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 July 19, 2004
I told Janice it was my turn to write the next update and give you the latest report of events - from my perspective. Friday, July 2nd:
This morning, the alarm went off at 6:00 so we could arrive at Vanderbilt Medical Center by 7:45. We had a hard time getting up since neither of us had slept very well, flicking the television channels between every late night show, then watching an NPT documentary on Palestine Suicide Bombers. After the timer turned off the television, I drifted in and out of consciousness, paranoid that I might oversleep or that the alarm wouldn’t go off. Between the hours of 2:00 and 6:00 a.m., I felt deep sadness, an overwhelming sadness that Janice has to go through all lies ahead for her on this day…and for many days to come. Janice, on the other hand, is ready; scared, but ready for whatever lies ahead. At 7:45, we checked into radiology where Janice put on a hospital gown big enough to house three large construction workers. She looked so tiny in that billowing tent of yellow fabric. After an uneventful IV, she was wheeled away to surgery for the insertion of a three-pronged catheter under her right collarbone. Through this strange looking device, blood will be extracted, chemos received, and stem cells harvested. As my wife slept through the surgery, I wrestled with the fact that her recovery will take not weeks, not months, but years. Saturday, July 3rd: Taylor drove Janice to the hospital at 7:30 this morning for a day of chemo. A bag of saline was finally hung on the IV stand around 10:00, the beginning of an all-day and into-the-night process. After three hours of hydration, plus some medication to protect her bladder from the chemo, a bag of Cytoxin was allowed to drip into Janice’s body, chased by a bag of anti-nausea medicine. While Janice was hooked up to the IVs, I was home with four wonderful women. Deb, Michelle, Elaine and Maggie arrived early in the morning, armed for work. In preparation for Janice’s new situation, they sterilized our bedroom and bathroom. Sheets were washed in scalding hot water, doors and frames wiped down, sinks and toilet scoured, new filters put in air vents, carpets vacuumed, floorboards cleaned, and bookshelves dusted. I must admit that in our 24 years of marriage, two rooms have never been this clean. At the end of the day, when all was satisfactorily rearranged and readied by the Four Angels, we knelt around the bed and prayed for Janice. Meanwhile, our friend Grant worked hard outside the house, mowing the grass, tidying up the yard which hadn’t been tended since spring. After everyone left, I drove to the hospital to wait out the arduous chemo drip with my bride. Since the procedure was going to finish a little before midnight and Janice had a 7:30 a.m. doctor’s appointment the next morning, we opted to spend the night in the hospital. And what an un-restful night it was. Janice had been given a shot late in the afternoon to, well, quite honestly, make her pee. And pee the girl did, every 10-15 minutes in the hours that followed. I nestled in a cheap, well-worn recliner, positioned between Janice’s bed and the door, through which doctors and nurses came and went about every 15 minutes throughout the night to check vital signs. It was like trying to sleep next to a grocery checkout counter. Sunday, July 4th: Happy Birthday, America! The day dawned for us around 7:00, with a flurry of tests to ensure Janice’s body was not adversely reacting but was properly reacting to yesterday’s infusion of drugs. A nurse showed me how to give Janice daily Neupogen shots, one on each side of her stomach. After discharge, we went to the hospital’s pharmacy and carried out two huge bags full of new medicines and their accoutrements. On the way home, we stopped at a grocery store, Janice partially hidden behind a surgical mask, and tried to remember what she can and cannot eat at this stage of her treatment. We celebrated our country’s birthday by lounging on the clean bed, watching television and listening to Bill (our cat, who normally sleeps on our bed) pathetically whine outside our closed door. The sound was just heartbreaking and Janice nearly cried at the sight of his tiny paws under the door, reaching out to us, pitifully asking why he had been ejected from “his” bedroom. July 5th – 12th: Each morning this week Janice’s day started with a bowl of oatmeal, a glass of juice, a handful of pills and the requisite two shots into her stomach. The Neupogen shots release white cells from the bone marrow into the blood stream which will be harvested later in the week. Monday began with a trip to Vanderbilt where Dr. Jagasia (stem cell doctor) decided the tumor behind Janice’s right eye needed radiation. This required a return trip to the hospital the next day, where the radiation/oncology department molded plastic mesh over her face and head in preparation for 24 doses of radiation (2 a day) over a period of 12 days; one dose at noon, the second at 6:30 p.m. The mask will be placed over her head and clamped to the bed to make sure she doesn’t move when the laser is zapping her tumor. My mom (Sharon) arrived Wednesday night – Praise God! – to help us in the house and to become Janice’s primary care-giver. By Thursday night, the entire house was in order, the smell of chocolate chip-pecan cookies wafted through all the rooms, and the cloud of stress had begun to dissipate. Taylor spent the week packing for his move to Boston (he left Monday, July 19th), where he will live with his brother, Elliott. It looked like an Oklahoma twister swept through his room; debris littering the bed, closet doors flung open, clothes heaped on the floor and couch. Even the window blinds hung limp from all the activity. I asked to write this update to answer a frequent question: “How are you doing?” It’s hard to put into words exactly “how” I am living from day to day. Janice concluded the last update with the story of Jesus and Peter’s brief walk on the water and their long ride in the bottom of the boat back to shore. I, too, feel like I’m in the bottom of the boat, but in a different way. Barbara Pine, Janice’s mentor, editor and confidant, e-mailed me the following definition which has helped give me clarity during this troubled time:
So, friends, this is “how I am doing.” I am rowing with all my strength, complaining that my wife is suffering, weeping that I am helpless to help her. We are in the midst of a storm, knowing that the worst is yet to come. Yet, I also know that I am not the only one rowing, not the only one praying, not the only one crying in the night. Thanks for grabbing an oar. Jim P.S. Janice’s website now has all her updates. Go to www.janicechaffee.com and click on the line about her medical updates. George Rowe’s original letter about the Contribution Fund is also there. Pictures will soon be added from the previous updates and new updates will supply a photo journal to accompany Janice’s writing. Thank you to our dear friend Keith Stanton for designing this page. "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.” |
