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 The Backside of Chemo Jim’s Reflection On The Impact of Cancer
Wednesday, January 14, 2004
By now, most of you know that Janice is the writer in the family. She has, in four concise e-mail blasts to friends and family, articulated the events and emotions of the discovery, diagnosis and daily drudge of her first two weeks of cancer in a way that has touched everyone who has read them.
I am, however, not a writer. Over the years, I have fancied keeping a daily journal, capturing pithy and poignant observations of my daily struggle, writing in the wee hours of the morning, summarizing my quiet time in a leather bound book while watching the glorious sunrise. Unfortunately, this has not been the case. My few feeble attempts at this discipline have been more like the bad editorial I wrote in high school about Woodstock than the brilliant contemplative meditations of Thomas Merton.
Given that fact, I woke at 2:30 this morning, at the end of the first week of Janice’s chemotherapy, and could not get back to sleep. During those dark, silent moments, lying in bed, listening to the bzzpt, bzzpt, bzzpt of my dear wife’s chemo pump emptying poison into her veins, I became overwhelmed with all we have experienced in fourteen short days. My mind and emotions started to race, making sleep futile, so I got up and decided to put some thoughts down to help me process the events.
In the last two weeks, I listened on the other phone as Janice shrieked in disbelief when the doctor said he had bad news, held her as she wept and trembled with fear, watched and tried to mediate as my two boys ping-ponged with emotion dealing with the reality of their mother’s cancer, nodded deftly as the doctor explained my wife’s condition, tried to process the fact that what only happens to other people was in fact happening to my family, and put my nose to the grindstone in an attempt to plow through this reality.
I have learned a whole new vocabulary: multiple myeloma, lesions, b-protein, stem cell transplant, chronic vs. terminal; I’ve read countless websites and brochures from cancer-related foundations, and desperately tried to put into perspective what all of this will mean to my family, our finances, and most importantly our future.
It’s funny (not in the ha, ha sense, but in an episode of The Twilight Zone sense) and goes without saying, that a lot of the things that seemed important three short weeks ago just don’t seem that important anymore.
We are absolutely scared. Janice and I have had 23, almost 24, years together. When asked how long we have been married, our response has always been, “Not long enough.” Since the day we were married, Janice has looked forward to our 27th anniversary - when she will have had her “new name” as long as her “old name.” The years of our relationship have not been perfect. For anyone who knows the Chaffee family, you know that it has often been a struggle with four type-A personalities living under one roof. The joke around here is that it is impossible to end an argument because everyone has to have the last word. We have dealt with cross country moves, career changes, developing a writing/speaking career, starting a new business, and all the pain and anxiety of adolescents (raising teenagers is not for the faint-hearted). Honestly, in some ways, life hasn’t turned out exactly as we planned. But in spite of all life’s curve balls, I can’t imagine my life without Janice.
Last Thursday morning I had coffee with my long time friend, John Marshall. Being the loving friend and professional counselor that he is, he comforted me and helped me articulate my emotions. In the course of our discussion at Starbucks (where else do you have this kind of meeting), John sensitively, and in a roundabout way, asked me (and I don’t remember his exact words) how I was dealing with my wife’s mortality.
Wow. There’s a question you don’t get every day.
As I contemplated the gravity of his question, and begin to answer, what came out of my mouth, I believe, was a direct word from God. A word that at this point in my family’s journey is all that Janice, Elliott, Taylor and I have to hold onto.
“I have today, John,” I said, “all I have is today. All I can do is put one foot in front of the other and deal with the now.”
In fact, that is all any of us have. All I can do is live in the present moment: Today the prognosis is encouraging; Today Janice feels stronger than she did yesterday; Today the chemo is attacking this terrible disease and reducing the tumor growing behind Janice’s right eye; Today the drugs are working to restore her weakened bones. Today my boys are thinking more about each other than they have in years and are trying to do everything possible to help Mom - the woman who has spent her life doing for us. Today we are over-whelmed with the love and prayers of hundreds of old friends, new friends and compassionate prayer warriors we have never met. Today we have the opportunity to see the face of Jesus in all those who are reaching out to the Chaffee family in our desperate time of uncertainty.
I know that God speaks to us through the testimony of the past; I know that as Christians we have the hope of eternity with our Heavenly Father (however that will look); but today we experience His living presence. If we live in the fear of how many days we or our loved ones have left, or the dismal expectation that something terrible is going to happen, then we loose the joy of today. Whether Janice, you or I live five or fifty years more, if we spend that time in fear about what bad things might happen, then we choose to live under a dark, ominous cloud which will distort our reality and quench our joy. We will have wasted the opportunity to experience life to it fullest.
What has that meant to me over the last two weeks? In very small and tangible ways, it has meant that, once again, I’ve experienced things, I am sorry to say, I have overlooked for the past several years. In this short time I have felt the security of my parents’ love (in a way I haven’t since I was a child), especially when I watched them hurry down the hospital corridor to embrace me the first night of Janice’s tests. I have cherished the moments of tenderly kissing Janice and feeling every point of contact with her perfect mouth. I have held my two grown sons in a way that I haven’t since they were little, and I have felt them hold me back. I have watched as Elliott lovingly detached Janice’s pump after the first round of chemo, flush out the tube with saline solution and removed the needle from the port-a-cath in her chest. I have observed Taylor attack chores and race around the house doing things to help with a zeal normally not seen in an 18 year old. I have laughed, cried and prayed with people whom I have known for years but never taken the time to exchange intimacy. I have felt the bottomless depth of love from our dearest friends who over the years have become family. I have wept like I have never wept, cried out to God like I have never cried out, and I have experienced Emmanuel (God With Us) as countless people have come alongside my family in this time of need.
Living in the present for me, right now anyway, is not living in denial; it is living in the moment that God has given me, and hopefully, I’m not missing any piece of it. Today I pray that you will hold close those who are most dear to you and tell them that you love them. I pray that you will see, experience and sense things your busy life has forced you to miss. Most importantly, today I pray you will know the ever loving presence of God – for each of you has made His presence a reality to Janice, my sons and me. Thank you.
Jim "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.” |
