I first knew Lynn in professional terms shortly after I started working
for the Erie County Department of Social Services in July 2014; I am the
cashier in the accounting division, while Lynn was a senior investigator in
Social Services’ Special Investigations Division (collections, etc.). Lynn was
friendly if quiet when I first met her, mainly through the telephone contacts
we had, and always polite, well informed, hard working and way more than
competent. In a position that required her to answer concerns from our office
that we were often unable to access the proper information to handle, were not
authorized to handle or never thought to be trained to handle as well as
present us with financial items sent directly to her that were often
complicated if not messed up, her approach and attitudes were pretty much
always on target.
She also began being the person from her department who would visit our
office every afternoon to deliver checks and other financial information and to
pick up similar items for her division to research and probably resolve, as
well as answer unexpected questions and concerns. Between these visits and us
seeing more of what her job entailed and her seeing more of what our jobs
entailed, we got to be friends and often joked about situations each department
encountered.
Unfortunately, in 2017, Lynn started telling me about not feeling well
and her health situation worsening. She never said the word “cancer” directly
to me for a while, but described treatments and ailments that would lead many
people, and especially me, the son of a more than 20-year cancer survivor at
that time, to easily deduce that she meant cancer. That summer, she told some
of us that she as taking a medical leave of absence for surgery, radiation and
chemotherapy treatment, leaving no question about her health issue. We wished
her well and I told her I looked forward to her return, something she said
would take months but she was committed to doing.
During this time, in October 2017, I suffered my heart attack and in
November 2017 underwent lifesaving, massive open-heart surgery at the Cleveland
Clinic. I returned to work in January 2018, and Lynn returned a few weeks
later. I was still a bit pale and very thin (losing more than 40 pounds and
eventually gaining about 20 of them back), and Lynn was a bit thin, pale and
had lost most if not all of her hair and wore hats and head pieces of varying
styles. She had heard of my health travails, so we immediately hit it off again
and in new ways, both of us realizing that certain situations and issues just
weren’t worth worrying about or paying much attention to and that we were
sharing a survivors’ bond. We easily spoke of times and events that pointed to
us being at the deciding point, between living and dying, and how we were doing
absolutely as much as we could to assist in our doctors’ efforts to help us
stay alive. Topics included such things you can’t talk to just anyone about
such as trying to sleep the night before life saving or fatal surgery, what do
you say to your spouse before they leave before you go under anesthesia for
surgery, trying to figure out how to truly pace yourself during recovery,
always fearing that something could go wrong even after surgery, trying to
figure out when something was simply an old or new pain or if it was a symptom
of something worse, and how to explain so much of this to people never in your
situation, or even if you should try. We both expressed how fortunate we were
to have great support from our spouses and families (my wife, Val Dunne, and my
medical team are the reasons I am still here, and my sister Heather lent
inestimable support and love).
We both continued to recover and gain back weight, color and strength,
at least for a while. Lynn plateaued a bit, never gaining her strength back as
well as I did, and she never seemed to be 100 percent rid of cancer symptoms.
Her hair grew back a bit more, but never as long as her not-too-long style in
the past. A few months later, as we felt the dread that her cancer was
returning, it did. Lynn decided she needed to give more time and health to her
continuing battle with cancer, and because she had worked for the county more
than long enough, she put in her retirement papers. We talked about her next
fight and how she came back and recovered the first time, but she didn’t put as
much faith behind a recovery this time, hoping she could make certain goals and
warning me not to get my hopes up too high about her. This was an absolute
punch to the gut, but I kept up as much of a positive feedback approach as
possible. She announced this a few weeks before her actual leaving, which I
thought would give me enough time to come up with something to say that
wouldn’t be cloying or kind of betraying the honesty in which Lynn and I had
discussed medical matters.
But when that day arrived, the words hadn’t really come to me, but I
tried. I wanted to say something that reflected our serious and medically
personal talks, but nothing grim or unnecessarily sad. Of course, I also wanted
them to be honest and intelligent; in other words, while I didn’t want them to
sound like it, something proper to say to a friend who may very well be dying
and who you may never see again. It’s not like there is any AP Stylebook,
Elements of Style or other guides to this situation, only humanity and
attempted grace, something to strive for regardless our chance of success.
As always, Lynn was conscientious and conducted her business first,
which I decided to handle from our department’s side, even though anyone in the
office could have. I could tell people were watching and listening to us while
trying not to look like they were doing so, as everyone knew Lynn was retiring
for health reasons, although not everyone yet knew the extent of her cancer’s
progress. As it was time for her to leave and actually finish some work on her
last shift, I looked at her through the thick plastic windows of the counter at
which she stood. In a voice cracking a bit, I told her, “let’s not make this
farewell. Let’s make this the last thing I say to you for now and we’ll talk
again down the road.” It was hard to say not only because the situation was
making my voice crack, but also because I could see tears in Lynn’s eyes. We
both knew that this was almost definitely farewell and that there really was no
chance we would get to talk in this life again, but one thing I learned during
my health crisis and have learned from Val’s continuing health battles is that
there needs to be, there must be, hope. Regardless how bad Lynn’s cancer was,
regardless how bad my heart situation was, you can’t take hope away from
someone. Hope may not be a medication or procedure, but it can be just as
powerful when you want or need someone to keep fighting or to want to keep
fighting and searching for a cure or something to delay that fucking bastard
death. I couldn’t give Lynn medication, I couldn’t perform a procedure, I
couldn’t remove a tumor, but I sure as hell wouldn’t steal away any last hope
of recovery or even extended life; I was not going to toss any proverbial
shovels of dirt on her grave while she was still standing and fighting, if even
just by living. Anyway, she smiled, knowing my discomfort as well as the
reality she was living, and quietly said, “sure, this won’t be goodbye, not as
long as I can help it.” She quietly walked away, and I walked back to my desk
and buried myself in some computer work; we have neither cubicles nor walls in
our office, so there is basically no privacy in the office.
Several months later, a couple of weeks ago, we heard that Lynn was on
the last part of her final journey and she died two days later, a little more
than a month ago. A week or so after that, I saw her death notice in the
Buffalo News, with a small photograph of her, healthy and smiling. That is how
I am going to remember Lynn, happy and enjoying life, but also recalling how
she helped me find a way through the toughest part of mine.
The similarities in the timing of our medical crises, how we handled
them and could talk about it and one of us dying while the other one lives and
gets healthier is something I frequently run through my head. It doesn’t matter
whether or not it is healthy or useful, I feel survivor’s guilt in this and
other situations. Why did my critical health situation result in what medical
professionals at the Cleveland Clinic called a miracle (actually two, my
arriving there alive and my surviving the surgery) and my continued survival,
while Lynn’s critical health situation led to a temporary recovery, an
unfortunate recurrence of her cancer and, despite and all-out fight, her
death? Indeed, there have been too
many recent deaths among my family and friends for me not to feel this way, no
matter if there is any real sense of relevancy to it; survivor’s guilt
manifests itself in many ways. Cancer in particular has taken too many family
members and friends who Val and I consider family, My much too-young and always
full of life niece Colleen Hosey Tucker died of cancer in her 30s in the last
year, leaving a husband Michael and daughter Jessica; our very good friend
Elayna Ratchford Buyer died after beating back cancer in previous bouts,
leaving her husband, my longtime college friend Michael Buyer; Jill Manias, not
only mother of our great friend Alex Manias but an incredible friend to Val and
I as well, lost her battle with cancer, also leaving her husband, another
wonderful person, Giles. Within the last couple of years or so, we lost a great
friend who touched so many people in great ways and was an absolute lover and
supporter of music, Susan Tanner, who is survived by her husband and another
great friend, Marty Boratin. Sadly, this is no doubt a partial list. While she
was a more than 20-year cancer survivor, the death of my loving mother, Sheila
Connelly Hosey, in June, two days shy of her 89th birthday, has left
assorted mental scars I’ll be peeling sway for years. As with Lynn’s health
situation, I sometimes compare mine to these relatives and friends, wondering
why I at least temporarily escaped the grim reaper and have this second chance
at life.
Fortunately, I do have some people I can genuinely and explicitly
discuss these things with, starting with my incredible wife Valerie Dunne. We
have been friends since 1985, started dating in 2000 and were married in 2002,
and she has been and is the confidant, supporter, friend, lover and spouse I
could only have dreamed to have had. She has been with me every step of the
way, including the darkest ones such as being discharged from a local hospital
to home without a referral to anywhere else after my surgery could not be done
because of the detection of a torn aorta by my anesthesiologist. She never left
my side as we traveled to the Cleveland Clinic for my declaration as being a “miracle”
for getting there alive and for surviving my massive open-heart surgery. I’ve
told her how amazing it was to see her every day before and after the surgery,
especially when I slowly came out of the anesthesia that knocked me out for
more than a day. My wonderful late father, Edward, was a quiet, sometimes
seemingly secretive man, much of it from his military intelligence training as
well as nature; I sometimes would act the same in the past, while normally
being much more open. With Val, I can be 100 percent open, discuss my worst
fears and confusion and always receive honest, thoughtful, supportive insight.
For those who aren’t aware, Val has lived with and fought multiple sclerosis
for more than 25 years, so she has certain insight into many of the concerns I
have come to more recently, and I am a grateful listener. Because of the
caregiver side of me, I have had some great, supportive, eye opening
discussions with a friend, Sherry Brinser-Day, who knows about much of what I
went through and the many thoughts and feelings I have as a survivor and
caregiver because she is the so far successful wife of a heart transplant
recipient and is also a successful mother, social services style worker and
until recently, roller derby skater (and herself has survived medical crisis). There are some things we feel and do and
try to handle that another person not experienced in these areas may not
understand or take in a manner not intended. One of our most interesting
discussions was how we both realize we don’t always take care of ourselves and
our needs as best we should, almost feeling guilty or selfish if we do
something for ourselves when we feel we could be doing it for our spouse or her
children. It’s not that we necessarily feel trapped or even strongly obligated
to act this way so often, but we do feel a responsibility as well as a real joy
at helping someone like our spouses be their best when possible and to give
then as much independence as possible (certainly my lovely wife Val has much of
that and I don’t want to take too much responsibility for all of her
accomplishments).
I
realize that the survivor’s guilt will continue to be something I deal with on
several levels. I will always wonder why I made it to the Cleveland Clinic in
time, before my heart attack and other issues were so much worse or had even
killed me, while other people never got that chance. I am eternally grateful
for the lifesaving medical and personal care I received there and every moment
I have had since my surgery there with Val, Harold, family, friends,
colleagues, writing and music. I hope I honor those who didn’t get the
opportunity I had, the miracle as it were, to continue living, creating, loving
and even feeling pain, annoyance and loss. Speaking to other friends and family
who have undergone these and similar medical situations, and to some friends
who have survived combat, I realize that the time I have lived since the
surgery and any further time I have is pretty much bonus time, is kind of
playing with house money, and I intend to play as long as that bank remains. I
also feel I owe it to people who did not get the chance I had, who succumbed to
their heart ailments, cancer, diabetes, emphysema, vehicle accidents, violence,
accidents, Alzheimer’s and other conditions, to make my life, my living
worthwhile and worthy of their memory and efforts. People like Lynn, like
Elayna, Colleen, Susan, Jill, Joseph Natale, Tim Moran and others showed me how to live
and sadly how to die with dignity and purpose, and I owe them the respect and
love of living a good life, a vital life.
I sit here writing at my
computer in the chair and at the desk I was at October 21, 2017, when I
suffered my heart attack; if I look down, I can see the start of my scar, my
“zipper,” from my open heart surgery. I have Harold laying at my feet and I can
hear Val working in the studio. I don’t need any more reminders of how
fortunate I am or of how much others have lost.
