My Shadow Side vs. Cancer

(This post is not for those with weak stomachs! After a particularly difficult night, I'm angry and tired today...Angry that Anthony's cancer causes him pain, disrupts his sleep (and mine), and robs us of quality time together. This is written, definitely from my shadow side... Nevertheless, I told you I would share my journey with you, in the spirit of honesty and truth. Today, anger and frustration has come forth to speak, and so I share, and trust you'll understand.)

OK. Enough is enough.  I’m really angry and I’m sick of this cancer thing. I’m so sick of it that I want to reach inside Anthony and pull it out. Just pull every last piece of it out of him. I want to gather it all up, form it into a ball that fits in my hands and then I want to beat the living hell out of it. 

I can think of lots of things I could do with that ball of cancer. I could throw it on the floor, just slam it down, then stomp on it. Jump up and down on it...like I’m hitting the keys on my keyboard...fast and hard. I imagine it would fight back and resist being squashed, but that’s OK by me. That would just give me more time to figure out how to destroy it.

I could pick it up and throw it against the wall. Just twirl it around and then fling it, hard, against the wall. Throw it with all the force I could muster. I picture it sticking to the wall, little bits of its guts dripping down. Now, it looks like I’m making some progress...it finally looks like I’m hurting it.  Wait...Do I hear it whimpering a little?

Next, I could scoop it up and place it on a cutting board and take out the Chinese chopping knife that Anthony loves so much. I’d push it all together in a mound, then start chopping in one direction, turn it and chop across in the other direction, pushing that knife down with as much force as I could...no matter how hard it resisted. I’d chop it into manageable pieces and turn a deaf ear to its crying and wailing. Why shouldn’t I? It goes about its business boring into Anthony and hurting him as I cry and wail and beg it to stop.

Then, I could pick up all the pieces and throw it into my food processor and hold the top down so none of it could escape and find its way back to Anthony or anyone else. I’d hold a dish towel over it, too...just in case. Then I’d turn on the processor and let the blades pulverize every last bit of it. I imagine its screams crying out over the sound of the running food processor. But, I won’t feel sorry for it. Why should I? Even so, I imagine its sickening pleas getting to me after a while, so I’d be ready with a pair of ear plugs. The good kind...like the ones I use when I go hear Davey play in one of those small venues where the amps are cranked and the music is so loud the walls of the building shake. With the plugs stuffed into my ear canals, I’d sing myself a song, just to be sure I drowned out every last sound.

With all of its power torn apart, I’d look at the bowlful of cancer mess I made and then I’d pour it into a pot and cook it over a high flame and boil it for a long time to make sure every single cell was destroyed, once and for all. I’d cook it down until all the moisture evaporated and the remaining bulk of it was nothing more than a thick paste of harmless mush.

After that, I’d let it cool and form it into a little brick....you know, like an adobe brick...and I’d dry it in the hot sun until it was hard. And then, with one final burst of energy, I’d take a sledge hammer to it and pound it into dust, very fine dust that is as dead as dead can be. And then, I’d bury it, but I wouldn’t adorn its grave with flowers or a cross or a picture or some other token of remembrance. No, I’d just turn and walk away.  I would say goodbye to Anthony’s cancer, forever, and never look back, not even once. 

Don't Make Me Get the Duct Tape

(Recently, Anthony and I were subjected to a conversation with an individual who had lost a loved one to pancreatic cancer. Somehow, this person felt that sharing the tragic details would be helpful. When you are trying your hardest to be positive, this type of "help" is neither wanted or appropriate.)

Some people don’t know what’s appropriate. I’m going to give these kind of people the benefit of the doubt and say it’s not really their fault. Maybe they just don’t realize that what they are saying is, at best, inappropriate and at worst, downright insensitive and potentially harmful. 

I’m talking about the really dumb things people say when they don’t know what to say to someone who has cancer...or to someone who loves someone with cancer. I’m sure you’ve heard that old adage, “If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” I’m thinking of having a couple of T-shirts made for Anthony and me with that printed on them. Maybe I’ll have a flag made, too, that we can hang outside our house. Perhaps I should be more direct with the slogan and have something like, “Only positive, encouraging, and hopeful comments, please,” printed in big, bold letters. Maybe, that way, there won’t be any misunderstandings.

I understand that most people get a little uncomfortable when cancer gets a little too close. The word, itself, carries a pretty big punch. I know that from personal experience. When you throw in a couple other heavy weights like inoperable and aggressive,  people really start to get antsy. And if a friend or neighbor or relative is unlucky enough to have their number come up in the cancer lottery, forget about it...people freak out. And, we all know why people freak out...It’s because everyone knows that cancer can kill. 

Everyone has a story about someone who finally succumbed to cancer, in spite of an herioc battle and “putting up the good fight.” And these stories tend to take on a legendary quality...sad though they be. And, sometimes, these are the very stories people feel compelled to share with someone who has just been diagnosed with cancer. Why? Do they share these stories because they think, in some strange way, they are being helpful? Do they think they are somehow preparing a person for the inevitable worst?

Why don’t these people think to share a success story...a story of someone who fought the good fight and won? We’ve all heard those stories, too. And, even if these people don’t know anyone who has beat cancer (which I find hard to believe nowadays), why can’t they just say something encouraging and be on their way? A simple, “I’ll be praying for you,” may strike some as a trite offer, but it is probably the most productive thing anyone can do for someone who has cancer (unless you happen to be a surgeon, oncologist, or healer...and even they can pray!). 

So, if you find yourself in a situation where someone who has cancer is being verbally and spiritually assaulted by another who feels compelled to share a cancer horror story, please do something to change the course of the conversation. Steer it back in the right direction. Offer hope, encouragement, and prayer.  Offer a hand and some loving concern. And if that other person (the one who can't resist sharing the gloom and doom, cancer's-gonna-get-you stories) doesn’t take the cue...maybe duct tape would help? That stuff is pretty amazing... downright miraculous.

Fountain of Tears

Some people say the English language is one of the most difficult languages to learn and master. I can believe that. Just think about homophones....words that sound the same, but are spelled differently, and have different meanings. Here are a few...right and write, fair and fare, not and knot. 

Then there are homographs....words that look the same (identical spelling), but are pronounced differently and have different meanings. The one example that came to mind today are the words tear and tear. (I cried a tear. That will tear my heart to shreds.) I’m sure it’s not hard for you to guess why these two words are on the forefront of my brain as I write tonight. 

Yes, the tears fell this morning. They fell hard. I’m not disappointed in myself. Let’s face it....I have a lot to cry about. Aside from the obvious...like my husband having pancreatic cancer with a lousy prognosis...there’s the part about seeing him suffer. One of the hardest things is seeing him in pain, but I can’t let that get in the way of helping him. I have to take a deep breath and stand up a little taller so I can think clearly, assess the situation, and find a way to get him some relief, give him some comfort. Sometimes, on the inside, I’m screaming and kicking and throwing things, but on the outside, I somehow manage to display a calm, gentle, confident, and supportive demeanor. Talk about crazy making....and exhausting.

When it all just becomes too much, I finally have to go off by myself and let the tears fall. This morning, I went outside in the backyard, and sat by the fountain (the fountain Anthony made plans for years ago...the fountain he had wanted  so badly for so long, but never got...the fountain I encouraged him to buy with his birthday money the summer before we were married...the fountain we picked out together and dug the trench for by ourselves...the fountain that has accompanied so many outdoor meals and parties and quiet evenings and late night talks...yes, that fountain!) and I let my tears fall with the gentle flow of the water. I felt closer to Anthony there. I’m not used to crying alone...my regular "crying place" is wrapped up tight in Anthony’s arms, my head pressed so close to his chest I can hear his heart beating...so next to the fountain feels about as close to him as I can get right now. I bet I’ve cried enough tears to fill that fountain many times over. 

So, as my tears fell, I started thinking about the word tear...as in, “I cried a tear.” And, then in my special ADD (attention deficit disorder) sort of way...and those who know me really well know how this special part of my brain works...I started thinking about tear vs. tear. I started wondering how I could cry my tears without letting the pain tear my heart to shreds. I considered allowing my tears, like the water in the fountain, to soothe me instead of tear me apart. So, I let them fall. I started feeling better as the tears poured out. Like the water in the fountain, I let them flow over and over in abundance and took comfort in the simple release. I let them wash some of the pain away.

I’ve cried a lot in my life...about a lot of things. Maybe because I’m the kind of person who feels deeply connected with life and everything in it. That can be very scary...feeling so connected. With Anthony, I’ve always had a safe place to cry. In his arms, I’ve always felt protected from the pain that threathens to tear the heart to shreds when the tears begin to fall uncontrollably.  Since he’s been sick, I’ve cried alone too many times to count. I’ve been scared and lonely and I’ve hated every minute of it. But, after this morning, out by the fountain, I’m a little less afraid. Somehow, the fountain...that very special fountain...has shown me that my tears can help cleanse some of the hurt that tears away at the very core of my being because my sweet Anthony is sick.

Thank God for miracles...and fountains.

Fighting Back

It’s Saturday night. Anthony and I are just hanging out. He’s reading the newspaper and I’m drinking some iced tea and watching a rerun of Law and Order: SVU...I can’t believe how young Mariska Hargitay and Chris Meloni look! This episode must be from one of  the  first  few seasons...Anyways, we’re just hanging out, relaxing. If I close my eyes for a second,  I can imagine we’re lazing about in our Family Room at home. Yep, if it weren’t for the occasional beep of an IV pump or the sound of the nurse’s call button, I could almost forget we are in a hospital room...Anthony’s hospital room. Maybe if I try real hard, I could forget he has pancreatic cancer for a minute or two. 

(I started writing this Saturday night, at the hospital. One paragraph is as far as I got. Well, that’s not entirely true. I fell asleep while I was typing and actually woke up to find the above paragraph followed by a half page of js and ks. Seriously. So, before I finish what I started, I want to share this with you: When I start writing, I honestly don’t know where a “piece” is going to end up. I mean, sometimes I have an idea, but most times, I just type as my thoughts  evolve. So, picking up where I left off Saturday night should be interesting. Let’s see where it takes us.......)

Saturday night, I remember thinking that life is going to keep going, regardless of Anthony’s cancer. People are going to get up in the morning and take their kids to school, or go to work, or read the paper, or go for a run, or watch the morning news, or meet their friend at Starbucks.....You are all going to do what you normally do. You have your routines and they are not going to change just because my Anthony has cancer. My life with Anthony, however, has already changed dramatically, and I’m guessing there are going to be many more uninvited and unwanted changes to our blissfully normal life together. That’s unsettling. So, tonight, I’m wondering if/how I can help us hold on to some normalcy in the midst of the chaos caused by cancer.

Saturday night, when Anthony was reading the paper and I was watching one of the few T.V. shows I watch, there was a sense of normalcy and, just for a minute, I forgot where we were and what we were doing there. Can you imagine? I actually forgot my husband was in the hospital, recovering from a failed surgery against one of the deadliest cancers a person can have! That struck me as kind of odd...in a good way, that is. So I started thinking about cancer...what it is and what it does. I considered how, just by doing something normal on Saturday night, we were able to put some distance between us and the cancer. We didn't even have to give it much thought. That made me wonder about the possibilities if we do give it some thought! Finally, I made some decisions about how I (we) can take some of the cancer's power away by being mindful of what we do when we feel it trying to destroy the life we've made together.

First, in a nutshell, this is how cancer works...Normally, new cells are created when the body needs them. Old cells die, new cells replace them. There’s balance and order in that. Sometimes, cells get damaged, mutations occur, and they start to grow and divide and multiply without balance and order. These damaged cells can grow into a tumor, and when the tumor is malignant, it can invade and kill nearby healthy tissue. It can also spread to other parts of the body and continue to grow and spread and destroy everything in it’s path.

It's easy to see how cancer has no regard for balance and order and normalcy; but, does that mean we have to let it invade and take over every part of our lives? I don't think so. Furthermore, I refuse to do that! I refuse to let cancer take over my beautiful life with Anthony. I refuse to let it move in on and destroy everything we cherish in our relationship.

So, here's what I've decided...I've decided that when the cancer gets in our faces and threatens to take away our joy, I’ll help Anthony fight back with joy...we’ll sing, and blow bubbles, and watch sunsets, and let the dog lick our faces after we’ve made ourselves cry from laughing so hard. If cancer tries to steal Anthony’s appetite, I’ll cook up a healthy feast, and season it with so much love and care that he’ll not only enjoy eating, he'll believe every bite is nourishing and healing his body. If cancer tries to come between us, using contention and frustration to pull us apart, I will choose to be an instrument of peace, allowing the wisdom of silence and the strength of love to calm the anger and dispel the fear. And, if cancer ever tries to chip away at our hope or weaken our faith, I will never stop praying, never stop believing, and never stop asking for a miracle for Anthony.

And, if Anthony is ever too tired or too sick to pray, believe, or ask...I'll gladly do it for him!

How

I began writing this post last night after a "dark" day. I call it a "dark" day because Anthony was struggling with horrible pain, after-effects of anesthesia, reactions to powerful pain meds, all while trying to process the definitive diagnosis of his pancreatic cancer. It was a sad day and I was very sad when I started to write. As my writing evolved, however, I began to find some light in the darkness. For me, that is more than chance. It is God working in my life....and God works miracles.

* * * * * * * * * *

WHen did you leave? I didn’t even see you leave the room. I’ve been here, the whole time, so I don’t understand how you could have left without my noticing. Wait, let me look again...OK, I see your face. Yep, those are your eyes looking at me. But, only your eyes are looking at me...YOU are looking at something else... YOU look like you are someplace else.

WHere did you go? It’s kind of confusing for me because I see a person lying in your hospital bed that looks like you. Sort of. He’s got the same hair color and eyes. He’s exactly your height and weight. He’s even wearing your wedding band. I know it’s yours because it matches mine...exactly...of course it would. We had to have matching wedding bands. We picked them out together... like we do everything else...Together.

WHat are you saying? I hear words coming out of your mouth, but they sound unfamiliar to me. You are talking, but it doesn’t sound like you...what you are saying, how you are saying things... just doesn’t sound like my Anthony. I’m going to chalk it all up to illness and medication and pain and a strange environment and a wicked disease and fear and frustration and confusion and anything else that adds to the unpredictability and incredulity and  insanity of this moment. It’s OK....even I am hard to understand right now.

WHo are the doctors and nurses talking about? Surely, they are not talking about you. Surely they are not saying that you have inoperable, incurable pancreatic cancer. Maybe they’re talking about someone else’s Anthony...not my Anthony. There has to be another patient named Anthony, and they must be talking about him. Well, they could be. 

WHy is this happening? Why are we spending our days in a hospital room instead of in a classroom...teaching our students what we would normally be teaching them during the third week of September? Why are you lying alone in that hospital bed, unable to get comfortable, regardless of how many different ways you can adjust it?...And, why am I all scrunched up on a recliner that doesn’t recline enough for a four-year-old to sleep comfortably on it? Why aren’t we at home, soundly asleep in our own bed, wrapped around each other so closely that I breathe in what you breathe out?

* * * * * * * * * * 

I suppose I could go on asking question after question using those well known “WH” interrogative pronouns. You know...the five big ones we learned way back in grammar school: WHo, WHat, WHen, WHere, WHy...Yes, I could ask and ponder and speculate all day long and never really come up with an answer that makes any sense, as far as Anthony’s diagnosis of pancreatic cancer goes. Truthfully, something like this never really makes  any sense. 

All that said, there is one more word I might consider using in my chain of seemingly answer-less questions. Do you remember the last “WH” word in the sequence? (That’s actually a trick question because it’s the only one that doesn’t begin with WH!) I bet you remember now...That’s right, it’s “How.” When I start to think of sentences, questions, that begin with this stand-alone word, I realize there are as many answers as there are questions. For example, “How can I grow in faith through this trial?” “How can I transform my pain into love?” “How can I help others who can’t think of any ‘How’ questions because they’re concentrating on all the things that bring more confusion than clarity?” “How can I continue to find the everyday, ordinary miracles in life while helping my husband battle a disease most people call incurable and hopeless?” 

Yes, I like the “How” questions much better. It’s not that they are easier to answer. No way are they easier. But there’s an abundance of hope to be found when we begin asking ourselves “How?” 

If

I have decided that I am going to stop using the biggest two-letter word in the English language....”if.” I have discovered that I can drive myself to near hysteria in under thirty seconds just by beginning a string of sentences with this dangerous little word that we, mere mortals, assign way too much power. 

So much hangs in the balance when you start “if-fing” everything. “If this happens, then.....” But, “If that happens, then.....” Then what? Do we really know what is going to happen...ever...at any given time? The truth is, we know very little until something, actually, happens. And the funny thing is...there are lots of somethings in this life that we don’t understand anyways!

I have decided that using this assuming, presumptuous, evil little word takes me further away from God. I can’t afford to do that, especially at a time like this. At a time when the fragility of life is so palpable...I can’t allow myself to think I am bigger than I truly am. I am not big at all. I am powerless...and the realization of my powerlessness is actually quite liberating.

In just a few hours, my husband, my closest, dearest, most cherished friend and companion will be lying on an operating table under general anesthesia, completely paralyzed and helpless. He won’t even be breathing on his own. While someone is controlling his every breath, the very life force of his mortal body, someone else will be opening, literally cutting into, his flesh at his most vulnerable center...his solar plexus. Some call this center the third chakra; some call it the gut. It is that place we associate with our sense of power and will. Anthony will be surrending everything on that operating table. He will be naked and vulnerable and powerless. Talk about being close to God!

So, I’ve decided that, since Anthony can give himself up, hand himself over to the doctors who, with God, will be holding his life in their hands, then I can give up using a little two-letter word. I can surrender, too. I can stop imagining what will happen “if” and put everything right where it has always been, in the first place......In the hands of God.

I don’t need to know what’s going to happen. All I need to know is that no matter what happens, God will be there...right where He’s always been. I’m not going to let a little two-letter word with a big ego think it can scare me or make me forget that God is in the driver’s seat. I’m going to keep reminding myself that Anthony and I....that all of us.....are in the loving hands of God...no "ifs" about it!

And how God can keep track of all of us is a miracle to me!

Believe

I know you are scared. I am, too. I know there’s a part of you that can’t believe this is happening. Maybe there’s an even bigger part of you that  knows it’s happening, but doesn’t want to believe it. That’s how it is for me. I know it’s happening. I’ve been to every single appointment with you. I’ve talked to all the doctors. I’ve read the reports and seen the images. I can lay everything out in front of me and look at it, piece by piece, from the very beginning. There’s no doubt that this IS happening. But that doesn’t mean I want to believe it. I don’t. I don’t want to believe any of it.

I want to believe that you don’t have cancer. I want to believe you are perfectly fine and healthy and strong and as far away from any illness anyone could ever be. I want to believe that the big black spot...that thing...on those ultrasound pictures isn’t there anymore. I want to believe it was all a big mistake... or a really bad dream... or a story I read... or a made-for-television movie I watched on a Saturday afternoon when I was bored.

I want to believe that we are going to be together for a really, really.....really long time. I want to believe that we are going to spend sunny days together, playing with our grandchildren. We can build sand castles with them on the beach, have a picnic at the park, and take turns pushing them on the swings. I want to believe we can show them how much fun it is to take off your shoes and socks and run outside in the middle of a really big downpour. (Remember when we did that...when we danced outside in the pouring rain  and splashed in the puddles with our cold, bare feet?) I want to believe that we will cuddle  up with them by the fireplace and rock them to sleep and drink in the sweet scents of baby skin and warm cocoa and fresh rain...all mixed together.

I want to believe that we will cook up many more big pots of pasta and have lots of “fights” over whether or not to put oregano in the sauce. I want to believe that our children and grandchildren will sit around our table, year after year, for holidays and birthdays and just-because-days and laugh and eat and talk, all at the same time. I want to believe our home will be filled with enough life and laughter and love to keep us deliriously happy.

I want to believe that we will take that cruise to Alaska one year, then sail through the Mediterranean the next. I want to believe you’ll be sitting right across from me, sipping on a glass of wine, as we watch the sun go down over an Italian vineyard. I want to believe we will sleep with the window open and hear the waves wash up upon the Sicilian shore in the little town where my grandparents were born. I want to believe we will go to all the places we’ve imagined and do all the things we’ve dreamed of doing....and then some we’ve thought we never would.

I want to believe that nothing will ever take you away from me. I want to believe that no matter what happens around us, you will always be right here, next to me. I want to believe that your smile will always be the last thing I see before I close my eyes each night and the first thing I see when I open them each morning. I want to believe I will never have to miss looking into your eyes and seeing into your soul. I want to believe that I will never have to know the emptiness of life without you.

I so want to believe all these things, with all my heart. I want to be just like Dorothy, in The Wizard of Oz, and believe making you well is as simple as clicking my heels together three times and repeating an incantation....Because right now, nothing feels right, or safe, or believable the way it used to. I want to believe everything can feel just like home again.

Yes, it’s true that I don’t want to believe you have cancer. But, even more, I do want to believe that you will beat it... and so, I will. I will believe you’ll  beat it. I will believe you’ll get well. I will believe you’ll be healed. And I will believe we’ll do and see and feel all the things we’ve dreamed of. Because I believe in miracles....and I know you do, too.