reasons for his trip I understood once we talked, who apologized for causing distress and who I forgave, flew home a few days before I left.

Canyons of chaos, indeed.