Friends Indeed

BEING SELF-SUFFICIENT had been a source of pride for me before I was diagnosed. I was always ready to lend others a hand, but when it came to me, I preferred handling things myself. I hadn’t counted on my husband’s wisdom.

TOM HAS ALWAYS BELIEVED in the power of friendship and in the need friends have to be useful in a crisis. It was the first time I realized I wasn’t the only one in the barrel with cancer. Tom was in it too, and he needed the support of our friends—perhaps even more than I did. After all, I had him, but who did he have?

SO, WHILE I MAY have wanted to creep into my cave until the winter of my illness was over, Tom knew he needed the encouragement and attention of those we loved, and he was wise enough to ask for it.

WHEN WE FOUND OUT I would be in the hospital for weeks, he flew into action. Now, I’m not proud of this, but I’m terrified of the hospital at a level that reason cannot soothe. Tom didn’t try to talk any sense into me. He just asked for volunteers. A paper was passed around our Sunday School class, and fourteen women volunteered.

I NEEDED MY FRIENDS more than I ever would’ve believed. More than they would’ve believed. They lay on a hard cot in my hospital room and had their sleep interrupted with each blood pressure check. They were alert when I was too groggy to know what was happening. They waited outside the bathroom door at two in the morning. They badgered me with breathing exercises and fed me ice when I wasn’t allowed water. They kept my IVs untangled when I trudged the hallways. They told me stories of friends and family members who’d survived impossible odds. Brave stories filled with hope.

I WAS COMFORTED. I knew I was loved.

AND I CHANGED from someone who didn’t want to bother anyone to someone who had to accept help from everyone. I changed from someone who had once done favors with the hopes that one day they would be returned, to someone who knew a lifetime was too short to repay what I’d been given.

THE BARREL WAS even more crowded than I’d realized. My friends were in it too. It was humbling. It was uplifting. And most of all, it was a reminder that God works through others and through us to perform his wonders. The secret to receiving good is the willingness to accept it.

IF YOU FIND YOURSELF in the position I found myself—and I pray you never do—be ready with a way for those who care about you to help. You owe it to them.

You’re blessed! Be a blessing.

Being Brave?

NOT LONG AGO I RECEIVED AN E-MAIL from a frightened friend who asked me to pray for her. Her mammogram had raised questions. She was to be screened again, but a holiday had slowed scheduling. She had two weeks to wait. “Please don’t tell anyone. I don’t want to worry my husband,” she said. “I’m only telling you because I know you’d understand.”

WELL, I WANTED TO TELL her I don’t understand, even though I’d like to. No two cancer scares are alike. Instead, I told her to stop being brave. It wasn’t necessary; it wasn’t expected.

SHE NEEDED TO TELL HER HUSBAND. Right away—without waiting for the right moment. This wasn’t the time for stoicism, and were the situation reversed, how would she feel if her husband decided to take on the process without her? He needed to share her burden as much as I did. We all needed to worry together, to soothe one another, to pray for one another, to suffer together. Marriage and friendship aren’t only for the good times.

MY FRIEND FELT no one but another cancer patient would understand, but she was wrong. God understands. He knows suffering more than any of us. After all, He suffered too, and, worse, He actually knew He would die horribly.

WE, ON THE OTHER HAND, don’t know what will happen to us, but at moments like these, we need to be how we are and not how we wish we were. We need to bounce around emotionally, if that’s how we’re feeling. We need to admit our weaknesses.

SO I TOLD HER TO FORGET HER DIGNITY. She should call the clinic where she was to be rescanned and tell them she was frightened and how much she wanted to be seen. Let them think she was a nut case, a coward.


IN FACT, THAT MIGHT BE AN ADVANTAGE! They might see her sooner if they thought she was coming unhinged.

THE WORST THING ABOUT WAITING IS INACTIVITY, and doing something like begging the clinic—daily if that made her feel better—was better than doing nothing.

BRAVERY JUST DOESN’T FIT. My dear friend needed to fall apart. To shake her fist. To come unglued. To ask God for strength.

PUTTING UP A BRAVE FRONT IS WAY TOO LONELY for a time like this.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

The Nitty-Gritty of Facing Death

AS I WENT IN SEARCH of potential treatments and consulted with specialists, I remained aware—even though I didn’t always talk about it—that I had only a few months to live.

ONCE AN ADMITTED “CLOTHES HORSE,” I couldn’t bring myself to buy new clothing. So, in spite of the fact that my wardrobe would now do someone thirty pounds heavier better justice than it did me, I bypassed the sales racks that would have lured me to several moment’s browsing in the past. Why should I want something that I would only be able to wear when it turned warm again?

SHOPPING FOCUSED on groceries and home repair. Things that could be consumed within three months were all that interested me.

WHEN A CAR HAD TO BE REPLACED, I insisted it be registered in Tom’s name. I gave away my wool business suits to a teacher colleague of my step-daughter’s. I made a list of all my belongings and put beside each one the name of the person I thought might want it. I was erasing ownership from my life. The burden of guessing what I’d want done with my possessions would not be on Tom.

I MADE A LIST OF THE MUSIC I wanted played at my memorial, and a list of the casseroles I planned to freeze for Tom so he wouldn’t have to go hungry while adjusting to life without me. I openly agonized over whether I wanted science or the crematorium to have my body.

TOM SEEMED TO BE WONDERING where his old wife had gone.

WELL, I WAS BURYING HER to give rise to the new me that has since taken her place.

I’M A WOMAN WHO FINDS HERSELF ON THE WINDING ROAD of living for today. Of observing the little gems of beauty and serenity I raced past in my former life. Of giving up worrying about things I can’t do anything about. Of believing God and what He says. Of looking at where I’ve come from more often than where I might have to go.

NOW I RUN THROUGH THE LEAVES with my grandson when I used to worry about getting mud on my shoes. How odd that now when logic tells me my future may be very short, I have learned to bask in time. To take what pleasure I can from each moment. I no longer look for what is wrong as much as I look for what is right.

TODAY I RARELY STAND on the front of the boat peering at the troubled waters I may have to enter. I spend more time contemplating the wake and relishing a sense of the small joyful accomplishments—like a freshly cleaned kitchen or a dryer of warm towels—that in my former life I missed altogether.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

Never Underestimate the Power of Good Health

THE NEXT DOCTOR we saw was a radiologist in Ft. Worth, Texas. His specialty was prostate cancer, as is the case with many radiologists, but he had been recommended to us by a friend, and when he agreed to talk with us we made the appointment. He stood in front of a blank flip chart of white paper and showed us what radiation treatment would do to me. Basically, it would cook one kidney, much of my liver, and cause my large intestine to stop functioning. Radiation was out.

HE HAD SPOKEN WITH A MELANOMA EXPERT in the clinic, which was attached to a prestigious medical school. He told us his colleague felt that chemotherapy did not have good results for melanoma patients with existing tumors. Sometimes there was an early response, but the recurrence rate was very high. The patient was weakened by the therapy and if every bit of the cancer was not destroyed, it overtook the body.

HE TOOK A CHAIR ACROSS THE TABLE from us. “If you want my advice,” he said, “I will tell you to be practical.” He opened his hands palm upward. “They have no cure for what you’ve got. They don’t even have an edge on it, but there are many experiments—trials.” He dropped his hands to the tabletop. “Since they can’t cure you, find those things which do you the least harm. Keep your immune system intact. Don’t let any treatments do anything to harm your natural system.

“YOU ARE THE PICTURE OF HEALTH. Very unusual in a melanoma patient.”

“I’VE BEEN PRACTICING GOOD NUTRITION,” I said, “exercising, and taking herbs and vitamins.”

“WELL, I WOULD KEEP that up.” He smiled. “You look good, and that’s important. Never underestimate the power of good health or the resilience of the body.” He stood and reached out to shake our hands in dismissal. “Good luck.”

TOM AND I BEGAN the long drive back to Dallas, knowing that we had received excellent advice. I would keep doing what I could to improve myself physically and spiritually, and I would continue my search for help. I knew exactly what to look for now.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

Window Shopping

TOM AND I WENT TO M. D. ANDERSON, a large cancer research hospital in Houston attached to the University of Texas. Two doctors, each with grave expressions and impressive credentials, examined me. “I believe,” the more senior doctor said, “you could survive our treatment.”

THEY EXPLAINED A SIX-WEEK COURSE of chemotherapy with cheerful enthusiasm. Provided the cancer hadn’t spread to my brain, I would be checked into the hospital the next day. They had no treatment for the brain, he explained, handing me a consent form.

“JUST A MINUTE,” I said, “I’m here window shopping. I need more information. For starters, what are the remission statistics?”

HE PAUSED IN THE PROCESS of pulling a pen out of his pocket. “We have about a sixty percent response rate.”

RESPONSE WASN’T REMISSION. He hadn’t answered my question. “And remission?” I asked again.

THE PEN WAS STILL ANGLED toward me. “Well, it’s too early to tell. Patients must survive five years for us to be able to declare remission. And . . .”

“SO, WHAT IS the recurrence rate?”

“UNH.” HE BEGAN WRITING on the paper sheet that covered the examination table. Sixty percent—response. Seventy percent—recurrence.

“AND THE SIDE-EFFECTS?”

HE DESCRIBED PAIN, nausea, the inability to eat, and shrugged. “It’s pretty rough.”

“BOTTOM LINE. How long are you able to prolong the life of a patient with my stage cancer?”

“ON AVERAGE about nine months.”

“OKAY,” I SAID. “It’s August. With this treatment you’re saying I’ve got until April?”

HE NODDED.

“AND SIX WEEKS of that I’ll be sick as a dog?”

HE OPENED HIS HANDS in a gesture of defeat. “There are alternatives, but they aren’t much better.” He began to list the others along with their dismal statistics on the paper sheet. “That’s about it.”

“YOU’VE BEEN VERY KIND,” I said, “but I think I want to keep looking—and use your therapy as a last-ditch effort.”

BOTH DOCTORS NODDED.

“I WILL PRAY FOR YOUR PROJECT and your research. I think you’ll find a cure for melanoma in the next five years. All I have to do is stay alive long enough for you to do that.”

THE MORE SENIOR DOCTOR smiled. “Keep in touch. If you need me, call me.” We all shook hands.

HAD I BEEN DESPERATE, I would have been heading for the hospital instead of heading for home. Being able to face death without fear had let me ask questions and let me say no when I didn’t like the answers.

SOMETIMES THE MOST YOU CAN PRAY for is the courage to exercise choice.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

Bureaucracy And All That Jazz

TO GET APPOINTMENTS with specialists, I had to deal with brisk clerks, uncaring telephone operators, and too much “hold” music. But I couldn’t allow myself the luxury of frustration.

SOMETIMES I DEALT with nurses who didn’t speak English as a first language, and I was left confused and uncertain. Many times I wanted to give up, to rest, to put off until I was stronger what had to be done, but I didn’t have that kind of time. Instead, I put aside my own feelings and plowed ahead.

I OFTEN HEAR CANCER PATIENTS complain that they have so much trouble getting through the bureaucracy of the doctor’s staff that they just put their treatment off. I can understand that.

WE GET SUCH MIXED MESSAGES. While the doctor referring me emphasized how important it was that I act quickly, the receptionist at the specialist’s office frequently told me I’d have a six-week wait.

AS MUCH AS I HATED that I might be the object of anyone’s pity, I decided to be honest. When I was next told I’d have to wait for an appointment, I said, “I’ve been told I have six months to live. I’m in a race. Can you please help me?” And the door opened. People became my heroes when I gave them a reason.

SURVIVORS OF CANCER tell of synchronicity, of feeling guided. I have my stories too. Stories of people who went the extra mile for me when they themselves were overworked and over-tired. Of their finding a way when there was no way. Stories of appointments and operating theaters I got because someone else canceled. Of kind words whispered and prayers shared with strangers and with nurses whose names I never knew.

I FOUND MYSELF STRUCK with awe by prayers swiftly answered in ways that left me no room to doubt I was being propelled along by God.

EVEN TODAY THE RED TAPE (and, yes, the occasional fumbling) sometimes makes me weary, but the people I deal with remind me I’ve got a friend in Jesus—and He’s sent me plenty of help!

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

The Notebook

THE KIND HUSBAND OF THE FRIEND I’d lost to melanoma came to call. His was a visit I dreaded, but he put me at ease by telling me, “No two people have the same cancer experience, even when they both have the same kind of cancer.” I nodded. He was telling me not to give up. Not to feel guilty if I survived when she hadn’t. The progression of the illness and my body’s response to treatment were bound to be as different from hers as our fingerprints were.

HE GAVE ME A CASE used by architects to carry blueprints. It was for films, he explained. I would need it as I traveled from expert to expert. This was the moment I realized that what I had couldn’t be managed as though it were a bad case of the flu. I had to rethink my role as a patient.

THEN HE LAID OUT FOR ME what I think of as the rules of advocacy for cancer patients and set a three-ring notebook on the coffee table. “Keep your medical history up to date in this.” He thumped the notebook. “You’ll be dealing with a lot of doctors. You’ll have to be in charge of your history. Get copies of everything and keep them.” He pushed the notebook. “Don’t forget. It’s important.”

I WATCHED THE NOTEBOOK slide toward me. I’d always been a passive patient, counting on my doctor to keep my medical records. Those days were over, I realized, and the idea seemed horrible.

BUT THIS KIND MAN had experienced what I hoped Tom would not have to, and I respected his willingness to do what he could to help me. I put dividers into the notebook for scan reports, blood tests, the diagnosis and pathology report, and for a medical history that I still keep in date order.

I COULD SEE THE WISDOM in my friend’s words. The better organized I was, the sooner the doctor could be brought up to date, the sooner he could treat me. Wouldn’t a doctor be more receptive to a patient who cared enough about her own treatment to be prepared, knowledgeable, and upbeat? If I had to take this journey, and it seemed I did, then I would look for specialists I could like and who could learn to like me. If I was fighting for my life, I wanted whoever was in the trenches with me to be a friend.

GRADUALLY I ASSUMED the responsibilities I could. If a scan needed to be done in three months, I was the one who called to remind the nurse. (And if you think doctors are busy, imagine how busy their poor nurses are!) If a follow-up appointment was needed, I scheduled it.

AS A PATIENT I’ve become prompt, informed, inquisitive, and alert. It’s the least I can do for a coworker.

AND THAT’S HOW I’ve begun to think of myself—as coworker. After all, aren’t we all “employed” by the same Great Healer?

You're blessed. Be a blessing!

The Valley of the Shadow—Not a Bad Place to Visit, But I Hadn’t Planned to Live There

THE MEDICAL EXPERTS WERE OUT OF IDEAS, and Tom and I were out of our spiritual depths. Too much coming at us too fast. Bolstering was the next logical step. We needed a man with a professional connection to God.

OUR MINISTER, ROBERT, listened with a sympathetic expression, and when we were finished, he offered the strangest prayer I’ve ever heard. “Father, we’re mad at you. We don’t like what is happening to Tamara, and we don’t think it’s right. You’ve closed off every possibility for her, and we don’t know where else to turn. Neither, it seems, do the doctors. We want more from you. We want your guidance, and we need it now. Amen.”

ROBERT HAD SUMMED IT UP, and I felt better. The three of us talked. This was a lousy deal. Two months before I’d been full of energy, symptom-free, and, bam! I needed to shop for a coffin. How could this happen?

ROBERT OFFERED ME A TISSUE BOX and the advice I needed. He told me to begin talking about living and dying until I could manage either with equal ease. Tom was to allow me to do this, and I was to do it as much as I needed to get comfortable with my own mortality. I think it was harder on Tom to give me that permission than it was for me to exercise it.

TALKING ABOUT MY DEATH started out with practical plans. Wills and funerals. Never was it about giving up. I began reviewing the promises in the Bible. I began learning to really believe God. Learning to leave fear on the devil’s doorstep.

I WOULD DIE IF THAT WERE THE PLAN, but if I were to live . . . I only knew how to go at life one way—and that was full-throttle.

THEN IT DAWNED ON ME. No matter how much I wanted it, no matter how much I might mourn it, my old life would not come back. Change so big I couldn’t grasp it was staring me down. And I would have to learn to live within a different set of restraints or give up.

AND IT HAS NEVER BEEN my nature to give up.

You’re blessed! Be a blessing.

What is Your Fighting Weight?

“THANK YOU,” I SAID, although I didn’t mean it. I had just returned from the visit with our minister, and all I wanted to do was lie down with my tape recorder of affirmations. I didn't want to hear what this kind man had to say about a mushroom. I got off the phone as soon as I could.

WHEN THEY HEARD OF MY DIAGNOSIS, many well-meaning people came up with bizarre cures and treatments. Things I wasn’t prepared to try. Things that sounded as though the ones offering them had found a way to capitalize on the final illness of a lot of desperate people. I put on my headphones.

THE NEXT MORNING, a friend from Florida called. “What can I do to help you?” she asked. “You need some help. And I’m going to give it to you.”

“WELL,” I SAID, thinking I was being droll, “You can see if you can find the Reishi mushroom cure. That’s the only positive thing I’ve heard this week.”

“YOU’RE ON,” she said and hung up before I had a chance to tell her I was kidding. Three hours later she called back. “I’ve got you an appointment with an oriental practitioner. Call this number. He doesn’t suggest the mushroom cure, but he’ll see you right away.”

HOW HAD MY FRIEND managed to get me an appointment with a doctor in Dallas that very day? Specialists were difficult to see. Later, on the way over to the doctor’s office, I told my husband, “This sounds crazy coming from me. You know I’ve always been very tolerant of other people’s beliefs.”

HE NODDED.

“BUT, THIS TIME I WANT A CHRISTIAN treating me. I’m looking for a miracle. I want someone who would recognize one if they saw it.”

“OKAY,” HE SAID, but I could tell by shrug in his voice he thought I was looking in the wrong place.

THE AROMA OF EXOTIC SPICES filled the doctor’s offices. The man was not much taller than I am—very tidy, his shirt heavily starched, his tie properly rep, his belt buckle lined up exactly with the last button on his shirt. Only his cheerful expression and his sock-and-sandal-shod feet made me realized I was dealing in a dimension that was totally foreign to my Western thinking.

HE SAT VERY ERECT ON A SMALL STOOL and read my history while I waited on a low, padded bench. “This is very serious,” he said, scrutinizing me with eyes the color of smoky tea. “Never cross your legs,” he said, in what seemed a non sequitur. “It’s bad for circulation.” He tapped the report. “Circulation is key for your condition.”

HE GAVE ME A THOUGHTFUL LOOK. “I cannot promise to heal you. Only God can do that.” He seemed to watch for my reaction in a way that made me think he’d had trouble with previous patients in the area of faith.

HE WOULD NOT HAVE TROUBLE WITH ME. His were the words I’d been waiting to hear. “I believe that too.”

“TOGETHER,” HE CONTINUED with a dismissive wave of his hand, “however, we can work to do as much as we can. If you’ll follow my instructions. I cannot promise you’ll live, but I can promise you will feel as well as anyone with your condition can feel—far better than you do now.”

TO FEEL GOOD was as much as I could ask for. I agreed to begin treatments.

FROM HIM I LEARNED a great deal about herbs, nutrition, digestion, organic foods, exercise, clean water, clean air, and massage therapy--Eastern style. I learned that Occidental practitioners were licensed as acupuncturists even if they did not use needles on their patients. A Seventh Day Adventist who took seriously Paul’s admonition that our body is a temple (I Cor 6: 18-20), my doctor had studied for many, many years. He was an herbalist who believed in the power of prayer.

I ACHIEVED MY “FIGHTING WEIGHT”—the ideal weight for my body’s immune system. I lost thirty pounds and was rewarded with more energy than I’d had in decades. Nearly all of the surgical pain left. Ironically, given my diagnosis, I felt better than I had in years.

EVERY CHRISTIAN AFFLICTED WITH CANCER I know who has survived has told me they felt their path to wellness had been directed by God. I was learning what they meant. I, who had hooted at the idea of oriental medicine in the past, now hungered for the knowledge this man fed me, drop by drop. And my body flourished under his care.

I HAD PURSUED A MUSHROOM as a joke and had, instead, found just what I needed—a guide to excellent health habits. What better first step was there for healing?

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!