Daydreams & Diaries

by Taylor Black

  Pops, I was five years old. I was a klutz. What can I say? I was no Lance Armstrong. Remember what Tristan said about Lance Armstrong when we were getting our stem cells harvested at Duke and that nurse tried to use Lance Armstrong and his autobiography as an inspiration for us?

  Yes, I do. He said. “Big deal. We go through a Tour’d France every day.” I liked that kid.

  He had medulloblastoma, the brain tumor found in the base of your head by the brain stem. It had also spread to his spine. He had had it for thirteen months and had undergone chemo and radiation and two rounds of pheresis and was then doing more chemo. He was extremely good natured and courageous, and I admired him.

  They once thought you might have had medulloblastoma.

  Yes. Heck, they thought I had Glioblastoma too, the nasty stuff, but I think Tristan had an interesting take on the subject of Lance Armstrong. He said he thought Lance Armstrong got the best care possible because he was a celebrity. “What about average people?” I remember him asking asked the nurse. He had gone through a lot. He hadn’t written a best seller, but he was a gutsy guy. I liked his goatee but the Cleveland Indians cap was kind of lame.

  I think Lance Armstrong would have liked Tristan.

  Probably, Pops. Didn’t you get into a bit of trouble because of my bike accident, Pops? With Wanda Yarboro?

  Wanda Yarboro was my principal then, and I was in her office Monday morning, telling her our story and offering to pay for a new glass panel. God bless her, may she rest in peace. She just laughed and said they would take the repairs out of the soda money receipts. They made money on the pop in the teacher’s lounge.

  You know, Pops, after that little accident I never had a problem with brakes or balance again, except in gymnastics I guess.

  And the two broken arms.

  Oh, I forgot about those.

  We removed the cast from the first broken arm and within a month you had broken your other arm. Fell off a bleacher?

  Brain tumor, Pops. Probably the brain tumor. Even then, that brain tumor was already messing up my life.

  Taylor’s Diary

  September 11, 2001

  Today is a day that will not be forgotten. This morning 4 commercial jets were hijacked. 2 flew into the World Trade Center Towers, collapsing them and causing mass chaos. And then, while I was watching the news the Pentagon was attacked. A 4th hijacked plane crashed near Pittsburgh. The tragedy of this day cannot be measured. It is certainly unprecedented. My heart goes out to the poor victims & their families. I pray for them and for our country.

  Crash! One by one a nation hits the ground, blocking out the sun, no survivors can be found.

  Screaming in the streets, panic in the parks, a gruesome day to mark.

  And when the dust has cleared the tears begin to shed, the magnitude is realized through the dead.

  Chapter Forty-Three: The Hardwood

  At Duke University there is one intercollegiate sport that matters, the one played with a round ball on a hardwood floor: basketball. The men predominate in the game, but the women fill the gym with fans for their games as well, and Taylor had befriended Duke’s star player, Georgia Schweitzer, who was a pre-med protégé of the doctors Friedman. Georgia, who was the epitome of a student athlete, met Taylor when she accompanied Henry Friedman on rounds at the hospital. Taylor, unnamed, became part of a diary which Georgia was compiling for a sports channel as I recall. The evening after Taylor’s surgery for the correct pheresis line, Georgia left two passes for Taylor and me for the game with Florida State University.

  In the recovery room after surgery to put in the proper line for the pheresis, the recovery room nurse suggested Taylor forgo the basketball game that evening to get some rest.

  That wasn’t going to happen, Pops. There was no way I wasn’t going to go to that game. The thought of the game that night had made surgery bearable, that and beagles.

  That’s right; you talked to the physicians about dogs, especially beagles. That was an odd thing to talk about, Taylor.

  I liked to talk to take my mind off what the surgeons were doing to my body, Pops. It was how I coped. That and having something to look forward to like the basketball game that night. I wanted to see Georgia play.

  You gave the nurse the that-isn’t-going-to-happen smile and didn’t say a word when she told you shouldn’t go the game.

  You backed me up. You said we’d be going with my doctor, and the nurse got kind of huffy with you. You were a terrible parent, Pops.

  Maybe, but I hadn’t even met Dr. Friedman at that point as he wasn’t directly involved with the pheresis. I certainly wanted to meet the head man in your case.

  You know, Pops, you came into the recovery room and talked about the Protestant Reformation. That was kind of weird.

  You might recall that we still had to get you through two courses for a high school diploma and I was serving as your homebound history teacher.

  I remember. But it was still kind of silly. You gave me a B for the class too. Beth gave me an A for the sculpture class and I did more work for you.

  I thought I shouldn’t cut you too big a break, and the grade didn’t matter anyway, you were in UCF. You would have given yourself a C.

  No, Pops, I would have given myself a D, probably a D minus.

  But you’re right, Taylor. It was an improper time to discuss the Reformation.

  Is there ever a proper time to discuss the Reformation, Pops?

  You’re going to make me laugh.

  I hope so. You could use a laugh. Remember I won the bet about Henry’s car?

  Yes, we were standing outside of the University Inn and you said you figured he drove a Volvo, that Dr. Friedman was a Volvo kind of guy.

  And what kind of car did he show up in?

  A Volvo.

  You didn’t hit it off with Henry, did you Pops?

  No. I didn’t like him.

  Because he didn’t pay any attention to you?

  I guess. I asked him a bunch of questions, but he never once asked me about my life. And I sat next to him in the stands.

  Henry hurt your feelings. Poor Pops. Boo hoo. I liked him.

  Yes, you liked him and he certainly liked you. I liked Alan Friedman though. He was friendly. He was so delighted that you weren’t limping when you walked. You were limping before you went into his surgery. Henry’s son was nice as well. He was taking an A.P. course.

  You always got along well with kids, Pops. Maybe you were jealous of how well Henry got along with me.

  You two had great rapport. You had great rapport with Georgia too. I remember calling you at UCF to turn on a TV because Georgia was playing on ESPN in the WNBA and she made a three point shot.

  She was really nice to me, Pops, but she was depressed that night when Duke lost the game by two points.

  Until she saw you come out of the crowd. When she saw you, her face brightened into a smile and I guess the game seemed secondary to her. You had that way about you, Taylor, you really did. You had a smile that would launch a thousand ships.

  I’m sorry you didn’t like Henry Friedman, Pops. I know you think he promised more than he delivered, but he really did his best. It broke him up when I passed. He takes his patients’ deaths pretty hard sometimes.

  I thought he was a 60 Minutes showboat at times. That trip we made in October, the last one I made with you, the one that Tracey made as well, coming down from Richmond, and there we were before the cameras, you, Tracey and I. And the Friedmans were looking at your scans and telling us things weren’t going quite as well as we had hoped and using the friggin’ basketball analogy that it was the third quarter and you were down twelve points, that there was good news and bad news and the bad news was that there was no response to therapy and the good news was that you were going downhill slowly, that the bad news was there were no guarantees, but the good news was that there was more time to try options. And the shunt to the brain to pour the chemo directly on the tumor so they could shrink the tumor
for stem cell. And Henry, like some Wizard of Oz, hinting that there was something that might be available in six months, and realizing there was only a man behind the curtain after all. But I remember your mom saying Henry called her and was truly upset when he learned the news in late November.

  You’re not sorry that interview with you and I and Tracey at Duke didn’t air on 60 Minutes?

  No, I’m glad I was never on camera. I think they cut us out because they were able to film the results of that last operation in which they came into the hospital room to say the procedure hadn’t worked, that those dead cells weren’t a result of residue from radiation treatments.

  You remember all of it, don’t you, Pops?

  Even these years later, in an instant I can be at Duke with you, in a conference with Henry Friedman or on the floor of 5200. It seems to be etched in the very core of my soul. I was watching the reports of the death of Teddy Kennedy and there it was once again, the entrance to the Duke University Hospital.

  My home away from home, Pops. Didn’t you find it interesting that Ed Bradley had cancer? That even during the program when he interviewed me he was suffering from cancer. I’m glad he won his Emmy. You root against Duke now, don’t you?

  Every game, Taylor. Every game.

  Taylor’s Diary

  September 17, 2001

  I haven’t been writing anything lately because I haven’t been doing much. Our country is preparing for war against an unknown enemy. It’s a sad, sad time in history occurring right now. Everywhere you go you see American flags & signs saying “God Bless America.” It gives me chills.

  In other news I finished my 1st round of VP-16 chemo. I jinxed myself: on the last day of taking it I had said that it hadn’t made me sick once (I didn’t knock on wood). And wouldn’t U know on the way to my Grandma’s this weekend, I had to pull over and get sick. But, luckily I made it to Grandma’s cause if there was anywhere I’d rather be since that is the best place.

  Chapter Forty-Four: Swan Song

  I was trying to remember the color of your bandana that you wore for that speech at the Swan Hotel ballroom, Taylor, two days before the attack on 9/11. The American Cancer Society convention?

  The bandana was sky blue, Pops. So was the dress; it was a matching outfit. Mom helped pick it out.

  Your mom was a shopper; she should have turned pro I thought. It was kind of ironic in a way, I suppose, because you had had a spinal MRI a few days before that and it was clear. But you were favoring your leg. Aunt Barbara noticed that. That was always an indication that the tumor was back. Watch the DVD with me. There’s the cheesy music and the cheesy screen in the background with the wand and the logo, The Magic Touch.

  C’mon, Dad, it was Disney. Mickey’s a mouse. You have to expect “cheesy” stuff.

  Shhh. The camera shows you limping a bit as you went on stage.

  I was. Shhh.

  “Today, I’d like to tell you about a story of hope. Once upon a time…”

  I forgot you started with the fairy tale opening.

  Shhh.

  “…there was a young girl who was just like any other. She had long hair that flowed down her back and a healthy body. Her only worries consisted of Algebra homework and planning the upcoming weekend. And she was content. Until one night, when everything she knew and thought was changed forever.

  ‘Mom, you’re overreacting. My leg will be fine,’ she pleaded.

  ‘I don’t like the look of it,’ her mother replied. ‘Let’s take you to the hospital.’

  ‘But, Mom, it’s Friday night!’

  ‘Well then, we better hurry if you want to go out with your friends.’

  “And so the young girl went to the hospital, convinced her mother’s paranoia had no merit.

  “After a while a man came into the waiting room, wearing a white coat. ‘All your tests are normal, we’re just going to give you a CT scan and then you can all get out of here.’

  “As the young girl headed to the room with the strange machine, she was wondering if she still had time to meet her friends, and thinking just how crazy her mother could be at times.

  “After what seemed like hours of waiting, the doctor came in. ‘Maybe you should sit down,’ he said to them.

  ‘What is it?’ her mother shakily questioned.

  “The ‘cat’ scan revealed a large mass on her brain. ‘She is going to need emergency surgery.’ The girl looked over at her mother, who looked as though she had just been hit by a speeding truck. ‘This can’t be true,’ the girl thought. This happens to other people, people I don’t know—not me!’”

  Isn’t that always the way we feel?

  Shhh.

  “As the girl tried to process this life-altering news a nurse came from behind with a wheelchair. ‘Sit down, honey,’ she said rather sorrowfully. ‘I’m going to take you to a room and we’re going to start you on steroids to prevent any swelling.’”

  I never would have made it into the Hall of Fame, Pops.

  Shhhh.

  “Unable to think, the girl looked down at the medical chart in disbelief: Diagnosis:

  Brain Tumor.

  “For the next few hours the girl sat in the hospital bed, stunned, not really thinking anything, just wondering if this was real. After a while her mother returned with a few of her things and one of her brothers. ‘Are you alright?’ he said as he quickly came to her side.

  ‘I guess so,’ she numbly replied.

  ‘Do you want me to call your dad?’ her brother asked in a rather scared tone.

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ she replied. ‘At this hour? That’s the last thing I need to do. If he was awakened to this news, he’d surely have a heart attack. And I definitely do not need a dead father. No, I’ll tell him in the morning.’”

  I had forgotten your mother didn’t even call me, Taylor. But it was good that you didn’t tell me that night. I might have kicked the bucket, and I paid your medical insurance.

  Shhhh.

  “After the girl’s brother left, she and her mother set up camp, finding relief only when their heads hit the pillows. As the girl awoke in the unfamiliar hospital room, one thought consumed her: How would she tell her father? How do you tell a parent that their worst fear had become a reality?”

  You did that well.

  “‘Hey, what are you doing up so early?’ her father cheerfully greeted her as she walked through the door.

  ‘Sit down for a second, Dad,’ she continued.”

  You thought it was a car accident, didn’t you?

  I didn’t know what was coming. I never did with you. You were the surprising child. Shh, I want to hear your speech.

  “‘Is something wrong?’ he asked, not wanting her to answer.

  “As she explained to him all that she knew about her current situation, she could see the light in his eyes disappear. And when she was finished they both sat there, not knowing what to think. After a while her father responded, ‘You can beat this,’ he said confidently.

  ‘I hope so,’ she silently thought.

  “In the weeks that followed the girl underwent emergency surgery and traveled to Duke University to ultimately be diagnosed with a cerebral neuroblastoma, a malignant brain tumor.

  “It looked bad, real bad. The young girl was worried and resentful. ‘Why me?’ she thought. As she began chemotherapy, the fact that she would lose her hair soon came to fruition.”

  Nice word, “fruition.”

  Shhh.

  “Her long brown locks quickly gave way to a shiny bald head. It was then that it happened: something inside the girl transformed and she realized how thoroughly unimportant hair was. She gained a new perspective on life and a freedom others could only dream about.

  “The chemo began to take its toll, weakening her body but never her spirit. There were still times when she’d cry. But what seventeen-year-old girl wouldn’t cry when faced with her own mortality? And when she was finished crying, she somehow knew that she was going to beat
this disease.

  “So she forged on through more chemotherapy, surgeries and radiation. She attended her high school prom. She graduated with her class. And with the help of the American Cancer Society she went off to college. Now a year later the young girl continues to fight, knowing that she will ultimately win. That girl’s name is Taylor Black and that girl is me.”

  “I am that girl” would have been correct.

  Always the teacher, Pops. Always the teacher.

  No, Taylor, you were the teacher. I was the student…I was the student. And the class was Life.

  * * *

  On October 7, 2001 Taylor called from Orlando. She was in the Florida Hospital. What we had feared had transpired. She wanted nothing more than to spend her life helping others. I didn’t want to lose her, but at that moment I had a foreboding. I asked God why, but He didn’t answer.

  I tried to tell myself, I must remember how fortunate I am. Thousands of innocent people were killed on September 11, but that only seemed surreal. Taylor was reality.

  Taylor’s Diary

  October 15, 2001

  Too much energy pulled from my veins,

  For each new day’s battle a drop more depletes

  A fume for which I strain

  As my heart just barely beeps.

  Chapter Forty-Five: College Days

  A week before fall 2001 classes started at the University of Central Florida, Taylor moved out of Gia and Karly’s apartment and into a housing complex, sharing a large apartment with three other young women. Each woman had her own room, bathroom and shower, but there was a common living area and kitchen. After meeting her roommates, Taylor came out to the parking lot where I was unloading a car and gave me an enthusiastic hug: “They are perfect, Pops,” she said.

  It was the multi-cultural she was after. There was another white girl, but a Latina and an African-American gal as well. “I hit the jackpot,” she said. “This is why I came to UCF, for the diversity.”

  Taylor and the black student named Celia worked out a deal. Taylor helped Celia with English in return for Celia tutoring Taylor in mathematics, and they became fast friends. And none of the other girls thought anything about Taylor’s pot smoking for nausea. The other Anglo girl even passed along the information to her grandmother who was having nausea with her chemotherapy.