March 4, 2009. Dry run

My husband and I sit in the waiting room – waiting. I laugh as I ponder this. More accurately we are being kept waiting. We always arrive early so we won’t be late. Okay, now this is really amusing me. Finally, at 12:20, I am called for my 11;45 appointment for which we arrived at 11:30. “Are you ready?” the assistant asks. “Oh, I’ve been ready for a while,” I say a bit sarcastically and immediately I regret it noting her tired eyes. (Sarcasm – the cutting of flesh – I’m sorry). They open at 4AM.

My husband tries to accompany me. The front desk girl told us he could, but this nurse seems unsure, too tired to decide actually. After a long hesitation she reluctantly allows him to follow us. I’m led to the women’s dressing area to change and he takes a seat. A female patient returns from treatment, notes my husband’s presence and comments “men in the women’s dressing area? I guess there are curtains,” and she ducks into a changing room. When she emerges, he admires her coif. “Looks familiar,” he says. “Who knew I was a curly gray head?” she replies. We are one big family – this breast cancer club.

The radiology technician, a sweet young black woman named Marjorie, comes for me and leads us to the treatment room where a large intimidating machine fills the space. We meet Alex, a stunning Indian woman 8 months pregnant, and Raphael, a young Hispanic man. Besides their youth, all in their late twenties, I notice something else they have in common. They are all the same height, till I notice Alex who, despite her condition, is wearing heels! Chunky, not spikes, I note with relief. They briefly explain the plan and then, much to his disappointment, ask my husband to leave. “It’s too distracting for us,” Alex says.

I’m told to stretch my right arm because, once positioned, I will have to hold very still. I’m unconcerned, confident in my limberness. I am asked to lie down on the table, my head held in an armrest of sorts. I’m perfectly comfortable although they fuss over this for several minutes making sure. Then they position my left arm at my side which doesn’t really fit on the narrow table. A good amount of time is spent and I end up anchoring my hand under my hip comfortably. They keep reminding me that I will need to lie perfectly still for a long time. They’ve allowed an hour. This is your long appointment, they remind me. I think back to 5 hour chemo sessions. But here I have to lie still.

I make a few comments but they ignore me. They are intent on their measurements. One measures, two confirm, one writes it down repeating the numbers. Alex draws and writes on my exposed torso. She calls for her instruments, “purple”, “green”. The ink colors differentiate the 5 fields they will radiate. They are using the data from last week’s CAT scan, determining the angles which will avoid my heart and minimize exposure to my right lung. The bed is moved under the giant arm of the machine. They are careful to explain to me what to expect – clicking, whirring, the bed jerking positions. Then they exit, telling me they can see and hear me the whole time.

I concentrate on being still. “Be still and know that I am God.” Once, when I was going through a difficult time of deep sorrow and heartache for my son, a counsellor challenged me to be still, doing absolutely nothing for one hour, just listening to music. I sat in our glider on the deck. It was peaceful and warm, Aaron Copland’s “Appalachian Spring” playing. My eyes were closed. But the music yanked and tugged until it pulled from my heart precious memories of rocking my babies to this music and I was overcome with melancholy. I’m not good at being still.

I’m better at distracting myself. I recite scripture for a while and then move to poems. I found this one untitled in our parking garage in Honolulu. It was also unsigned, handwritten on a piece of ruled paper. I was quickly intrigued and put it to memory:

“Isn’t it funny how princes and kings
And clowns who caper in sawdust rings,
And simple folk like you and me
Are builders of eternity.

And each is given a set of tools,
A block of stone, a book of rules,
And each must build ‘ere the time has flown
A stumbling block or a stepping stone.”

My right hand is numb. My team reenters, new lines, more numbers, new x-ray film positioned. Continuously they confer and discuss the best positions and angles to achieve the numbers they need. “Can I scratch my eye?” I ask. “No,” Alex responds. “It’s freezing in here,” I say from my half naked position. “What’d she say?” asks Alex. Marjorie answers, “she’s cold”. They’re not unsympathetic, just busy. They concentrate on accuracy. I contribute my part – remaining motionless – except for the rapid brain activity. I try to relax but minutes later realize I’m tensed up again from the cold. My right hand is freezing. Marjorie tries to rub it but her hands are cold, too. She enlists Raphael whose warm hands gently massage mine while Alex draws another line in “blue”. Another film place and they leave again. I’m glad Alex’s baby is protected for the deadly rays.

“The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all it’s might.
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright,
And this was off because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun,
Had got no business to be there,
After the day was done.
“It’s very rude of him,” she said
“To come and spoil the fun.”………

I run through the rest of this Lewis Carrol poem I memorized in college while I waited for my roommates to finish their finals.

“Once upon a midnight dreary,
While I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious
Volume of forgotten lore.

While I nodded nearly napping,
Suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping,
Rapping at my chamber door……….”

The Raven, always a favorite.

The three techies return. “How much longer?” I ask, a child on a long journey.
“15 minutes,” says Raphael. But for these last minutes they stay with me and are suddenly warm and friendly. The last measurement seems unattainable without the machine crushing my ribs. They are trying to achieve “100” whatever that means. They confer and decide to consult a physicist on staff. Alex disappears and returns victorious. “Reset to 103,” she says and they all cheer. Perfect. We are done.

February 14, 2009 From the Chair

Last chemo-welcome words. Has it really been six months since I started? The interruption of surgery stretched it out making it seem like forever. I'm not sure how I feel. I'm glad it's coming to an end and even happier that it has worked so effectively. I know I'm repeating myself but I'm so very grateful for these treatments. I think about the current health care proposals and what the changes might have meant for me. I worry about what it will mean for future patients.

Dr. Kato has granted me a reprieve from the Neulasta shot - the culprit guilty of more than just bone pain. There is also the possibility of heart damage. The high pulse and intense hot flashing are a few of the others. Anyway, the main reason for taking it was to keep my immune system up so I would make it to the next chemo and since this is my last I can forgo it. I just need to be extra cautious about crowds this week. I'm without protection.

I overhear patients share war stories, comparing exhaustion and nausea levels and I marvel that I've had none of it. I hear them discussing how long they've been battling their illness and here I'm expecting to finish up and walk away. One woman is asking each patient their story. The stories are horrible. I keep my nose in a book so she won't ask me. I feel guilty that my story has happy ending and then I think, but there are no guarantees.I've learned so much about life, about myself. I've especially learned of God's faithfulness in our trials. Amazing! Some of what I've learned:

My imagination greatly exceeds reality.

God is closest in the valleys.

His Peace is Vast.I cannot live without Hope.

My faith is deep and wide.

My church ministers Christ's love in word and deed.

My husband really loves me. He really loves taking care of me. He works tirelessly for me, for us. My love for him is deeper and more comfortable than ever.

My son's voice makes me smile. His prayer requests make me feel useful. There's a connection in our passion for Truth.

All prayer requests keep me useful.

My God-honoring daughter ministers soul comfort to me like no other. I know it's mutual. We are Mama Yama and Little Yama(thanks Josiah!) forever.

My mother loves me sacrificially. She is my mommy in my suffering. I feel at home in her presence.

My sister is a thoughtful gift-giver. She's upbeat, fun and loving. Our bond reaches from our childhood.

My brother is a precious, battle-tested encourager. We are united in our quest to know God better. We have a deep respect for one another.

My cousin is still my eternal sister. We are reunited in the love of our childhood. I cry tears of joy for her.

I have strengthened relationships with three of our step daughters - praise God they all trust in our Lord and we have shared prayers for each other.

My real estate team is a rock of loving support and loyalty.We are a family of believers bearing one another's burdens, trusting God in all things.

My family of friends, old and new is vast and so dear to me. Encouragers all. I'm shocked at their numbers and feel wealthy beyond measure. Many many are new or renewed.

There are a few special warriors who've done battle with me in the trenches. They humble and strengthen me. They've taught me the power of a praying army.

Many are suffering far worse than I. I will not complain.

Trials produce opportunities.This is engraved now in my soul.

My Blackberry makes a handy journal.I love to write. It crystallizes my thoughts and records my life lessons.



One month before I was diagnosed, I asked God to humble me and give me a heart of compassion. He has graciously, tenderly given me just that.

July 1, 2008 Day 1 Cancer

I march resignedly into the examination room ahead of my husband and anxious for an end to the suspense. I expect the worst. Waiting for the biopsy results has been it's own journey.

"How was the drive down?" Dr. Corn asked, blond curls bouncing irreverently, her blue eyes targeting mine. A contradiction of impertinence and compassion which I interpret to mean the news is not good.

I shake my head and waive my hand deflecting her nicety. My fate hangs between us like an unclaimed short straw. "Just tell me the news," I answer a bit rudely.

"Oh," she says, "you have breast cancer, honey" delivered in a tone suggesting this can't be a surprise. Her small feminine hand, a breast surgeon's hand, rests on my shoulder assuming an intimacy we will soon have. Its always struck me as suspicious being called "honey" by someone younger than me. I'm not sure I trust her.

Breast cancer. The words bounce around my mind like a steel ball in a pinball machine, bumping against the many scenarios I'd conjured up in anticipation of this moment. Cancer. Ping. Chemo. Ping ping.

I look at my husband. Stricken. Apparently my captain has come unprepared. Had he missed the clouds forming on the horizon? My heart cries out to him: "Too far south! We've sailed too far south. We have no choice now! We'll have to sail through this one and hope for safe harbor beyond."

His hand nervously rubs my neck vigorously,annoyingly, wanting to DO something, I can't focus. The blood rushing in my ears is making it hard to hear.

She's answering questions with a practiced voice of gentle concern, experienced in the art of delivering bad news. Do they teach that I wonder? Bedside manners 101? She deserves a gold star. The Emily Post award for physician manners.

Cancer! She's talking. There it is again. I'm not paying attention and there are so many questions.

"Can you write it all down for me?" I say. "I'm not getting all this."

"Sue will write it down for you" she gestures to the girl at the desk of this two woman office.

My doctor appears too young, unable to deal with the reality of her chosen vocation. The words from the Sound of Music come to me - how do you solve a problem like Maria(Christa) how do you catch a wave and pin it down? She's excited with the anticipation of her impending trip to Europe. She assures me the resulting delay of surgery will make no difference. At once I am thankful for the delay and curious - if cancer is roaming my body searching for a place to land, does a three week delay give it the advantage? Subvert squatting rights so to speak? But hey, my doctor deserves her vacation.

My husband chats with Sue who is busy scheduling appointments for a plastic surgeon, radiologist and chemo doctor. I'm on my cell phone delivering the 'news' to my daughter, my son, my mother,sister and my co-workers with careful words of hope for the ones not ready to give me up. I call my brother last. He's been through this five times! Some unusual free floating malignant tumors in his abdominal cavity. I remember thinking God was trying to get his attention. And He did. Finally. It was somewhere between his 4th and 5th surgery. His response reveals his experience in tired resignation. He is SO sorry I have to go through this. A shiver of fear ripples my soul.