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 Monday, April 26, 2004
“Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we’re here we might as well dance.” (Unknown author)
Bad things are continuously, inextricably woven with the good. Because my stem cell schedule changed, I was able to attend GMA’s Sunday night praise and worship service. Nearly 100 artists filled the stage behind host Michael W. (Smitty) Smith. Together, they led the singing of hymns and choruses for over 2,000 people in the Ryman Auditorium (a Nashville historical landmark and original home for the Grand Ole Opry, for you non-country fans). After a welcome from Smitty and a reminder that GMA is more about worship and music than business, the band should have kicked in. But Smitty had one more thing to say. He told the audience that Jim Chaffee deserved credit for making the annual event possible. He was kindly complimentary and then asked Jim to join him at the microphone. “Jim’s wife has cancer,” Smitty announced, “and we want to lay hands on Jim and pray for him.” I could tell by the way my husband walked toward center stage that he was surprised and emotional. When the two embraced, Jim whispered in Smitty’s ear, “Janice is here.”
Immediately, Smitty peered out against the lights and said, “She’s here. Janice, would you mind coming up and letting us pray for you? Is that putting you on the spot?”
Well, yes, but what a spot to be in - surrounded by a multitude of God’s people, all praying for my healing. It reminded me of the “cloud of witnesses” mentioned in Hebrews.
Friends John and Diane Marshall were seated next to me and John escorted me to the front of the stage, meaning: he firmly held on to my arm to make sure I didn’t trip or fall. I’m five foot-three inches tall and the stage is about four-feet high. There were no stairs from the floor to the stage and I wasn’t about to let the overly zealous men lift me up, drop me, and knock the wig off my head in the process. Thankfully, none of the above happened.
Jim and Smitty knelt on the old wooden stage floor behind me, and Joe Katina (Katina Brothers) and Don Moen (Integrity) jumped down and stood on either side of me. Joe prayed first, quite emphatically, for my healing. Of course, I cried. Then Don sang a healing scripture chorus and fervently prayed for my recovery. I cried. The men encircling me cried. The choir and the audience cried. I truly hope that God bottled all our tears and uses them as an ointment for healing.
Backstage, after a wonderful concert, I greeted old and new friends (people whom I’ve never met but read the updates). The compassion of Christ was evident in all their faces. I am blessed to be surrounded by the faith and prayers of so many. Jim and I are humbled by all of you who daily pray for our family.
In the continuing saga of my expectation of normalcy and exemption from calamity, the night literally ended with a bang. It was raining when Jim and I exited the Ryman, and my husband offered to go for the car and pick me up. In the downpour he saw the light pole behind him as he backed out of his parking space but not the huge transmitter box just below his line of vision. He crushed the right rear lights and dented the panel on the passenger side. We stood side by side under the umbrella, looked at the broken glass and crimped trim. I sighed and asked Jim, “Can’t we get a stinkin’ break here?” Again, a “good” thing happened and something “bad’ followed. In moments like theses I silently repeat my mantra, “God is present, God is in control; God is with us and promised not to give us more than we can bear.”
Monday, April 26, 2004
I returned to my oncologist’s office for my second dose of Velcade. When I signed out and wrote a check for my co-pay, I received an itemized bill and saw that the cost for each dose of Velcade (twice a week) is $1,315. God bless BlueCross BlueShield of Tennessee and their coverage of multiple myeloma.
Jim and I are fortunate to have insurance, and we are grateful to those who have donated to the Contribution Fund to help with the deductibles. I am reminded of Jesus command to take care of the poor, the needy, the widows and orphans. Jim and I are learning the meaning of “needy” and we are humbled by your great care during this unexpected season. But, our situation prompts us to care for those who do not have insurance, those who don’t have access to medical treatment, those who suffer and die without a cloud of witnesses. Let us pray for the nameless and the abandoned whom God sees and loves.
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
I woke up to the sound of plastic chairs being dragged across the porch. I looked out of my upstairs bathroom window to locate the racket and saw Debbie Taylor hosing down the deck and Maggie Anthony filling terra cotta pots with soil and flowers. What an earthy gift on a beautiful spring day. I so wanted to shove my hands into the bag of dirt and take a whiff of its loamy aroma – but I resisted the urge – mainly because the doctors told me NOT to play in dirt. Maggie chose plants I’ve never before seen in a glorious range of colors, so it will be a delight to watch them grow. Spring is a promise that after a cold, barren winter, a new season arrives with warm days and magnificent color. I await my own spring as the winter days of cancer linger on.
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
Another good happened this week because of the postponed stem cell procedures. I was able to attend the Dove Awards! All the performances during the two-hour show were fabulous, including the appearance by Smokey Robinson. Artists were at their best and a new generation rose for recognition – a passing of the baton from one era to another. I loved every minute between dressing up and dropping into bed at 2:00 a.m.
Thursday, April 29, 2004
Back at Dr. Murphy’s office, I repeated the process: Greet everyone, stretch out in a recliner chair in the chemo room, relax (because I trust those who attend to me), and receive my next infusion of Velcade. The nurses review reports, tell me that my low red cells are responsible for my shortness of breath (as they carry oxygen to the body). Sometimes I feel that I’ve learned enough already. But here’s the good: I’m gaining a great education about an entirely new topic. Here’s the bad: It’s all about a disease in my very own body.
Friday, April 30, 2004
I called Dr. Murphy to say that my fever had spiked during the night and I had developed a cough. His response? Dress, drive and do the hospital chest x-ray thing. I carried the films to his office for his review. Although nothing was evident, he suspected an unusual type of pneumonia and told me to spend the night in the hospital for an IV of meds and a blood transfusion. I cried, then asked if I could go home for an hour.
“No,” even when said kindly, is disappointing.
Neighbor and friend Suzette returned me to the hospital, this time for admission. I called Jim, who was in an important meeting, and between apologizing and blubbering, tried to articulate Dr. Murphy’s orders. My husband, James Michael, is a great man and told me there was nothing to be sorry about, and said that he would go straight home and pack a bag for me. “Make a list,” he added, “so I don’t forget anything that you might need.”
By the time he arrived at the hospital and thanked Suzette for waiting, I had already been wheeled to radiology, where I was a bit delayed. An emergency call sent the staff into a flurry. A lady at another outpatient facility had been injected with dye for a full body scan when the machine broke and she had an allergic reaction to the dye. Since there is a limited amount of time between dye and picture taking, she was rushed by ambulance to my hospital. I was reseated in my wheelchair, rolled out of the room, and barely parked in the hallway when her gurney zoomed past - just like an episode of ER.
My second CAT scan wasn’t as frightening as the first on December 29th. But like the first, I was given that makes-you-feel-that-you’ve-wet-your-pants drug. Instead of panicking, I laughed. Some drugs do work as intended.
Waiting in my room for me, Jim had unpacked every item on the list, plus a book and highlighter, my Bible, and, just in case I wanted to write during the next few days, my laptop. Right. As if I could wax eloquent while coughing, drugged and transfused. Jim used it to play Solitaire.
A cluster of nurses entered my room to take vital signs, withdraw blood, and begin the IV. One woman seemed familiar. My eyes widened at Jim, as if he were supposed to read my mind. I recognized “the Vampire Lady” from the first bone marrow aspiration (see Update 1). I said hello, then asked if Liz was on duty (a former oncology nurse). She wasn’t. So I braced myself for some pain. Either the stabs weren’t so bad or I’m getting used to them. Four separate sets of blood were withdrawn then an IV inserted for the blood transfusion.
Not long after I had eaten the yummy hospital dinner of overcooked broccoli, a slice of ham decorated by a limp ring of canned pineapple, and a tasteless baked yam, Steve and Deb Taylor arrived. Jim and Steve snuck over to Sonic and brought back cheeseburgers, onion rings and fries. How fun to sneak in contraband food at age 51. (Not really; the nurses poked their heads in and asked if there were any leftovers.)
The needed blood transfusion began at 10:00 p.m. and ended on Saturday morning at 5:00 a.m. Jim arrived after breakfast (much more edible) and just as the presiding doctor entered the room. “One more night here,” he suggested. Umm, I don’t think so, I thought. I wanted out. Jim and I had been given tickets for that evening to attend NPR’s “A Prairie Home Companion” with Garrison Keillor. (Thank you Molly and Mark.) We were to be in our seats at 4:45 for the live taping of the show. If I was discharged by 1:30 or 2:00, we could make it. So when Dr. Penley said he wanted to me stay, I asked if he wanted to buy our tickets (not really intending to sell them). He politely declined my offer. “Good,” I said, “then I can use them.” There was a brief silence during our battle of wills. His parting words were, “I think you should stay, but you make the decision. I’ll tell the front desk that you can be discharged.” After we signed out, a couple of the nurses whispered, “Enjoy the show.”
Jim and I were in our seats at 4:05. Garrison was hilariously funny and entertaining. The cast did their standard Powder Milk Biscuit, Guy Noir - Private Eye, and sound effect routines. Musical guest Alison Krauss was purely amazing. Garrison closed the program with another story of life in Lake Woebegone. It was a wonderful night and I’m so glad I didn’t languish in the hospital or at home, numbed by IV bleeps or bad television. There is still a lot of living to be lived and I don’t plan on spending most of it in a bed.
Sunday, May 2, 2004
Spoke too soon. On Sunday, I woke exhausted but happy and stayed in bed until noon. I kept an afternoon appointment with Melanie, my beloved hair stylist (who opened the salon on Sunday for a couple of hours to take care of a few clients before her evening flight to L.A.). She had a wig waiting for me that she had washed and restyled. I wore one that needed cleaning and carried along a new wig sent by Mrs. Kim, my mother’s best friend in California. She owns a large beauty supply and salon in Ventura, CA, and generously gave me an absolutely beautiful wig made of human hair.
In her usual caring style, Melanie gently removed my straggly dirty wig, kissed my sparsely covered scalp and massaged my head with oil. Under her tender touch, I relaxed and let the tears flow. She knelt beside the chair and let me cry out my frustration and exhaustion. How blessed it is to be comforted by good friends. She worked her scissor magic on the new wig – and I walked out looking stylish and feeling sprier than I had in weeks. Once home, I put the wig on a head stand, and crawled back into bed.
Monday, May 03, 2004
Back to Dr. Murphy’s for this cycle’s final dose of Velcade. On May 13th, I’ll return for blood labs and the first dose of the second cycle (IVs on days 1, 4, 8, and 11, followed by 10 days off). In all probability, a third cycle will be required before the stem cell transplant. At least, that is the new schedule. By June, Elliott will have finished his second year at Berklee and Taylor will have graduated, and I may finally be ready for the next step in my battle against myeloma.
In this week’s saga of good/bad, blood cell/myeloma counts, strong/weak days, I’ve tried to remember that this is a process to embrace, not endure; that bad is the backdrop of darkness against which good illuminates; that since I’m already a guest at the cancer party, I might as well dance. Thank you for dancing with me.
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.” |
