When the initial diagnosis of cancer was pronounced, it was in September. By October I knew I was likely to be recovering from surgery and not up to doing any shopping for Christmas. I decided to do my Christmas shopping early, and took a weekend - fortunately before the meltdown - to go to an outlet mall and select gifts for my boys. Turned out to be a good idea. By Christmas time I had been through the mill and looked like death warmed over.
This time around, I am facing moving. We had decided that as soon as Drew is done with the school year (June 22) we would move to a less expensive place. Even though I will not see the gyn-onc (what an odd label!) until May 15, its a pretty safe assumption that when I want to move, I will not feel up to my normal level of abnormal activity. So this past weekend I loaded up with empty boxes and planned to fill them with unessential stuff.
Unessential stuff. There's an interesting phrase. I remember what my parents went through when Gramma Appleby passed away - weeks of spending the whole day discarding nearly a century of collecting. How amazing to plow through the contents of a dresser and find brand new unwrapped unworn smocks, or discover down cellar hundreds of canned goods carefully put away and dated and definitely past the expiration time! Some was valuable, some stuff they had to pay to get rid of. Why do we keep so much stuff?
I think of the people who had their things stripped from them by natural disasters - floods, fires and the like. What do they miss the most? Pictures of people long gone? Memories of good times? Special gifts from their loved ones? I have to say, there is nothing in my apartment that I couldn't live without - except Drew of course. In fact, I suspect I really wouldn't miss much of anything if I had to leave it all behind.
Who would want half the things I find valuable? No one would want my scribbled notes or my half used lipsticks. I toss with abandon. Why would I keep an unopened bottle of hand lotion that I don't like the smell of? Into a pile of things acceptable to give away. Why do I keep that dress that no longer fits? To the GoodWill. These are decisions I wouldn't wish on anyone else. Shoot - *I* don't even want to wade through stuff and guess what I should keep and what I should 'delete'. Who can define that fine line between responsible stewardship and selfish gluttony?
Turns out packing is a bigger deal than I thought. I have kept belongings to a minimum except for my music and research materials. Since that's the heaviest and largest amount of material, I decided to start with the 2 bookcases and 2 CD racks in my room. First off, I didn't get through with normal weekend cleaning and laundry until late Saturday, so no packing then. On Sunday after church I was tired and lay down for a short nap that lasted until 6pm! I had little desire to tackle such a daunting project so late in the day. Time to regroup.
I set a more reasonable goal of getting just one box packed. I selected my hymnal collection, and started packing. Every ten minutes or so I paused for a drink of water or to check on Drew or just sit a minute. In the pre-cancer days, I would have easily had a dozen boxes done in an hour. Now I managed a box in half an hour. But never mind. It was progress. I carefully label each box so I can find things if I need them before I move. So that when I am in my new place, I will be able to put the box in the right room (especially important if I am paying someone to do this because I am still tender from surgery).
I ended up packing four boxes before I ran completely out of steam, and I made myself stop even though my normal wont is to push through until I can't move. But I realized I would need enough uuumph to 'normalize' the room. After all, you can't pack without creating a bit of chaos, setting things out of the way, discovering stuff that needs to be discarded, finding those odd items that are out of place.
After all that effort, I managed to clear away 1 shelf of CDs and a shelf and a half of books - yikes! Of course, in the way, way back of my mind is the nagging thought that I could be making it easier to permanently break up house for the executor of my will. And so, next weekend I will fill a few more boxes, sort a few more piles of things, put a bigger dent in the stack. And thank God I don't have a 20 room house to sort through.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Tiredness
After surgery for my first cancer, I was home recuperating, lying on the couch, and feeling overwhelmingly tired. Not just lazy-tired or too-much-exercise tired. Bone weary, effort-to-breathe, feeling-the-crushing-weight-of-your-own-body tired. Every ounce of energy was required just to speak one word. This had gone on for days, and I had forced myself to do things like take a shower, eat, change my nightgown. I was weary beyond description and there was no improvement, not even a tad. So there I was lying on the couch and wanting desperately to sleep, but I had to go to the bathroom. I debated with myself whether I should get up and walk the dozen steps to the bathroom, or just lay there longer. I sighed and said out loud, "If I weren't so tired, I'd go to the bathroom," whereupon my son Kiel roared with laughter. At the time, his outburst wasn't funny. It made me cross and I thought him unsympathetic. It was months before he could explain what was so funny about that statement.
"Mom," he said. "Think about it. When people say what they would do if they weren't so tired, it would be to go to the Caribbean or run a marathon or climb a mountain. Maybe they would go out dancing or bowling or shopping or hang with their friends. That's what I expected you to say. That you wanted to do something interesting or exciting or at LEAST get out the front door!" I finally got it. And he's right. My limited vision and miniscule goal which looked like some gargantuan and daunting task were downright laughable to a normal person, especially a young kid. It's become a standing joke around our place. When things aren't moving along fast enough, inevitably someone will say, "If I weren't so tired. . . "
This past year has worn me out. The monthly trips to New Haven for yet another test, another doctor's appointment, another round of "something doesn't look quite right - we need another test" is tiresome. I appreciate that they are aggressively cautious, but it requires stamina to keep allowing them to run those interminably lengthy tests requiring you to lie perfectly still for hours while the machine whirs and bangs about you, to keep putting your arm out there for an IV stick, especially when you have no good veins anymore. I used to have veins that popped out and yelled "pick me." But after the chemo, they not only hide, they crumble easily. It takes thumping, pounding, gravity, warm towels and children sized needles to get an IV in these days. Often the first one blows and they have to try again. And one wonders how much radioactive material one body can tolerate before glowing in the dark. More and more I wonder that I just lie there and let them do this to me. What am I thinking!!!
There are up sides of course. I get out of work and have a whole hour driving by myself each way which I take full advantage of for music listening. I plan in advance, check out the CDs from the music library, explore composers, genres, text settings. That part has been marvelous and no small treat after facing all that hospital faulderaul on one's own. There's also watching other people. It is enlightening to observe how people handle cancer. After all, everyone is at this clinic for the same reason. I have seen it all - tears, anger, denial, pain, degeneration, kindness, caring, thoughtlessness, stupidity. And there is the beautiful scenery during the drive. Connecticut is a gorgeous state. Mountains, oceans, views extraordinaire. And I am usually not driving during rush hour, so traffic is not heavy or hostile. I reserve the right to treat myself in some way after the test - perhaps a decadent chocolate dessert or a walk on the beach or buying a new scarf even though I hardly need any more.
I have been telling myself for some time that the tiredness would go away once my body had time to overcome the damage of the chemo, radiation, drugs, and surgery. I'm not anemic or anything after all. But I have not had more than a day or two of the kind of energy I was used to before the cancer. I told myself that my energy is low because I am working two jobs and raising a teenager, and one should be tired from all that. I don't get very many days off. There is always something to take care of. And I get to work harder at doing things because chemo brain gets in the way and I have to spend more energy for the same output as before.
My sisters laugh at me and say, "Yeah, she's functioning on a normal level now just like the rest of us. She'll get used to it." But I don't want to. I know better is possible. I want my old self back. My real brain, my real body, my real drive, my given allotments. So I push forward. I am not bereft on the couch yet. I may get to that point, but today I can choose to set my sights on Mount Everest, not the bathroom. I can ask God to give me strength to do not only those things I need to do, but those things I desire to do. The Psalmist said God gives us the desires of our hearts. I believe He not only causes us to long to do things, but enables us to do the things we long for. Cancer tired or not. Old or young. Easily or with difficulty.
And the tiredness will have to wait. It will have to wait while I take Drew to the movies, and share the joy of my brother and new sister-in-law as they celebrate their quiet wedding, and spend time with my Mom on Mother's Day, and talk with my sweet grand-daughter on the phone, and balance my checkbook so I know how much I can send to feed hungry children. Tiredness can have its sway when I am dead. Today it will not be allowed.
"Mom," he said. "Think about it. When people say what they would do if they weren't so tired, it would be to go to the Caribbean or run a marathon or climb a mountain. Maybe they would go out dancing or bowling or shopping or hang with their friends. That's what I expected you to say. That you wanted to do something interesting or exciting or at LEAST get out the front door!" I finally got it. And he's right. My limited vision and miniscule goal which looked like some gargantuan and daunting task were downright laughable to a normal person, especially a young kid. It's become a standing joke around our place. When things aren't moving along fast enough, inevitably someone will say, "If I weren't so tired. . . "
This past year has worn me out. The monthly trips to New Haven for yet another test, another doctor's appointment, another round of "something doesn't look quite right - we need another test" is tiresome. I appreciate that they are aggressively cautious, but it requires stamina to keep allowing them to run those interminably lengthy tests requiring you to lie perfectly still for hours while the machine whirs and bangs about you, to keep putting your arm out there for an IV stick, especially when you have no good veins anymore. I used to have veins that popped out and yelled "pick me." But after the chemo, they not only hide, they crumble easily. It takes thumping, pounding, gravity, warm towels and children sized needles to get an IV in these days. Often the first one blows and they have to try again. And one wonders how much radioactive material one body can tolerate before glowing in the dark. More and more I wonder that I just lie there and let them do this to me. What am I thinking!!!
There are up sides of course. I get out of work and have a whole hour driving by myself each way which I take full advantage of for music listening. I plan in advance, check out the CDs from the music library, explore composers, genres, text settings. That part has been marvelous and no small treat after facing all that hospital faulderaul on one's own. There's also watching other people. It is enlightening to observe how people handle cancer. After all, everyone is at this clinic for the same reason. I have seen it all - tears, anger, denial, pain, degeneration, kindness, caring, thoughtlessness, stupidity. And there is the beautiful scenery during the drive. Connecticut is a gorgeous state. Mountains, oceans, views extraordinaire. And I am usually not driving during rush hour, so traffic is not heavy or hostile. I reserve the right to treat myself in some way after the test - perhaps a decadent chocolate dessert or a walk on the beach or buying a new scarf even though I hardly need any more.
I have been telling myself for some time that the tiredness would go away once my body had time to overcome the damage of the chemo, radiation, drugs, and surgery. I'm not anemic or anything after all. But I have not had more than a day or two of the kind of energy I was used to before the cancer. I told myself that my energy is low because I am working two jobs and raising a teenager, and one should be tired from all that. I don't get very many days off. There is always something to take care of. And I get to work harder at doing things because chemo brain gets in the way and I have to spend more energy for the same output as before.
My sisters laugh at me and say, "Yeah, she's functioning on a normal level now just like the rest of us. She'll get used to it." But I don't want to. I know better is possible. I want my old self back. My real brain, my real body, my real drive, my given allotments. So I push forward. I am not bereft on the couch yet. I may get to that point, but today I can choose to set my sights on Mount Everest, not the bathroom. I can ask God to give me strength to do not only those things I need to do, but those things I desire to do. The Psalmist said God gives us the desires of our hearts. I believe He not only causes us to long to do things, but enables us to do the things we long for. Cancer tired or not. Old or young. Easily or with difficulty.
And the tiredness will have to wait. It will have to wait while I take Drew to the movies, and share the joy of my brother and new sister-in-law as they celebrate their quiet wedding, and spend time with my Mom on Mother's Day, and talk with my sweet grand-daughter on the phone, and balance my checkbook so I know how much I can send to feed hungry children. Tiredness can have its sway when I am dead. Today it will not be allowed.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Navigating
Ever feel like you're driving around in a fog? I had that experience last night. Drew was unexpectedly invited to a classmate's house, and then decided to stay overnight. I agreed to drive over and deliver the necessary PJs and pillows, and his friend's Mom had given me excellent directions. But finding their house in the dark in the intense fog proved to be quite a challenge. The directions were explicit - take exit 67, turn right, first left, several miles on the right. It didn't seem too difficult. The destination was clear - a white house with cranberry shutters. She had even mentioned a few landmarks to measure by.
I was surprised on leaving my apartment that it was so foggy - it hadn't been so dense driving home from work. The expressway wasn't too bad - the street lights helped as did the tail lights from the cars ahead of you, even though we were not driving the usual 70 mph. But once I got off the main road, the fog closed in. There were no visible lines on the road (the white marks erased by a harsh winter and buckets of salt), no sense of where the shoulders were, no house lights to guide. In unfamiliar territory, I slowed to a mere ten miles an hour, hoping I was actually ON the road and not off in some swamp. Several cars came from the opposite direction, and the glare of their headlights blinded me, but provided a momentary glimpse of the landscape. It was jarring to see hills rolling away from the road, and that the road was wide with generous shoulders. In the darkness, I had felt boxed in and as if I were on a small country road with deep ditches immediately off the pavement.
Twice cars came up behind me. I was sure they were irritated at being impeded in their journey even though no one honked or gestured. They obviously knew the road and where their turns were, while I had to stop at every intersection and squint to read the street sign. I focused on the directions, measuring the distances, noting the landmarks, and finally their mailbox with the house number 127 on it came into view. Going back was ever so much easier - was it my imagination that the fog was lifting, or did my familiarity with the area make things seem more visible?
When I was a kid, my Dad used to take us exploring on lazy Sunday afternoons. We would pile into the car and decide on a pattern to follow. We had no destination in mind, no timeframe for arrival, no specifics. Just the agreed upon plan. Some days we would take the first right and the third left until we could drive no further. Other times it would be a simple right, left, right, left. Some days we got really crazy and just turned when we saw something interesting, and we wrote down what we decided on. O the sights we saw on those trips! Sometimes a breath taking view, sometimes a natural phenomenon, sometimes glorious flowers or quiet glens. Getting home on those days was truly adventurous. Inevitably, we ended up on a dirt road that turned into a wagon path. We used to say "down a cowpath up a squirrel hole." Then you turned around, reversed the directions, and went home (hopefully).
I suppose my Father had a very good idea where we were all along and that we were never truly far from places he knew. But to us kids, it was amazing fun to explore, and impressive that we found our way back. I don't know how it affected my siblings, but for me, it gave a sense of boldness and daring. My fears about trying new things were tempered with a knowledge that even if you don't know exactly where you are, you can find your way home (and that maybe the "guy thing" about not asking for directions might actually make sense). And I am sure having had that type of experience when I was young gave me courage to drive last night when common sense said to wait until you knew where you were going!
I am struck by the comparison of these two approaches to being in unfamiliar territory. Having a clear destination and excellent directions but no ability to see where you are, and having no destination, just a pattern to follow, and a panoramic vision. I far prefer knowing where I am going and being able to see clearly. But life does not always give you the combination that works the best. And if we never venture beyond those safe parameters, our experiences will be limited, and we will not know our strengths.
I am fortunate in life to have had a heavenly Father who also led me in controlled ways to explore life beyond the predictable and well travelled paths into the unknown and back again. And I have seen some marvelous things, met extraordinary people, found God in unexpected places. Now as I face navigating unfamiliar territory in the thick fog of uncertainty, I am not afraid. He has written down directions, provided landmarks, given me a pattern to follow. He will be my light that cuts through the darkness, my north star, my navigator. What time I am afraid, I will trust in Him. He will see to it that I safely arrive where I belong and that I have a fabulous journey along the way. I expect great things.
I was surprised on leaving my apartment that it was so foggy - it hadn't been so dense driving home from work. The expressway wasn't too bad - the street lights helped as did the tail lights from the cars ahead of you, even though we were not driving the usual 70 mph. But once I got off the main road, the fog closed in. There were no visible lines on the road (the white marks erased by a harsh winter and buckets of salt), no sense of where the shoulders were, no house lights to guide. In unfamiliar territory, I slowed to a mere ten miles an hour, hoping I was actually ON the road and not off in some swamp. Several cars came from the opposite direction, and the glare of their headlights blinded me, but provided a momentary glimpse of the landscape. It was jarring to see hills rolling away from the road, and that the road was wide with generous shoulders. In the darkness, I had felt boxed in and as if I were on a small country road with deep ditches immediately off the pavement.
Twice cars came up behind me. I was sure they were irritated at being impeded in their journey even though no one honked or gestured. They obviously knew the road and where their turns were, while I had to stop at every intersection and squint to read the street sign. I focused on the directions, measuring the distances, noting the landmarks, and finally their mailbox with the house number 127 on it came into view. Going back was ever so much easier - was it my imagination that the fog was lifting, or did my familiarity with the area make things seem more visible?
When I was a kid, my Dad used to take us exploring on lazy Sunday afternoons. We would pile into the car and decide on a pattern to follow. We had no destination in mind, no timeframe for arrival, no specifics. Just the agreed upon plan. Some days we would take the first right and the third left until we could drive no further. Other times it would be a simple right, left, right, left. Some days we got really crazy and just turned when we saw something interesting, and we wrote down what we decided on. O the sights we saw on those trips! Sometimes a breath taking view, sometimes a natural phenomenon, sometimes glorious flowers or quiet glens. Getting home on those days was truly adventurous. Inevitably, we ended up on a dirt road that turned into a wagon path. We used to say "down a cowpath up a squirrel hole." Then you turned around, reversed the directions, and went home (hopefully).
I suppose my Father had a very good idea where we were all along and that we were never truly far from places he knew. But to us kids, it was amazing fun to explore, and impressive that we found our way back. I don't know how it affected my siblings, but for me, it gave a sense of boldness and daring. My fears about trying new things were tempered with a knowledge that even if you don't know exactly where you are, you can find your way home (and that maybe the "guy thing" about not asking for directions might actually make sense). And I am sure having had that type of experience when I was young gave me courage to drive last night when common sense said to wait until you knew where you were going!
I am struck by the comparison of these two approaches to being in unfamiliar territory. Having a clear destination and excellent directions but no ability to see where you are, and having no destination, just a pattern to follow, and a panoramic vision. I far prefer knowing where I am going and being able to see clearly. But life does not always give you the combination that works the best. And if we never venture beyond those safe parameters, our experiences will be limited, and we will not know our strengths.
I am fortunate in life to have had a heavenly Father who also led me in controlled ways to explore life beyond the predictable and well travelled paths into the unknown and back again. And I have seen some marvelous things, met extraordinary people, found God in unexpected places. Now as I face navigating unfamiliar territory in the thick fog of uncertainty, I am not afraid. He has written down directions, provided landmarks, given me a pattern to follow. He will be my light that cuts through the darkness, my north star, my navigator. What time I am afraid, I will trust in Him. He will see to it that I safely arrive where I belong and that I have a fabulous journey along the way. I expect great things.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Rain
3 AM. I am suddenly aware that, despite my eyes being closed, I am not asleep, I have to go to the bathroom, and its raining. At least, I think it's raining. Amazing how much the patter of dog feet in the apartment above can sound like rain. I pretend I do not hear it. I will go back to sleep. But my bladder is persistent. I must get up.
After taking care of business, I sip the tepid water from the ever present glass beside my bed and twirl open the blinds. The blacktop of the driveway glistens like polished marble. I hear the tinny sound of rain hitting the roof of the jeep parked outside my bedroom window. The area is lighted not by the moon but by the soft yellow glow of the complex's security lighting, half muffled by the frame of the open garage structure across the parking lot. The quiet scene is wrapped in a surreal peace.
Who was it that said, "Into every life a little rain must fall?" This morning's rain, softly falling, making grass green and crocuses blossom, washing the dust and pollen from the air is a good thing. Tons of rain unexpectedly rising over sidewalks and cars, that would be a bad thing. Floods need to be channeled and controlled with sandbags and levees.
Cancer is a flood coursing through your life wreaking havoc. This time, I am working to find ways to contain the damage and direct the flow as much as possible, leaving the overall situation in higher hands than my own. Here are my "sandbags" so far:
*prayer and support from friends and family (I hang your emails and letters on my bedroom wall)
*gathering thoughts that are uplifting, pure, good
(I am writing verses on cards to take with me to the hospital)
*put my affairs in order so I can focus on getting well
*collecting recordings of exquisitely painfully beautiful music (PLEASE send your suggestions)
*surrounding myself with beauty (suggestions for a picture to take to the hospital to hang on the wall gratefully accepted)
*eating well whilst I still can
*exercising to rev up my immune system and be in shape
*take a good daily supplement
*drink a lot of water
*making sure the house is well stocked
*living every moment fully, storing up fabulous memories for the inactive recovery times
Sort of like training for the big fight! At least I am forewarned and have time to prepare some. Feel free to describe other sandbags you think will help. Maybe this flood will not be such a big flood. Maybe it can be contained. One thing is for sure - a simple umbrella will not suffice. So break out the galoshes and slickers. Better yet, build me an ark and let me float safely in God's hands until the storm is past.
And with that thought, and the arrival of 5am, I believe I will get up and do last night's dishes (-:
Thursday, April 26, 2007
The Morning After
Today was a day for taking in the beauty of Spring. How is it that yesterday, I barely noticed the little green shoots poking their noses through the frozen turf, and today there is a riot of color everywhere - not just the crocuses, daffodils, and hyacinths, but the flowering trees! Every imaginable color - the gentle purple of ornamental plum trees, the swirls of white and pink of the tulip trees, the glorious yellow skirts of the forsythia, the bridal white of the crabapples.
This was no day for gulping breakfast while driving to work, battling traffic. No, today I took the back country route, found a perfect pullover spot with a breathtaking view of the mountains, and climbed out of the stuffy car to slowly savor my ginger green tea and nibble a hot blueberry scone.
Thin wisps of fog still languished about the meadows, and the birds were amazingly vocal - robins and phoebes especially. A shy cardinal couple fluttered nearby, dashing here and there with bits of twigs and grass. Several bunnies quietly grazed, keeping one eye on me, just in case.
The warm mug in my hands warded off the morning chill and I held the golden liquid in my mouth, taking comfort like a baby its mother's warm milk. Sun and cloud shadow played in the grass and a fairy-wing breeze kissed my cheek. I refused to think of the upcoming day, its hectic pace, its stresses, its emergencies. This moment needed to be had, to be lived to the full.
Americans are so bent on hurrying life, always waiting for some future event, never fully experiencing today. We have the strange obsession of wanting to be remembered after we are gone, of enjoying some sort of immortality at least of memory. We want to be Bach who was not fully appreciated in life but is rediscovered, valued, and famous to each succeeding generation. We know that we will be "discovered" for the gems that we really are, that our life has mattered. Yet we engage in activities that work so contrary to that.
We are ants, scurrying about bearing some bit or chunk, driven by our need to succeed, our insatiable desire to have more, bent upon pleasing our selfish desires, hating our jobs, forcing ourselves to run ragged on the treadmill of life, believing that the impact of our work in placing this hubris somewhere will have galactic importance. So we embrace out past while working for our future, but never live today. Never really see the beauty around us or know our fellow travelers.
If I have learned one thing from having cancer, it is to live today. Yesterday was not so great. Tomorrow may never come. But I have TODAY. And I will take it slowly because it disappears so fast without help. Every minute will count. Every experience will be felt. Every nuance noticed. Every opportunity to really see, to hear, to touch taken.
I had forgotten some of that since last I had to face cancer. It is too bad I have not made more of the last 2 years. But I had today. And I will have tomorrow, and the day after that. I will not waste them.
This was no day for gulping breakfast while driving to work, battling traffic. No, today I took the back country route, found a perfect pullover spot with a breathtaking view of the mountains, and climbed out of the stuffy car to slowly savor my ginger green tea and nibble a hot blueberry scone.
Thin wisps of fog still languished about the meadows, and the birds were amazingly vocal - robins and phoebes especially. A shy cardinal couple fluttered nearby, dashing here and there with bits of twigs and grass. Several bunnies quietly grazed, keeping one eye on me, just in case.
The warm mug in my hands warded off the morning chill and I held the golden liquid in my mouth, taking comfort like a baby its mother's warm milk. Sun and cloud shadow played in the grass and a fairy-wing breeze kissed my cheek. I refused to think of the upcoming day, its hectic pace, its stresses, its emergencies. This moment needed to be had, to be lived to the full.
Americans are so bent on hurrying life, always waiting for some future event, never fully experiencing today. We have the strange obsession of wanting to be remembered after we are gone, of enjoying some sort of immortality at least of memory. We want to be Bach who was not fully appreciated in life but is rediscovered, valued, and famous to each succeeding generation. We know that we will be "discovered" for the gems that we really are, that our life has mattered. Yet we engage in activities that work so contrary to that.
We are ants, scurrying about bearing some bit or chunk, driven by our need to succeed, our insatiable desire to have more, bent upon pleasing our selfish desires, hating our jobs, forcing ourselves to run ragged on the treadmill of life, believing that the impact of our work in placing this hubris somewhere will have galactic importance. So we embrace out past while working for our future, but never live today. Never really see the beauty around us or know our fellow travelers.
If I have learned one thing from having cancer, it is to live today. Yesterday was not so great. Tomorrow may never come. But I have TODAY. And I will take it slowly because it disappears so fast without help. Every minute will count. Every experience will be felt. Every nuance noticed. Every opportunity to really see, to hear, to touch taken.
I had forgotten some of that since last I had to face cancer. It is too bad I have not made more of the last 2 years. But I had today. And I will have tomorrow, and the day after that. I will not waste them.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Second Round
So there I was, standing in the elevator of a new building with several other people. Every floor had various organizations or services except for the sixth floor. That was completely occupied by the Yale Cancer Clinic which had outgrown its hospital location. Everyone pushed their floor button and so did I. I was already a bit self conscious pushing 6. I wondered if they knew by the floor I was headed to that I have cancer. I glanced quickly at the others after pushing the button. They were quietly avoiding looking at me. They knew. I felt branded.
The 6th floor exits into a wide lobby with an expansive view of the ocean. It's rather breath taking. How considerate to give us something so beautiful to look at. I walked slowly down the hall and checked in with the receptionist. She has thick curls cascading down around her shoulders, and a wide smile. We chat casually as she cinches the blue hospital tag around my wrist.
I already know the news will not be a clean bill of health. I am two years out from the original cancer, and I am still seeing the doctor every month and running multiple tests. This test was scheduled so quickly that I suspect they have finally figured out what it is that puzzles them. I am right. They say that there is a growth in my ovary area that shows up on the test - I hear words like surgery, specialist, chemotherapy.
We joke a bit, I go for the requisite lab tests. They will have the specialist call me. I am free to go - for now. I walk slowly slowly down the long hall and look longingly at the ocean. There is a freighter in the bay. It seems reasonable to take a closer look. Who knows how long I may have to see such things. I could use a quiet peaceful moment soaking in the gentleness of nature, and what better place than an out of the way beach?
I drive across the highway and park. There are a number of other cars parked there including 2 chuck wagons offering Mexican food and hot dogs. Yuck. I saunter across the grass and down by the skinny strip of sand, inhaling the salty smell and straining to hear the gulls calling. The wind ruffles my pant legs and tosses bits of paper about. There is no place to sit, so I walk down the beach a piece and watch a tugboat push the freighter out into the deep ocean, relentlessly forcing it out of sight.
A young father steers his kid's wobbly bike on a blacktop sidewalk. An older couple leans against the fence, holding hands. A jogger bounds past. I close my eyes and try to relax and print a memory to hold on to when the nights get long.
But the noise of the traffic keeps interfering. Tires sing against the pavement, horns punctuate the air, sirens wail. Quiet! I scream inside. I want to unwind. You are keeping me from being able to drink in any peace. But they do not hear me. They will not be quiet.
I give up. I get back in the car and join the rush hour traffic, jostling for lanes and cussing stupidity. I don't get five miles before I feel the tears starting. "This is ridiculous," I think. I have no reason to be crying. So what if the cancer is back. Its not a big deal - you got through a much more serious bout before by God's grace. God will see you through this. It's just an operation, just a little chemo. You - you are lucky. You have insurance. You have a job. You have friends and family. You have a good medical facility taking care of you. So quit already.
But I don't quit. I cry quietly. I cry loudly. I cry all the way to Hartford. I wipe the tears and listen to music and cry. And then, the storm is over. I sigh, and think of what to do next. And I know. I will enlist the aid of my community. It takes a village to combat cancer, and I have an excellent one. The details will come later. Right now, I will just reach out. And I know they will reach back.
I may be like a freighter heading out into deep waters, but I will be surrounded by tugboats keeping me afloat, heading me in the right directions, steering me from danger. Let the waves roll. I will not capsize. God is on my side. He holds me firmly in the hollow of His hand and He will not let me go no matter how big the waves get. I smile and make a list of warriors to help me in my fight.
The 6th floor exits into a wide lobby with an expansive view of the ocean. It's rather breath taking. How considerate to give us something so beautiful to look at. I walked slowly down the hall and checked in with the receptionist. She has thick curls cascading down around her shoulders, and a wide smile. We chat casually as she cinches the blue hospital tag around my wrist.
I already know the news will not be a clean bill of health. I am two years out from the original cancer, and I am still seeing the doctor every month and running multiple tests. This test was scheduled so quickly that I suspect they have finally figured out what it is that puzzles them. I am right. They say that there is a growth in my ovary area that shows up on the test - I hear words like surgery, specialist, chemotherapy.
We joke a bit, I go for the requisite lab tests. They will have the specialist call me. I am free to go - for now. I walk slowly slowly down the long hall and look longingly at the ocean. There is a freighter in the bay. It seems reasonable to take a closer look. Who knows how long I may have to see such things. I could use a quiet peaceful moment soaking in the gentleness of nature, and what better place than an out of the way beach?
I drive across the highway and park. There are a number of other cars parked there including 2 chuck wagons offering Mexican food and hot dogs. Yuck. I saunter across the grass and down by the skinny strip of sand, inhaling the salty smell and straining to hear the gulls calling. The wind ruffles my pant legs and tosses bits of paper about. There is no place to sit, so I walk down the beach a piece and watch a tugboat push the freighter out into the deep ocean, relentlessly forcing it out of sight.
A young father steers his kid's wobbly bike on a blacktop sidewalk. An older couple leans against the fence, holding hands. A jogger bounds past. I close my eyes and try to relax and print a memory to hold on to when the nights get long.
But the noise of the traffic keeps interfering. Tires sing against the pavement, horns punctuate the air, sirens wail. Quiet! I scream inside. I want to unwind. You are keeping me from being able to drink in any peace. But they do not hear me. They will not be quiet.
I give up. I get back in the car and join the rush hour traffic, jostling for lanes and cussing stupidity. I don't get five miles before I feel the tears starting. "This is ridiculous," I think. I have no reason to be crying. So what if the cancer is back. Its not a big deal - you got through a much more serious bout before by God's grace. God will see you through this. It's just an operation, just a little chemo. You - you are lucky. You have insurance. You have a job. You have friends and family. You have a good medical facility taking care of you. So quit already.
But I don't quit. I cry quietly. I cry loudly. I cry all the way to Hartford. I wipe the tears and listen to music and cry. And then, the storm is over. I sigh, and think of what to do next. And I know. I will enlist the aid of my community. It takes a village to combat cancer, and I have an excellent one. The details will come later. Right now, I will just reach out. And I know they will reach back.
I may be like a freighter heading out into deep waters, but I will be surrounded by tugboats keeping me afloat, heading me in the right directions, steering me from danger. Let the waves roll. I will not capsize. God is on my side. He holds me firmly in the hollow of His hand and He will not let me go no matter how big the waves get. I smile and make a list of warriors to help me in my fight.
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