Chicken Soup for the Cancer Survivor's Soul (8 page)

Janice had no idea how upsetting her phone call was. I was the
shy
one, the girl who hated when people looked at her or talked about her. I remembered how Peggy said I was lucky to have friends and God to help me through this; well, my friends had “helped” by making me into the latest gossip. As for God’s role, I was thoroughly confused. I had just started chemotherapy, which made me tired and sick, and in less than a month my leg would be amputated. Was I being punished for something?

Then one night something happened that completely changed the way I looked at the whole thing—and changed everything else about my life as well. It was around 2:00 A.M., and I was lying on the living room couch. I slept there because there was less space to move around in and agitate my leg. The room was dark and quiet, and I was all alone.

I was thinking again about how only three people in a million get this type of bone cancer, three in a million. And it ran through my mind that there were more than three quarters of a million people living in the Denver metropolitan area. That meant that only about five of them would ever have what I had. The thought sort of stunned me. All of a sudden those figures made me feel, well— special.
Suppose God isn‘t punishing me at all?
I said to myself.
Suppose he has deliberately chosen me?
Let me tell you, that theory got my mind racing. I wasn’t sure why I might have been chosen or how it might be a good thing, but I started looking at the cancer in my leg differently. I knew I could deal with it. When I woke up the next day, I felt a new sense of courage. I was ready to face it.

That courage led me to do things I never would have done before—me, the gal who had been afraid to try out for the track team. A few days before my operation, I called my guidance counselor. “Ms. Larson,” I said, “would it be possible for me to get together with a group of students during sixth period tomorrow?”

The next day I sat in a classroom and watched it fill up as more than 40 kids filed in. “I asked you all to come here because I want to tell you exactly what’s wrong with me,” I told them. “In two days, my left leg will be amputated six inches above the knee. After that, I’ll have more chemotherapy. My hair will fall out, and I’ll be very sick for a while, but I will come back to school in the fall. If you have any questions, you can ask. It doesn’t bother me.”

At first it was so quiet I could hear myself breathe. Finally, one girl spoke up. “Will you have an artificial leg?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Will you have your real foot?” piped someone else.

I laughed, and one by one the rest of them laughed, too, as they realized the absurdity of the question.

“Well, I sort of doubt it,” I said. “I’ll just have a bar or something. You probably won’t want to see it.”

“Aww, come on, Adrienne,” said another girl. “We don’t care what you look like. We just want you back.”

Well, that made me feel great, and by now everyone was much more at ease. And somehow I wasn’t at all nervous about speaking anymore.

Time flew after that, and before I knew it, the Thursday of my surgery arrived. By 7:00 A.M. I had a crowd around my bed: June, my youth-group minister from Littleton United Methodist Church; “T,” the hospital social worker; and of course, Mom and Peggy. (My dad came later, when things were calmer.) Then T pulled out a little package and handed it to me. “This is from Janelle’s mom,” she said.

Janelle was a friend of mine who’d also had bone cancer. I tore open the wrapping paper. Inside sat a little brown teddy bear, and across his chest was a message. It read, “Teddy bears are a symbol of love and friendship, and I hope this one reminds you that there are a lot of people who care about you and are hoping that everything will turn out okay for you.” I thought back to Peggy’s first statement about my having friends to help me through this. Peggy was right—and right about my family and the Lord, too.

I was shaking with nervousness as they wheeled me down to surgery, but when I woke up in the recovery room afterward, I was strangely calm. In fact, I felt a huge sense of relief. The worst of it was over; now I could start doing things again. In a sense, I could start my life over.

As soon as I felt well enough to get out of bed, I began talking to other kids in the hospital. I was surprised to find how bored I was by my usual TV shows. Now I made an effort to meet people and make friends. Oddly enough, it came easily now; everyone seemed curious about my condition, and just answering their questions gave me something to talk about. I felt my former shyness slipping away like an old piece of clothing that no longer fit. When Children’s Hospital asked me to be in their telethon, I happily accepted.

I’d been in my church’s youth group since I was little, and as soon as I felt well enough, I began going back. We met every Sunday night, and sometimes we’d play volleyball or other games. When I first came back, the kids seemed uncomfortable; they didn’t want me to feel left out. But I didn’t mind; I’d stand on the side and cheer them on.

Once I started feeling stronger, though, I wanted to play, too. I knew I couldn’t put pressure on my artificial leg, but I developed a fine sense of balance on one leg. One night, before I could reconsider, I took off my prosthesis. “I’m coming in,” I called. The kids stopped the volleyball game and stared at me, but when I got the leg off and hopped out onto the court, they all smiled and cheered. Later that summer, when I went to a special camp for cancer patients called Sky High Hope, I did everything from rock climbing to horseback riding. Soon every new sport became a challenge. Especially skiing.

Rick Rakestraw, an instructor from Children’s Hospital, showed me how I could ski by using one ski and two outriggers— poles with little skis at the ends. The second I went down that first bunny hill, I knew this was the sport for me. I wasn’t afraid at all.

Before long, I joined the school flag squad, I learned to ride a bicycle and I went out for the swim team. I thought back to track team in eighth grade, how I’d quit before I’d even given it a fair try. So now, even though I was slow and it was tough, I stuck with it. By the end of the season, I was winning races.

But through it all, skiing remained my first love, and one day I was lucky enough to meet Paul DiBello, a skier on the U.S. Disabled Ski Team. Before I knew it I was training with Winter Park’s own handicapped competition program, which is coached by Paul. It’s been the ultimate challenge; every minute is a thrill. Next year I go out for the national team. Watch out! I’m coming!

Sometimes when I’m drifting in a ski lift over a snow-covered mountain, I think about how if I hadn’t had cancer, I probably wouldn’t even be skiing—or swimming, or biking, or anything.

Getting sick was no joy, and I certainly wouldn’t want to go through it again, ever. But I did have family and friends and God to help me see that something good can come out of just about anything. Cancer gave me a courage I’d never had before—the courage to conquer with one leg what I once couldn’t even face with two.

Adrienne Rivera

Peanuts ©1996. United Feature Syndicate.
Reprinted by permission.

“Never Give Up!”

Sir Winston Churchill took three years getting through eighth grade because he had trouble learning English. It seems ironic that years later Oxford University asked him to address its commencement exercises. He arrived with his usual props. A cigar, a cane and a top hat accompanied Churchill wherever he went. As Churchill approached the podium, the crowd rose in appreciative applause. With unmatched dignity, he settled the crowd and stood confident before his admirers. Removing the cigar and carefully placing the top hat on the podium, Churchill gazed at his waiting audience. Authority rang in Churchill’s voice as he shouted, “Never give up!” Several seconds passed before he rose to his toes and repeated: “Never give up!” His words thundered in their ears. There was a deafening silence as Churchill reached for his hat and cigar, steadied himself with his cane and left the platform. His commencement address was finished.

Speaker’s Sourcebook II

Don't EVER give up!

Not Without a Fight

L
ife is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.

John Lennon

My life until July of 1992 was unusually full. The mother of seven children, I also held a full-time teaching position and was a re-habber of aging houses. I was positive, I was invincible and depended heavily on my Irish luck to remain so. It occurred to me in early spring that I had not had a mammogram in several years. Some weeks later, my eldest daughter received word from Loyola University in Chicago that she was the recipient of a fellowship to pursue her master’s degree. She invited me to accompany her to Chicago to find an apartment. I was excited because with my family size, we seldom have the opportunity to spend long periods of time alone together. Checking my calendar, I realized that I had an appointment at 10 o’clock the same day for my checkup. I was tempted to cancel and reschedule. However, I thought I’d just run in, do my thing and then I’d leave for Chicago right away.

Everything proceeded normally until the technician returned to the room and said, “Mrs. Brindell, I’d like to take another picture of your left side.” Irritated to have to endure another uncomfortable procedure, I hesitantly agreed. Time was passing quickly, and I found myself watching the clock. Didn’t these people know that I had made an important date with my daughter? I didn’t want to disappoint her. I considered dressing and walking out. After all, it wasn’t my fault if the technician couldn’t get a clear picture! For some reason, I remained there and again the technician returned saying, “The doctor wants another picture.”

This time he wanted it deeper. “Good grief,” I told her, “if this machine is the latest in technological inventions from Sweden, don’t they have any full-busted women there? This is really beginning to hurt!” We repeated the procedure five more times. My torso ached and finally I said, “Come on, what’s going on here? I’ve really got someplace to be at one o’clock!”

Suddenly, the kind technician who had been so pleasant until then said very seriously, “Wait right here. I will call in the radiologist.” The room became an empty void and time stopped.

The radiologist opened the door slightly to say, “Remember that little lump you had on your left side? Well, it has changed in size and density.”

“What does that mean, Doctor?”

“It means that it could be cancer. I’d like to do a biopsy. We’ll call you on Monday to schedule.” Stunned, I dressed slowly. Not me! No way, not at 48. Life was really just beginning for me. All the really good things were just starting to happen. As I drove home that day, I resolved not to let the morning’s events interfere with my Chicago weekend with my daughter. But try as I might over the next few days to forget, I felt that I had a new companion and I was not sure if it was welcome company.

Upon my return to St. Louis, the pace quickened. The biopsy indicated cancer. My husband of 24 years is a devoted man, but when it comes to being emotionally supportive in times of stress, leave him out. The kids, too, continued doing their own thing. I soon realized that if I were going to get through this “mess,” I would have to call upon all the inner strength for which we Irish women are so famous. And call upon it I did!

On July 8, 1992, the day of my 25th wedding anniversary, I was wheeled into surgery. I remember saying to my husband, “Well, Bob, some people get to go on cruises on their 25th anniversary, I get to have surgery!” The surgeon came into the room the following day to tell me there were two types of cancer cells present; one was an estrogen-based cell and the other was a very aggressive cell. I knew then I had met my match, but I refused to go down without a fight!