Dear Pope Leo:
Whenever a friend gets cancer, I usually buy them a copy of "Time on Fire: A Comedy of Terrors," by Evan Handler. The actor's 1996 memoir is an excellent guide to navigating cancer, full of practical tips, such as making sure your nurses wash their hands.
It's funny, honest, and best of all — spoiler alert! — Handler survives, to this day.
While I did consider shipping a copy to Rome, I immediately envisioned the package being tossed into one of dozens of huge canvas-sided rolling postal carts jammed with goodwill offerings: prayer cards and inspirational books and charms from the spectrum of faiths. You're a popular guy, as I'm sure you already know.
So I figured, better to drop my advice into this newspaper bottle and toss it into the electronic sea. Perhaps a favorable breeze will nudge it your direction. If not — the sure bet — it might help someone else in a similar position.
My apologies about giving advice. I have a few rules regarding friends plunged into sickness or misfortune, and Rule No. 1 is: "Don't try to fix things." A rule frequently broken; it's hard to resist trying to help, and hand-washing is so important. People forget, and nice guys such as ourselves, we have a hard time greeting a nurse striding into our room with "Did you wash your hands?"
I imagine the pope gets first class treatment. Something to be thankful for. Gratitude is key in overcoming travails. My major health troubles have all been mostly mechanical, rather than metastatic — spine, hip and now shoulder — which strikes me as far less severe than the Big C. I try to focus on how lucky I am to have access to advanced medical treatment, as opposed most people in the world, who don't. Attitude is important.
"A cheerful heart is good medicine," says Proverbs... but look who I'm quoting scripture at. I'm not someone who believes in divine providence. But coincidences happen. Within hours of your lung cancer surgery Tuesday, my older sister, Debbie, arrived from Dallas. I don't write about Debbie much, because she's usually deep in the heart of Texas, arm wrestling the Angel of Death. But she's here now, visiting, and as a true cancer warrior — she's had three kinds over the past 14 years — I asked her for any wisdom she might share with a newbie such as yourself.
First, she corrected me, not three different cancers, but thyroid cancer that spread to her lungs and led to leukemia — blood cancer — from the high doses of radiation used to fight the first two. Accuracy is important.
"What specific kind of lung cancer does the pope have?" she asked — a very Debbie question. She's into mastering the research, knowing the latest.
"I like to be as informed as I can," she explained. "So I can partner with my doctors."
She said you need to make sure you get the best care. Sure, she could have her treatments nearby, at Parkland hospital in Dallas. And I could have had my spine rebuilt at a CVS MinuteClinic. Instead she flies to MD Anderson, in Houston, a top cancer center. She suggested that, being pope, you might have a shot at getting into Anderson yourself. She'll put in a good word for you, if you like.
Until then, "stay active" — kind of hard not to, being pope. "Rest when you need to. Sleep is very important."
Don't be afraid to take decisive action, which is in our family DNA. My sister first got sick at 13 — heart disease — and was a patient at humble Southwest General Hospital in our hometown of Berea, Ohio. Getting sicker and sicker, until our father decided Southwest wasn't working, yanked her out and drove her to Case Western Reserve's Babies and Children's Hospital on the East Side of Cleveland. They received her in one of those high backed wicker wheelchairs with the big wheel in front and the small in back, like in "Heidi," which vaguely terrified me at the time. But they saved her life.
The hospital might have had help. I don't pray, generally, but now that I recall, I did pray, at the time, for Debbie, down on my knees with my hands clasped in front of me. While I can't imagine the process where that might actually done anything, I suppose it couldn't have hurt.
I do wish upon stars, which is close to prayer, and the next time I'm out on a clear night and riveder le stelle, as Dante, and you, would say, I'll pick a bright one, and ask the indifferent cosmos, "Please heal Pope Leo." Though when you're all better, I assume you'll want to credit your guy, and that's fine with me.
Your friend,
Neil Steinberg
