Chicken Soup for the Cancer Survivor's Soul (27 page)

Finally I called up a picture of myself glowing from head to foot with vitality and health.

Day after day in our peaceful retreat, with the blue Pacific to rest my eyes on and its lulling sound constantly in my ears, I waged my campaign. Prayer. Deep relaxation. Meditation. Seeking special moments when I could see God and feel His presence in the most commonplace events, as I had seen Erika at the dinner table that night in New York.

A week went by. Two. No change. One day I sat with Erika at the table while she worked at writing the alphabet in cursive script, something she found difficult. Suddenly she threw down her pencil and burst into tears. “I’ll never be able to do this, I just can’t.” Frustrated, she laid her head down on the writing tablet.

I stroked her hair. “I know how discouraged you feel. Sometimes things need a lot of practice and patience to work. Then all at once—bang—you’ve got what you’ve been working so hard for. Have faith and you’ll see. You’ll do it.”

The words rang in my ears. I realized I needed to hear them myself.

On the morning of the 20th day, after 120 meditation sessions, I woke up and stretched. The cabin was still. The curtains stirred at the window and tawny California sunshine streamed in. As usual, my hand crept to my shoulder to touch the familiar, evil lump bulging out from between my ribs. My fingers stopped and spread out. Where is it? My palm rested on smooth, flat skin. I sat up and swung my legs out of bed. Slowly, almost tiptoeing, I walked to the mirror. I took my hand away. It’s gone! The horror was truly gone. The tumor was completely absorbed. There was no evidence it had ever existed.

“Scott, wake up! Erika, come quick!”

Weeping, laughing and thanking God, the three of us burst out onto the early-morning beach, hugging each other and dancing with joy. Then Erika knelt and picked up a smooth white stone. “Here, Mommy, this is for you,” she said as she slipped it into my hand, “so you can remember this day forever.”

Twelve healthy years later, I still can’t say whether the cobalt alone would have healed my tumor. I have kept the little stone that Erika gave me. Its very ordinariness reminds me that, though human problems are as plentiful as pebbles on the beach, faith in God gives us a singular power to overcome them.

Sybil Taylor

Kindest Cut

It was a bold and bald-faced—or rather, bald-headed— act of friendship: On March 11, 13 fifth-grade boys lined up to have their pates shaved at the Men’s Room, a San Marcos, Calif., hair salon. Valuing substance over style, the boys embraced the full-sheared look because their classmate Ian O’Gorman, 11, about to undergo chemotherapy for cancer, would soon lose his hair. Says Ian’s pal Erik Holzhauer, also 11: “You know, Ian’s a really nice kid. We shaved our heads because we didn’t want him to feel left out.”

If compassion were a subject, the Bald Eagles, as the boys now call themselves, would clearly get A’s. They took notice in early February that Ian was starting to lose weight. Then on February 18, doctors removed a tumor the size of an orange from Ian’s small intestine. The diagnosis was non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, which has a 68 percent survival rate after five years for children under the age of 15. Two days later, Ian’s best friend, Taylor Herber, came to the hospital. “At first I said I would shave my head as a joke, but then I decided to really do it,” says Taylor. “I thought it would be less traumatizing for Ian.” At school he told the other boys what he was planning, and they jumped on the
baldwagon.

“Soon,” says Erik, “just about everyone wanted to shave their heads.” That included a few girls, who never went through with it, much to Erik’s relief—”I don’t think Ian wanted to be followed around by a bunch of bald girls,” he observes—and Jim Alter, 50, their teacher, who did. “They did all this by themselves,” he says. “They’re just really good kids. It was their
own
idea. The parents have been very supportive.”

Ian, who completes his chemo in May, is already well enough to be playing first base on his Little League baseball team. “What my friends did really made me feel stronger. It helped me get through all of this,” he says gratefully. “I was really amazed that they would do something like this for me.”

And they won’t stop until it’s over. “When Ian gets his next CAT scan,” vows Erik, “if they decide to do more chemotherapy, we’ll shave our heads for another nine weeks.”

People Magazine

Taking Time for Tenderness

I jerked on my seat belt and backed the car out of the garage, oblivious to the signs of early spring that usually gladdened my heart. I was on my way to my friend Joan’s birthday breakfast, but I felt tight as a coiled spring. My mother-in-law, Penny, had come to live with us after a series of heart problems and small strokes. And since her arrival it seemed I’d done nothing but care for her.

This morning I’d maneuvered Penny to the edge of her bed, sponged soapy water over her body, rubbed lotion into her wrinkled skin, and brushed and braided her long hair. And as I did it, I wondered: How could she just sit there and say nothing, with me working so hard? If only she’d give me one word of thanks for the total, daily care I gave her. All she said as I put scrambled eggs and whole-wheat toast in front of her was, “I wish I could have something sweet. With cinnamon and sugar.”

“Sugar’s not good for you, Penny,” I said, fighting to keep the tension out of my voice as I settled her in a chair by the phone and started out the door.

It wasn’t fair. Penny’s helplessness threatened to crowd out my simplest daily pleasures. I didn’t even have time to take a break for a cup of tea, to enjoy the springtime. A dozen times a day I found myself wondering,
What about me?

I blinked back tears as I parked the car and hurried into the restaurant. There sat my friend Joan. Her husband, Butch, had Alzheimer’s disease and she devoted herself to his care. I couldn’t imagine how she kept going year after year.

“Happy birthday!” I exclaimed as Joan greeted me with a hug. When I sat down, I discovered a package at my place, wrapped in tissue paper and tied with silver ribbon.

“Joan, what’s going on? It’s your birthday.”

“Just open it,” she urged.

Inside was a beautiful oak wall plaque. “Blessed be the God...,” read the gilded inscription, “who comforts us in all our affliction so that we may be able to comfort...”(II Corinthians 1:3-4, New American Standard).

“Joan, it’s a treasure,” I whispered, awed by a friend who gave presents on her own birthday.

“I thought you could hang it where you can read it often,” she said. “I discovered that verse one day, and it changed me as a caregiver.”

“So that we may be able to comfort.” Words quite a bit different, I thought, from “What about me?”

Joan pushed back wisps of gray hair. “When Butch got sick,” she said, “all I could think of was myself. I was so tired, so guilty, so angry. But each day God always found ways to comfort me—in the touch of a friend’s hand, in the beauty of the seasons, in the smallest ways. And in the same ways that God comforted me, I started searching for ways to comfort Butch.”

“Like what?”

She laughed. “Nothing big there, either. It turned out the littlest things made him happiest, too. Like reading the comics to him, even though he doesn’t understand much. Or putting a ribbon on the cat. Or popping corn and watching the news together.”

I thought of Penny back home in her too-quiet room. Had I been so caught up in caring for her body that I forgot her spirit? For the first time, I tried to think of what might bring joy to her day instead of mine.

After Joan and I said good-bye, I drove to the grocery store. Near the entrance were pots of bright spring flowers, and I selected one bursting with tulips. Then I headed for the bakery, then home.

“Mary?” Penny called as I opened the door. Her hands were folded in her lap on the newspaper exactly as they’d been two hours before.

Impulsively I planted a kiss on the top of her head. “I need to take a break, Penny,” I said. “How would you like to have a cup of tea together? And an apple Danish?”

Her eyes lit up. “With cinnamon...and sugar?”

“With cinnamon, and sugar. And fresh tulips!”

“It would be wonderful. Oh, Mary...”

“Yes, Penny?”

“Thank you,” she said.

Mary Vaughn Armstrong

Practical Tips to Help the Seriously III

• Don’t avoid me. Be the friend...the loved one you’ve always been.

• Touch me. A simple squeeze of my hand can tell me you still care.

• Call me to tell me you’re bringing my favorite dish and what time you are coming. Bring food in disposable containers, so I don’t have to worry about returns.

• Take care of my children for me. I need a little time to be alone with my loved one. My children may also need a little vacation from my illness.

• Weep with me when I weep. Laugh with me when I laugh. Don’t be afraid to share this with me.

• Take me out for a pleasure trip, but know my limitations.

• Call for my shopping list and make a special delivery to my home.

• Call me before you visit, but don’t be afraid to visit. I need you. I am lonely.

• Help me celebrate holidays (and life) by decorating my hospital room or home, or bring me tiny gifts of flowers or other natural treasures.

• Help my family. I am sick, but they may be suffering, too. Offer to come stay with me to give my loved ones a break. Invite them out. Take them places.

• Be creative. Bring me a book of thoughts, taped music, a poster for my wall, cookies to share with my family and friends....

• Let’s talk about it. Maybe I need to talk about my illness. Find out by asking me: “Do you feel like talking about it?”

• Don’t always feel we have to talk. We can sit silently together.

• Can you take my children or me somewhere? I may need transportation to a treatment, to the store, to the doctor.

• Help me feel good about my looks. Tell me I look good, considering my illness.

• Please include me in decision-making. I’ve been robbed of so many things. Please don’t deny me a chance to make decisions in my family or in my life.

• Talk to me about the future. Tomorrow, next week, next year. Hope is so important to me.

• Bring me a positive attitude. It’s catching!

• What’s in the news? Magazines, photos, newspapers, verbal reports keep me from feeling the world is passing me by.

• Could you help me with some cleaning? During my illness, my family and I still face dirty clothes, dirty dishes and a dirty house.

• Water my flowers.

• Just send a card to say, “I care.”

• Pray for me and share your faith with me.

• Tell me what you’d like to do for me and, when I agree, please do it!

• Tell me about support groups like Make Today Count (MTC), so I can share with others.

Saint Anthony’s Health Center

Ziggy © Ziggy and Friends. Distributed by Universal Press Syndicate. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.

How to Make a Sick Child Smile

Our 11-year-old daughter, Rebekah, is hospitalized frequently for treatments. Beforehand, we always talk with the doctor and tell Rebekah what to expect, addressing her fears. But then when she is in the hospital, loneliness and boredom often set in. That’s when we’re grateful for all the friends and relatives who ask, “How can I help?” Here are a few suggestions from what we’ve learned.

1. Visit. Visitors are an important part of the healing process. Young visitors, especially, help children in the hospital feel less isolated. Rebekah always perks up when her brother, Bryant, comes by. If you have a young friend in the hospital, check the rules and take your children along. Talk quietly if the patient is asleep. Don’t discuss the negative details of the disease in front of the child. If a doctor is present, wait for the examination to be finished, then visit.

2. Send cards. Mail notes and cards to the child’s home—the parent will check the mail. Let your youngster create a homemade card or draw a picture. Once, Rebekah’s Sunday school class made a banner and a giant card with a special message from each classmate. Rebekah was thrilled and displayed them in her hospital room.