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 August 2, 2004
Jesus, keep me near the cross There a precious fountain Free to all a healing stream Flows from Calvary’s mountain.
In the cross, in the cross, Be my glory ever; Till my raptured soul shall find Rest beyond the river.
I silently sang the first verse and chorus of that old hymn to myself every day for nearly three weeks. Beginning July 14, I had 24 doses of radiation in 12 days (two a day, at noon and 6:30 p.m). Jim mentioned in his last update that in these treatments I wore a mesh mask that had been molded to my face. A bit claustrophobic, to say the least. I lay on a narrow table with the mask over my head and clamped to the table to prevent me from moving. A drum-like machine hovered over me in line with the small metal dots taped to the mesh, then hissed out a ten-second beam of radiation, followed by fifteen-twenty seconds of whirling and clicking inside the machinery, concluding with a final ten-second dose of deadly accurate radiation. In less than a minute two important events occurred: the treatment and the singing of “In the Cross.” It was a most unusual and significant duet of fear and faith.
My reward at the end of these twelve days was to bring home the mask. The face of it is eerily accurate but the back brings to mind the monsters from the Alien movies.
My birthday, my 52nd, in case you wonder, was July 27th and I celebrated by spending most of that Tuesday undergoing eye surgery. The infection in the lower, inside corner of my right eye, officially called a chalazion (inflamed lump in eye lid gland), had to be excised. The numbing cream failed to live up to its title and the numbing shot didn’t. Nor did the second or third. I’m sure that the imprint of my body is still pressed into the back of the chair. The doctor clamped my lower eyelid open (freaky) and cut and blotted and yanked and wiped (oh, sorry…did you not ask for this sort of detail? Well, I lived it and you have to hear it!) and seemingly use a melon-ball scooper to remove most of my lower eyelid. (So I exaggerate a little.) Actually, after the pain wore off (the next day), my eye felt and looked better. But I have had a lovely shiner – purple, red and yellow are my new natural colors. Who needs MAC eye shadows?
I cut my hair on my birthday, as well. Over an inch-and-a-half of new growth fell prey to the effects of the Cytoxin chemo administered on July 3rd. The bald spots were just plain ugly. So, once again, dear hubby Jim whipped out his shaver and gave me a close buzz. My new “do” lasted one day. I couldn’t stand the stubble against the pillow or my scarf, so I had Jim shave it. Shave as in bald. As in cue ball. As in “smooth as a baby’s butt.”
My cat Bill, the one who pathetically put his paws under the closed bedroom door, was granted a reprieve and allowed back in. The morning after eye surgery, I felt him jump up on the bed and call to me. His voice was muffled and I was too tired to open my eyes and look at him, even though he kept trying to get my attention. When I got up a few hours later, I found a present in the bathroom: a tail-less lizard in the center of a folded towel – like a ring on a wedding pillow. Ahh, how sweet. Then I yelled at Jim to come back upstairs and get rid of the dead, gross-feeted creature.
It was missing a few hours later so I assumed my dearly beloved gave the reptile a proper toilet burial.
The next morning, my eye was feeling much better and I decided to apply a little eye make-up before my second-to-last day of radiation. My cosmetics are kept in a clear plastic zippered pouch and like I have thousands of times before, I grabbled it from the top, but instead of putting in my hand to sort through stuff, as I usually do, I held up the pouch and looked for the mascara. That’s when I saw two tiny, shiny black eyes staring back from a tiny gray scaly face. I threw the bag across the floor, make-up and a living lizard went flying, and I screamed for Jim. (One perk of being sick: when one calls loudly or screams, it results in fast attention.) He bounded up the stairs, burst in the bathroom, certain he’d see a bloody mess. Instead he saw a messy floor. I pointed out the obvious, he grabbed a wad of toilet paper, fell to his hands and knees and chased the thing around the floor. (Where was Bill when we needed him?) I watched from the bedroom, safely perched on the bed which I reluctantly left only after I heard the toilet flushed at least three times.
Certain that Jim had placed the gross creature in my bag, I accused him accordingly. He swore that he had looked but couldn’t find the four-legged serpent and assumed that it had escaped under the sink counter. Right. I finally believed him and all was forgiven. Humor can be defined in so many ways.
Today, Monday, August 2, I’ve not been thinking of lizards or lipsticks or lists of things to do; today I was thinking of pre-admittance labs. My blood results were good, the infection in my eye is nearly gone, and the allergic reaction to a new med (a big red birth-mark type splotch on the left side of my face) had receded. As of this moment, our prayers have been positively answered. Tomorrow I begin two-days of the biggest-bully-on-the-block chemo. For eight hours each day it will drip into my body and attack cancer cells (and all other cells, I might add, in my bone marrow. Thursday is a scheduled day of rest even though I must report to the hospital for observation. Miracle of miracles, Friday I receive my first stem cell transplant. The blood slushy will be injected through my port catheter and it will be so cold my lips will turn blue. I’m already planning to wear my pink sweat suit.
The next fourteen days after that, August 7-21, will be crucial. Please pray that the stem cells bind with my marrow and start producing healthy cells. I will be at great risk for an infection since the chemo destroys all infection-fighting white blood cells. Dr. Jagasia told me today to plan on at least a few days in the hospital.
It seems nearly impossible: what we’ve waited for, and prayed for, is finally about to happen. We all have had those moments we thought “just won’t come soon enough.” This “nearly here but not quite” impatience is what I’m feeling today as I write. Since December, the “maybe/maybe not” voice of stem cell transplant has played with our minds and with my body. I was relieved today as the possibility is now “most definitely.”
Thank you for continuing to pray with us. Please pray for the success of this procedure and for my ability to avoid or resist infection. Day by day, We thank you for walking this journey with us.
Janice
P.S. Remember, past updates can be found at www.janicechaffee.com. Also, for those interested in becoming a bone marrow donor, call the NMDP, National Marrow Donor Program, at 1-800-627-7692. Even if you and I don’t match, please consider doing for others what I’m hoping will be done for me. May we all be willing to serve and suffer in Jesus’ name.
"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.” |
