After eight fun-filled nights and nine glorious days in the hospital, it finally dawned upon me.  I have cancer and my fight is serious.

This particular fun and glory phase began on May 5th with a temperature spike which called for another chest x-ray, another review by Dr. Murphy, followed with his instruction to go home, pack a bag and quickly report to the Progressive Care Unit (PCU) to begin treatment for pneumonia.  As I wrote to you in a short update asking for prayer, I planned to stay for three days; eight days later I was released. 

As soon as I crawled into my assigned bed on the oncology floor, an oxygen tube was inserted into my nose to help me breathe and to relieve the interminable coughing.  The cool, clean air made me lightheaded, but still I felt gray and crotchety like Jason Robards in the movie “Magnolia.”  Only “old” people have oxygen tubes up their nose.  Time pushed round the hands on the wall clock and one event followed the next: repeat chest x-rays and another CAT scan; insertion of a PICC line in my arm (I watched the tube thread across my chest on a television monitor); fill vials with blood; down pills, swallow syrup, wake up and report if I’m sleeping well.  I had breathing treatments several times a day to open my airways.  Pure oxygen misted with a clear liquid in the bottom of a plastic device connected to a mouthpiece through which I inhaled.  The entire device looked uncomfortably like a blue plastic bong.  

I don’t remember which day it was, but I vividly remember the lung biopsy.  “This will tickle,” the tech said as he swirled a cotton swab saturated with a numbing gel in my nose.  I made a mental note that he could learn the difference between “tickle” and “irritate.”  Then, he sprayed something up my nose and told me to swallow.  Gross.  I swallowed and said goodbye to any feeling in my throat, then my tongue.  After an injection into my IV, my whole body numbed and I slept.  All went well as the doctor took over from the tech and began collecting mucous samples which would determine exactly what type of infection seized my lungs.  She intended to snip eight or nine lung tissue tidbits, but after taking the first, I began to hemorrhage. The next 15 minutes were intensely dedicated to stopping the bleeding.  It wasn’t until the next day that I learned the details of how I gave the doctor and nurses’ quite a scare.

I planned to go home on Wednesday, the 12^th, but now you are nearly as familiar as I am with the difference between what I plan and what I experience.  By Wednesday, my blood pressure had dropped drastically.  After a week in the confines of a hospital room, I really wanted to go home.  But if I stood upright for more than a few seconds, I fainted - without any of Scarlett O’Hara’s grace.  The cause of the low blood pressure was the main antibiotic I was taking; the very antibiotic that a medical service had delivered to our house so we could continue outpatient treatment for several weeks.  (They sent a case of the stuff.)  Cancel those plans.  

Thursday night, working to stay upright and conscious, favoring bruised hands and arms, resisting the constant urge to cough, I came home.  Jim carried in a grocery bag full of new prescriptions, set up my portable breathing machine (also bong-like), and plugged in my computer.  My AOL address box was overflowing with your e-mails and prayers for my recovery.  Your encouragement becomes my strength. Thank you.

A few weeks ago, I said I was living a day at a time; then a half-day at a time; now, it’s down to an hour at a time.  Life is always subject to change.  And change it does.  In a moment of weariness, I admitted to Dr. Murphy that all this (the setbacks, side effects, pneumonia, waiting) was hard, “and this isn’t even the hard part yet.”  He replied, “This is every bit as hard as a stem cell transplant.”  I sat back and said, “Then I can do this.”

I can do this – with your hope while I am weak.  With your love and support – I can do this. 

Janice

P.S.  We haven’t seen Elliott since Christmas but tomorrow he flies home and will be with us for a week.  Sunday, Taylor’s High School graduation, marks the end of an era, the close of another chapter in our Chaffee family story.  Immediately, as life goes, a new chapter begins.  Elliott will return to Berklee College in Boston.  Taylor plans to work in Nashville all summer then move to Boston in late August, where he will investigate all the art schools, prepare his portfolio, and enroll in the spring semester.  Jim will keep us all solidly grounded while I continue to live with treatment and live in hope.  I know better than to make my own plans, but, rather, my job is to trust in God’s:  “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” 

"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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