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The Words…

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Last ride of the summer with the boys & my pups…

I’m going to try something new here.  Rather than focus on a premeditated topic, I am just going to write.  Crazy, huh?

You could say writing was an activity I once loved, but this wouldn’t be altogether accurate.  Sure, as a child/teenager/young adult I enjoyed it on a level that seemed foreign to some of my peers.  Was I passionate about it?  Of course.  But it was more than this.  Writing was almost akin to eating or taking a breath for me.  It was something I had to do to survive.

I know I sound like an idiot.  Obviously you can’t live without eating (though God knows I’ve pushed these limits in the past) or taking a breath.  Not writing can’t possibly be as perilous for one’s body as trying to survive without food or oxygen, of course.  But it was my soul that would cling feverishly to this outlet.

What I’m trying to tell you is that writing was something I needed to do.  It was strangely painful to not write.  It was as if the words needed a place to go and if I didn’t let them out, they would build up inside me until I felt emotional pain.  Physical distress.

Writing was my coping mechanism.  My escape.  My salvation.

I needed to write the words that flowed from my mind, my heart, through my once capable young hands.  And, equally, the words needed me to set them free.

breast cancer thirties 30s 30's young Salvador Dali tree museum tampa florida wish young stage 3c IIIc ribbons

The Dali Wish Tree: “This wish tree, streaming with ribbons, carries the wishes of our visitors and community. We invite you to contribute a wish to the tree, and to be part of the cultural tradition that extends back to Hindu and Scottish rites. In all its forms, the wish tree invites and holds our fond hopes.” [Photographed during our lovely visit to The Dali Museum in Florida (with & thanks to jme & bryan), just before we added our wishes, our words, to the tree’s hope-laden branches.]

But somewhere along the way, this relationship changed.  Life changed.  My desire/need (or whatever it was?) to write is not like this anymore {or that’s what I like to tell myself, at least}.  At some point, writing became an obligation, a job, a necessity of another sort.  And the words that once needed to break free from my mind, my soul, were trapped inside.  Bottled up.  Locked away.  Dusty and hidden, but not quite forgotten.

I hadn’t thought about this in ages.  Until just a few minutes ago, that is, when I found myself once again thinking about stopping here to read your kind words and to tackle one of the tens/hundreds of cancer-y topics I have swirling around in my brain, topics that I feel should be addressed in these “pages” because of their importance.

And, once again, I thought about closing my blog tab in an attempt to forget about writing until the next time I’d find myself in front of the computer screen.   Yes, the next time, when I could once again procrastinate and put off tackling the weighty topics I know should be addressed, topics that I will likely continue to attempt to deal with despite the gnawing pain that emanates from the words trapped inside my soul, the words that long to be set free.

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On the Radio

W and Lion

Whoa, oh, oh, oh, on the radio.  Sorry, I can’t get Donna Summer’s lyrics out of my head!

Good morning all…

I wanted to let you know that I will be on the radio tonight.

I almost didn’t mention it because I’m a bit rusty on the public speaking front.  Okay, a lot rusty.  But I reconsidered because I have a vested interest in the segment’s subject matter.  I have been asked to discuss breast cancer, Breast Cancer Awareness Month, pinkwashing, and events like “no bra days” on “The Afternoon Fix” radio show with Chuck Pullen on 1230AM WJOB in Chicago.

Just in case you are interested in tuning in, you can listen live on the station’s web site:

http://www.wjob1230.com/

at 6 p.m. Eastern

(As a head’s up, their stream is .pls format (Shoutcast).  You can listen with iTunes.  Or use Windows Media Player, but you will need to install this plugin ahead of time.  Or you can use WinAmp.)

A representative from Breast Cancer Action will follow me to discuss the “Think Before You Pink” Campaign.

I think it will be worth a listen…

If I don’t screw it up, that is!  But you’ve all given me the confidence to continue to stand up for what I / we believe in, so I’ll give it my best shot [she says with a nervous laugh]!

p.s. I know the photo of W running from the cardboard lion has nothing to do with being on the radio, but I thought you’d appreciate a laugh.  We saw the lion and couldn’t resist!

Palliative Care at 30-Something : What Does it Mean? (Part II)

This is a long overdue post, so I will have to backdate it…  I’ve actually been back two times since!

Photo Credit: pcdsys.com

Photo Credit: pcdsys.com

See Part I here.

Part II:  [April 13, 2013]

First Visit:

So I had my first visit with Palliative Care a few days ago. This Palliative Care department has been touted as a great group. They are located in the Cancer Center at the largest and most lauded hospital in our region, so I had high hopes.  I was both nervous and excited about the appointment because I had also heard the director of the department speak at a breast cancer conference a year or so ago.  It was a refreshing talk and I figured that if everyone shared his attitude, this was going to be an informative appointment at the very least.  And, at most, it could change my life in some way.

It got off to a slow start.  The specialist took a good look at my medical record — every last bit of it is available through the hospital’s online database.  Then he asked a series of questions to ascertain what my life quality is like these days.  We discussed the ‘why’ behind my oncologist’s referral.  He did a physical exam and then talked with me about a treatment plan.

Before you read on, I will let you in a little secret.  I used to be what my past doctors referred to as “medication non-compliant.”  I did not (do not) like to take drugs — especially painkillers — unless I REALLY needed to.  And I would just go off pills just because I didn’t want to take them anymore [despite those yellow and black warning labels that said scary things like, “Do not discontinue abruptly,” or “Do not skip a dose of this medication.  Serious complications could occur.”]  I may have pretended to be a good patient, but I was not.

This newsflash may be a little/lot surprising when you look at the list of medications I am currently — and dutifully — taking.  Since the two hospitals and the independent cancer center I go to all share the same electronic charting database (e-Record), a complete list of all of my meds is available in my virtual chart.  And every time I sit down with any of my doctors, that list of meds is reviewed and I am asked if I am taking everything as prescribed and a box is ticked to indicate my answer for each. There is nowhere to hide.  And they print this list for me every time I walk out the door, so it’s easy for me to just whip it out to count the number of prescriptions I’m on.

The back corner of my kitchen counter...

The back corner of my kitchen counter…

21.  I just counted 21 different prescriptions.  That is a lot of pill bottles for someone who doesn’t like to take drugs. And a lot of pill bottles to open a few times per day. But life has changed in every way in the past three years.  Taking pills I don’t want to take is just par for the course. But I still haven’t given in to the painkillers entirely.  I say that I take them as prescribed.  But I don’t.  And I’m sure my oncologist has figured that out.  If I took the percocet as prescribed, the 180 pills she writes for each month would only be enough to get me through 2 weeks.  But somehow I always manage to stretch them all the way to our next visit… I’m sure she’s noticed that.

So when I decided that I would be completely honest and tell these doctors what I actually take, I figured it would be a painful appointment. But it wasn’t. Dr. H thought that continuing with the Percocet (Oxycodone) I finally surrendered to taking two summers ago was a good plan.  But he said that it would be important for me to begin taking the dose actually prescribed. He also said that rather than waiting until the last possible moment to take a dose, I should be on a regular schedule of every 4-6 hours.  The premise is that keeping your pain under control is a much healthier way to live than chasing the pain and poorly managing it.  It is apparently much easier to keep pain under control than it is to get it under control. But I knew all this from the countless times it had been explained to me in appointments, after surgeries, in the hospitals, etc.  This was just the first time I was really prepared to listen.

Dr. H also asked that we increase my Neurontin (Gabapentin) prescription from 300 mg to 600 mg per dose. 3 times per day and at bedtime.  This would help with my nerve pain and issues (left over from Taxol chemotherapy and a left-sided radical mastectomy — I did have both breasts removed, but the mastectomy on the right side was far less invasive).  It might also help with the hot flashes and energy-sucking night sweats I have been experiencing since an emergency hysterectomy / salpingo-oopherectomy last year at the age of 35. Dr. H said that we would do this for a few weeks until I had adjusted and then we could increase.  He also said that when I returned, we would discuss the addition of methadone or morphine to the schedule.

Whoa.  What was that?  Methadone or morphine?  Really?  From what I’ve heard of this group, it’s difficult to get drugs out of them, so I have to say that hearing this was a bit of a shocker.  Dr. H stepped out to get the Director of the group.  I figured Dr. Q would set the record straight and take the morphine and methadone off the table.  I mean, I am 30-something years old, I shouldn’t be preparing for a life on these drugs, right?

Photo Credit: Stinkin-Thinkin.com

Photo Credit: Stinkin-Thinkin.com

Then my doctor’s boss came in, reviewed my chart, and gave his take on what the treatment plan would be.  It matched up identically.  Even the morphine/methadone part.  They seem to feel it is time for this and that there is no point in suffering needlessly anymore.  That was a sobering thing to hear.  I will have to do some research for next time because all I know of methadone has to do with recovering heroin addicts lining up to get their methadone so they can cope with the drug withdrawal. I’m hoping they have something a little different in mind for me?!

In the meantime, I am going to work on getting on the prescribed schedule and on being a decent patient!  Something tells me that I may have to add a column with my name to the sticker chart I keep to help the boys behave.  Maybe if I take all my meds as prescribed I can get a Hot Wheels car, too!

An Update on Frank and Nancy

***

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Do you remember Man of Science, Man of Faith, a story about my friends Frank and Nancy?

Frank was diagnosed with a recurrence of his cancer last month.  He was given 3 months to live.

It hasn’t been a month yet.

Three weeks ago, Frank and Nancy were still kind of hopeful.  Even I am not quite sure what I mean by this.  Maybe just that they believed Frank had some good time left and that he would surpass the three month expiration date he’d been given?

Exactly three weeks ago (a couple of days after learning about Frank’s updated diagnosis), I stood in my kitchen chopping vegetables and browning chicken for homemade chicken soup.  I was making it for Frank.   When the people I care about are sick and I feel helpless, I am compelled to make chicken soup and bring food.  I certainly felt helpless when I heard about Frank’s stomach metastasis, so out came the big soup pot.

A few hours later, when the soup was finished and packaged in big, blue glass bowls, I walked next door to Frank and Nancy’s house.  I dragged my husband along so he could deliver the large bag of organic fruits and vegetables I had picked up at the grocery store for Frank and Nancy.

I knew that Nancy would understand my response to her husband’s illness.  I knew this because she has showed up on my doorstep with food a number of times since my diagnosis.

Nancy accepted the big red bag full of produce.  But she did not want me to leave the soup.  She said that three families from her church had dropped off three different kinds of soup that weekend.

I insisted that Nancy keep the soup.  I said that they didn’t need to eat it, but that I had made it just for them, so they could freeze it or toss it, but I wanted them to have it.  I needed them to accept it.  I’m usually not this forceful, so I surprised myself with my insistence.  But they had to take it, for my sake, because I had to help in some small way.

A couple of hours later, Nancy called me to tell me that she hadn’t wanted to say anything, but Frank was only eating soft foods.  She said that he had tried the other soups but couldn’t eat them (or didn’t want to).  She told me that he tried mine and enjoyed it, including the soft vegetables and mushrooms it contained.  She said that he had even managed to finish a bowl.  She was so happy that she had to call.  And I was so touched that I felt a hard lump develop in my throat.

So two weeks ago when Nancy said that the soup was gone and she asked me to make more, I was delighted.  I was just getting over pneumonia and was so tired that it took me most of the day (with rests in between!), but I was honored that Nancy had asked.

This time I decided to roast a whole chicken.  I stood in the kitchen dressing the chicken, thinking about poor Frank and Nancy.  As I placed rosemary sprigs and a freshly cut lemon into the chicken, I recalled that day two summers ago.  Nancy had arranged a surprise 50th birthday party for Frank.  As I rubbed the herbed butter I had just made onto the chicken and under it’s breast skin, I remember how excited Nancy was.  She wanted everything to be perfect.

Nancy even went so far as to plan the party in a large and lovely space in the new town hall building — in another town a half hour away.  She didn’t want him to suspect.  She told Frank that the party he was going to was a graduation party for a girl they knew.

I was now chopping vegetables, placing them in the roasting pan beneath the chicken, and dousing them with olive oil and salt and pepper.

When Frank walked into the party room, we were all there.  His closest family and friends.  Nancy had even flown Frank’s brother and sister in from out of state.  So when he walked in and saw the fake graduation girl and noticed his own friends and family behind her, I think he was just as shocked as when everyone shouted “Surprise!”

I opened the oven and slid the roasting pan in.  It was time to start working on the soup now.

Frank was clearly surprised.  So surprised and touched that he wept.  Frank is a very tall man, so to see this tall man with a commanding presence stop in his tracks and begin crying was a moving sight.

I filled a large pot with water, chicken stock and salt and pepper, and I began washing and chopping more vegetables.

It was a great day filled with smiling and laughter.  Genuine happiness.  Nancy had done a beautiful thing for Frank.  Though she didn’t have a lot of money to spend, she made the party seem like she had a large budget to work with.  She worked hard on this day and she asked people to pitch in where they could.  She knew it was an important day.

It would come to be more important than she ever could have realized.

I gently dropped vegetables into the pot and added a touch of olive oil and seasoning to the stock.  Soon I would take the golden brown chicken from the oven and add juicy chunks of chicken and tender, roasted vegetables to the stockpot.  And then I would walk next door to Frank and Nancy’s house with my pot and with the hope that Frank would be able to eat my humble offering.

That was two weeks ago.

One week ago, Nancy said that Frank was now only able to drink the broth.

And things got progressively worse this week.  I remember hearing the distress in Nancy’s voice whenever we talked.  She was tired from worry and from caring for Frank around the clock.

And when Frank and Nancy’s son came over in need of a ride to school on a couple of the mornings (because he had missed the bus so he could help his mom take care of his dad), he was noticeably quiet.

Nancy was having trouble keeping Frank hydrated.  She was using a syringe to wet his lips and mouth.  I took Pedialyte popsicles over so she could melt them down and replenish some of his electrolytes.  But we knew they wouldn’t make that much of a difference.

Despite her vigilance, Frank had also developed a bedsore.  Nancy said that the nurses had’t been caring for it, so I took a special cream over that would help to soothe it and form a barrier.  But I was afraid that it would get infected and I knew that it must be causing pain.

Early Thursday morning, the phone rang when it was still dark outside.  It was Nancy.  She said that Frank was unresponsive and that he had wet himself.  I tried to conceal how upset I was to hear this, but it was no use.  I talked to Nancy for a little while and told her I would bring some adult diapers over.  They had given me these when I was hospitalized for my hysterectomy last year and had been hemorrhaging and pads were not enough.  I was sad when I realized that I had no idea back then that they would be going to Frank.

Frank came around again that morning and was able to talk to Nancy and his kids, but I knew that these things were signs that he would be gone soon.  My guess was that day.  Frank and Nancy’s son came over for a ride to school after he helped his mom clean and diaper his dad.  He was visibly shaken.  It was heartbreaking.  He is a good kid and a good son.  I was upset that he had to experience this.  His prom was the next night and instead of worrying about what kind of corsage to get his date like his friends, he was worrying about losing his father to cancer.

The day went on and night came.  At 2 a.m., the phone rang.  I knew it was Nancy.  I picked up the phone and heard a small voice on the other end.  It was Nancy telling me that Frank had just passed.  She sounded both upset and relieved.  His pain had ended and his suffering was over.

Cancer claimed another life.

Frank was just 51.  He is survived by his loving wife, son, daughter, brand new (5-month-old) granddaughter, and a large group of friends and family who loved him.

And Tonight We Danced…

***

breast cancer thirties 30s 30's cancerinmythirties.wordpress.com dancing kids twins

Tonight we danced…
You and you and I…
***
We danced in the living room, between chairs
and beneath shiny blue paper stars and an off-white sky
***
Some days I wonder when it will all end
Some nights I lie awake knowing it can’t last
And fearing the day when you will no longer have a Mom
***
But for now, for tonight,
You are mine
And I am yours
***
For tonight your giggles will echo as you step on my toes
And we will dance and twirl ’til our heart’s content
You and you and I…

Guest Post by Susan Vento, Wife of the Late Bruce Vento

Hello Loyal Readers,

I hope you will all take a moment to read the story below — and then go one step further and sign the petition that follows.

When Susan Vento, wife of the late Bruce Vento, a former U.S. House Representative, contacted me to ask for help with this important campaign, I had to take a few minutes out of my day to sign the petition and post her story.

I hope you will also take the time to read her moving story and sign the petition.

Thank you all — I am so fortunate to be a part of such a wonderful & supportive blogging community.

———

My name is Susan Vento, and I am writing to you about a cause that is very close to my heart. On October 10th 2000 my husband, Bruce Vento, passed away. He was serving as a congressman for the state of Minnesota when he was diagnosed with pleural mesothelioma, a very rare cancer that is caused by asbestos exposure and kills 90-95% of its victims. Please read my post below to learn more about my personal story.

I Support Victims’ Rights: My Family’s Fight Against Cancer & Unfair Legislation

It was on a Saturday––January 29th, 2000 to be exact––that mesothelioma entered our lives. “Asbestos,” they told us, the name of the killer that would eventually take my husband’s life nine months later.

Like any story, I would like to start at the beginning because only then can you understand the meaning of the ending. My husband, Bruce, grew up on St. Paul’s East Side, the second of eight children in a second generation Italian-German family. He attended the University of Wisconsin-River Falls, working construction to put himself through college. He then went on to teach junior-high science in the Minneapolis Public School system and later was elected to the Minnesota House of Representatives in 1970, representing East Side St. Paul families. In 1976, he was elected to the U.S. House of Representatives from Minnesota’s Fourth Congressional District, where he served his constituents in the Fourth District up until his death, just barely 60.

He and I first met while Bruce was lobbying in Washington D.C. in 1980. Four years later, I started doing volunteer work in support of his re-election campaigns. Like Bruce, I was an educator, and I believed in his impact. He supported working men and women, our public schools, and those who are poor and homeless, those who do not typically have a voice in the political process. Little did I know that our love story would start in those campaign rooms, working together for a future we both believed in.

Our first date wasn’t until mid-April of 1995, where he took me out to a comedy club. I was 40 at the time, and hadn’t been dating much because I was more focused on work than anything personal in my life. It sparked the start of my life’s great love, one that I thought would last a lifetime.

In early January of 2000, Bruce left on a Congressional trip to Europe. Each night he called to check in, he kept talking about a shortness of breath and lower back pain. The morning after he returned to Washington, D.C., he went to the House physician, who immediately had him go to the hospital nearby.  They drew a significant amount of fluid from Bruce’s lung for testing.  The following afternoon, he received the call: he had lung cancer. I met him at the airport here in the Twin Cities that night, and we spent the weekend having the conversations you have when you’ve received news like this.  Bruce and I had his sons and their spouses over to share the news with them, and then we went to tell his parents––a most difficult conversation.

The following week, we went to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN. After testing, Bruce’s doctor shared with us that he had mesothelioma. It was caused by asbestos exposure, which happened during Bruce’s construction work back in college. We had never heard of this disease let alone knew how to spell it. While the doctors took Bruce for additional tests, I spent a couple of hours in the hospital library, desperately searching for any kind of information I could find on this vicious cancer. Little was available at the time, so I came up with less information than I had hoped.

It was on Valentines Day that the surgeons removed Bruce’s lung, half of his diaphragm, and lymph nodes. When the toxicology reports came back, we found out that the cancer had spread to his lymph nodes. In April, he began several rounds of chemotherapy, followed by five weeks of radiation. All the while, Bruce continued serving his people from Washington. He never stopped fighting for that cause, that same vision that brought us together.

Since Bruce’s death, I have been a part of several efforts both in Washington as well as here in Minnesota to advocate for patients and their families. Too often, the corporate interests hold court and control the outcomes on much of the legislation being enacted, especially when it comes to issues like asbestos and mesothelioma. The opportunity to share Bruce’s story has been both healing and empowering. So many only know the word “mesothelioma” from the late-night cable advertisements and have not yet experienced it in their own lives.

I’ve met so many patients and families and have learned so much from their experiences. The “small world” connections have been stunning––Bruce’s nurse during his radiation was diagnosed with mesothelioma after his death and later died. My former teaching partner’s father died of mesothelioma, as did a former staff member from my elementary school.  The candidate who challenged Bruce in his last three, successful re-election bids for the U.S. House was diagnosed following Bruce’s death and died a few months after.

I’m doing this to honor Bruce’s legacy as well as to do what I can to help other patients and families protect their legal and constitutional rights. The Asbestos Cancer Victims’ Rights Campaign (ACVRC) is committed to providing a voice for patients and their families as Congress debates and makes decisions regarding legislation that would seriously erode our rights. While awareness and information surrounding mesothelioma has improved in the last thirteen years, we need to continue raising our voices. Starting with signing our petition, I encourage you to join our effort in whatever way you can.  With your help, we can take a stand. Together, we can work towards building a better tomorrow and truly make a lasting difference.

___________

There is something YOU can do to help. Recently, asbestos companies have been using their political influence to introduce a new bill. It is called the “Furthering Asbestos Claim Transparency Act” (FACT Act), and it will delay, and in some cases, deny justice and badly needed compensation to people suffering from asbestos-related diseases. I am a spokesperson for the Asbestos Cancer Victims’ Rights Campaign (www.cancervictimsrights.org). The ACVRC is a national campaign dedicated to protecting the rights of cancer victims and their families.  I hope that you will join our fight to defeat this unfair legislation. Here are a couple of simple steps you can take to make a difference:

1.    Sign the petition to stop legislation that threatens cancer victims!

Go to www.CancerVictimsRights.org/take-action/sign-the-petition/ and follow the instructions to sign the petition at the bottom of the page.

2.    Spread the word!

Share your thoughts on our cause and the protection of cancer victims’ rights with your blog audience. Place a link to our petition on your blog to allow your readers to sign and showcase their public support – every signature matters!

Thank you so much! Together we can truly make a difference!

Man of Science, Man of Faith

cancerinmythirties.wordpress.com breast cancer thirties 30s 30's faith science church cat scan belief death

If you were a Lost fan and saw every episode (as I did), you might recall an episode titled “Man of Science, Man of Faith,” (S2, E1).

It was the first episode of season 2 and the episode where Jack, a surgeon, meets his future wife.  She is brought into the E.R. after a devastating car accident that leaves her paralyzed.  Jack plans to operate but tells her that the possibility of regaining function is almost nonexistent.  Jack’s father, a senior surgeon, witnesses this exchange and chastises his son for squelching his patient’s hope.  Jack barks that her spine is crushed and that any hope he’d be giving her would be false hope.  He performs the surgery to the best of his ability, but she is so damaged that he believes she is still paralyzed and that he was unable to fix her.  When he goes back to apologize and tell her she will never have feeling below her waist, she begins wiggling her toes.  Jack, who was previously only a man of science, realizes that science and faith merged to create a miracle.

My friend Nancy has known about my cancer since the beginning.  She watched me barely make it through harsh chemos.  She visited when I was giving myself daily injections of Neupogen as my white blood cell counts plummeted.  She came to say goodbye on the eves of major surgeries.  She brought dinners over to feed my children when I had I.V. bags full of fluid running into the Powerport in my chest and was vomiting so much that I could barely hold my head up.

She watched me spiral downward into a deep well of cancer.  And then she watched me slowly claw my way up to the surface again.

And somewhere in the midst of this, she came to my door with both fear and hope in her eyes.  She told me that her husband, Frank, had something show up on his CAT scan.

I knew that Frank’s hadn’t been feeling well.  I knew that he didn’t look well.  And when I last saw him, the yellow tint in his eyes did not go unnoticed.

She said that he was scheduled for surgery, but that God was good and that he would be fine.

As you may have guessed, Nancy is very religious and is outwardly so.  She has no qualms about sharing her beliefs.

Nor does she have any trouble with telling others to have hope and faith.  She has done this with me many times since my diagnosis.  She has even gone so far as to tell me in a roundabout way that when I am not doing well, it is because I am not trusting in God and not being faithful enough.

It is always a difficult thing for me to hear, especially during the times when I have felt my worst.  I’d be lying if I said the idea that I am responsible for the cancer for any reason is a tough pill to swallow.

But I listen and nod my head because I know Nancy is not saying these things to hurt my feelings.  I know she says them because her faith is so strong that she can’t see these situations from any other angle.

Frank’s surgery revealed a small tumor.  It was malignant.  They also found a small amount of cancer in one lymph node.  The good news was that the surgeon managed to get clean margins.

I was noticeably concerned, but Nancy reminded me that God is good and that the cancer was small and her husband would be fine.

Frank is a doctor and a man of the cloth.  Frank is both a man of science and a man of faith.  Usually.

When Frank started chemo, Nancy did her best to make healthy foods that Frank could tolerate.  She took care of him and they prayed together regularly.  They both had faith that everything would be fine.

Frank had a really difficult time with chemo and eventually decided that he’d had enough because it was making him so sick.  They repeated his scans and everything looked good.  So they both said “God is good” and made the decision to stop the chemo.  Frank was so sick from the chemo that he and Nancy thought it wasn’t worth continuing, especially when his scans were good and he had God protecting him.

I was reeling over this decision.  I insisted that Frank should continue to pray, but that he should also consider finishing the chemo.  I repeated that he would be horribly sick during chemo, but that he would feel better when it ended.  I said that it would be worth it in the end because it would give him the best shot at life.  I pleaded with them then — and many times since.

But they insisted that they were going to let God take care of it.  He didn’t need the harsh chemo.  He just needed to be faithful.

So time passed.  His scans were still good.  I insisted that he go back and finish, though.  But my friends told me that it wasn’t worth the side effects and that God was healing him.

And then he didn’t feel well.  He was having trouble eating.  He didn’t look good.  He was losing weight.

A few weeks later, Nancy said Frank had collapsed and they were going to the hospital for dehydration.  It was the second time in a month.

I suggested that she look into home I.V. hydration so he could avoid these hospital stays.  And I also pleaded with her to reconsider the chemo decision.  She said that it wasn’t open for discussion.  Frank did not want to get sicker with chemo and she wasn’t going to push it.  She still insisted that he would be fine.

He had to go back into the hospital last week.  Again for dehydration.  But this time the scan revealed something.  But she didn’t tell me about it.

She called tonight during dinner.  She asked about the times when I had home hydration because the hospital was giving her a hard time.  They told her that he would need to enroll in hospice and sign a DNR before they would start home I.V. hydration and was this what I had to do?

I told her that it wasn’t at all.  I signed a few forms at the Cancer Center and then a few more when the delivery truck and my nurse showed up at the door.  But it wasn’t hospice related.  And there was no DNR to sign.

The conversation haunted me.  Then I learned that Frank was no longer going upstairs.  Nancy was giving him sponge baths in the living room.  And a hospital bed had just been delivered.

I was sick to my stomach because I had been through this with loved ones before and I knew what it meant.

Nancy said that the latest scan revealed that the cancer had metastasized to his stomach.  That he has 3 months to live.  3 months.

They are scared.  And rightfully so.

And my heart aches for them because I love them both and I don’t want this disease to take Nancy’s husband.

I do believe in God and I do believe in the power of prayer.  But I also believe that modern medicine exists for a reason.

I  wish they could have found a way to balance medicine and faith.  I wish he had finished the chemo.  And I’m sure they do, too.