Journal of a Living Lady #241
Nancy White Kelly
There is very little about cancer I haven’t learned through this long, roller coaster journey. While I am not well or even in full remission, neither am I dead. Actually, I am in good condition for the shape I am in. Considering all the I.V.’s and stealth bullets of radiation I’ve endured, this living lady has to be most infused, radioactive human being on earth. If my cancer had legs and any sense, it would catch the next train out of this scrappy body.
I admit to being a schizophrenic patient, sometimes the good, obedient client who consistently shows up for appointments and quietly follows orders. At other times I am probably my oncologist’s most dreaded patient. I can be vocal. She knows not to try to placate me with flip answers or pass me off with a patronizing pat on the shoulder.
“Yes, I know what aplastic means? Do you know whether that left adnexal mass is metastasized adenocarcinoma or a peducalated fibroid?”
Some days I am an encourager. Other days I am the encouraged, especially by those who sense a need and respond. Call it pride or self-reliance, but I rarely ask for help, Seldom do I need to. People just do. I couldn’t name all the favors, small and large, that have been bestowed on me this month. Who built that shelf or brought that casserole, I may never know, but I the Lord will bless them richly.
In the last ten years, I have buried more friends with this disease than I can easily count. Statistically speaking, while you are reading this journal, 156 Americans will hear, “It is malignant.” During the course of this one day, 1500 will die from cancer. Tomorrow the numbers start again. I am waiting by the phone even now. Another friend who has been walking the cancer cadence with me, almost stride by stride for several years is close to his last breath. I’ll miss his sense of humor and fakeless faith that the best part of life is on the other side.
Frankly, I am sick of this disease, but not for me only. I am sick of what it does to friends, family, caregivers and all those who have nobody kind or sensitive enough to offer a soft pillow or bowl of Jell-O.
Last Monday I sat in the chemotherapy room getting my monthly drip, followed by a humongous hip shot, and the bi-weekly tummy injection that supposedly boosts my blood count.
I discretely observed the others who also sat in the treatment room recliners. Various phases of the disease were evident. Walkers. Wheelchairs. Oxygen tanks. A couple of the ladies didn’t look sickly at all. Their hair was nicely groomed and the nails professionally manicured. It was obvious they were trying to make a statement, whether to the world or just themselves, I do not know. For sure, they didn’t want to be thought of as cancer victims.
Other patients wore multi-colored turbans to cover their balding heads. One woman who sat next to me was still in her night clothes. I understood. Some days, when you are on heavy chemotherapy, the energy or desire to outfit a failing body isn’t there.
As the time ticked away, I.V.’s beeped. Nurses went about their duties with doctors popping in and out. Most patients slept. Some sat quietly. What caught my attention was that three patients, two ladies and a man, were reading. It wasn’t the fact that they were reading that captivated me, but what they were reading. They were all reading a book with the same title. In fact, stuck inside my canvas tote was my own copy of the Bible.
They knew what I knew. Somehow, in that split atmosphere of both hope and hopelessness, it is comforting to read words that have up-lifted the heaviest of hearts during difficult times. My favorite section is the Psalms. “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will not fear.”
Life with cancer is a temporary inconvenience. My friend has it right. The best is yet to come.
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nancyk@alltel.net
