May 19, 2009
Yesterday, when we made the drive returning from Lincoln to our home, I looked out over the roadsides and fields – the colors were so beautiful, I imagined my hand to be like a giant’s hand reaching out and stroking over the soft grasses, following the undulating shape of the hills, and touching the tops of the willows and cottonwood trees in the valleys between. We have had very little rain this spring, but the earth has sent forth its best anyway. I think the early settlers must have seen this season, planted seeds, and assumed that the bounty would come, but instead the dry days and hot winds arrived and reduced everything to exhausted burned out stems by the time summer ended. We have had those times too, and it is possible that this will be such a year, so we must continue to live in the moment and enjoy fully what the present has to offer.
It felt strange to visit with the oncologist and hear the finality in the words, “The chemotherapy treatment did not work this time, and there is nothing more that we can do.” He went on to say that if we wanted to find another opinion, he would be open to that; the discussion continued about what he knows, what information he has been able to gather at conferences, etc., and what people do when they hear these words. He said that he has had several former patients who went to Lourdes, France to ask for a miracle, and some have gone forth to seek out alternative treatments. He talked about how emotions take over, and rational thought seems to flee – and finally we talked about trust. Since he has been my doctor for almost three and a half years now, the trust in his judgment is great, and we are glad.
In a way, it is like the TV program where the contestant stands before three doors and must choose one of them for the grand prize. For me, it might be Door #1 which would be contacting other Cancer centers around the country and pursuing any kind of clinical trials that might be available. Door #2 opens to the present plan of a kind of medically centered hospice; close contact with my GP, calling him when feeling ill, and trying to avoid getting into the pattern of red blood transfusions until absolutely necessary. (According to the oncologist, the body will make adjustments over a little time to deal with less. . . like it does when one goes to a high altitude. So one has to give it a chance to work with a lower red blood count before rushing into the transfusions. Once I begin into those on a regular basis, the inevitable downward spiral increases in velocity.) Door #3 has a bleak and empty place behind it, where the phrase “There is no cure” keeps playing over and over again, and a heaviness settles in. I have peeped behind Doors 1 and 3, and the space behind the first door is seductive – it whispers, “Maybe…” Behind the third door is a place that I find myself every now and then in spite of attempting to keep away and it is very hard to be there. The second Door opens to the space in which we choose to be at this time. A dear friend who has lived this entire scenario with her husband said it best when she commented, “It’s the curse of the disease. When you feel good, life is good, and looks wonderful. When you get sick, which inevitably happens since you have no immunities, you have the hope of returning to feeling well, but you never know if this time will be the last time”.
Like the giant’s hand hovering over the beautiful hills, I truly do feel God’s care and the web of many people’s concern and prayer that is above, below and all around us, and today I feel good, and life is fine.