Forum, Fall 2012
9
A Caregiver’s Story: It’s My Journey Too
Meredith Wallace
Pittsburgh, PA
Reflecting back now, I see that helping my brother Andrew
Lotz deal with cutaneous T-cell lymphoma (CTCL) actually
has been a blessing in a weird way. We’ve become closer, I
admire him even more and I now donate professional skills to a
meaningful cause.
My perspective wasn’t as balanced initially. Confusion and
frustration preceded understanding and optimism – emotions
shared by caregivers and patients.
The journey began with disbelief as Andrew’s 2009 diagnosis
took awhile to sink in. He seemed so healthy, not at all what
I imagined someone with cancer would be like. I didn’t know
anything about CTCL, but I had access to medical literature
as a health biostatistician and searched intensively to see what
clinical trials had been done and what data was out there. But
I found only studies of patients in their 70s – not their early 30s
like my older brother. All I came up with were more questions.
I did get answers, though, when I discovered the Cutaneous
Lymphoma Foundation website, which has clear definitions and
information that let me understand the diagnosis and CTCL
sub-categories.
Attuned to Needs
My brother and I live just three miles apart in Pittsburgh,
where we work in separate departments at the university, so
I offered to drive him to chemotherapy appointments during
2010. Andrew insisted on going alone, which I understood
stemmed from a desire to live normally and do what he used to
do. Still, I tried to be an assertive little sister or maybe more like
a protective mom, also urging him to get enough rest.
Similarly, when I could tell he wasn’t himself emotionally,
I found a counselor on campus who specializes in helping
cancer patients. I pushed and prodded Andrew to make an
appointment, just as a caring friend had done for me when
I struggled a bit as an undergraduate at St. Olaf College in
Minnesota.
Meredith Wallace with her brother Andrew Lotz
Toast and Jam
Andrew McDiamid
Toast and jam,
a fairly innocuous treat
after a football game, on a sleepless night,
or breakfast in bed for sleepy parents.
But this is different, hospital room, two
in the morning, dutiful son and dying
mother. The doctors were sleeping
soundly, but their words still hung
in the air like smoke. My mother,
my fierce and hardy mother, still
believing for healing but sharing
her visions nevertheless.
Several strings hanging down
in front of her, need to choose one
but if you choose the wrong one,
you die. What do I make of it, she asks,
half asleep, wheezing from the fluid
in her lungs. What could I say? What
did I say? Doesn’t matter. Later, only one
string left. I mumble something about
dreams and not to worry, God will make the
choice,you don’t have to worry. Spoken like a
true non-patient, what did I know? These are
the thoughts she has as her body
rejects her. This is her preparing
to leave, she has no choice
in the matter.
Toast and jam, a strange thing to share
a few days before one of us dies of cancer.
Somehow, it is fitting, a last moment
of sweetness enjoyed on borrowed time,
no interruptions, no pretenses.
“Memories,” she’d said, between bites.
How can I forget?
Andrew McDiarmid and his mother Samantha.
He wrote “Toast and Jam” in her memory.
“Meredith Wallace: A Caregiver’s Story” – Continued on Page
15
