I wasn’t expecting to encounter an angel who drove a blue Prius. I have never forgotten him. It was on one of my twenty-five trips to San Francisco to receive radiation for the breast cancer that had struck me especially hard coming out of nowhere, having no family history. I had already made it through eight grueling chemo treatments, enduring a variety of unpleasant side effects. The next phase of my treatment was radiation. Though I could have opted to have the radiation in Oakland where I lived, I decided to stay with UCSF which is known for its state-of- the-art-cancer treatment. I also really liked my radiation oncologist, whose reputation classified her as one of the five best in the United States. She was kind and empathetic, and I was so grateful to be under her care that I didn’t mind the ordeal of the twenty- five trips to the city.
I had decided that BART, and a fifteen- minute ride on a Muni bus was the best way to get to the cancer center on Divisadero St. from my home in the Oakland hills. The morning commute over the Bay Bridge would have been a congested nightmare and though my husband took me to every one of my eight chemo treatments and stuck with me through all of that ordeal, I assured him I could handle the radiation visits. I was in a groove, up at 5:30 then taking the BART train at the Fruitvale station by seven.
Decked out in a cool scarf, eyebrows carefully filled in, burgundy lipstick, new red shoes. I never gave up on myself despite the indignity of losing all my hair from my chemo treatments. What was ironic too was that maybe because of my scarves, or my wigs, or just because I looked like I needed a seat, I never had to stand in the crowded morning trains. I chuckled inside. Part of me hated the fact that I now got offered seats every day, me who danced to the Doors, who could still boogey to Uptown Funk.
I loved observing the people on the BART train immersed in their iPhones, Kindles, or laptops for those who snagged seats and worked on board. Gone are the days of eye contact or idle banter. Sometimes I really wanted to connect, to talk to somebody, to share what I was going through. Occasionally there was someone especially fun to watch, like a young woman applying all her makeup oblivious to everyone else around her or a young man doing his morning exercises hanging from the grab bar in the train.
I arrived at the Montgomery St. station in the financial district by 7:30AM, swept up in the tide of rushing office workers clutching their cellphones, streaming up the stairs or escalator. Some headed straight to Starbucks; others took off in a fast pace to their offices. I liked to pretend I was going to work like them, not to the hospital. I was a Muni” regular “now, like the locals armed with their bus passes and shopping bags; harried fathers toting babies to daycare and a host of dubious characters. I loved watching the city wake up like a sleepy toddler. I gazed out at the urban blight, scrawled graffiti tags, unfortunate homeless huddled in doorways sleeping on cardboard.The bus barreled along, the streets badly in need of paving. We passed through Japantown then I got off at Divisadero.
I walked the two blocks to the dated Mt. Zion Hospital, part of the UCSF system, since replaced by all new facilities at China Basin. I spritzed my hands with foam cleanser in the lobby, then headed down to the basement to check in for my radiation treatments. I smiled and chatted with the regulars in the waiting room whom I had gotten to know, then I changed to the crappy cotton gown that never closed right. I’m called in and my techs joked while they positioned me precisely using the tiny tattoos which had been put on my breast as guides, even securing my head so I could not move. Radiation oncology is very precise and the path of the beams are mapped out with extreme precision. The machine monster clanged and whirred, then skimmed over me while Michael Bublé or Elvis crooned in the background. I contemplated and prayed but refused to feel sorry for myself. I never said “why me”, instead I told myself “why not me?” Going through all this was a test of my mettle. I was strong inside. I was a warrior, and I would get through this with the support of my husband, my family and friends.
It all was over fast; I got dressed, went to the bus stop but Muni that particular day was delayed and I called an UBER. I realized later this was the way it was supposed to be. The handsome foreign driver in a blue Prius chatted, going on about last night’s Giants game. I was quiet at first. He knew I came from the hospital. He checked me out in the rear view. I adjusted my burgundy scarf, put on a little lipstick; I was still vain; I was still me.
“How’re you doing?” he piped up like he really wanted to know.
“I’m making it,” I tell him. “Radiation is way easier than my chemo treatments. Chemo was tough but I’m sailing through now. Only six more to go.”
“That’s good to hear,” he said with a big smile. We easily conversed, discovering we both have three daughters. I told him all my girls were fluent in Spanish and two had studied in Spain. We talked about the challenges of raising daughters and had a few chuckles. Bonded now like fast friends, he headed down Post St.
Before I got out of the car at the Bart station, he turned and faced me. “You still have work to do you know,” he spoke earnestly. I was stunned and listened carefully to his words. I thought he surely must be my messenger-angel. Tears welled but I held them back.
“I’ll be ready when the time comes,” I answered with confidence. “Have a good day,” I said, as he dropped me at Bart.” And thanks.”
“Have a good life and be well.” I turned and waved at him.
I took his message to heart and never forgot it. I think he was telling me there would be opportunities where I could help other cancer patients, and this is exactly what I have done—offering encouragement, practical advice, going along for chemo treatments, making meals, sending care packages. Every time I am able to do this, I am grateful that I can make a difference and it makes me feel I’m fulfilling the work I was tasked to do by that Uber driver in the blue Prius.
Joanne Jagoda 