November 14, 2005

 

Jim and I drove down our driveway, admiring the lush forest that surrounds our home.  We wondered when the leaves would morph into orange and russet and other indescribable hues of fall.  Then, later that afternoon, we returned to see one tree at the corner of our house in blazing, glorious yellow.  Within hours a total transformation had taken place.  Within days, soft golden leaves carpeted the base of the tree, stark, stiff branches naked before the chilling autumn air. I know it happens every year about this time but I also know this.it's never common.

On Saturday, two weeks ago, I woke to a perfect fall day.  Jim was already outside, mowing leaves and building fire pyres with fallen twigs and branches.  I moved into the office, switched on my laptop expecting to read emails from family and friends.  Instead, I read nothing.  Overnight, vision in my left (good) eye had developed black spots.  I strained to see the screen with the horrible realization that I couldn't.  I began to cry.  What I mostly feared had become reality. 

The following Tuesday I was in the retinal specialist's office for another round of tests and photographs, now of my left inner eye.  The diagnostic cause of the black spots is the same:  clogged veins.  The cause of the clogging: unknown.  The Seattle Cancer Clinic is working with Vanderbilt to solve this mystery.  They're response:  "Your situation is in no way common in the transplant population." 

I reacted to the word "common."  You who know me know that the aspect of being common is as probable as me painting the bathroom pink and hanging lace curtains. After the initial stun, I realized I wanted that word, "common," to define me. Finally, after months of "uncommon" side effects and reactions, "common" I wanted to be: ordinary, undistinguished, having no rank.to be an ordinary, healthy woman.  Then I began to think about the word itself and realized it actually describes you who have stood with the Chaffees through the last two years.  Originally, the word meant sharing burdens: com - together / munia - duties.  You can see why I now like the word common. 

The rest of the story?  Adopting the premise that my blood is too thick, I was prescribed blood thinners in hopes that thinner blood will help dissolve the clots, and, hopefully, restore my vision.  Back we went to very familiar territory; Jim injects a shot into my stomach morning and night and I take a Coumadin pill at bedtime.  Thinned blood calls for great care - no bumps, no falls, no cuts or cat scratches, since I am apt to bruise easily and bleed profusely. 

My oncologist is contacting both the insurance company and the state-of-the-art Eye and Ear Infirmary in New York City to learn whether our policy will cover my being seen there. I'm hoping for an appointment before Christmas, but that is highly unlikely.  Every day, every minute fills me with fear that I will lose all my vision. 

Recent blood labs revealed that my thyroid gland is hypo-active.  The normal range is 0.3 to 5.  "We like to see patients with a 1 to 2 level" the doctor said.  "Your level is 21."  So to kick start my thyroid I've added yet another pill to my daily intake. 

Here, though, is the very good news.  I am still making progress in my cancer recovery.  I no longer need a cane to walk and all the intrusive catheters have been removed from my body.  After almost two years, I am wireless.no plastic tubes dangling from my chest or arms.

Now, as we prepare for Thanksgiving, I remember the scripture that says to give thanks in all things.  I can't quite fathom thanking God for lost eyesight, but I can say I'm thankful that the text says to give thanks "in" rather than "for."  So, in a season I hoped would draw these updates to a happy close, I instead send news of another twist to my recovery. 

This Thanksgiving, I will give thanks for life, for faith, and for your friendship.  Every day I spend with Jim, with family and our wide circle of friends brings reason to thank God.  Thank you for our commonality, for continuing to share the burden, for praying for us and loving us during this extended journey.

Janice

P.S.  Reason to celebrate:  On Sunday, Jim and I experienced one of those over-the-top, wonderful, heart-rending ceremonies that make us pull out hankies.  Our dear friends' adoption process was finalized and we witnessed their vows to love, nurture, and raise their daughter in a Godly home.  The congregation held its collective breath when 9-year-old Sarah was asked if she wanted Deb and Steve for her mom and dad.  We laughed and cried and clapped when she resolutely said "Yes" in her sweet Ugandan-accented voice. 

Later that evening, a large group of friends met at a Vietnamese restaurant to celebrate the binding of this new family.  To accommodate our group, several small tables were pushed together, chairs placed side by side, old and young intermingled.  (Jim and I were the oldest couple!)  Babies slept in carriers, happy children did what children do - laughed, giggled, and ran around the table playing tag.  It was a true extended family, gathered in a thanksgiving spirit.

At the end of the meal, new mom Deb reached under her chair and lifted her purse into her lap; not one of her small trademark purses, just large enough to hold keys, cash, a credit card and a tube of lipstick. Oh, no.  She now held a big "mom" purse, weighted with a coloring book, box of crayons, a small bottle of hand cleanser, lip balm, cell phone, and camera.  I laughed at the evidence of her new status.  I remembered the days when my bag was heavy with Ninja Turtles, Matchbook cars, and plastic transformers. 

Now I'm the one carrying a small purse, empty of childhood paraphernalia.  How our baggage changes as we go through seasons of life.

P.P.S.  Reason to mourn:  Our dear friend Dwight Ozard was diagnosed with multiple myeloma about two years before my own diagnosis.  He became my source of information, my encourager and cheerleader.  Often, our health situations were parallel:  pneumonia, low platelets, blood transfusions, reactions to steroids.  We shared war stories about our stem cell transplants.  He and his wife Sheri visited Nashville a few weeks ago to hang out with their Southern friends and to bask in the love and admiration we have for them.  We encouraged Dwight to bravely face the next phase of his treatment - a bone marrow transplant.  He returned to Philadelphia ready and willing.  However, another lung infection delayed the procedure.  Then his platelets dramatically dropped.  We prayed that once again he would rally and become healthy enough for the transplant.  God did not give us that.  God gave Dwight relief.  He died Monday afternoon. 

I cried/am crying at the unexpected loss with survivor's guilt.  I ache for his wife, parents and in-laws.  I ache for the absence of his name appearing in my email "in" box.  His death makes me realize how horrible multiple myeloma is, fragile life is, and how fortunate we are to know, love, and cherish one another. 

 On Thanksgiving Day, I will add Dwight's name to the list of people, like you, who have graced my life and for whom I am thankful. 

 

THANKSGIVING  -  by Barbara Roberts Pine
        
Thanksgiving
Swells from a heart
Able to see small things
        Textures
            Shapes
               Moments unattended by the natural eye

And see them so well
That imperfections . . .
        Bright,
               Demanding,
                And far greater in number.

Are cancelled by
The protective shade of satisfaction.

                        Thanksgiving Sunday
                            November 27, 1976