Dear Family and Friends,

I wanted you to hear directly from me how my life drastically changed in just twelve hours last Monday.  But, first, a little background information. 

A couple of weeks ago, I got new eye glasses.  The right lens didn’t seem “right” but the technician said to take time to get used to the new prescription.  So I squinted and bobbed my head up and down, trying to find focus, to the point that my eyeball felt like it was going to explode.

A few days before Christmas, my right eyelid became inflamed; swollen, red and heavy.  I had just finished up some antibiotics for a sinus infection so I thought the infection had settled there or that I had a cold in my eye. 

Then on Christmas night, slathering anti-wrinkle cream around my eyes, I felt a small numb spot on my right temple.  That’s odd, I thought to myself.  By Sunday, Dec. 28, my entire temple was numb, from my eyebrow down to my cheekbone.

Monday morning, at precisely 9:30, I was in my Ophthalmologist’s office, asking for a new right lens and an antibiotic for the infection.  In passing, I also mentioned the numbness.  He measured eye pressure, made me read the tiny, blurry letters on the wall, and rechecked my glasses.  He wrote out a new prescription, and then, of all things, suggested I go to the hospital next door for an MRI. 

I looked at him like he was crazy.  Just give me a new lens and an antibiotic.  What the heck do I need with an MRI?     

We said our goodbyes, and I dissolved into an emotional puddle.  I couldn’t stop crying, which, really, isn’t like me in that type of situation.  I couldn’t see to write the check, so Jim was called in from the waiting room.  I blubbered that the doctor recommended an MRI and would he please pay the $20 co-pay.  Not exactly the same as shopping for a good deal on clothes the day after Christmas.

We went downstairs to the optical shop where I chose some frames for my new prescription.  I’m supposed to pick them up on Jan. 8^th or 9^th.

As we drove home, I realized I didn’t get a prescription for the infection or for the numbness.  So I called my General Practioner and was given a 1:45 appointment.  I told the entire story again; can’t see clearly out of my right eye, swollen lid, numbness in the temple.  All I wanted was a prescription.  Again, I was told to get an MRI.  I resisted.  After a brief battle of wills, the doctor went to the lobby and asked Jim to come into the room.  The doctor handed him a prescription for a steroid pack (to reduce swelling) along with an order for an MRI at the local hospital, just to “make sure there’s no bad stuff causing the swelling of the nerves,” the doctor said. “It could be Bells Palsy, which basically heals by itself, or it could be MS.  We want to rule out any bad things.”  The order had STAT written on it in big, black letters (should have been a clue).  The doctor told Jim to drive me straight to outpatient; the staff was waiting for me.

Talk about surreal.  It was as if we were floating through a slow motion film.  The MRI was interesting, fascinating, and noisy, and I found myself wishing for a paper and pen to write down the sounds, the bird-like beeps, the jackhammer-like pulses, the staccato blips.  It was also claustrophobic and I kept my eyes closed the entire 12-15 minutes.

 When it was over, Jim and I asked the technician, “So, what do we do now?”  He told us to go home and wait for the doctor’s phone call.  Instead, we went to Costco to fill the prescription for the steroids, bought some food for dinner, and talked about what a strange day it had been.  At home, Jim cooked a great meal, served our plates, and as we walked toward the television, the phone rang.  I answered to hear my doctor say, “I’m afraid I have some bad news.  You have a tumor behind your right eye.”

I replied, a tad emotionally, “Wait, wait, I need my husband on the phone.”  I told Jim to pick up the other line.  When he did, the doctor repeated the same lines.  He talked more but I had stopped listening. . . until he said “cancer.”  I stopped breathing.  He said I needed an immediate CT scan and blood work.  Would I prefer going back to the hospital tonight or tomorrow morning? 

I chose that night.  So Jim and I put our un-touched plates on the counter, called the boys and told them to meet us at the hospital.  I was ushered right in to the radiology department where technicians withdrew gallons of blood (ok, several vials), then was whisked to the CT scan room.  The technician repeatedly said, like I didin’t get it the first time, “You have to stay still or we’ll have to do it again.”  Then he added, “I’ll inject something into your IV which will feel warm as it goes up your arm, then a metallic taste will appear in your mouth and lungs, then you’ll feel like you’ve peed all over yourself.  You haven’t.  It will just feel that way.  But don’t move!” 

As the body tray slid into the mouth of the CT machine, I closed my eyes.  The first and second series of sounds weren’t so bad.  I thought, I’m doing very well.  I didn’t taste the metal stuff and I didn’t pee.  Then the tech re-entered and said, “Now here comes that metallic stuff.  Remember to stay still.”  And he injected some liquid into the IV.

Wow.  He was right; a rush of warmth up my arm, aluminum foil in my mouth and chest, and, dang if I didn’t pee all over myself.  Hot, wet, warm, and flowing.  All the time, the tech yelled through the speaker, “Don’t move.”  I really wanted to deck him., but I didn’t move.  When the CT scan was over and I was allowed to sit up, I couldn’t help but glance down to see if my jeans were wet.  They weren’t, but I still shook my leg for the last drops to fall. 

When that fun was over, I was escorted across the hall, where a very nice lady took between 50 and 100 x-rays; every bone in my body was photographed from four angles.  Surreal.

When that freezing cold delight was over, I was taken back to the waiting room, where Jim sat with his worried with his parents (who are here for Christmas), and our good friends, John and Diane Marshall.  One of my sons was pacing the hall and the other son was curled in a fetal position in a corner.  I tried to be cheery and told the story about peeing all over myself.  I seemed to be the only person who thought it funny.

It was about 9:30 p.m. when we arrived home from the second trip to the hospital.  Life had drastically changed since 9:30 that morning, when all I wanted was new glasses and a prescription.  Instead, twelve hours later, I had an MRI, CT scan, X-rays, and bruises from blood labs.

There was nothing to do but wait, but not for long.  Early Tuesday morning, my doctor called with confirmation of the bad news.  I do have a tumor and they are almost certain I have multiple myeloma, cancer that affects white blood cells in the bone marrow.  (If only I knew what that truly means for me; I do know that most patients die within 3-5 years.  Geraldine Ferraro is the only patient who has lived for 10 years.  I recently watched her on the Today show.)  I digress.  Anyhow, the doctor instructed me to be at the hospital on Wednesday morning, Dec. 31, at 7:00 for a bone marrow aspiration and biopsy.

That was not exactly our plan for New Year’s Eve.  And let me assure you that a bone marrow aspiration is not fun.  Actually, the worst part was the 50-something woman, toothless, gray hair braided in a pig tail, who introduced herself as “The Vampire.”  She was a lousy vampire; she couldn’t find a vein in either arm or hand after five or six tries.  I looked over at a nurse and asked, “Could you please get someone else?”  She took charge, told Vampire Woman to stop, and left to find a specialist.  Nurse Johnnie returned with an anesthesiologist to withdraw blood and another nurse to put in the IV, both of whom succeeded on the first try.  Then a stranger came in, identified himself as a doctor, and told me to roll over and let my bare little tushy hang out. (He didn’t really say, “tushy.”)  I obeyed.  As the doctor washed my backside with antiseptic and proceeded to push a needle into my hip bone, Jim was brave and watched the entire procedure, even though the nurse kept asking, “Would you like to sit down?”  He didn’t and witnessed my first bone marrow aspiration.

The doctor was truthful:  the first shot did feel like a bee sting; the second burned, and, yes, the only true pain was when he extracted the marrow.  After what felt like a minute of excruciating torture (probably just 10 seconds), he stopped withdrawing and the pain stopped, too.  I was given a good blast of Demerol and slept like a baby.  Quite honestly, I was a bit irritated at Jim and Nurse Johnnie when, a few hours later, they made me wake up and get dressed.

I must insert here that the presence of God has been around me – through the voices of friends over the phone, and the care of the nurses.  Johnnie attended to me all day and her compassion was so tender.  She prayed for me and promised, as she wheeled me to the exit, that God would be faithful.

My assignment for New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day was to collect all my urine.  Now isn’t that special?  Makes for interesting party conversation.  Our dear friends, Steve and Deb Taylor and Ben and Elaine Pearson came for a New Year’s Eve celebration; there was much to celebrate at the end of 2003 and there will be cause for celebration in 2004, no matter what the new year brings.  My only tears were when they huddled around and prayed for me, which was so comforting. 

Thursday morning, we delivered the gas-can type urine container back to the hospital and afterward sought comfort in an unhealthy breakfast at Cracker Barrel. 

I just wanted to live a normal day.  So after breakfast, we returned some of the clothes Jim gave me for Christmas.  In an overly lit dressing room, I was overcome by the superficiality of caring about the color or cut of a sweater.  I returned everything, bought nothing, and then we all decided to get out of the mall and go see a movie.  We chose Cold Mountain.  Bad choice; a little too much death and dying on the screen.  And too much sex while sitting next to the in-laws.

Today is Friday, January 2.  My moment of truth will come this afternoon from the oncologist who will review all the blood samples, the bone marrow, the MRI, the CT scans and x-rays and, hopefully, will call us with us a proper diagnosis..

I will stop writing now, a little after 10:00 a.m.  I am bruised, sore, aching, and afraid.  I will finish this later today, after I’ve heard the report from the oncologist.  Whatever it is, God is in control.  Good or bad, I know that the Christ Child, named Emmanuel, is the promise of God With Us.  Even in this nightmare that won’t let me wake up, I know God is present.

I love you dearly and ask that you keep me in your prayers.  Please pray as fervently for Jim and Elliott and Taylor.  The boys vacillate between helplessness, forced strength, tears, and optimism.  Honestly, we are all scared of the future – because we don’t know what we’re facing.  By tomorrow at this time, we’ll have an idea. 

Please don’t think me selfish when I ask you not to call the house.  Poor Jim has had to tell the story over and over again and it’s wearing on him.  I can’t summon the strength to talk without crying.  We would love to hear from you via e-mail.  For me: authorjan@aol.com;  For Jim, use his office e-mail: Jim@ChaffeeManagement.com.  Our home address is 212 Forest Ridge Court, Franklin, TN 37069.  If you want to fax, use 615-599-9468.  If you feel you must call, please do, 615-591-0503, but grant us a dose of grace and mercy if we don’t pick up. 

I’ll write later – trusting in the peace that passes understanding.

 Janice

"All material, unless otherwise noted, are owned and copyrighted by Janice Chaffee and James Chaffee, © 2004, 2005, 2006. Permission is granted to forward e-mails, or print for personal use only. No portion of these updates may be quoted in part or whole in any published material or on any internet site without authorization from authors.”

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