Chicken Soup for the Cancer Survivor's Soul (13 page)

One day, she brought in a specimen cup and requested a urine sample. After she left, I poured my apple juice into the cup. When she returned for the specimen, she observed it and noted, “My, we’re a little cloudy today, aren’t we?”

I asked to see it, removed the lid and said, “Yep, better run it through again,” and drank it. The look of shock on her face was priceless.

Norman Cousins

Until Tomorrow Comes

T
he tragedy of life is not that it ends so soon, but that we wait so long to begin it.

Anonymous

Our lives changed drastically on a spring day that started like any other—in a humdrum way. The alarm clock rang, I dressed quickly and headed downstairs to make breakfast for my husband, Orville, and our four children.

In the kitchen I set the table, put the coffeepot on the stove to perk and prepared oatmeal. The sun was just coming up, and it was probably a glorious sight rising over the Mississippi (we can see the river from our house), but I was too preoccupied to notice. I was still trying to figure out the math problem that had stumped my 13–year-old son, Mark, and me the night before.

Before I could solve the problem, Orville interrupted my thoughts by slumping into his chair at the table. “Honey,” he said with a sigh, “I discovered something just now as I was washing under my arm—I felt a lump there.”

Even though our kitchen was toasty warm, a chill of fear swept through my body as I recalled how Orville had been coming home from work for months complaining of being so tired. But I didn’t want anything serious to touch this husky man I loved so much, so I said, “Now, don’t worry so much. You’re probably still feeling the effects of that flu you’ve had. But if the lump doesn’t go away in a few days, you should have it checked.”

By the time he went to the doctor several days later, there were three lumps. Orville told him about the nagging tired feeling and his lack of energy.

“Well, we’ll remove one of the lumps,” the doctor said matter-of-factly, “and have it checked.”

When the day came for the biopsy, we took my mother and Mark with us to the hospital. I didn’t say anything to Tammy, 11, Lori, 8, or Britt, 4, about their father’s problem. While waiting in the hospital lounge, my mother and I passed the time by recounting events of the 14 years since Orville and I had married. There was our first meeting one morning in the little restaurant where I worked—Orville’s big brown eyes were heart–melters— marriage, children, chicken pox, drafty farmhouses, overdue fuel bills, Orville’s struggle to find his calling. He had made a lot of job changes before he began writing for newspapers—and then his search was over. He loved newspaper work.

We kept talking about our lives until Mark interrupted us. I looked up to see a nurse beckoning; she escorted me into an office. The doctor was mercifully quick. “Mrs. Kelly, your husband has lymphoma.”

“Can-cer?” I stammered. I could hardly bring myself to say the word. Numbly I stumbled out of the doctor’s office. My eyes burned and I knew I was about to cry, but I bit my lip and drove a fingernail into my palm. “Not here, Wanda, not here,” I told myself.

Straightening, I marched down the hall to the office to see about Blue Cross and hospital papers, then to the lobby and outside. The cold air had barely hit my face when the first tear ran down my cheek. By the time I got to the parking lot I was sobbing uncontrollably. “Mom, I’m going to lose him,” I wailed. “Why, God? He’s only 42.”

After a couple of minutes I pulled myself together, dried my eyes, powdered my face and pasted on a smile. By the time we drove around to the hospital entrance to pick up Orville, I thought I looked okay, but he knew I’d been crying. “Don’t worry, honey,” he said as he stepped into the car. “I’ll be all right.” But his voice was listless, and I had to clench my teeth to keep from crying again.

After dropping off Orville, Mark and Mother at the house, I took the babysitter home. Hurrying back to my family, I passed a church and suddenly decided to go in. I was grateful there was no one there because I ran down the aisle and threw myself on the floor in front of the altar.

“God, dear God,” I sobbed, “please give us a miracle. Heal Orville. I beg You.” I don’t know how long I lay there pleading, weeping, but after a while I got up, left the church and went on home.

Orville was lying on the davenport, staring at the ceiling. We exchanged some meaningless conversation and I went to the kitchen to fix dinner. At the table the kids were as noisy as ever, but Orville ate in silence and left as soon as he was finished. Not once did he say anything about the doctor’s report and not once did the word cancer come up in our conversation.

After further hospital tests, the doctors told Orville he might have as little as six months or as long as three years to live.

From then on, Orville and I talked very little to each other. A tension built up in our home. The gaiety that had always been a part of our marriage and our household was gone. No longer were there picnics or barbecues or rides for an evening ice cream cone, as we commonly did in the past.

Although the children didn’t know what was wrong, they became edgy and upset. I was sometimes sharp with Mother, and she cried over the slightest thing. When I tried to talk to friends about our situation, they said, “Don’t think about it,” and tried to change the subject. Gradually, perhaps out of fear and not knowing what to say, our friends stopped seeing us. There was no one to talk to, nothing to say. I’ve never felt so alone or lonely in my life. And I knew it was even worse for Orville.

He spent most of his time in the study lying down. In fact, he slept there at night. Coming to bed with me would have meant that we had to talk to each other, something neither of us could bear. Though I wanted to say something loving, positive, hopeful, and I was sure he wanted to reassure me, we couldn’t find any honest words, so we remained silent.

Meanwhile, I spent hours pleading with God. And every night before going to bed I prayed the same prayer. “God, heal Orville, please....“

Then Orville was placed on chemotherapy. For his treatments, we drove to a hospital in Iowa City. I’ll never forget that first return trip. We had taken Britt along and he was asleep in the back seat. Inside the car we rode in complete silence except for the purr of the engine and the humming of the tires.

Suddenly Orville spoke, clearly and distinctly, in a tone I hadn’t heard for weeks. “Wanda,” he said, “you know, I’m not dead yet.” Abruptly he pulled the car off the highway and parked. “Honey, I’ve got cancer. Cancer. And I’ll probably die of it. But I’m not dead yet. We’ve got to talk about it.”

I reached over and touched his hand. “Are you sure you want to?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” he continued. “We’ve got to face it together. I know you haven’t told me the way you really feel. I don’t know how we can help each other if we don’t talk about it. I’ve just been moping around the house making everyone miserable.” He took a deep breath. “Let’s go home and have a barbecue tonight,” he said. “And tell the kids. I don’t want to waste any more time living like we have.”

Pulling me to him, Orville threw his arms around me and gave me a long kiss. For the first time in weeks I felt a flicker of our old happiness. The sun was shining brilliantly on the rich fields and bright fall leaves. Part of a great burden had been lifted off my shoulders and I felt alive again.

I bought spareribs on the way home and that evening we cooked out, just like old times. After dinner I put little Britt to bed and we called Mark, Tammy and Lori to join us on the back porch.

It was a lovely starlit night. In the distance the moon shimmered on the Mississippi. As the children gathered around, Orville said, “I think it’s time you knew what’s wrong with me.” Then he explained that he had cancer— a disease that destroys parts of the body—and the doctors said he would probably die of it. Tammy’s eyes filled with tears and Orville drew her to him.

“But I’m not dead yet, honey. I’ve started treatments and I’m going to stay alive just as long as I possibly can. Sometimes things may get bad, but I want you all to help me to live with this. We don’t have to like death, but we don’t have to be terrified by it either.”

Orville hugged and kissed each child and saw them off to bed. As he did, a dark cloud seemed to lift from our house. After the children left, Orville and I sat together on the porch for a long time.

“Wanda,” he finally said, taking my hand, “when this happened, I cursed God. Why did He do this to me? Why not somebody like that drunk down the street who has no family?”

“Well, driving home from the hospital today in our deathly silent car, I felt so bad I finally turned to God for an answer. And do you know what my answer was? To go home and barbecue. To start living again. Why not? I thought. I can still move about. The very idea that almost normal life could go on, if I’d allow it, really charged me up.”

Orville turned and put his arm around me. “You know, honey, it’s like being on a train, and far ahead of you down the track you see your final destination. But there are many station stops in between. Well, instead of concentrating on that final destination, I decided to take advantage of each stop along the way and make the most of the remainder of the journey.

“Wanda, I don’t really know how many days I have left. For that matter, none of us knows how much time we have left on this earth. So why not grab each day as it comes, make the most of it, explore it to the fullest, enjoy all its delights and treasures.”

With his new attitude, new energy seemed to flow into Orville. A few days later he sat down at his typewriter and wrote an article for the Burlington newspaper, telling how it feels to be a person with a terminal illness. After the story appeared, we were deluged with letters from all kinds of patients and their families. It gave Orville the idea of starting some kind of club. Maybe people in life-threatening situations could help one another. The first meeting was held on January 25, 1974, in the Burlington Elks lodge. The 18 people who attended decided to call their group Make Today Count (MTC). Others heard of MTC and formed chapters around the country. Soon Orville was traveling all over the country, speaking and giving interviews.

And my life changed, too. As I grew more aware of the potential of each and every day, I gained the incentive to finish high school. Last year, realizing that I might someday shoulder responsibility for our family’s welfare, I completed my high school credits. Later on I hope to go to college.

Even more important, as I’ve watched Orville renew himself, my own faith in God has blossomed. God had always been real to me, but now, being involved in something so positive and fulfilling as MTC, I’m discovering new strength in God and feel that His word comforts me more than ever.

The other day Orville drew my attention to the lilacs outside our door. They were full-budded, waiting to break forth once more. They reminded me so much of Orville’s own renewal.

Orville Kelly’s Ten Suggestions:

1. Talk about the illness. If it is cancer, call it cancer. You can’t make life normal again by trying to hide what is wrong.

2. Accept death as a part of life. It is.

3. Consider each day as another day of life, a gift from God to be enjoyed as fully as possible.

4. Realize that life is never going to be perfect. It wasn’t before and it won’t be now.

5. Pray. It isn’t a sign of weakness; it is your strength.

6. Learn to live with your illness instead of considering yourself dying from it. We are all dying in some manner.

7. Put your friends and relatives at ease yourself. If you don’t want pity, don’t ask for it.

8. Make all practical arrangements for funerals, wills, etc., and make certain your family understands them.

9. Set new goals; realize your limitations. Sometimes the simple things of life become the most enjoyable.

10. Discuss your problems with your family as they occur. Include the children if possible. After all, your problem is not an individual one.

Wanda Kelly

EDITOR’S NOTE: In his recent book,
Make Today Count
(Delacorte Press), Orville Kelly tells how the organization that bears the same name helps terminally ill people cope with their problems. Says Kelly of MTC meetings, “They give cancer patients an opportunity to talk honestly about their feelings and to discuss their anxieties and fears with others whose circumstances are similar.” In addition to informal discussions, ministers, psychiatrists, physicians and lawyers are often asked to speak at meetings. There are now some 60 MTC chapters around the country.

If you would like to know how you can help, or if you want additional information about Make Today Count, please write to: Make Today Count, Mid-America Cancer Center, 1235 E. Cherokee, Springfield, MO 65804, or call 800-432-2273.

Two Things Not to Worry About

In my life, I have found there are two things about which I should never worry. First, I shouldn’t worry about the things I can’t change. If I can’t change them, worry is certainly most foolish and useless. Second, I shouldn’t worry about the things I can change. If I can change them, then taking action will accomplish far more than wasting my energies in worry. Besides, it is my belief that, 9 times out of 10, worrying about something does more danger than the thing itself. Give worry its rightful place—out of your life.