Alex’s cancer journey gave us many reasons to cry. But even during the darkest times, there is humor if you look for it—and sometimes it can help you make it through.
When Alex needed to choose an orthopedic doctor in 2015, I went to the Carefirst website to find one that participated in our insurance plan. I showed Alex the list and asked if she had a preference.
She did not.
“Then I choose this one,” I said and pointed to Dr. Derek McCoy.
Alex asked why.
“Because I want to walk into his office and ask him to say, ‘Damn it Jim, I’m a doctor, not a magician,” I said.
Alex didn’t get it. She was not a Star Trek fan.
Dr. McCoy was a good sport about it.
He was also a good doctor. After several months of pain with no explanation, Dr. McCoy was finally able to get Alex on a path to diagnosis and treatment.
Most of that treatment came at Johns Hopkins Hospital, where I was wandering the corridors on a December afternoon. A statue in the lobby of the administration building caught my eye.
As a photographer, I make mental notes about things I want to photograph. Some of them stay at the forefront of my mind. Others are filed away in the archives until something calls them back.
Seeing the back of that statue reminded me that I wanted to photograph it at Christmas time. But I couldn’t remember why.
So I hurried back to the room, where I met Fredo for the first time. He was Alex’s favorite nurse.
Fredo saw me rush over to the corner of the room, pat Dakota on the head and grab my camera.
“What are you going to photograph,” he asked with a puzzled look on his face. I guess people didn’t typically bring cameras to the pediatric oncology floor.
“I saw a statue in the lobby that I’ve been wanting to photograph for years,” I said. “I don’t remember exactly why. Is it Johns Hopkins?”
Fredo looked at me for a moment, trying to decide if I was serious.
“Um, no. It’s Jesus,” he said.
I shrugged, said I’d only seen the statue from behind and headed back to the lobby.
I snapped a couple pictures before a security guard came over.
“This is still part of the hospital,” he said.
“So I can’t take pictures here?” I asked.
“Not with a real camera,” he replied. “There are HIPAA issues.”
I know what HIPAA means. I showed him the photos so he could see there were no people in them. He told me I could not take any more.
I didn’t argue and started to walk away. As I was about to exit the building, a group of people came in and started snapping away with their phones.
I looked at the guard. He made no move to stop them.
“Phones are okay?” I asked.
“Yes,” he flatly replied.
I just nodded and went on my way. I never knew phones had built-in HIPAA compliance.
When I returned to Alex’s room, Fredo was still there. I noticed his name badge and asked how many Godfather jokes he’d heard in his life.
“More than you want to know,” he said with a roll of his eyes.
So I refrained from making any and he left the room.
Less than a minute later, the door opened and Fredo was back.
“Just when you thought you were out, they pulled you back in,” I said without thinking.
Fredo was not amused.
A few minutes later, two doctors came in—a younger woman and an older man. After some discussion about Alex’s care, the woman said she would follow up with Fredo.
I told her to walk up to him, look him in the eye and say, “I know it was you, Fredo. You broke my heart.”
The older doctor laughed hysterically.
The younger one looked at me blankly and said, “I don’t know what that means.”
Humor is important to me even in dark times. Because without it, I’d just be angry, sad, exhausted and frustrated all the time. That would serve no one.
Oh, and when another doctor mistakenly referred to him as Frodo, it opened up a whole new can of worms.
Mitch and Dakota are participating in the Million Mile this month in Alex’s memory. They are raising funds for childhood cancer research so Alex’s story doesn’t have to be someone else’s story.
You can donate here.
All donations are matched by Alex’s Lemonade Stand Foundation.
McCoy is the best of the best. Glad he was a value to her care.
Great picture by the way. On my break at night time the PICU I always went to visit that guy.
We never saw Dr. McCoy again after that day. Your sentiments are echoed by many who know him, though.
That statue is incredible. I am not a religious man, but the inscription on the base, “Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest,” had a powerful impact on me.
There were a lot of sleepless nights when I could be found sitting with him at 3 a.m. or 4 a.m. That’s how I was able to get the photos. Rest, or peace, was all I wanted.