Return of Cancer
"To reverse the feeling that I was the query in an unfair hunt, I had
to establish for myself that I had complete control over the situation."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Return of Cancer
It was October and my classes were well under way. Seated at my
favorite table with books and papers sprawled casually about, I was
studying for an exam between frequent sips of coffee and sight-saving
glances around the room. I looked down at myself and tried not to
think; the striped sweater I wore readily acknowledged my asymmetrical
stomach, even if I did not. Whatever it was had not gone away.
Several days earlier I had noticed a certain lopsidedness to my stomach
region, but not desiring to worry, assured myself that it was
"indigestion complicated by gas" and would, therefore, "pass." The odd
part was that it did not pass, and staring down at my stomach it was
still readily apparent. "Maybe I've always been like that," I told
myself. "After all I did lose three-fourths of my stomach."
I must not have convinced myself, however, because when Norm and Dad
rumbled down the stairs, I asked them for their opinions. As each took
his turn interpreting the portents revealed by my striped sweater, the
other would say, "Call the doctor if you're so worried."
I had to agree that it was better than speculation, so I picked up the
phone and dialed the doctor's office. His nurse, a brusque, dominant
figure, answered. I had always been rather overwhelmed by her, and in
my currently agitated frame of mind, sputtered out my name and request
as would an army private to his platoon drill sergeant.
"Dr. is on vacation," she stated.
"Uh, could I see the other doctor?" I asked as my emotional ball of
string unraveled a bit further. I only wanted to see a doctor; it did
not matter who I saw. I just had to know that I had no physical
problem.
"Lauren, Mayo Clinic is where you should go."
"But I just wanted someone to take a look. . ."
"If you have a problem, you should go to Mayo..."
"But... can't you?..."
She would not even schedule an appointment.
I had been mildly concerned about myself; now I was in a state of
mental pandemonium. I hung up the phone as tears singed my eyes and
the lump in my throat multiplied to twice its original size. The
nurse's staunch refusal to see me was like receiving an impromptu death
sentence, and implied that mine was most certainly a problem too great
for a family doctor to handle.
I had not prepared for such resistance and blunt pessimism, but perhaps
tact and sympathy were only smoke screens when one's prospects were
assumed to be dim. The two emotionally soothing elements surely did
nothing to right a physical wrong; maybe she honestly felt that she was
doing me a favor.
My thoughts, nevertheless, went on the rampage after the startling
conversation, and in no shape to make further calls, I gladly accepted
my Dad's offer to call Mayo Clinic for me. He immediately phoned to
schedule some tests and a consultation with my former oncologist; only
then did my frustration wane. Unconfirmed suspicions were bad enough
without the additional terror of being denied a chance to search for
the truth.
My new plans for the coming weekend made various cancellations a
necessity. Apart from school, I had accepted an in-store promotional
for cosmetics through the modeling agency and also intended to visit a
friend at college, where Halloween festivities were reportedly quite
arresting. Re-routing my plans was a disappointment, but I had to ease
my tormented mind; excitement seemed to be raining down on me in
buckets, and added a different aspect to the expression "when it rains,
it pours."
The sense of urgency which had initially wrought such havoc upon me was
squelched by the upcoming clinic appointments, and the week progressed
without further turmoil on my behalf. When Thursday arrived Dad and I
packed ourselves into my car and rolled out of the driveway toward the
unknown answers that we sought to find.
For the first time, Dad and I were traveling to Rochester on our own.
Because I was having a routine set of tests for a symptom that, as yet,
possessed no form or definition, Mom was going to remain at home and
teach her kindergarten classes. I had no objection to this, since the
entire trip was based solely on the paranoia which sprouted after my
questionable discovery, and frankly I was beginning to feel rather
foolish for even mentioning it, let alone pursuing my suspicions.
It could be anything. . . or nothing at all.
"It's not stupid if it puts your mind at ease," Dad consoled.
I felt better when he said that. The last thing I wanted to be
was a hypochondriac.
The envelope of appointment cards held nothing that sounded
catastrophic. There were cards labeled "blood tests" and "chest X-ray"
as usual, and one card that read "cat scan," I stared at the last card
with latent skepticism. The name itself held no malice; with luck, the
test would prove to be painless as well.
The cat scan, I later discovered, was another means of taking an X-ray,
and with this knowledge, felt sure that I would live to tell about it.
As it was my final test, however, I could not help but wonder if it was
worse than the rest; I had noticed from previous experience that the
more detestable prodding, poking and outright sampling of one's body
was reserved for last, which was appropriate, perhaps, since a main
event was always the biggest fight.
I sat in my dressing room, musing over the test's infinite
possibilities until I was retrieved by one of the generically-attired
clinicians and led through radiation wonderland to a room housing a
huge device. A circular opening in the machine appeared to devour the
examination table on which I was instructed to lay. This was, indeed,
something new.
Once inside the room, the door closed and the technicians scattered.
I watched from my spot on the rigid table as some people milled about
the machine and others remained attentive from behind what resembled a
sportscaster's window. One young woman began to prepare my arm for an
injection, so I smiled and seized the opportunity to talk. I always
felt sorry for the staff at clinics; daily they received undeserved
abuse from bitter or frightened patients, as well as a significant
amount of mute apathy. I wanted to disprove the possible thought that
all patients had the personality of cold oatmeal. . .and I wanted to
know just what the test would entail.
"Does that hurt?" I motioned my eyes at the machine's jowl, which
stood agape slightly above my body. The woman shook her head and told
me to remain very still as the final adjustments were made.
"Is this all there is to it?" I asked, referring this time to the
injection.
"Sometimes a patient has to have two types of injections, but you
probably won't..." she said. Her pleasant tone eased my mind and
instilled trust, much like a friend would have done.
Suddenly everyone disappeared to the observation window and the lights
dimmed. A series of instructions were broadcast from the window and
then the machine came to life, clicking off pictures of my insides as I
held my breath for dictated intervals.
When the lights flashed on, the woman came to my side again. She told
me it would take a few minutes to know whether or not my X-rays were
satisfactory, so we ventured into a trivial conversation until the
results were determined. Activity resumed shortly, signaling that a
verdict was at hand, so the nurse departed, only to return with an
apologetic look on her face and equipment for an IV in her hand.
"I'm afraid you're going to need more X-rays," she said. "The doctor
needs more contrast."
Bad news is a strange concept. It is something one considers but
seldom prepares for; even life's most inevitable pain and indignities
are not taken personally if they remain hidden from view. Everyone
knows that he will age, but until the strand of gray or sun-kissed
wrinkle appears, aging itself can be ignored.
"The doctor needs more contrast." The statement entered my mind and
closed a door. Up to that moment I did not know if anything was wrong.
Now I knew, and like a 30-year-old who found his first gray hair, was
not surprised. I did not live in fear of losing my health and
happiness; when one deals with each day, he needs not prepare. . .
he needs only adjust.
I returned my attention to the needle that was about to be inserted
into my arm. "Does that stuff have any effects?" I asked. She smiled
at me and hesitantly said, "Well, we're told not to mention this, but
sometimes patients say they can taste it and those who have had
chemotherapy are psychologically affected by it and want to vomit."
I knew what that meant, and holding back a grimace of displeasure,
said that I had experienced the effect she described.
"Thanks for telling me," I continued. "I hate not knowing what to
expect." If I was anticipating the worst, the test's actual pain and
discomfort did not seem so bad. With the needle in place, the nurse
turned to me and said, "I hate to have to stick needles into nice
patients like you."
When the solution began to drip into my system, I felt my stomach
perform an involuntary flip-flop. The hateful taste and sensation had
not changed and I had to wage an intensely conscious battle against a
powerful urge to gag and rid myself of the distasteful invader. After
receiving a compliment such as the one just given to me, however,
vomiting was unthinkable.
Once again I found myself beneath the scanning X-rays, wondering if the
second search would uncover any answers. If so, I would be enlightened
when we met with Dr. E.
The only information I was able to extract from the consultation was
that I had an enlarged liver.
"An enlarged liver?" I spoke the words with a hint of amusement. For
me this was a great curiosity. Liver was something most people refused
to eat; beyond that, it was of little importance.
Apparently there was much I did not know about the body's dire
necessity of the liver, but the doctor said nothing and accepted my
light-hearted reaction without comment since he was unable to provide
further information anyway. Testing had proven inadequate; beyond the
enlargement, he remained mute regarding the possible interpretations of
the X-rays. Perhaps he did not wish to instill premature fear by
offering stab-in-the-dark diagnoses.
It was clear to me that I had no option but pursuit; a liver biopsy,
scheduled after the consultation, would hopefully solve the mystery.
I was nervous. My anxiety could not be shaken, for the thought of a
biopsy engendered memories of the bone marrow test, a test which I
vowed never to take again. What terror had I willfully agreed to
undergo this time?
It was a relief to hear my name called on the loud speaker; the time
I'd spent in the waiting room was of no benefit to my peace of mind.
I could think of nothing else but unbridled pain, and mulling over
such thoughts tended to have few positive effects.
After disrobing and donning a hospital gown, I was led into a waiting
room used by other patients and soon began a conversation with an older
woman who also had an enlarged liver. Over the fact that she was
enlarged I did not argue, however, I could not resist asking myself how
much of her enlargement actually had to do with her liver. Whether her
mistake was due to self-deceit or a lack of awareness did not matter;
concern and uncertainty were two elements we shared, and we wished each
other luck as a nurse ushered her from the room.
I spent a brief while surveying the floor before I was called. A nurse
directed me to a room and instructed me to lay down on a hard examining
table, whereupon I was left in darkness for two hours before a doctor
arrived. Meanwhile my state of mind deteriorated rapidly as I listened
to the sounds emanating from the surrounding rooms. Most were only
voices trailing off into the maze of corridors and finally disappearing
behind various doors of anonymity. However, with my mind housing its
unarrested and nameless fears of the forth-coming biopsy, other sounds
were transformed into horrendous tortures, the likes of which I would
surely undergo. One such fanciful flight of imagination was set off by
the unimpeded verbalizations of an old man whose room was across the
hall from my own. Since my door was propped open, I had noticed him
sitting in his wheelchair and muttering complaints or idly sucking his
gums. Eventually the door closed and his tests began, leaving me to
interpret the activity behind the door through his vocalizations.
There were garbled grumblings, which I had expected, but then groans
replaced words and I began to worry. They were awful. They were the
cries of horror shows and nightmares, scaling a full octave and
attaining a tonal quality which rivaled professional sound effects.
I was impressed; so much, in fact, that my stomach had managed to tie
itself into a perfect knot by the time the doctor arrived. I appraised
the old man's throaty outbursts as the sound track to a liver biopsy.
Luckily I was wrong. Whatever were his trials, whether real or
imagined, they prepared me for optimum punishment, to which I was never
exposed. Although I was horrified in my solitude and misinformation,
perhaps my final opinion of the test's severity was buffered by the old
man's wailings.
After my long wait, the nurse who had initially shown me to my room
entered, and finding me lying in the darkness, flicked on the lights
with a round of apologies. She explained the unreasonable delay was
due to an inability to obtain the CAT SCAN X-rays. Generally Mayo's
system worked quite effectively. Considering the large scale of the
facility, I was amazed that things ran smoothly at all.
The X-rays and doctor arrived in unison and the test commenced after a
brief series of questions on my part. Naturally, I desired to know if
it would be painful and was informed that it "could be." I was then
given a local anesthetic and braced myself, recalling that the pain
killer did little during the bone marrow test.
"Did that hurt?" the doctor asked.
"What do you mean?" I countered.
"I've taken the biopsy," he returned.
"What?" I was astounded. "I didn't feel anything!" The doctor
instantaneously became my best friend.
I remained on the table to await the results of the biopsy which had
been whisked away to the laboratory. Since the doctor had to judge his
targeted area through the X-rays, there was no guarantee that he would
hit an affected portion of the liver; if the lab reported finding
normal tissues, the doctor would have to try his luck once more.
As my luck would have it, another biopsy had to be taken. If that one
failed to produce answers, my condition would have to be determined
through alternate means; cutting into the liver, as in a biopsy,
created the risk of hemorrhage, and therefore limited the number that
could be performed at one time to two biopsies.
The doctor posted my X-rays on the light box and studied them intently.
I wondered what information he drew from the strange transparencies;
the X-rays told me nothing at all. If I had not known it was my liver,
the mottled shape would have been no more than a nameless abstraction.
"Are livers supposed to have spots?" I queried.
The doctor shuffled his feet for a few seconds, then admitted they did
not. I guess it was a stupid question, especially since the elusive
spots were the intended targets in the test, but I had to know all of
the available facts. The truth was my comfort and my ally; it was the
cure for fear born of ignorance.
The second biopsy was also determined normal. After the long day my
knowledge was still limited to the fact that my liver was enlarged and
spotted; it was information, but it did not satisfy. To Dad the normal
tissues found in the biopsies were good news; i.e., if biopsies in two
different areas were clear, I could not be seriously afflicted. To me,
however, the findings punctuated the necessity for more tests and
promised to prolong the unhappy state of emotions which accompanied a
dearth of solid facts. Thus, as I laid on a hospital bed waiting as
instructed for four hours to protect myself from internal bleeding, and
having worried excessively and learned relatively little from the
former expenditure, I could not look upon the day without thinking of
the expression "much ado about nothing."
Relatively little testing was done at Mayo over the weekend, so my dad
and I planned to go home for Halloween and two days of normalcy.
Because of my biopsies, however, the doctor recommended we remain in
the city over night to avoid excessive movement and possible
complications. Homebound Saturday morning we planned to return to
Rochester on Sunday evening, at which time I would be expected to check
into the hospital; Monday's agenda would include surgery. Having
exhausted all the other less radical options, an exploratory operation
was the only manner available to determine the mystery concealed
beneath my flesh.
I was glad to be home. Holidays were made to be spent at home, in my
opinion, and Halloween was no exception. That weekend, though, was
especially important to me. Like my trip to Colorado before the
operation for cancer, coming home was quite possibly my last taste of
the life which I had lately enjoyed; I needed not kid myself that the
operation's results could change my life in such ways that it would
never be the same again. The present was all that was mine, and
nothing was certain but the few hours of autumn sunshine and
jack-o-lanterns which graced the days. Those were the elements which
I embraced with all of my enthusiasm until it came time to leave for
Rochester.
The drive was memorable for many reasons. Dad and I were, once again,
traveling alone to the clinic; the three of us would have gone, but
since Mom had employment obligations in the form of parent/teacher
conferences, she decided, for the parents benefit, to remain at home.
It was the year's first conference and no one could have substituted.
With my car's heater useless, it was also the first time we drove the
truck. Because the truck had a manual transmission, steering and
brakes, and Mom's blood pressure rose at the mere thought of having to
drive it, we presumed it would nullify her nightmares if she retained
use of the family car. Finally, it was the first time we had ever
driven to the clinic by way of the prolific back roads that skirted the
northern farmland; though we stopped at various intervals to assure our
progress, only once did we find ourselves on the right highway
traveling the wrong direction.
All things considered, it made an interesting drive, and between eating
lunch in a small town and buying M and M's at a gas station and watching
Iowa's flat land slowly transform into the more hilly dairyland of
Wisconsin, I did not burden myself with the essence of our trip; I
found more importance in enjoying the seven hours than stewing in the
ignorance of my health situation.
When we reached the outskirts of Rochester, Dad pulled into a gas
station to fill up the tank and I jumped out of the truck for a
stretch. It had been a beautiful autumn day. The buildings now etched
long shadows upon the sunny landscape; soon shadow would meet shadow
until all was covered by darkness. I turned slowly to face Rochester
and my eyes locked on the two familiar buildings which towered above
the city. The clinic buildings, old and new, represented an integrity
in medicine which commanded respect; they could bear the happiest or
the most solemn news, and remain untouched, for in those two buildings
illness and death were more commonplace than health. Brothers of the
same mind and purpose, the buildings formed an entity of themselves,
daily inhaling and exhaling patients irregardless of whether the
patients actually survived.
I took a deep breath to still the sudden, wrenching nervousness which
clenched the pit of my stomach. The two buildings defined the reason
I was there even if they, as yet, gave me no real answers. It was
then that my joy ride ended and the unhappy reality of retiring for
the evening in a hospital room created waves in my mental calm. Even
my so-called "last supper" was clouded by anxiety.
One's natural reaction is to run from a threat, and to postpone less
palatable situations as long as possible. For me, however, there was
always a point at which flight and postponement no longer satisfied my
emotional needs, but instead created agony in their own right. When I
reached that summit, I grew intensely nervous and within minutes made a
180 degree turn which boosted me into an entirely different mode of
thought. That which I had fled, I sought, and if I was denied the
pursuit of my goal, I would experience an inner explosion of panic. To
reverse the feeling that I was the quarry in an unfair hunt, I had to
establish for myself that I had complete control over the situation.
In effect I did not "give in" or surrender to a stronger authority; my
flight came to an end through a deliberate, conscious decision on my
behalf.
And so it was that I finally decided to check in to the hospital and
surrender my body to a world of white. Once I was clad in the gown, my
identity became synonymous with scribbles on a chart, and color, the
brilliance of life on the outside, drained away. Hospitals robbed me
of something; I could be happy and possess a positive outlook, but the
energy and vitality of life was inaccessible. Perhaps this blandness
in my soul was a way of coping with adversity, for if I had little
passion from the outset, no ill tidings could evoke a particularly
heated or irrational reaction.
Dad left relatively early for his motel, or maybe my feeling of
isolation only made it seem that way. Had I been able, I would have
left also; sterile atmospheres are rather nerve-wracking, and I knew
Dad was nervous enough without the added pressure of whiling away the
twilight hours in a cramped four-bed hospital ward.
The room had no T.V. so I turned my attention toward the window. Tiny
dots marked streetlights and houses, but the vast darkness prevailed
over most of the scene, creating a solitude which mirrored my own.
During hours such as those in the hospital, I realized how terribly
insignificant I was as compared to the entire world. A person could
lose himself in this world.
The morning held no delights. I would not even receive a breakfast
tray. I looked forward only to a day of anticipation in which I was
fourth in line to leave for the operating room. I could do little but
stare at the walls and wait for the morning to ripen into afternoon.
By mid-afternoon I began to wonder if the operation would be cancelled
due to the lack of time, but finally several people retrieved me,
whereupon I was taken through the hospital corridors on a gurney and
given a different perspective of the building than I was accustomed to
seeing. (Unlike some public buildings, I was pleased to note there
were no spit-balls on the ceiling.)
Riding along the hallway, I also perceived a difference in myself. I
was in the spot-light, the main attraction in a frightening event. . .
and yet I was not worried. A relaxant had siphoned off my excess
nervousness and the remaining anxiety drained away because my waiting
was over.
In a partial dream-state, I watched as blue frocked workers rushed
about, preparing for my operation until I was wheeled into surgery.
There, bright round lights shone overhead and doctors and nurses craned
their necks to see their next patient.
"You're going to feel a stick," the nurse warned.
I watched as the doctor placed the needle in my vein. For the first
time I was aware of my surroundings up to the moment I received
anesthesia, and it was truly an enjoyable experience. The relaxant had
full control of me, and a loaded gun would not have evoked duress. I
looked at the kind and gentle nurse and began to drift away, little by
little, until reality faded and then plunged into a sea of darkness.
I woke up in a ward which housed three elderly women. My bed was
crammed in a corner of the room with a curtain serving as the only form
of privacy; from my vantage point, I was able to view an extensive
portion of the hospital roof through the window.
The first person I saw was my father who appeared to be stricken with
concern for my condition. Immediately I asked, "what is it?" to which
I was given a sober reply of "It's cancer again." I was quiet for a
moment, and then thought dryly, "It figures."
Reactions to drastic news are manifold and multicolored. To say there
is a specific process through which each grief-stricken individual
shall pass parallels the statement that all people look alike. I
cannot regard emotional turbulence with simplicity, for each individual
possesses different levels of consciousness, or awareness, which
likewise renders his ability to cope with a given situation as singular
as his character itself. Though one individual's coping strategies may
closely resemble those of another, they still are unique.
To avoid categorizing I will remark upon some of the various reactions
I have encountered, including those in myself, family, and friends as
"possible reactions" rather than referring to them as "steps" and
thereby applying on them a more definitive and absolute quality. While
it is possible for people to experience each "possible reaction," not
everyone shall.
If I was asked to name a frame of mind in which one can best cope with
adversity, I would unhesitatingly say, "acceptance," for it is the most
pleasant manner of greeting and harboring a potentially grim reality.
Attaining acceptance gives one the ability to objectively view the
hardship and cope, in a very real sense, with the final outcome; this
means there is no longer a fight for life, but an enjoyment of it.
There are no more bouts of pervasive anger, fear, or depression; when
these emotions do occur, they rapidly pass as do the tides of emotion
in the healthiest of people. The problem is seen and understood in
realistic terms, rather than as a boogy-man in the night contesting for
one's life. There are no more superstitious pleas for help, and while
hope is maintained, no more does one cling to blind hope.
Acceptance does not imply that the individual is happy with his health
disorder; however, it does allow him to live in peace and embrace those
facets of life which he holds meaningful. Once enabled to accept
reality, the individual is secure within himself and can similarly
project that ease upon those who are close to him.
Unfortunately there is no prescribed method of gaining acceptance;
while some individuals can grasp their difficulty outright and begin to
redefine their lives, others require time to work through the various
stumbling blocks which often accompany trauma. Still others are never
able to attain acceptance and die in turmoil.
Two factors which I feel can greatly serve toward the goal of
acceptance are awareness and communication. One's reactions cannot be
altered unless he is aware of them; once able to note irrational
behavior (such as anger directed toward a wife rather than at cancer)
he can with time change his actions. Communication's effect on
adversity is that of purification, for conversation purges minds of
fear and lonliness and gradually filters irrationality from one's
thoughts into non-existence. In the following pages I hope to
illustrate the importance of communication and ironically, perhaps,
the few instances wherein communication should be squelched.
"It's cancer again!" A mere three words, and yet the impact is great,
and the repercussions greater still. It is strange, somehow, to think
so few words could alter the course of a life, and profoundly affect
countless others; yet once imparted, dreams give way to reality, and
agony can filter deep. Plans once one's own must be fulfilled by
another, and the future in which one had pictured himself, shall be
clipped short and uncertain. Losing all that one holds dear is rarely
a kind image, for despite religion or a lack thereof, death is life's
greatest mystery, as it ever shall be.
The initial reaction to a terminal illness is often that of undiluted
shock, especially cases wherein the patient had demonstrated no drastic
changes in health or felt no persistent pain. Perhaps the dismal news
was revealed after a slight, but disconcerting health symptom; the
doctor was visited with hesitant anticipation, with the hope that the
abdominal protrusion was only persistent gas, or the cough was merely
the stubborn remnants of last winter's cold. Although some poor souls
cannot release themselves from the notion that it is "only a mistake,"
or "a dream," most individual's stupification will subside, allowing
them to face up to the situation and deal with it as a factual absolute.
Because I had sought an appointment with the doctors at Mayo Clinic of
my own accord, I was prepared for any diagnosis which the test results
would uncover. Noting that my stomach region appeared lop-sided I knew
there was something amiss despite my seemingly good health; thus the
result of the exploratory surgery was disappointing, but I cannot say
it was a shock.
I felt no need to question the test results or wildly seek second and
third opinions. Viewing the pictures taken by the CAT Scan of my
liver, I had nonchalantly asked, "Are there supposed to be spots on it
like that?" Before the doctor had given an answer, something within my
mind yelled, "Of course not, you idiot!" The doctor responded
likewise, although considerably less profound.
That which helped me deal with my verdict, coupled with my suspicion
that life, for me, had been sailing along a bit too smoothly and the
fact that I had cancer previously, was an unusual strength to adapt to
adverse situations. From early in my childhood I was able to have the
objectiveness to realize that things don't always happen to "the other
guy"; actually, if something could go wrong, it probably would. If
there was a log poised between two opposing banks of the creek, the
odds were that I would fall off of it in crossing. In a world of
"other guys" I was just one, yet that in itself proved I was immune to
no adversity. Thus, instead of "why me?" my question was generally,
"why not me?" I happened to be one of the cancer statistics, and
I was far from alone in my plight.
Mine was no easy burden, yet it was mine to deal with as best I could;
wallowing in a murky pool of self-pity would accomplish nothing. When
I felt a wave of pity tempting me with its utter worthlessness, I would
accommodate it for a brief period and then cast it away to pause and
reflect upon those whose health involved more horrid complications
than my own.
In keeping with some individual's idea that everything happens to the
other guy, often the same people will feel that they are alone in their
suffering. The person who cannot empty his mind of envious jealousies
toward the healthy only further torments himself, and subtracts from
his capacity for peacefulness. Although those who yet possess their
health should appreciate it, they should not be made to feel guilty for
their fortune. Every mortal being will one day find himself confronted
by life's ultimate reality, death.
My dad, characteristically pessimistic, was not overly surprised by the
news that my cancer had returned. After all, he was quite used to bad
news. It was just one more undeserved bombshell to fall upon our
family. One might assume that time and past anguish would have
provided a natural immunization to further emotional rending. Still,
somehow he felt the pain; I saw it in his eyes. For Mom, the news was
emotional heartburn and swept like a roaring fire through her chest.
After Dad phoned her she caught her breath, walked to my old bedroom
and stood in the doorway for a long while. Then a feeling of anger
added fuel to the fire; she had remained at home for conferences,
giving her time and effort for the children of other parents, yet some
never bothered to attend their scheduled conferences. It had been a
slap in the face; coupled with my poor health report, however, Mom felt
victimized, as if by traitors. She stayed home. . . she "should" have
been there.
Mom stared at the lime green walls through a transparent screen of
tears and remembered me as a little girl, long-limbed and skinny. It
was happening again; the impossible had returned to deal its final blow.
The pain of reality is not solely one's own. If an individual's
relationships with family members and friends are of foremost
importance in his life, the news of his illness will have a profound
effect on everyone. Their reactions play a significant role in
determining the patient's sense of emotional stability and well-being;
he must witness the emotional pain felt by his loved ones, evident
through tearful outbursts, inappropriate anger, or pervasive gloom, as
each person thinks of the future and the way in which the loss will
affect his own happiness. I feel it is crucial to share the internal
suffering openly and honestly between family and friends, for a health
difficulty, although borne by one, is a burden felt by everyone
personally involved.
Though I had prepared myself for whatever the outcome might have been,
I had not been certain that the enlargement necessarily predicted the
presence of cancer. There were, after all, many other disorders that
could cause the liver to enlarge. My haunting emotion that I had not
overcome cancer was now parallel with reality; my "balloon of
health" was beginning its descent. I focused my eyes on three flower
arrangements which were blooming profusely on my nightstand appearing,
it seemed, out of nowhere. They formed an odd contrast to the bleak
and antiseptic atmosphere, as if to say that life can continue even in
such places as hospitals where dim hopes and faltering heartbeats evoke
a sense of gloom which permeates entire corridors.
I began to barrage my father with questions, many of which he was
unable to answer since he had not yet conversed with the doctors to any
great degree. He could only tell me that the surgeon opened my
mid-section and took a biopsy. Seeing that the cancer was widely
distributed throughout my liver, he was not able to operate and
therefore sewed up the incision with best wishes.
Because the cancer was the same type as I'd previously contracted, the
doctors believed that it had never actually disappeared in the first
place, and spread without their knowledge to the liver. This might
have occurred at an early age, lying dormant, or more probably,
spreading slowly until it had touched numerous sites. Leiomyosarcomas,
presumably, are considered primarily "older women's cancers" which may
spread to the lung; this baffled the doctors to such a degree that they
placed me on research after the initial bout, at age thirteen. To find
that it had again defied their previous knowledge as to the behavior of
the average leiomyosarcoma, recurring in the liver without so much as a
trace in the lungs, was considered absolutely mystifying and unique.
Despite the uniqueness of the cancer, the fact remained that I was a
young woman with a dreaded disease. . . one that had supposedly been
"cured" by the lengthy operation and chemotherapy treatment. I
reflected how my oncologist (cancer specialist) had reassured the
permanence of my cure by saying, "There is more of a chance of your
being killed on your drive to the clinic than of having a recurrence of
cancer." He was that sure.
I do not envy the doctors. Daily they encounter sickness and health,
yet are limited in their ability to heal and assure their patients of
continual well-being. They are accused of being incompetent when they
cannot act as God. They are assumed to be uncaring and detached, when
in all actuality they would lose their sanity if they were subject to
emotionally react to each individual sadness. When they deliver the
truth to a waiting patient, they are often called tactless. They are
blamed for finding a health problem and thus disrupting their patient's
happy-go-lucky lifestyle. Personally, I'm content with doctors and
feel a need to demonstrate that gratefulness. When the surgeon visited
my room after the operation, I greeted him with a smile and attempted
to make him comfortable. I knew it wasn't easy to face me; we looked
at each other like old friends and he took my hand in his own. What
could have been said that had not already expressed itself in his eyes?
I questioned Dr. Telander about the various specifics of the operation,
and casually inquired as to the reason they did not "simply rip the
sucker (my liver) out?" He then informed me that one cannot live
without the organ. Slightly embarrassed, I said that I had never been
much of a biology student and continued with other questions. I truly
was not aware that the liver was an organ of such consequence.
Although I never encountered Telander again, I was assigned to a doctor
who made one or two rounds daily to note my progress. I bombarded him
with any questions which happened to cross my mind, no matter how
stupid they seemed.
Earnest conversation between a patient and those with whom he
interacts, whether doctors or family members, is a necessity. Although
the truth is often painful and frightening, I am a faithful advocate of
knowledge over ignorance, and feel it is to one's benefit if he can
receive the news of his illness in a manner which is, at once, tactful
and concise.
Rather frequently I have heard accounts of close relatives of a
terminally ill patient begging the doctor not to divulge the full
implications of the patient's health. The plea, usually something to
the effect, "Oh no, Doctor, you can't tell him. . . the truth would
kill him!" is somewhat curious in the context it is used, for
doubtlessly the patient will die whether he knows all of the facts or
not. For those who doubt the beneficiality of telling the truth, let
me further illustrate my assertion. After receiving a clean bill of
health, a person who has, unknowingly, contracted leukemia continues
with increasing difficulty to do the activities which he formerly
accomplished with ease. This individual is not ignorant; despite any
clever lies that initially might have given comfort, it will be evident
that something is wrong as symptoms gain momentum. Withholding
information depletes the individual's right to spend his time as he
wished and, I might add, to work through the possible stress that is
associated with such devastating blows.
The most terrifying part of a horror story is when the killer is yet at
large, faceless and unknown. This general prefix applies to any fear,
I feel, because once the unknown is brought into the light and
understood, it can no longer evoke the terror it had when it rampaged
through the mind as a veiled monster. A person is not afraid of the
dark, but rather, what lies concealed within it. Similarly, illness
can evoke feelings of terror as the body degenerates before an unseen
attacker. If a person is educated about his illness, I believe a great
deal of trauma could be avoided. Instead of presuppositions, one had
facts, and as in the horror story, once the killer is recognized, the
audience is given the hope that the victim will see and overcome the
horrid pursuer. With regard to the patient, this could mean hope
instead of futility; when described symptoms do not appear, the patient
assures himself of more time to enjoy his redefined life.
If a patient is led to believe his life is far from ended, he may put
off preparations for those who shall survive him. When, through
misguidance, he discovers that he no longer has the time which he was
"allotted," he may feel frustrated and foster deep regrets.
Preparations cannot be made without a previous knowledge of one's
illness and should one fall rapidly into his demise, there shall be
no time for the assumption of his rightful choices.
Many people have confessed their more precious moments were spent after
the knowledge of their forthcoming death. Life was lived to its
fullest, since unimportant worries fell venomless before meaningful
concerns. There can be rediscovery of those aspects of life which are
so easily taken for granted; one can relearn to see the world other
than through the tunnel vision of self-preoccupation. Look up and
drink in the sight of a star-filled night; peruse the ground for the
tiniest flowers, and catch and return a stranger's smile. Savor the
smell of an orange and feel the cool rain pelt upon bare arms.
Often the most elemental of things bring the utmost pleasure.
I had only two objectives to accomplish while in the hospital;
education and recuperation. With regard to the latter objective, I
pressured the doctor, to a certain degree, to note my rapid rate of
recovery so that I might be able to sample hospital food. I wanted to
make certain that I ate solid food in days, not weeks, as had been the
case on my initial stay at St. Mary's. My body cooperated with my
scheme, and I was soon eating voraciously. I didn't care what
everyone else said... I thought the food was delicious.... even though
my first meals were made up of liquids or soft food. It was a joy to
be able to eat again, and my body was in dire need of replenishment;
I was never nauseous following a meal... perhaps my stomach was too
starved to concern itself with the extra energy it would have consumed
in making me sick.
The ward in which I was recuperating was rather small for the four of
us who slept there, and I was more than exuberant upon receiving the
information that I would soon be moved to a semi-private room. The
ward was buzzing constantly with activity, as the elderly women were
given various medications, mental awareness quizzes, and frequent
visits by the physicians. Visits by nurses would occur throughout the
night and therefore afforded little true relaxation. Privacy was also
a difficult matter, since curtains were the only form of separation
from the crowd; I often wished to speak with my father, but felt
undeniably hindered to do so, as I did not wish to evoke an atmosphere
of secrecy nor did I want to impart to the general public one of my
personal concerns of fear. Another observation of my surroundings,
which I might add, I found more humorous than disturbing, was the fact
that my roommates doubtlessly felt quite at ease due to their obvious
lack of consideration for the more lady-like behavior customary in
other social situations; they freely gave full reign to any of numerous
gastro-intestinal noises which plagued their comfort, creating a
laughable facet of hospital living that perhaps few would appreciate.
True to character, I tried my best to squelch any roars of hilarity and
enjoyed the entire affair silently in the confines of my corner. My
move to a semi-private room was a remarkable improvement, and I found
my roommate to be amiable and very sensible. A middle-aged woman, she
was hooked up to at least two machines to drain impurities from her
system. Her unpleasant state was further increased by her husband's
bland concern; she was alone at the hospital, which was made even more
apparent when her call to home spurred less attention than did the
football game her husband was viewing on the T.V. Although she
chuckled about the brief episode, I am sure the apathy on the other
end of the line must have hurt.
Shortly after my placement in the room I was allowed to eat "regular"
food. To be quite candid, I was elated upon hearing the news and asked
when I would be receiving the first sampling of solid fare.
Surprisingly, I was able to procure a snack that very evening and
feasted royally. My nurse cautioned me, not wanting me to have
difficulties later with indigestion, yet no such ill consequences
occurred and I contentedly slept the entire night.
Having been placed on solid food, I rapidly gained strength and
proceeded to exercise my body to further aid in its full recovery.
I still tired easily, however, and found myself obliged to nap on a
regular basis; in this I have always been fortunate. . . I have an
ability to sleep despite adversity. Sleep is the only drugless manner
in which to temporarily release oneself from a troubled mind, providing
of course, that the subconscious does not wreak its own havoc through
the presence of nightmares.
The day came that I had been working toward with such intensity and
fortitude of spirit. . . that being the day of my release from the
hospital. When the doctor made his morning visit he informed me that I
would be able to depart early the next morning. I asked whether I
would again see Dr. E. before leaving, and learned that a visit was in
his plans. As it happened, he arrived shortly, and before my father
had eaten breakfast; this allowed a one to one confrontation which I
truly preferred.
Whether through avoidance or mere circumstance, the doctors never paid
any visits when my father was present. They would make their daily
rounds early in the morning, long before he had arrived, or at night
when he left for his motel. This seeming "avoidance" could have been
due to the fact that I was no longer of child status, and the doctors
felt that decisions should lie heavily on my behalf rather than
confusing matters by including the emotionally wrought inclinations of
my relatives.
Personally, I was relieved that I was able to confront the doctors
alone, thereby allowing a fluid question and answer session,
uncomplicated by concerned family members who might have misunderstood
information, or in their excitement, failed to hear other facts and
necessitate repetition; these group encounters are seldom low-key when
they do occur, and thus I found myself ill-prepared to deal with such
intense conversation while still drained from the operation itself.
When Dr. E. entered the room I had prepared myself for ingesting a fair
amount of information and sat upright in my bed with a pad of paper and
a pen to capture all that he was about to tell me. Moreover, the days
which I had just spent in the hospital were not simply taken up in
leisure time activities such as watching television or browsing through
magazines; I had devoted a great deal of time to serious thought.
I feel that everyone has a limit as to how much he will endure, both in
the physical and emotional sense. Since physical well-being reflects
one's emotional health and vice-versa, the body will set its own
limitations if one is but aware of them, and of course, heeds them.
It is not living, but the quality thereof, which for me determines my
capacity to endure physical or mental pain. Life with excessive pain
is merely existence, and it is precisely that mode of existence which I
shall always wish to avoid. Life for the sake of life is merely the
fearful abhorrance of death, the final cycle in earthly existence.
Undergoing a full year of chemotherapy was sufficient time for me to
grasp a clear idea of the drugs and their side effects. I knew at 14
years of age that I would never again be placed under such physical
duress; I knew that my emotional health would be in turmoil. To once
again attempt to prolong life through such dreadful means would be a
price too high to justify.
If one cannot say "Enough!," he is reduced to a mere shell of his
former self through treatments which cannot cure; the illness itself is
not so cruel. Moreover, one who accepts treatment without a hope for a
cure dies in pain multiplied by the lack of peace which reflectance
would have brought.
When cancer was once again found to be the culprit behind my distended
stomach region, the decision whether or not to accept treatment was
virtually incontestable. My only objective was to leave the hospital
and return to my redefined life; I desired to regain my strength before
it waned as a result of the cancer itself, and this was possible only
if I had no treatment. I felt that this was the beginning of the end
of my life, and I did not wish to relinquish any of that time toward
the pursuit of impossibilities; treatment is a poor word to bestow upon
an ineffective poison which would deplete life's quality.
The doctor wore a distinctly business-like air as he proceeded to
explain the details concerning my general state of health. I
methodically wrote his words on paper so that I would not forget any
relevant details in my later discussions with my family and friends.
The available treatment was chemotherapy, and although there were
different drugs in addition to the former lot, he professed that none
would actually cure my type of cancer. The result of undergoing
treatment would be the temporary shrinkage of the tumor, with the hope
perhaps, that a new and promising drug would be discovered in the near
future; the side effects would echo those which had so delighted me on
the previous encounter. I could not help but wonder if the time lost
during the administration of treatment is subtracted from the days
which one supposedly gains from having it.
Seeing that I was not reacting to the option of treatment with feelings
of great joy and anticipation, he then turned to the more sober issues
of death via liver encroachment. Listening attentively, I made certain
that all of my questions were adequately answered before he fled from
the room.
Liver cancer, he said, was usually painless; if pain was a factor, my
doctor could prescribe a remedy which would lessen the discomfort. As
the liver dysfunctioned, it would lose its ability to metabolize body
chemicals; unable to rid the body of poisons, lassitude would set in
while the appetite decreased. Finally, sleepiness would overcome any
effort to remain awake and eventually result in a coma until death.
I felt sorry for Dr. E. as he told me these facts. I could tell that
this visit was extremely difficult for him since his eyes did not often
meet with my own and he seemed eager to sprint from the room. I had
been a "five years and cured" case; the fifth year after my first
operation he dismissed me with a clean bill of health. We had given
each other cordial good-byes, never thinking the next year would bring
such disappointment.
Before he exited the room, the doctor restated that the chemotherapy
treatments should commence within a month if they were desired, perhaps
his way of punctuating the option which he knew I did not wish to take.
I nodded in acknowledgement. It must be difficult for a doctor, one
whose profession is that of helping people live, to find he is unable
to offer a cure; it brings to the surface the fact that medicine,
although miraculous in many ways, is not omnipotent. Once again we
said good-bye, yet this time, I knew it would be our final farewell.
One of the more difficult tasks I had to perform was expressing to my
family my wish to forego treatment. They needed to cling to the hope
that there was something to be done for my malady, and were not pleased
upon hearing my steadfast rejection of chemotherapy. Since I had
foreseen, somewhat, their probable reaction, I was prepared for a
lengthy duel and had therefore decided to write on paper the key
directions that I wished the conversations to follow.
The two discourses which ensued were emotional, yet controlled. I knew
I had a weighty task to perform if I was to gently but thoroughly
bespeak my desires to my worried father, and later my mother and
sister, and further persuade them to accept those decisions. I
candidly explained my repugnance toward chemotherapy, punctuated by the
facts that it had not worked previously and the doctor had related that
although there were new drugs, none could cure my type of cancer. With
all sincerity, I said I did not know how long my life would prove to
be, yet I wanted to maintain a life of quality, for that best equated
my idea of what life should hold for each individual; I desired to own
a sense of peace which could never be attained if I continually chased
the spectrum of miracle cures so prevalent in a world whose main
objective, for many, is the procuring of wealth. Time itself meant
little if it did not also have the amenity of joy, and in my 19 years I
had experienced more quality than some individuals realize in a
lifetime of 80 years; I stressed that my family was an important part,
indeed, and inherent part of that quality.
I hoped that my family would be satisfied with my judgment, although
their disapproval would not have altered my stance; I feared they would
attempt to force treatment upon me through relentless conversation and
in so doing, make life at home unbearable. This, happily, was not the
case.
After receiving my dissertation, my father needed time to think and
sort out the information he had just heard, and decided to take a
lengthy walk into town for the duel purpose of eating lunch and trying
to digest the disturbing truth which cancer brought to the surface;
mortality does not concern itself only with the aged. While he was
gone, I replenished myself with both food and rest. My mother was to
arrive in the afternoon, and I fully realized I would have to repeat my
performance for her and Sharon, my older sister. I wished to appear as
normal as possible. I had curled my hair and applied my usual dose of
eye make-up to improve any pallor which might have been visible due to
the operation; I did not want my appearance to evoke unnecessary
amounts of gloom or despair. Satisfied that I had done my best to
improve upon myself, I settled back in the bed, clad in the glorious
hospital garb which resembled pillow ticking and decided that I
coordinated rather nicely with the rest of the decor.
When the entire group arrived it was already late in the afternoon. My
father accompanied Sharon's family on a tour of the area, leaving only
my mother and Sharon to visit with me directly. I noticed that my
mother had lost weight, underlining the worry that was inscribed on her
face; Sharon's face echoed that emotion, and I knew I must speak with
care. It can be difficult to avoid mechanical speech when one is
trying to maintain control of his emotions, yet to do so can prove to
be less injurious to the listeners if they share one's feelings on the
topic being discussed. Cold facts divulged without the benefit of a
warm heart will only multiply the pain; there is no sense in hurting
loved ones through callous explanations.
It was with painful resignation that my family members then present at
the hospital accepted the future which I so desperately needed to
control. More than my resistance to treatment, (for they too had
witnessed the drastic effects which are inherent characteristics of
chemotherapy) the family was besieged by the inevitability of my death.
There was now the real possibility that I would die long before my
parents, and in this they felt little capacity for contentment. At the
close of our discussions, I believe everyone derived a handful of
solace through the hope that "miracles DO happen"; there were reports
of complete remission and cases in which the cancer inexplicably
vanished, leaving no trace of its former habitation in the individual's
body. Continuing research in the realm of cancer treatment was also a
source of emotional sunshine to my family, and allowed everyone to look
toward the homeward journey with anticipation.
I felt exhausted. Though I truly enjoyed seeing my mother and was
grateful that my sister's family had made the time-consuming trip, I
was happy to grant their leave to partake of supper. As they departed,
I sunk back into the bed with a sigh of relief. It had been quite a
day... and it was not over yet. I attacked my dinner tray as if it was
the only food I had seen in days; it is amazing how an emotional strain
can deplete one's energy as thoroughly as participating in a rigorous
activity.
While I was alone with my roommate, we opened the curtain which
separated the two halves of the room so we could talk and feel more in
tune with the world. I felt extremely lucky to have been placed with
such a personable lady, as television is a poor excuse for
companionship (unless one is sharing a room with an unpleasant and
irrational whiner!) After my family had departed, she expressed that
she had been rather awed by my duo performances. She said she
"admired" my strength and ability to verbalize my feelings, and
although I graciously accepted her compliments, I told her it had been
a topic about which I felt quite strongly. When one's decision is
incontestable, and is fueled by past experience and anguish, the future
can quite easily be foreseen.
I believe that one has made the correct choice if, after his decision
has been voiced, he feels an overall contentment and freedom from
excessive amounts of mental duress. Everyone must live with a
patient's choices, but only he dies with them; this is why it is
crucial for a patient to voice, and the family to heed, his personal
opinions regarding his future.
Later that evening the troop returned from their meal and converged on
the room. Since it was rather small to comfortably house six visitors
on one side, we made our way into the hospital corridors to see those
sights which happenstance would reveal. We eventually found ourselves
in a quiet waiting room which boasted several comfortable and very
accommodating couches, as well as a few tables upon which the numerous
fragments of jigsaw puzzles were scattered. At this point, any form of
diversion was welcome, especially for Sharon's kids who doubtlessly
felt a trifle suffocated in an atmosphere where everything squeaked
with cleanliness and relentless order; I'm sure they were not the only
ones who felt intimidated as they passed through the marble hallways.
We entertained ourselves as best we could, electing to remain in the
vicinity of the carpet and couches until it was time for them to leave.
Engaging in small talk and battling with the jigsaw puzzles until
totally infuriated at our lack of progress, the night fell away. When
the visiting hours had reached their end, my parents and company bid me
good-night and left memories of the day which had just elapsed, as well
as renewed excitement for my release from the hospital. I reviewed the
day's events as I lay tucked between crisp sheets and a mound of
pillows; it had been an exhilarating experience, yet one that brought
little actual joy except the knowledge that one has been understood and
has found peace with himself.
I greeted the morning with exuberance, and the physician in a likewise
manner; it was as if I radiated undiluted joy. I watched as he
methodically checked my lengthy incision, and then assured him that I
felt fine when he quizzed me about various details concerning my
general recovery. Well aware of my excitement, he cleared my passage
for dismissal and had me sign any necessary papers bearing witness that
I had indeed left the ward on that day. As I rattled off my happiness
for going home, he smiled, knowing the elation was no personal
reflection on him, and said, "Home's always the best place to be."
When breakfast arrived, I attacked it with customary glee and then
turned my attention to packing. I also took great pleasure in making
myself presentable through the application of some eye make-up and
donning civilian clothes; it seemed that my release from the hospital
was not final until I had my shoes, instead of bedroom slippers, on my
feet. I am sure that it is quite psychological, but I think that white
smocks make an individual feel worse than his physical health should
dictate!
I did not wait long before the family arrived and the time had come to
be escorted from the building. Amid the rousing excitement, I wished
my roommate a speedy recovery and presented her with one of my floral
arrangements; it filled the space where her husband's bouquet should
have stood. Looking back, I hope it brought more happiness than
sorrowful longing for those unforgettable considerations which were
never hers to enjoy.
My dismissal was something akin to a landmark affair for me. Although
I was in the hospital for only a week, the freedom to walk in the cold
November wind embellished my spirit with a feeling of vitality.
Standing amid the elements of nature, it was not difficult for me to
accept the cycle which bonded my existence to all living things. To be
consciously aware of life's complexities was living in its truest
sense; in life is both urgency and tranquility, yet when viewing life
as a whole, there is little difference between the two. Thus the cycle
is congruent; though it changes, it remains the same.
It was in this state of mind that I left Rochester, Minnesota. Later
that day I was welcomed by my brother, Norm, who then received the
"news" with the added support of my parents. We were generally in good
spirits, which evoked a rather frustrated, "I don't see what you're all
so happy about!" assertion from him; that we should be pleased when no
remedy was available was disconcerting. . . with time, however, he was
able to understand the importance of quality in life. He also was one
who did not do those things which would bring turmoil to his life. If
one continually succumbs to the notions and desires of others, his own
thoughts are rendered meaningless, and likewise, is his existence.
PAGE 212
Essay:
Suffering
SUFFERING
Cancer, or any debilitating injury or illness cannot be viewed as an
act of God which is bestowed upon an unsuspecting public as randomly as
winning tickets in a perverted lottery. I reject the thought that any
supreme diety would choose certain individuals to suffer and allow
others to live peaceful and fulfilled lives, or through their own
choice, aimless, meaningless lives; I do not feel that a God would thus
inflict an individual either to punish him for wrong-doing or through
suffering, make him into a stronger human. Though it may be a
consolation to believe that suffering has a purpose, I believe that an
individual's pain has no more divine purpose than if he'd stubbed his
toe. While the mastery and acceptance of ill fortune will make a
person stronger, it would then seem that everyone could benefit from
grief, and God would therefore assure each person of his parcel... but
it doesn't happen that way. Grief is part of existence, and while
certain people may have more than "their share" as far as statistical
averages follow, nature does not operate through calculated averages.
I believe cancer befalls individuals just as blight will infest a
perfectly healthy tree and cut short its life expectancy. It is
interesting to me that many individuals will always attempt to justify
their illness in such manners in order to keep their faith intact; as
far as they are concerned, a loving God must have a reason for doing
such a thing to them. People have forgotten that illness is a part of
life, and perhaps more prominent is the fact that many refuse to
acknowledge their own mortality. Just as illness is an inherent factor
in nature's infinitely complex cycle, death also belongs to the natural
order of things.
"God will not give us any more than we can bear" is also a disagreeable
reason (to my way of thinking) for explaining why suffering is God's
gift to us. Far too often, the burden is too hard to bear and the
person is unable to cope, leaving him bitter, enraged or even insane.
This cannot be pigeonholed neatly as suffering which was to the benefit
of the individual... or that which was "no more than he could bear."
Moreover, why would a diety wish to dole out pain to some simply
because they could "handle it" while allowing others to go their merry
way through life because they would have "cracked" under the grief?
The latter group may empathize with the former lot, yet they cannot
"enlarge their spiritual horizons" through observation alone. Thus,
while the former group grows in insight and reflection, the latter
enjoys life's surface values and are bereft of the "enjoyment" which
true suffering would bring. Who, then, is the better off?
PAGE 213
Essay:
Quality in Life
QUALITY IN LIFE
Another aspect concerning religion and death which never ceases to
amaze me is the devout Christian who believes that one should strive
for every possible breath 'til the end, as if life for life's sake is
of foremost importance. To me, this is saying that heaven is not as
great as proclaimed; if their faith, indeed, is so steadfast and
secure, would not the proposition of the imminence of heaven produce
more smiles than that of another painful breath of life?
I feel that life must contain an element of quality to be worth the
actual existence. To me this would mean wrapping myself in thought,
and perhaps, subsequently unleashing my hoard of mind-words onto paper,
where they would then remain for later perusal. My thoughts and sense
of self are more precious than any physical activity I might pursue, or
monetary affluence I might acquire. This fact may be the reason why I
am content despite physical limitations and inconveniences and my
deformity in stature. Though if it were my choice, I would most
definitely elect to be of stout health, I feel that I am yet rich in
the far greater facets of character; for it is one's mind which makes
the person, not the body.
When I see one who is healthy, I don't envy that person, nor do I feel
I "deserve" health more than "so and so" who lives a wild life but
remains healthy. In fact I would never trade my life for that of
someone else. I would still want my mind, body and soul. While I may
detest my body's waning functions, I would not care to live in
another's body a life which had no meaning. Moreover, it is not
possible to know the sorrow which he might have borne, or the gripping
habits which have tortured his mind. If I've ever envied a person, it
was only my former, healthier self.
Moreover, quality of life reigns over the quantity of one's days. If
one has attained a level of consciousness with which he is content
despite ill tidings, he has reached a sense of quality in existence, no
amount of time will better that which only the mind can attain; after
all, what is ordinary existence but the pursuit of aspirations which
shall place shelter over our heads and feed our hungry bodies? For one
fostering a higher ideal of life, every day matters are not a bore or
resentment; they are inherent facets of life which easily yield to
accomplishment when it has been acknowledged by that individual that
there are unseen elements far greater than a comfortable lifestyle
which renders life meaningful.
PAGE 214
Essay:
Bargaining and Prayer
BARGAINING AND PRAYER
The idea of "bargaining" for more time never really occurred to me,
although I was quite aware that this type of reaction was often enacted
by an individual whose life was to be lessened through physical
incapacitation. I shall always smile to remember the movie "The End,"
wherein a terminally ill man determines that suicide is his only hope
to retain dignity in death; he tries countless measures to kill
himself, all of which fail due to their haphazard nature. Finally he
swims out to sea in the hope that he will tire and drown, but at the
last moment, decides he actually wants to live and calls upon God to
give him the strength to swim ashore, tempting God with a 50% pledge
and regular attendance in church. The movie was a humorous comparison
to the way in which some people truly bargain for more time; I feel
that this type of reasoning can only injure the individual, especially
if God should "reject" his proposal through a worsening of his
condition.
A healthier alternative, which also allows for the patient to maintain
his religious stance.... if indeed religion is important in his life...
is to instead "hope" for a longer life. Hope does not as easily fall
into the realm of religion and therefore remains a separate source of
emotional comfort; there is no dependency upon God, doctors or other
people to cure him.
Given the fact that man was blessed with a mind of his own, which is
essentially too complex for him to understand, it amazes me that he
continues to speak of the mind of God as if bestowed with
acknowledgeable characteristics, abilities, and functions. Often
people will say, "God gives one the strength to bear loss... pain...
hardship... etc." as if one bereft of inner fortitude can expect to be
given that gift through prayer.
I have always believed it to be more fruitful to pray for strength
rather than a cure when faced with terminal ailments. I do not believe
that one can "lean on" God and await replenishment, since I cannot view
the essence of God as a crutch or in any other way which would place
Him outside of one's self. If God resides within an individual, He
cannot be a crutch.
Perhaps it is better to say that one's belief in God gives him
strength; for if God sent strength as an answer to prayer desiring
strength, why do not all people receive the feeling of renewal? Why
are some left to insanity, psychosomatic disorders or neurotic
behavior? To credit God for one's strength would only serve to
discredit His "unanswered" prayers, as is the case with physical
disorders. I do not believe God would endow one with the fortitude to
deliver himself from anguish and neglect the emotional appeals of
others. Housing such thoughts can be devastating.
It is one's unrealistic expectations of God that can sometimes create
turmoil for an individual, which again may result from the attempt to
personify God. This attempt on the part of an individual to personify
his deity often results from his need to feel guarded and loved;
without family or friends he can still have a heavenly father and thus
is not alone. My strength comes from within, and is augmented by
loving family members. I tend to think, rather than to pray, for I
feel the unity of all creation is within me and encompasses all things;
thus even my most quiet thoughts are not spoken in emptiness.
When people said they prayed for me, I looked at their statement as one
of thoughtful kindness because it demonstrated that they cared for me
and my family. Yet within, a voice would scream that praying for
health misused the idea behind prayer. Although prayer means vastly
different things to each individual, I like to think of prayer as a way
of communing with God; while there are many who ask God for favors in
prayer, to me this cheapens it. I feel it should be used for the
attempt of attaining oneness with the eternal spirit and nothing more,
unless it is to unify one with himself and allow him to dismiss his
selfishness to think of and unite with others. This well-known quote
echoes my sentiments: "God, grant me the serenity to accept things I
cannot change, courage to change those I can, and wisdom to know the
difference."
To further elaborate on the subject, I would assume that an individual
who divulged in prayer such a "bargain" would eventually feel the shame
brought about by the realization that he would never have sought this
plea or offered his humble services had he not first been stricken by
physical illness. Most likely the thought would have never crossed his
mind. One would think that the person would have waved God's flag in
times of health and prosperity. But, as with the vast majority of
people, thoughts of one's own death rarely occur to those caught up in
the robust living of life. Thus guilt can both evoke, and be the
product of, promises too great to keep.
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