Courage

Almost always the obituary of a cancer patient refers to his "courageous battle with cancer."

Makes me wonder--are all cancer patients courageous?

Courage requires action in the face of danger. It does not require absence of fear but rather action in spite of fear.

When I had a cold a few weeks ago, each morning I woke up expecting to feel better. I wasn't terribly sick just tired and lacking energy. I hated wasting time not feeling well, not accomplishing anything.

Then I realized: This is how Jim feels every day. His major side effect from the chemo is fatigue. Every day he gets up as tired as when he went to bed. Yet, he has the courage to keep taking the very drugs that keep him in a state of exhaustion. This perseverance in the face of unremitting pain and suffering is heroic. How much easier it would be to say, "I quit. I give up. I can't take it."

Are all cancer patients courageous? Maybe not. But all that I've met are.

I have tremendous sympathy for caregivers who are sick or for couples who both have cancer. The year following Jim's first surgery and treatment, I prayed that I would stay well and I didn't have so much as a sniffle! I must say that in the ensuing six years I have been in overall good health. I don't take that for granted.

This week has been a reminder of how blessed I've been. I started with a headache and sore throat on Tuesday, plied myself with Zicam and VitaminC (which probably does no good), and tried to convince myself that I wasn't sick. On Wed night I brought out the big gun, my favorite beddy-bye elixir--NYQUIL. I don't know whether it made me better but at least I slept.

By Friday night I succumbed and admitted that I must have a sinus infection with a cough. I could hardly wait to get to bed last night with my Vicks Vapo-rub, 12 hour nasal spray, a box of Kleenex, and my shot of Nyquil.

The bad news is that Jim has the cough, too.

He wanted to take something for his cough at bedtime. "Should I take prescription cough medicine (someone elses)?" he asked, having learned to depend on my expert medical advice, "Or should I take Nyquil?"

I was so concerned with getting some relief myself that I couldn't think straight. I tried to focus. What ingredients might be contraindicated with the multitude of super drugs he is taking? I should look it up on the computer. If I weren't dying I probably would. "Take Nyquil," I finally tell him as I head off for a hot bath.

Unfortunately I can't shirk my responsibility so easily. I spent the night listening for his breathing to be sure I hadn't killed him. Thank God, he seems fine this morning--but I'm still sick.

The caregiver's caregiver (not)

Never let my husband take care of me if I am wounded or ill!

I love Jim. He is a man of many talents but God knew what He was doing when he made Jim the patient and me the caregiver. If the tables had been turned I would have been dead years ago.

Tonight when we came home from dinner, I was drawn to the yard like a mosquito to a plump babies leg. The July evening is so beautiful, unusually cool and pleasant, and the rain-soaked dirt beckoned me to pull weeds while the pickin' was easy. I didn't even bother to make my usual preparations: mosquito repellent, garden gloves, crocs, and work clothes. Impulsively, attempting to beat the setting sun, I flew in still dressed in crisp white bermudas, a linen blouse, jewelry and my Stuart Weitzman sandals. Bad decision or lack of .

The bed in front of our house was filled with a twenty-five year growth of man-eating ivy, strawberry vines, violets, leaves, baby trees, and various and sundry weeds. I decided several weeks ago to remove the mess and paid Corbin to do the work. He did as much as he could and left the remainder to die off.

Tonight while the ground was wet, I figured the time was right to pull up the remaining vines. I pulled viorously with both arms flying fogetting that I did not have the protection of gloves. As I grabbed a large clump of dried roots, I felt a piercing pain in my thumb. Of course, I couldn't see exactly what had happened (I didn't have on my glasses), but I could make out a piece of root nearly 2 inches long. impaling my right thumb. Granted it was a shard of root, more like a large splinter, stuck through the side of my thumb, protruding near the lower nail bed cuticle.

I rushed to the door of the screened in porch (locked from the inside) and called for Jim who was watching--what else? the Cardinals' game.

"I need your help," I yelled, trying not to alarm him. Fat chance.
He ambled to the door, looks at the branch stuck through my hand and wiggles it. Trying not to faint, I scream, "You are going to have to cut one side off before you try to pull it through."

Now this is the priceless part. We move into the kitchenwith me holding up my throbbing hand. The kitchen is rather dark (sundown). He doesn't bother to turn on the light. The next thing I know he approaches me with the pruners. This is the absolute truth. I tried to follow his reasoning: a garden injury requires a garden tool?
The object to be removed is a plant? Or maybe a hand injury calls for hand pruners?

When I realized he was serious, I stopped him in his tracks. "Are you nuts? You can't cut it with those. You need scissors."

Nonplussed he looks at the implement and says, "Hmmm. Maybe."

He finally got the job done, after I suggested he stop the bleeding, apply some alcohol, and a bandage--none of which he would have thought of on his own.

Thank God I wasn't knocked unconscious. I think I should get one of those "I've fallen and I can't get up" thingies and take my chances with the fire department.

This just in: Jim came in from pool house: "How's your finger?" (At least he asked. I never said he's not thoughtful. "It's throbbing," I said not turning away from the computer. "I just told everyone how you took care of me." He says, (really and truly, I have to laugh) "Well, it's my chance to be the caregiver to you."

Poor, poor, thing. He really is clueless. Wait til he reads the post!

The Good and Humble Samaritan

I have been reading Thomas R. Hargrove's book Dragons Live Forever about his experience in Vietnam. He is an extremely good writer with a story to tell. He did not offer much about himself in our conversation at the airport--it was I who introduced the topic of writing after which he talked about his books. He didn't mention that he has a doctorate and is an expert inthe area of rice agriculture for third world countries or that he and his wife Susan offer support to families of victims kidnapped in foreign countries. His second book The Long Road to Freedom is the true story of his captivity by NARC in Columbia. There is a movie based on the story starring Meg Ryan. All in all, a very interesting and accomplished fellow. I wish I'd had more time to talk with him.

The Good Samaritan

When we arrived at the airport in Memphis we were informed by the agent at the gate that the flight to Houston was overbooked and that so far only one person had agreed to take the compensatory free flight and give up his seat. This after Jim spent 5 hours on the phone with Delta changing our times and securing a direct flight. Just as I was explaining our situation a rather disheveled man walks up and hears our plight. "Perhaps I can help," he said. "I have a seat on this flight but I will give it up if you can book me on another that will get me to Houston in time to make my connecting flight to Dallas. In fact, I don't have to be home until Monday--if you will pay for me to stay I can fly out tomorrow."

Wow! God works fast!

After twenty minutes of negotiations (for him) we had our seats on the 1:40 flight. The man came over and sat down by us as I thanked him for his kindness. He had been in St. Louis for a reunion of his Vietnam platoon. From the smell, I think they had been celebrating non-stop. Turns out he is a published author, Thomas R. Hargrove, who just happened to have a few of his books with him. The book, which I purchased is A Dragon Lives Forever: War and Rice in Vietnam's Mekong Delta published by Texas A & M University Press in 1994. He has 2 more published by Random House one of which--about his captivity by NARC in Columbia--has been made into a movie. I don't remember the name. They called us to board. I will look it up on line. Very interesting guy.
Making this divine encounter even more amazing--he was traveling to Dallas to get his wife who is being treated for LUNG CANCER. We gave him one of our cards. I will follow up later.
God is full of surprises.

Caregiver's Complaint

Caregivers occasionally need to vent without rousing the ire of the people who haven't walked in these shoes and therefore don't realize that the patient--however sick he might be--still has faults. For instance:

Jim is annoyingly "prompt." This coupled with his aversion to inconveniencing another human being can drive me crazy. When we come to Houston, we call ahead to have our Afghan friend Ferreydoon (Fred) pick us up at the airport. Fred is a paid driver. He is not doing us a favor--we pay him for his services. If we are to arrive at 3:30 Jim tells him to pick us up at 4:15 so that we don't keep him waiting. When we have a direct flight, with no problems, we arrive early--which means we end up waiting for 45 minutes. Since this has happened the last few times, I suggested that Jim tell him to be there at 3:45. When we got on the plane today in Memphis and it was apparent that we would be leaving on time, I suggest he call and change the pickup time. But no, being his stubborn Taurean self, he wouldn't budge. Better he wait in the 100 degree heat, fighting the side effects of chemo, than to have poor Fred sit in his airconditioned car for 15 minutes.

When we got to Houston--at 3 o'clock, Jim did call him to say we had arrived early but it was too late to change the pick-up time. I know what you are thinking--Jim is such a nice guy, so humble and thoughtful,--true, but there are times when it rankles.

We have had more arguments over the years--not because he wants to be prompt, but because he wants to be early! I like to be prompt ,too, but not early, because as you all know I hate to wait. Actually it's because I hate to waste time. As my children will attest, I'd rather squander money than time. I plan everything to the last minute (not always successfully) so that there aren't gaps of unproductive time. I am the consummate multi-tasker. I never go anywhere without a book, (in fact i've been known to read while I drive (well, only on the high way with light traffic and cruise control), I pray while I exercise, memorize scripture while I walk, and wait to make obligatory phone calls until I'm in the car. I only talk with friends while I make beds, unload the dishwasher, or dust. Scratch that--I gave up dusting a few years ago. I have dropped cordless phones into the washing machine, the toilet and the sink. Before cordless I fried several cords while cooking.

I even schedule my R & R. My daily "to do list" has time allotted for an occasional napping for watching my favorite TV shows ( and that I try to combine with eating). I actually thought my time stewardship was a virtue until the psychologist pointed out that I was driving the rest of the family crazy.

Before you come down on me too hard, let me say that I didn't press the issues with Jim. Just one "I told you so" as we waited in the sweltering heat for the car to arrive." But I didn't pick a fight--in his weakened condition it wouldn't really have been fair.

A Summer State of Mind

I’ve spent the past two weeks loafing and languishing, enjoying the freedom of summer—which is odd since summer offers me no more freedom than any other season. Having lived the better part of my life tied to the school calendar, I find that remembrances of summers past are too strong to ignore. When school’s out, the pool’s open, and the temperatures soar, I feel liberated from all things remotely suggesting work and obligation.

I lie by the pool as if I have nothing to do and nowhere to be. When I’m hungry I eat; when I’m sleepy I nap. I succumb to the lure of a good book—during the day—a pleasure I usually postpone until bedtime. I watch chic flicks or “All My Children” with no thought given to the dust bunnies collecting in the corners or spider webs in cracks and crannies.

Summer is an attitude formed in childhood when the mind is still malleable. Parents continue with their year-round drudgery allowing the kids to operate on a more flexible schedule with less supervision. Bed times are extended, rules are broken. Imaginations run as wild as the barefoot children free to roam as far as their legs or bikes will carry them.

Adolescent summers. Days at the pool, the smells of chlorine, and suntan lotion, and hamburgers sizzling on the concession stand grill. Basking on wooden lounges, the sun beating down on yet-to-be damaged skin, head on my arms, noises in the distance of cannon-balls and can-openers, and life-guard whistles accompanied by shouts of “No running” and “Stay off the rope.” I’m about to drift off when a teenaged admirer seeking attention dumps a hatful of icy water over my sun-baked back.

A day at the pool is followed by a baking soda bath, a splash of Jean Nate, and sun dress chosen to show off the newly tanned skin. The boyfriend arrives driving his dad’s ’62 Bonneville. Destination—the “Dog ‘N Suds” for root beer in an icy mug delivered by a car hop.

The memories are so thoroughly assimilated that all these years later summer still holds the promise of romance and the possibility of adventure. When the thermometer rises and the aroma of Coppertone fills the air, I ignore self-imposed regulations and surrender to the summer state of mind.

Now my adventures take a milder form. I no longer swim in the forbidden shale pits or flirt with bad boys in fast cars. Tossing caution to the wind, I indulge myself in a racy movie, a late night swim, potato chips without a picnic, chocolate for breakfast--the forbidden fruits of adulthood. I haven’t donned a bikini yet or attempted a half-gainer from the diving board—but summer’s not over.