Update 46 August 31, 2006 part II

August 30, 2006 - Birthday Surprise (Part II)

Barb Pine, my tenacious editor, slashed red marks all over my manuscript for
a week. She left for her home in Seattle on Thursday, August 4. At least,
she said she was flying home.

That evening, Jim and I were sitting at the dining room table, doing a last
check of e-mails before going to bed. I heard a car drive up and caught a
glimpse of red brake lights through the window by the front door. I told Jim, “I
think a car just pulled up.” If you’ve ever been to our house, you know cars
don’t “happen” up our 1/4 mile, steep driveway.

“I have a surprise for you,” Jim said. “It was supposed to happen all at
once but now it’s coming in waves.”

I thought either he or I had had a stroke and I didn’t understand. “What?”

He repeated the same sentences. I was stuck on the word “waves” and
wondered what he was talking about. “Just open the door,” he nearly shouted at me.

I stood and glowered at him. “You knew people were coming and didn’t tell
me when I look like this?” I had gotten up early that morning, knowing Barb
was soon leaving, threw water on my face, ran a brush through my hair, pulled on
some comfy clothes and ran down the stairs to get to work. I look
horrible...no makeup, wild hair, and baggy pants.

“Just open the door!”

I did. Elliott and Taylor said, “Hi, Mom! Happy birthday.”

I grabbed them and kissed them and cried on them, shocked and stunned that
they were standing in our house. It took minutes to realize others were
standing behind them. It was Jim’s brother Jerry and his wife Valerie, and his
brother John. After shrieking with surprise and hugs and kisses, I was in shock.
I asked what they were all doing here and they said that they came to
celebrate my birthday.

An hour or so later, there was another knock on the door. “Open it,” Jim
said.

I did. Jim’s mom and dad, his sister, and our best friend Craig were
standing there.

More shrieks and hugs and tears and kisses.

Out came the food and the coffee and the high volume that accompanies the
Chaffee family. Around midnight, I noticed Elliott and John were missing.
“Where are they,” I asked.

“Don’t ask questions,” Jim answered. And that was his answer to every
question I asked over the next three days. “Don’t ask.”

When Elliott and John came in, the eldest cousin, Aaron, followed. The
family reunion was complete. Or so I thought.

The next morning, the entire family was nosily in the kitchen having
breakfast. A few hours later, all of us went to Costco to shop for food. What an
entourage! Everyone threw their favorite snacks, foods, fruits and cheeses in
the cart, along with t-shirts and socks. The total bill was outrageous and
worth every cent of fun. Then the Chaffee Clan again congregated in the kitchen
to make a huge pot of gumbo. I was sitting on a counter stool when Jim told me
to “turn around.”

I did. And a large man in a baseball cap said, “Hey, how ya’ doin’?”

I didn’t scream until I whirled around and found his wife, Teresa. Then I
jumped up and down and did the girl thing. After hugging her for several
minutes, I did go back to Jerry and gave him a big hug. The Spurlocks were our
dearest friends during our three years in Denver and we hadn’t seen them for ages,
though phone calls and e-mails kept us close. Standing behind them were more
Colorado friends, Colin and Karen, Keith and Anne. Teresa told me that their
original flight was delayed, meaning they would miss the last connecting
flight to Nashville. Jerry thought they should turn around and drive back home.
“No way,” said Teresa. “Just keep driving. There’s no way I’m missing this
party.” So they drove eleven hours to surprise me. And I was surprised.

Old friends just kept showing up all day. By evening, I had cried so much my
eyes were nearly swollen shut. I went to bed thinking, “Wow. What a great
surprise Jim has pulled off.” This from a man who shops on Christmas Eve
because he can hardly wait until daylight on Christmas morning to get up and watch
us open them.

The Chaffee Clan was seated around the dining room table, enjoying a late
Saturday brunch when Jim’s aunt, uncle and two cousins walked in the door. Now
the family reunion is complete, I thought. Wrong, again. Around noon, Jim
looked at his watch and said, “OK, men, let’s go.” All the males stood up and
walked out the front door.

“What’s happening? Where are you going?” I asked, only to receive the
now-familiar answer. “Don’t ask.” Then Jim added, “Just be dressed and ready
for lunch by 2:30.”

Well, that’s not fair, I thought to myself. “Let’s go shopping up and down
Franklin’s Main Street,” I told the abandoned females. So we all piled into
a car and hit the quaint shops of our historic downtown. Chico’s was the last
shop before returning to the car and sister-in-law Dainette just had to go
in. We were in the back room looking at jewelry when two older men came in. We
scootched over to make room for them, assuming they were looking for their
wives. After a few uncomfortable seconds, Jim’s mom, Sharon, asked, “Can we
help you?”

“Yes,” a familiar voice answered. “We’d like to speak to Janice.”

Then I recognized old friends John Frank and Ken Waggoner (Ken and his wife
Nancy directed the Continental Singers’ tour Jim went on in 1969 at age 16).
Of course, I was stunned and couldn’t believe my eyes.

“Can we borrow Janice for just a second?” John asked. “We want to take her
to the restaurant next door for a few minutes.”

We took a few steps down the block and into a little cafe. It took a couple
of second for my eyes (especially the blind one) to adjust to the light. I saw
a woman in a white top walking toward me. Then I clearly saw the face of my
beloved friend, Vickie, whom I hadn’t seen in nearly 15 years. In 1977, Jim
toured as an assistant Continental director with Johnny and Vickie, and even
lived with them for a short while when he moved back to California from Boston
to work in the office (and to be with me). Vickie and I worked together,
eventually birthed our babies at the same time, took our toddlers to the pumpkin
patch, and enjoyed many fine meals together. Jim and Vickie even took a cooking
class together. On one of our musical tours, Jim and I stayed in Vickie’s
childhood home in Oklahoma and met her parents and extended family. Now, in
Franklin, TN, we held each other in the entrance of the cafe. I vaguely heard
John telling us, “Uh, girls, if you could just move over a bit.” “Excuse us,”
he said to entering and departing customers. I wasn’t about to move or let
go of Vickie. It had been too long and too much had happened to both of us,
including the death of her mother – from multiple myeloma.

When finally we got a grip on our emotions and loosened our grip on each
other, we walked to the tables where there were more surprises. John’s wife Susan
gave me the first hug. She and John now live in Seattle and they took great
care of me and Jim during our stay at the Cancer Clinic. It was great to see
her again; she looking as fabulous as ever, me wearing real clothes and not a
hospital gown. And Sheryl was there! I lived a couple of weeks with her and
Rich just before Jim and I got married and she was one of the two who signed
our marriage certificate (Jim’s brother John was the other). Fred (Jim’s
former apartment roommate) and Judie were there, and Vicki D., too. It was a true
California/Continental Singers mini-reunion.

I had so many questions about when they all arrived, how long they were
staying, and when I would see them again. Not ONE of them would tell me a thing.
“You’re all a pack of connivers, and I love you!” By this time, the female
Chaffee entourage was pulling me out the door, saying I had to get ready for
lunch.

When the women arrived home, the men were back from wherever they had been.
“Be ready by 2:30,” Jim told me. Around two, everyone deparated – I was left
behind with Elliott and John. I was ready at the appointed time and sat in
the living room making small talk with my son and brother-in-law. The phone
kept ringing, but I wasn’t allowed to answer it. John and Elliott kept talking
in code, until, finally, after yet another phone call, I was told, “OK, let’s
go.”

Elliott gave directions, John drove the car, and I sat in the back seat
wondering where we were going for lunch. After a few turns, I realized we were
going to St. Bartholomew’s, our church. Why would we have lunch at church? I
wondered. We pulled into the parking lot, filled with cars. Still clueless, I
got out. Jim met us at the front doors to the activities hall. “Are you
ready?” he asked.

“For what? I guess.”

We walked toward two closed doors which open to a large banquet-type hall.
Jim opened one door and I stepped inside. Of course, with one good eye and one
dud, it took me a second to focus. I was aware that a cameraman was invading
my personal space with his fancy-smancy camera and I knew it had to be from
A&E. Why is he here, I wondered. Then I heard the singing, “Happy birthday to
you, Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday, dear Janice. Happy birthday to
you.”

More than 250 people stood in a semi-circle and applauded me. Yes, I cried.
And slapped at my husband, who was grinning so hard I thought his dimples
would pop. One by one, I recognized friends from the past; my uncle and cousin;
my god-daughter (now 16 and gorgeous!); our church group from Thousand Oaks.
The crowd sort of parted and there stood my sister Gail Hamilton. I know I
screamed. She and I co-produced both Sisters’ albums back in 1994 and 1995 and
did concerts together. Her daughter Shellie has become my daughter and acts
like one, sassing me back and arguing with me! Gail now lives in South Africa
so her presence was definitely a surprise!

Besides greeting all the guests, there was so much more to take in: a
display of my elementary and high school pictures. I could have killed Jim for
putting up some of them...dorky pictures from any era should never be shown in
public. A sign propped on a table read, “Take a card and write, ‘When I think
of Janice, I think...’ Be sure to sign your name.” Next to the cards and pens
on the table was a basket for cards and gifts. A beautiful leather scrap
book, engraved with my name was open on the table (thanks to Steve). It was
filled with cards and e-mails sent from those who couldn’t attend (assembled by
Dori, Amanda, and Courtney). On the opposite side of the room was a long,
single-file row of tables, covered with dishes of food and drinks, plus a
multi-tiered chocolate cake decorated with cookies imprinted with my youthful pictures
(thanks to Jayne). A stage stood at the front with an electric paino on the
left (thanks to Wally), the right decorated with instruments from our home and
in the center chairs from our living room (thanks to Craig), plus a sound
system, microphones on stands, and a podium (thanks to Henry).

I was deliriously happy when Jim pulled me up to the stage and seated me in a
chair. The program was about to begin. Our dear, old friend Chuck Bolte was
the MC. He started with a comment about the instruments on the stage,
instruments we had gathered from around the world. He said the African drums
reminded him of an elephant. Most of us looked at him like he was crazy or telling
a bad joke. He continued. “There’s an elephant in the room. Its name is
cancer. But we’re going to move it to the side and ignore it for this moment in
time.” It was great way to begin. Chuck gave a short – five pages at least
– summary of my life. Most of his facts were accurate; Jim certainly did his
research about my past.

Chuck read some of the cards that guests had written. One of my favorites
was, “When I think of Janice, I think of a strong woman, a good mother, and a
terrible cook. Taylor (her son).” Of course, Tom and Catherine, Bob and Lisa,
and Laurie had to bring up the white attire I wore to a church camp-out at the
beach. Way, way, too many people called me “sassy.”

I love the anonymous writer who said I was “still hot.” Then, the laughter
settled down when Jim’s sister spoke. Laugher erupted again when Dainette
mentioned a family vacation where Jim wore a red Speedo. (There's a visual for
you; it was taken many years and many pounds ago.) Gail Hamilton Masando, my
partner and sister of my soul, spoke with great passion. Barb Pine (who didn’t
fly out on Thursday, but lied to me) addressed me in such a way that I
couldn’t talk back (unusual for the two of us!).

Everyone was in tears when Bonnie King sang “These are the Women I Come
From,” a song she wrote for the Sister’s album. When Lari White sang the song she
and I wrote for Jim, “Not Long Enough,” the crowd gave us a standing ovation.
It was as much for Jim as it was for the song. Well, maybe the endurance of
our marriage, too. Those who knew us during our tumultuous “courtship”
wondered if we would ever get married and if we did, if would last more than five
years. We’ve made it for 26 and hope to reach 30, 35, 40, however many God
allows.

The continual outpouring of love was almost more than my heart could take.
Then, my beloved husband spoke. Jim is such a crybaby, he had to read his
speech. First, he thanked everyone for all their efforts to make this day so
special. Then his words addressed me. Even now my eyes well up when I hear his
voice: “If in fact the greatest gift a father can give his children is to love
their mother, then Elliott and Taylor, this day is a gift to you. Despite all
that life has thrown at us, my greatest privilege as a man has been to
honestly, deeply, passionately and thoroughly love your mother.” His last line was,
“Today, my dear wife, my partner, my sweet bride, I celebrate you. Happy
Birthday to the one who, in Saint Augustine’s words, ‘is the other half of my
soul.’”

Pastor Jerry was about to give a closing prayer when Jim asked me if I wanted
to say something. You all know that’s a rhetorical question. I’ll always
speak, even if I have nothing to say. But at that moment, I did have something
to say.

I told this incredible group of people, those who had sneaked around behind
my back, arranged for the sound, set up tables and chairs, made a scrapbook,
sent out invitations and tallied responses, kept e-mailed notes, hid packages,
made flight and hotel reservations and spent a lot of money to get here, that I
felt like I was attending my own funeral.

“My entire life history is in this room,” I began. “My uncle is here. When
I was eight years old, he was like a sibling.” I mentioned our Continental
Singers/Christian Artists family - where Jim and I met and worked for almost 20
years; the Emmanuel Presbyterian Church family - where we raised our babies
and took infamous camping trips and shared Halloween costumes. Then our Denver
family - and the era of little league and soccer, Bible studies with
margaritas, and the inaugural year of Rockies baseball. Then our Nashville family -
our neighbors, church, and work community, most of whom have “been there” for
us during the past two and a half years - people who have brought us food and
flowers, mowed our lawn, given us money, done our laundry, changed our
sheets, mopped our floors, took our cat to the vet, driven me to countless doctor’s
appointments, and loved us. And finally, Dr. Jagasia, my oncologist, and
nurse practitioner Sharon Sims, were both there, as well as my hospital nurse,
Diane Spencer. “My entire life history is here," I said. "From birth to death.”

I thanked them for making me who I am today. Each person in the room had
incredible influence in my life, as a child, woman, wife, mother, employee,
executive, writer, lyricist, friend, sister, caregiver, and lover of life. Each
one is a privilege to know; it is my honor to be in their company. Finally, I
told them that I loved them. Then I turned to Jim and said, “Especially you.”

That was the end of a perfect day. Sunday morning, about 30 of us attended
church, then raced to check out of hotels, catch flights, or come to our home
for an open house. More surprise guests arrived who couldn’t make it to
Saturday’s party. By 8:00 that night, everyone, except for the six Chaffees staying
in various rooms throughout the house, most on floors on borrowed blowup
mattresses, had left, even Elliott and Taylor. Jim and I went upstairs to pack
for our week-long vacation in Montana. I was so tired that I asked Dainette to
help me fold and pack. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

Monday, we were up before sunrise. (And if you know me, you know that I’ll
stay up all night to see the glorious dawn, not wake up in the dark to watch
the sun's first rays.) We had an 8:00 flight to catch. Jim’s family was in
the kitchen, in their pj’s drinking coffee, waiting for us to come down so they
could say good-bye. Of course, we hugged and cried. Well, I cried, amazed
that I had any tears left, through swollen eyes.

We got on the plane and I quickly fell asleep. I woke long enough to change
planes in Minneapolis, and once reboarded, I fastened my seatbelt and slept
through absolutely everything until Jim nudged and shook me to leave the plane.

During our hour drive to the ranch where we were guests, I finally had a
chance to ask Jim about the party: “Why did you have it, when did you start
making arrangements, how in the world did you keep it a secret?”

His answer startled me. These are his words:

“Remember a few months ago, when Diane finished graduate school and John and
their boys threw a party for her? That night was one of the worst experiences
of my life. I sat there listening to everyone rightfully honor Diane for the
incredible women she is, for the great accomplishment of earning a degree, and
for being such a great friend to so many. All I could think was, The next
time my sons hear people say these types of things about their mother, it will
be at her funeral. That thought depressed me for the rest of the weekend. When
I went into the office on Monday, I shared my thought with Don. He simply
replied, “Well, then you can’t let that happen.” So I didn’t. Before I could
change my mind, I sent out an e-mail, asking friends and family to hold the
date.”

I cried. I have the best husband in the entire world.

We had a restful time in Montana, eating and sleeping through most of every
day, reading books on the porch swing, walking through the woods to a log
chapel with a beautiful stain-glass window, climbing up three flights of stairs to
a lookout tower with a 360-degree view of magnificent Big Sky Country. It was
an awesome week, one we thoroughly enjoyed thanks to Kay and Randy, but we
were also glad to go home.

It was back to a grave reality, to realizing that the elephant hadn’t budged
an inch during my absence. More tests at Vanderbilt on August 16th and 17th –
skeletal survey, bone density, blood labs, two MRIs, and physical therapy.
The therapist should be a registered torturer. Not really. He gave me two or
three simple exercises which about ripped my arms out of their sockets...only
because I’m such a wimp. Again, A&E filmed my embarrassing puniness.

Puniness, fears, anxieties dissolved when Dr. J gave me great news of all the
test results. My bone density test was normal - no osteoporosis. My blood
and bone marrow have no detectable cancer cells. There was so sign of active
cancer growth in my skeletal survey. This news was cause for tears - tears of
gratitude. It was as if a weight, or a very dark cloud, had lifted off me.
The roars and tusks of cancer were in some distant place. Dr. J. said this
period could last for three months to one year and to live each day to the
fullest; again, quality vs. quantity.

So, it is with a grateful heart that I close this long update. Thank you for
grieving with me and rejoicing with me through this journey. Thank you for
celebrating my birthday and my life. Thank you for influencing me, molding me,
shaping me, challenging my thoughts and beliefs, sharing your hope when I had
none, feeding me fattening food, encouraging me to do one more leg lift and
one more sit up, telling me I was beautiful when I looked my worst, reading to
me, sending me love notes, holding me when I cried, laughing with me when
hearing great news. And now: for living life with me, one day at a time.

Janice

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