October 17, 2007
She was sitting three chairs down in the Chemo room, and her conversation was directed at the woman sitting next to her. In a strident voice, she announced, “I told my doctor a thing or two. . . something has got to be done about the pain; you’d think that they could figure out how to deal with that by now.” The other woman, with scalp showing through thin black hair that was either coming or going, murmured something about being sorry about the pain, and the woman continued, not quite so loudly, “In fact, you’d think by now, in this day and age, they’d have found a cure for this. . .crap.” Again, the other woman said something in soothing tones, and the first woman laid her head back and said, quietly now, “Life is hell. . . it’s just hell.” She was crying. At such moments, one might think the words, “Don’t worry, it’ll be better tomorrow” or “Hang in there!” or like phrases would be appropriate, but those are times that one must move through alone. The perception that you had help walking though “the valley of the shadow of death” may not come until after the journey.
I have been thinking quite a bit about life and death since the last visit to the oncologist and the report of the rapid increase of blasts in the blood stream, and a recurring thought for me is how life is not all bad. There are moments in each day that are good and worth the living. I think I would be more fervent about the sentiment expressed in spiritual songs about arriving at the Promised Land, or crossing the River Jordan if I lived in a basement apartment next to the freeway, with leaky plumbing and a husband who was a slob and whined a lot and with neighbors in the next apartment whose television was turned up loudly until late at night. Instead, my days move forward in a beautiful physical setting of home and land and I have faith in God, a wonderful husband, family, friends and yes, even the dog to bring me joy and delight. The difficult part is the blood that is diseased – the hours come where there is no energy, the arms and belly are so covered with the bruises of injections that even cloth hurts to the touch and there are no thoughts that are interesting. Yet within that framework, like the single defiant daisy that is blooming beside the walk in the yard, life beckons and has promise that tomorrow will be better.
This October seems to have confounded the growing things in Sanctuary. The overnight temperatures remain in the fifties, so there are crickets starting up with tentative sounds, and some frogs have begun to croak along the stream. While the plums and cottonwoods have flung their leaves to the winds quite some time ago, the willows remain leafy and green, perhaps not knowing whether to stay or go or unaware of the passage of time moving all of us ever closer to winter’s domain. If north winds bring great drops in temperatures, and the rains turn to sleet and ice, many of these trees will be sad and damaged so I say, “Drop those leaves before its too late!” as I walk past – naturally they remain cheerfully oblivious as they wave in the wind.