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 Update #4, Tuesday, January 13
Dear Friends, Thank you again for your outpouring of love and support. To answer the most frequently asked question in your e-mails, Mary Bess Smith has graciously offered to organize our food/meal schedules, for which we are grateful. Please contact her at home: 615-673-8156, cell: 615-397-5698, or mary.bess.smith@cpa.christpres.org. After a week of ports, catheters and meds, I’m finally getting a bang out of my chemotherapy buck. I had my first reaction (almost exciting!) – a burning sensation inside my mouth, which made swallowing more than a bit hard. I soothed it down with a bowl, ok, pint, of Godiva Belgian Dark Chocolate Ice Cream, then called the doctor’s office for a prescription. In the back of my head, I heard the song, “What a difference a day makes; twenty-four little hours a day.” Only, it’s been seven days since the last update, and, of course, so much has happened. Of course, in the continuation of this lingering nightmare, we have had our share of humor. We’ve been a bit, oh, distracted lately, so we didn’t think to pick up the mail on Friday or Saturday. After church and lunch on Sunday, we opened our farm-size brass mailbox to find it stuffed. Among the junk and bills, and kind cards and letters from many of you, was a large, manila envelope from the American Cancer Society. Jim, the Boys, The Girlfriend, and I sat on the couch, opened it, and just howled with laughter over a full color, glossy brochure for berets, newsboy caps, cloches, wigs, and turbans with acrylic, detachable bangs! A shirred hat, tall and wobbly and closely resembling the topper on The Cat in the Hat was, of all things, called a Denim Bucket. If I have to endure the indignity of cancer, I am not wearing a “bucket” of any kind on my head! I know I should be more respectful, but it was one of those things that just struck us as stinkin’ funny. The “not so funny” days occur when I come face to face with my, um, well, control issues; the futility to manage the wafting time. How incomprehensible it is to look at a clock, to mentally register the numbers, then look back again and not be able to compute if seconds/minutes/quarter hours passed. Since the medical explosion of Dec. 29, (my personal Sept. 11), I find myself reasoning, sorting logic, reprocessing time to, “All I wanted was a new lens for my glasses….how did we get to THIS point?” I continue to make every effort to control what can be controlled – with the resultant exhaustion. I wanted Christmas stuff taken down NOW, the laundry done NOW, the floors vacuumed NOW, the windows washed (now you know I’m sick), and order brought to every corner of this house. But, try as I may, there is no order…only trust in God who orders and controls a universe spinning, whirling, careening through space. And outside the human boundary of time, before God Created Us, before God With Us, before Cancer With Us, the timeless peace that passes understanding breathes on me. Only God is in control of real time – that is “a combination of moment and event” – and I live in the specificity of God’s mercy. I experienced the mercy and care of my son Elliott. The child certainly rose to the occasion and “volunteered” to drive me to the oncologist’s last Thursday, where he learned how to disconnect the fanny-pack-of-poison (chemo) from the port-a-cath in my chest. Saturday night produced a family drama, meaning: I freaked out because the buzzer/timer that signals the end of the chemo treatment hadn’t gone off when scheduled and the chemo bag nearly drained dry (crumpled in on itself like a juice box with all the air sucked out). I called the American Cancer Society, as instructed, and they took their ever-loving sweet time to call me back. When they did call, I listened to their instructions and repeated them to Elliott. To witness the Mother-Son Drama, life-long friend Craig arrived in time to watch Elliott wash his hands (several times, at my urging) and play the role of an ER doctor. We laid out the entire array of medical “goodies” on a clean towel on the kitchen table, and Elliott began the painful procedure of pulling off the 5-inch square of water-proof, stick-to-your-skin-until-the-rapture bandage that sealed the port-a-catheter. I tried not to react (like scream or hide under the table) as my son unstuck the double-layered, hermetically sealed, nuclear-resistant covering. He tenderly wrestled it off - a 5-minute process with much verbal assistance from the audience (Jim). Then everyone in the kitchen loudly offered advice on how to stop the flow of chemo and disconnect the pump from the port. “Use the bottom clamp; no, the top one.” Once doubly clamped, Elliott removed the battery from the pump and unscrewed the connector, leaving a 7-inch dangling tube, still attached to the catheter under my collarbone. A single bead of red/orange chemo dropped on the towel and gave me pause – for all that its shimmering radiance represented. Elliott picked up a syringe of saline solution, tapped the air bubble to the top like a pro, squirted up a nice little spray, and proceeded to flush out the tube – just as he learned at the doctor’s office. More advice from the audience: “Slow down; too fast, keep it steady.” I added my own suggestion: “Just squirt it in there!” Elliott injected a second syringe of anti-coagulant. Talk about trusting your child with your life. Now duly injected, we acted out the last scene of the drama. The chemo entered the port through the plastic tube, through a funky shaped, mosquito-type probe. The yellow, butterfly shaped edges attached to the needle laid flat against my skin and Elliott had to lift and pinch them up (literally like lifting a butterfly by the wings) to pull it out. It was hard for his manly-sized fingers to get a grip on the small plastic tabs and he tried to be gentle. There was lots of commotion and opinion around the table until finally I yelled, “Just pull it out!” He yanked - then fell silent as he held in his hand an inch-long proboscis needle, the tube swaying like a tail. We all stared, then nearly fainted after a collective groan. It really didn’t hurt me – the way it looked and the thought of it hurting made us sick to our stomachs. Drama over. Our grand finale was to double-bag all the toxic “leftovers” in two ziplock bags – they were all safely enclosed in four. Today, Tuesday, the house is emptied of its recent fill of festivities; Christmas colors cleaned from counters and tables; a yawning cavity where the tree recently stood; deliberate clutter sequestered until next year; lighted garlands stuffed in plastic bins until a new December’s darkness calls for twinkles of promise. The stripped “evidence” of Christmas leaves a void and I am gingerly stepping into faith and belief that is unseen. I saw, felt, smelled, touched and tasted the essence of Christmas. Even though I do not see, feel, or sense them now, I know Emmanuel - God With Us – was, is, and shall remain, whether tangible or inconspicuous. The house is emptied of people, as well. The grandparents gathered their belongings and fled back to Oregon, via California. The Girlfriend flew out Sunday. (Poor dear. Imagine my son saying, “I’d like to introduce you to my mother; she usually doesn’t have a bulging Chihuahua eye.”) Monday morning, Taylor went back to high school to complete his senior year and Elliott flew back to Boston. Despite the return to “normal,” Jim and I have not returned to “routine” by any means. This has been a good, hard, reflective, weepy, laughing day. Our pastor, Thomas, a few elders from the church, Steve and Deb and Craig and Jim stood around me to pray and to anoint me with oil. Simple prayers are precious; truth is pure; honesty is brave, and trust is a process. Frederick Buechner must have known that when he wrote, “What's friendship, when all's done, but the giving and taking of wounds?" Thanks to all of you for being willing to take my wounds. 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.” |
