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 Tuesday, January 27, 2004
And the hits just keep on coming. In some strange crimp of logic and recently acquired sense of entitlement, I expected our home to become exempt from ordinary wear and tear. However, in the past two weeks, the dishwasher broke and the heater pump burned up. The worst was the loss of Jim’s favorite Christmas gift. For years he has wanted a French Press Coffee Maker and Santa finally put one under the tree. Every morning since, he ground his precious coffee beans to the exact consistency, added just enough water to produce a liquid slightly thinner than syrup, and patiently waited for the brewing process to yield two and a half cups of caffeinated elixir. He was a happy boy. Until the morning he filled the glass cylinder with water, swished the dregs, and went outside to pour them over the edge of the porch onto the rhododendrons. I sat at the kitchen table and watched as he swirled and tossed, as he curiously looked over the deck railing, then slowly lifted the stainless holder up to his eyes. His shoulders slumped, his head dropped and slowly swayed back and forth. He had thrown both the dregs and the glass pot on the ground and held only the silver stand.
He looked so pathetic I both laughed and cried. He came in and showed me the empty vessel. “I saw,” I said. “We can buy another glass pot.”
“We can,” he replied.
And here is an example of where cancer has redefined normalcy, redetermined what is needed vs. what is wanted. We did not really need the French Press; it was nice to have, but today, it isn’t essential. Jim pulled out an old Krups coffee pot the next day and it worked very well.
Report on Monday, January 26:
Thank you for your prayers for a good PICC line insertion on Monday. They were not answered; that is, not as we wished.
I arrived at the hospital at 10:00; by 11:00 was starving and scarfed five packets of Saltines and a Sprite. Since I was admitted into the Outpatient department, Johnnie and I (see Update #3) had a great reunion and the dear saint once again prayed with me. There was no clock on the wall, but it was close to noon when into the room swept a feisty, attractive blonde whose specialty is PICC line insertion. She gave a detailed explanation of the procedure and began. My elbow was numbed with cream then injected with a tiny shot to numb the inside of my arm. She retied the tourniquet on my upper arm three times (Ouch, too tight!). “I’m taping your skin,” she said. “Yes, I can feel that,” I replied.
“I’m going to count from one to three and on three, I’ll insert the line.
You won’t feel it. One, two, three.”
A few seconds later, Ms. Specialist said, “All done.”
I gasped for breath. “It still hurts.”
“It can’t hurt. Show me where.”
Blondie and I had a lengthy conversation; she told me to move my arm normally and not to “baby” it. I tried. Some angles were fine; straight down and bent up as if eating were excruciating. (And I’m always hungry, due to the steroids!) She kept telling me it couldn’t hurt and eventually left for another appointment. I waited for the x-ray technician to arrive and make sure the line was correctly positioned in my chest. It seemed to take forever before the film was exposed, but I was not in the best frame of mind to calculate the passage of time.
A new nurse came in the room. “Mrs. Chaffee, my name is June. May I pray for you?”
I nodded, she knelt, grasped my hand, and offered the most gracious prayer to God on my behalf. More tears.
Later a nurse with an impressive name badge came in. She was head/chief of something, seemingly Ms. Specialist’s supervisor. She looked at the PICC line and confirmed that it couldn’t hurt, but just to indulge me, offered to take off all the tape and check. I begged her not to touch the tape. She did. (Dear God in Heaven, please, grant some genius the insight to create sticky, sterile, and easily removable tape. Allow me to buy a fortune worth of stock.) After the multi-levels of tape were removed, Nurse Superior slightly tugged the PICC line, just in case it was crammed a “bit too tight” against my skin. More tape was reapplied and condescendingly patted.
My
mind game began: 2. Had I become conditioned to the association of needles and pain? Yes. 3. Was I apprehensive prior to the procedure? Yes, let me count the ways. 4. Was I in pain? Really? Yes. 5. Did I want to get to Dr. Murphy? NOW.
Cathy went to the nurses’ station and urged them to get the x-ray report and release me. They did. And I promptly walked to the elevator for a ride up to oncology where I had only too recently spent three drug-filled days and nights with my blue, blood-clotted, inflated arm and chemo-port-removal surgery. On that occasion, three shifts of staff personnel had politely inquired about my writing-speaking. Honestly, they were too easily impressed. But because of their interest, I delivered gift bags filled with my books, new brochures (to prove that a good hair cut and makeup application, along with strategic lighting and a professional photographer can greatly improve one’s appearance), and a copy of all my recent updates. It could be that while they carefully attend to my cancerous realities, God will allow me to contribute to their spiritual well-being through my “stuff” that reveals a bit about my work and faith.
I arrived at Dr. Murphy’s office around 1:30. He saw me as I entered and immediately asked, “Are you still in pain?” All I could do was nod and sob out, “Yes.” Obviously he had been called and apprised of my condition.
In Exam Room 1, nurses Kathy and Susan tended to me. Then Dr. M. came in with great news. On January 15, my red blood cell count was 26, eleven digits below a healthy average of 37. After my $1,000 shot of Procrit, my count had “profoundly improved,” jumping to 35. The Dance of the Red Cells stomped up a miracle. The level of calcium should be less than 10.5. My first count was 13 (way too high). Today, it is 8.5. Best news of all: My cancer protein (immunoglobulin – I’m learning the medical lingo!) was 2400. After one dose of chemo, it dropped to 1478. Dr. Murphy wrote “Awesome!” on my chart. I suddenly love that over-used word.
Dr. Murphy, unlike his newest patient (me), speaks judiciously and waits before speaking. He watched me carefully as I tried to bend my arm, winced with pain, and launched my bargaining pitch. “If you tell me this PICC line is correctly inserted, and the pain will go away with a pill or two, and if I can get one good night’s sleep, then go ahead and put in the chemo and let’s get going. I can do this.”
Dr. Murphy does not bargain. At 2:50, he simply said, “We’re taking out the PICC line. You shouldn’t have any pain.” I resisted the urge to jump up and hug him. Before Nurse Susan removed the device, blood was extracted through the dangling tube – and it didn’t hurt. But I did feel the cleaning surge of saline solution. When it came time to actually remove the PICC line, I faltered. “Will it hurt?” (Isn’t this a moment to stop and realize how full life is with that phrase, “Will it hurt?”)
“No,” Susan answered. Pause. “It shouldn’t.”
It did.
Dr. Murphy felt I had done so well with just one dose of chemo, he consulted with some myeloma experts and they all agreed that since both devices used to adminster chemo were problematic for me (understatement), and since my response to the first round was so surprisingly beneficial, I could bypass the next three doses. Pass Go, Collect $200, and jump straight to the Thalidomide treatment. Some of you may remember that in the 60’s, Thalidomide was given to pregnant women for nausea and/or morning sickness but resulted in terrible infant birth defects. It has, however, produced good results in the treatment of myeloma and it is the next course in my ongoing battle.
In reflection, perhaps our prayers were answered about the PICC line. Perhaps I can’t seem to get the chemo in my body for a reason. Perhaps the Thalidomide will bring even better results. God is in control and perhaps our prayers should begin and end, “Your will be done.”
Two weeks ago, when Pastor Thomas came to our home to anoint me with oil and pray, he asked at the end of his prayer if anything had “moved” me or “resonated” in my soul. I could only say two words: “The boys.” I’m amazed how the love of my children shapes and centers my thoughts for them. With great intuitive wisdom, Thomas comforted me by praying that when the boys’ hearts needed it, they might be compelled to pray, even to a God they might not believe in. I wept. Those who know me know well my tenderness and deep love for my sons. It is no secret that with all my life, and especially now, I long for them to seek and love God.
What foolish theology we often adopt in crisis. My initial response to my diagnosis was, “How shall I live in this shadow of death? Now I full-heartedly believe that in this daily privilege of living, my purpose is to reflect the image of God, to reveal God’s compassion and unconditional love. My purpose as a professing believer is to model faith in the unseen, to rest in the peace that boggles understanding, regardless of my physical or emotional state. It is my purpose to live authentically, to remain truthful in the pain and in the prospect of death and in the process of recovery. And still verbally hope for healing and survival in the presence of my children and spouse.
In my living, I pray my flickering beam of light will direct my sons’ gaze to the Source of Light; that my deterioration and re-blossoming will draw them to the Creator of Life. I want to grasp proper theology and hold tight in every aspect of life. Even here, with the obstacles of my harsh realities and disappointments, with good counts and surprising turns, I know God is with me. This woman/mother’s prayer is that my family/friends/sons will sense the presence of God and see that presence in me. I mean, PICCS, pills, prayers, problems, people, coffee pots, and possibilities – it’s all a part of the privilege of life, isn’t it? .
Janice
P.S. On Tuesday night, my computer crashed and burned. Plastic to ashes. Consequently, some of you may have missed Update #5. By next week, you can find a new website with all my Updates plus pictures and sundry stuff. I’ll forward the site address when it’s ready.
Oh, by the way, I have a goose-egg sized bulge, with lovely blue and purple and golden hues, in the bend of my right elbow. Exactly where it “couldn’t hurt.”
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