Journal of a Living Lady #116
Nancy White Kelly
Nobody should be sick in
the springtime. It is so pretty outside. I want to dig in the dirt. Plant some
annuals. Paint the outside door again. Spruce up. It is a time of new
beginnings. I want to be in on it. But it wasn’t meant to be this week.
A few nights ago I felt
abdominal pains around 9:00 p.m. My
first impulse was to lie down quickly,
hoping the nausea would pass. It didn’t. Every half hour or so for the
next twelve hours I unwillingly drug myself out of the bed and rushed to the
adjacent bathroom. I had no choice. It was as if some force of nature was
ruthlessly compelling my stomach to empty its contents. The violent surges were
as rhythmic as labor pains. The longer the heaving continued, the less I had to
give. Even so, my desperate body tried torturously to expel any vestige of
toxins left in my system. Finally I was physically drained, too weak to make
the dash. Leaning off the bed, I aimed for the trash can, trying not to
splatter the newly laid bedroom carpet.
This siege of sudden and
severe stomach spasms was something I had to face alone. Inches away laid Buddy. He was powerless to help. He could not sleep
through the noisy upheavals, of course, and could offer little solace except
for a cool wash cloth. Surely this unwelcome intrusion was a passing stomach
virus. Or was it?
I remember nearly three
years ago going through a similar spell. I didn’t seem to get much better as
the days went by. Reluctantly I made an appointment with my family doctor. A CAT scan led to an open lung biopsy. This
confirmed the recurrence of breast cancer to my lungs. My lengthy twelve year
remission was over. The Big C and I
have been at war for many consecutive months now, surpassing the direst
predictions.
At this point, I have exhausted the gamut of treatment.
Well, almost. Another blood transfusion is imminent. I also take an I.V. drug once a month to keep the bone
metastasis stable. Pain is minimal most of the time.
There remains a
quandary, for me at least. Do I prefer quantity of life over quality of
life? In simplistic terms, that means,
do I choose to be able to walk, talk and laugh for three months feeling
reasonably good or do I prefer to be chemically drugged, bed-ridden, and
dependent on others for six? This time frame is hypothetical for sure, but you
get the picture.
I had two goals from the
on-set of the recurrence. One was to see our son, Charlie, graduate from
college. He should do so in December and plans to teach. The other goal was to
see my book, Journal of a Living Lady, published. If all goes
well, it should be out this summer.
Cancer has been the
roller-coaster ride of my life. In these past few months, several family
members, friends and acquaintances have made the transition from life unto life
hereafter. I envy them in a way. Yet, for some divine reason known to Him
alone, the Creator of all life has left
me here in this mortal body a bit longer than I expected.
Life has meaning and
purpose. Each individual has a race to run. I am confident that there are those
in the grandstands of heaven cheering me on as I stretch to cross the finish
line with faith and integrity. Not that my life is more special than your life.
Hardly. I am worth no more, no less.
You, too, my friend, are
being waved on by the one who also knew you before you were formed in your
mother’s womb (Jeremiah 1:5). I encourage you to find an inspired course for
your own life. No whining. Just valiantly run the race.
+++++++++++++++
June 7, 2001
