Chicken Soup for the Cancer Survivor's Soul (9 page)

My recuperation was very painful. I couldn’t sleep. The pain was incessant. Nor was I able to move my arm. Slowly, very slowly, I began taking charge. I located a physical therapist who gave me exercises to work the arm muscles, I met with a nutritionist to discuss a better diet, and I prepared myself for the radiation therapy that was soon to come.

Crazy as it may sound, the day after I came home, I went to the backyard and began to put in a new sidewalk. Each day, with one arm, I filled buckets with pieces of concrete. I had to test myself. I set goals for myself and worked to achieve them. After all, I had a teaching position to return to in a few weeks and wasn’t going to let cancer stop me.

I took radiation therapy every afternoon following a full day of teaching. I tried hard not to miss any work during that time period. I didn’t want my colleagues to think that because I had cancer, I was no longer a quality teacher. By October of 1992, I felt I had won the battle!

Then, early December found me back at the surgeon’s office for a checkup. We were chatting when he leaned over, touched my neck and said, “How long have you had this lump?” I said, “Oh, about a year. My regular doctor thinks it’s an arthritic nodule.” I noticed his frown as he suggested that it be removed. My family insisted that I take a day off and follow up on the doctor’s suggestion. Another biopsy, what a waste of time! Christmas was right around the corner and I was busy preparing for the holidays.

Once again, I was wheeled into surgery. This time, the diagnosis was thyroid cancer. More stitches, more therapy, more pain. I was down, but not out!

I recall in the solitude of my living room thinking that the first cancer was a fluke, but the second time around told me to get my “house” in order. Then I changed my mind. I decided that it was important to grieve, but if I wallowed in self-pity, any life left to me would be dull.

I set goals again. What did I really want to do with the rest of my life? I have always thought that teaching on the college level would be fascinating. Tomorrow evening, I begin teaching my first class. I feel good about that achievement.

I took positive steps to enjoy the little things. I take the time from doing housework now to go to the kids’ soccer games. I like to feel the autumn breeze while my son plays ball. I take joy in the spring as the trees turn green. Simple pleasures bring great happiness. This summer, while waiting for a baseball game to begin, I walked down to the nearby creek, took off my shoes and walked in the water. As the cool, clear water passed over my feet, I realized how simple God’s plan is, yet how complicated we humans make his earth.

I have learned compassion. I now know that in the spectrum of time, all humans are working toward an ultimate goal. I have an inner sense of peace that was not there before. Nothing really matters but those truths that exist in one’s own heart. You need only look deeply to find them.

I try hard not to be sad. When difficulties arise, I am confident that they last for a brief period, then things get better.

Would I have learned this lesson without cancer? Probably not! What lies ahead for this survivor? Life, learning and love.

Mary Helen Brindell

Nintendo Master

When I first saw you, I thought—Nintendo Master. There was this intensity about you. Your piercing blue eyes and the way your hands moved rapidly along the control buttons were subtle hints of your expert skill.

You didn’t appear too different from all of the other video-crazed 10-year-olds out there, but you were. I guess the fact that it was summer, and we were both stuck in the oncology ward of the hospital cruelly betrayed the normalcy with which you tried to present yourself. Or maybe it was the fact that we were prematurely robbed of the innocence of childhood, and it comforted me to know that there was someone else out there just like me. I can only speculate, but all I know for sure is that I was drawn to your energy and zest for life.

That was the summer of my first post-cancer surgeries. The doctors were trying to fix my left hip joint, which had shattered under the intense bombardments of chemotherapy treatments. It wasn’t the only thing that had shattered. I had misplaced my usual optimistic attitude about life and was surprised at how nasty I could be. This did not help me endear myself to anyone.

My surgery went “well,” the doctors said, but I was in excruciating pain. (The ever-present differing perspective of doctor and patient is an amazing thing.)

I saw you again in physical therapy, realizing only then the extent of what cancer did to you. I wanted to scream, “Let him go back upstairs and play his video games, you idiots!” But I just sat there in stunned silence. I watched you get up and start walking with the aid of the parallel bars. Prior to your entrance into the room, I sat in my wheelchair wallowing in self-pity. I thought, “Wasn’t the cancer enough? Now my hip is screwed up, and I really don’t care anymore. If I get up, it is going to kill me.”

You will never know me, but you are my hero, Nintendo Master. With such courage and poise, you got up on your one remaining leg. Some might have the audacity to call you disabled or even crippled, but you are more complete than many can ever wish to be. After you had your walk for the day, a walk that was perfectly executed on your part, and you were safely tucked into your bed enjoying your video games once again, I decided that it was about time that I got up and took a walk myself. You see, Nintendo Master, it dawned on me then that you had innately known what it takes most of a lifetime to grasp—life is like a game, you can’t win them all and yet the game goes on, forcing all to play it. Nintendo Master, you play it better than most!

Katie Gill

Fighting Back—One Man’s Battle with a Brain Tumor

W
hen you get to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on. And swing!

Leo Buscaglia

He held the drill in his left hand, moved the bit into position, flipped the switch and began working. One hole. Two holes. Then a third. He could have been building shelves or remodeling the basement. But this was no ordinary handyman. He was a brain surgeon, and the holes he was drilling were in my head.

I lay awake on the operating room table, prepped and draped, waiting and listening while the drill bit passed through my skull. There was no pain, only slight discomfort and an audible “pop” each time the drill penetrated the dura (the tough membrane that covers the brain).

The surgeon finished drilling, then inserted a catheter containing five radioactive seeds into each hole. Once the powerful seeds were planted, an X ray was taken to verify that they were in place. When satisfied with their positions, the surgeon stitched up the wounds in my head. His “project” was finished. My malignant brain tumor was officially under attack.

This nightmare had begun about four months earlier. I was 40 years old and working hard at the time, putting in long hours as a surgical chaplain at Methodist Medical Center in Peoria, Illinois. As a surgical chaplain, I ministered to patients and families before, during and after surgery. During the procedure we moved between the operating room and the waiting room, giving the family information about the status of the operation. This was an excellent way to reduce anxiety and make the surgical experience as positive as possible for loved ones.

Although my job was tremendously rewarding, it also was extremely demanding. My colleagues and I were “on call” 24 hours a day, seven days a week, and during some surgeries, particularly open heart, we could be in and out of operating rooms for 20 hours or more at a time. Working under these conditions, it was not surprising that I had more than my share of headaches. Most of the time I ignored the pain, chasing it away with a couple of aspirins.

But in the spring of 1987, aspirins were no longer doing the trick. And now my vision was slightly blurred, I was misspelling words, and I found myself bumping into things from time to time. Clearly, the stress of my job was getting to me. I decided to see my family doctor for a checkup.

On April 21, I had a routine exam and a battery of blood tests. Neither revealed any problems. On May 7, I underwent an MRI, which revealed the source of my headaches and other symptoms. There was a dark shadow about the size of a golf ball on the left side of my brain.

My family doctor delivered the news as directly and gently as he could. He drew a quick sketch of the brain and indicated where the tumor was located. “You’ll have to have a biopsy next week,” he explained, “so we know what we’re dealing with. In the meantime, I want you to get this prescription filled and take this medicine to avoid seizures.” Too stunned to talk or ask questions, I left his office and returned to my own. There I shared the news with my secretary, then drove home—dazed, numb, virtually paralyzed with shock.

Earlier that day my wife, Pat, and our children had gone to visit relatives living in another city. I knew I had to be with them, but was too emotionally devastated to drive myself. The chairman of the pastoral care department and his wife were kind enough to take me. We arrived at my in-laws’ home late that night, and as Pat met us at the door, she knew the news was not good.

I can hardly recall what happened next. Monday came; it was time to meet the surgeon. During our brief meeting, he spoke frankly. “The tumor appears to be an advanced form of cancer.” He encouraged me to ask questions, but at the time, I had none. I was still too numb to think clearly.

My biopsy was scheduled for the next day, so I was admitted to the hospital that afternoon. Because I’d worked there for seven years, many staff members were friends and provided extra support and attention.

I remember one orderly who took me for a routine chest X ray the evening before the biopsy. We talked as we traveled to the medical imaging department and when we returned to my room, he asked to pray with me. This simple act of love moved me to tears.

After a restless night, I awoke early and prayed, “Dear Lord, please give me the courage and strength to face whatever this day might bring.”

It was a grueling day, and the pain only got worse when my surgeon informed Pat and me that I did indeed have a grade III astrocytoma, which meant my cancer was quite advanced, my condition extremely serious. He sat quietly and waited for my response.

A voice came out of nowhere to break the silence.

“How long?” it whispered.

“Six to nine months,” replied the surgeon. “Maybe a year.”

Another long pause... then the voice again.... “How will it happen?”

“You’ll go to sleep one day,” he said, “and never wake up.”

I closed my eyes and let his words sink in. My death was on the horizon . . . and there was nothing I could do about it.

The surgeon left me alone with Pat, my parents, my sister and brother-in-law. Few words were spoken as we all tried to grasp what we’d just been told.

Following my discharge from the hospital, Pat and I decided to go away together as a couple, to start facing the present and planning for the future. We spent a weekend in seclusion, talking, crying, praying, trying to make sense of it all.

We held each other and talked about our lives together, our children, our shattered dreams. “What will we do?” Pat cried in anguish. “How will we go on? I’m so afraid!”

As I saw my own despair mirrored in Pat’s eyes, I suddenly realized that I had to draw on God’s strength and love to get through this nightmare. It was as if God said to me, “You are an ordained minister; it is your job to comfort people. Call on My strength now, for Pat and for you, as you would for patients and their families.”

I took a deep breath and declared, “I’m going to fight back, Pat. I’m going to have radiation and chemotherapy. I know the doctor has given me no hope for survival, but I can’t just let this thing beat me. I want to go on working as long as possible. Working as a chaplain is my ministry, my life! I can feel that God wants me to do this, that he has a purpose for me.”

When we returned from our getaway, closer to one another and closer to God, we tried stepping back into a somewhat normal life. We held regular family meetings to keep the lines of communication open. I encouraged everyone—even my seven-year-old son—to ask questions, speak honestly and vent their emotions.

At the time, we believed I had virtually no options for cure, but I fought to prolong my life with aggressive chemotherapy and radiation treatments.

During radiation, I used guided imagery techniques to help overcome my fears and anxieties. I imagined a game going on inside my head, and every time the Pac-Man gobbled up another dot, one more piece of my tumor was destroyed.

Just as I was about to wrap up the treatments, my surgeon contacted me about a new procedure being done in San Francisco. He called it “interstitial brachytherapy,” and said it involved implanting highly radioactive seeds directly into the brain tumor. I immediately went to the medical center’s library and read articles in medical journals, learning all I could about this new hope.

Pat and I discussed this new option with the surgeon, and although it sounded frightening, we agreed I had little to lose by pursuing it. I knew I had to continue striking back at the insidious foe within me. My records were sent to California to determine whether or not I was eligible for the procedure. Then we sat back and waited, afraid to hope, yet unable to give up.

It was more than three months before we received word that I was accepted into the program. We rejoiced at the news.