First, some news.
On April 23, my 45th birthday, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.
The thumbnail sketch is that my prognosis is great, it hasn’t spread anywhere, and I’m on a curative treatment plan that starts with chemo, then surgery, then maybe radiation, then immunotherapy. I found the tumors myself, which is a good reminder to everyone not to skimp on your self-checks and mammograms. I’m on leave from teaching until some time this fall, mostly due to my depressed immune system and the cyclical nature of my energy levels with chemo. But two weeks out of three, I feel pretty close to normal. Just bald.
One theme I keep returning to in this column is the way in which being on an island shapes life experiences. Having cancer—or any catastrophic medical event—is certainly no different. When I was in the pre-treatment stage, traveling back and forth almost daily for PET scans, MRIs, chemo information sessions, intakes with surgeons and medical oncologists, biopsies, and my port placement surgery, the 12 miles of water between me and my team felt like a more onerous separation than usual.
But once my diagnosis was fully realized, I became the beneficiary of a few systems that have been put in place for islanders like me who are going through a long-term medical event.
First, the Maine DOT allows for free ferry transportation, walk-on or vehicle tickets, for us. There’s a nominal amount of paperwork involved, but it’s no small benefit, especially when counted against summer rates. We are also granted medical priorities for treatments and other appointments; again, a true boon when getting a car to and from Rockland can seem impossible.
I’ve been able to get almost all of my appointments scheduled at MaineHealth Pen Bay Hospital—with the exception of an MRI that bounced me down to Damariscotta—which is incredibly convenient and reduces my travel time by a minimum of a half hour, given that the next closest hospital is in Belfast. Beyond the convenience, Pen Bay truly understands the exigencies of island life. I’ve yet to have to spend the night on the mainland due to an appointment that didn’t fit neatly between boats.
They’ve also allowed me to get my pre-chemo labs done on-island a day or two before an infusion. That way, should I not make counts, I’m spared an unnecessary trip to the mainland. It also cuts some time off what’s already a very long day, and again, makes it possible to go between boats.
Then there’s the island itself. Like perhaps no other place on earth, North Haven circles its residents in times of need. My closest friends have created a formal care team, which has included everything from food to rides to pet care to bringing my daughter to the grocery store. Former islanders, and plenty of other mainland-based friends, have given rides and kept me company during or after appointments.
But maybe best of all is the fact that I’m going through this hard, unwanted thing on North Haven in the summertime. I’m writing this from my front porch, with a common yellowthroat and a robin nattering back and forth. A cardinal flew over the house a few minutes ago, and a male ruby-throated hummingbird has been making the rounds between the catmint and the beauty bush, probing each richly colored blossom in turn. Bees harmonize and a squirrel scolds. A diverse collection of butterflies has lazily flapped through the yard. I can walk out of the house and be in the town park in under a minute, get in the car and swim in the ocean in 10. Outdoor eating options are plentiful, and most social engagements are on the beach anyway.
I have my vegetable gardens, with vigorous tomatoes needing to be pruned and tied, corn which has surpassed the “knee high by the 4th of July” test, and kohlrabi just starting to swell. There’s hardly been a day when I haven’t felt well enough to at least walk through, pull a weed, and let the verdant coolness soothe my body and spirit.
Courtney Naliboff teaches, writes, and plays music on North Haven. She may be reached at courtney.naliboff@gmail.com.
