The Day After
I’ve been getting a lot of notes in the last day or so.
“Did you go through with it?”
“How’s it look, Kojak?”
“Hair today, gone tomorrow?”
“Post a picture.”
Stuff like that. People are wanting to see the new me. They’re curious. Inquisitive.
Or they want to get it over with.
But I thought I would wait until John Clanton, the videographer/photographer for this series, has time to do something with the raw footage. After all, he was kind enough to accompany me on my strange head-shaving journey to Zen Salon in Norman yesterday. I want to honor his efforts by giving him a little time to do his magic.
Besides John, it was just Skye (who cuts my hair) and me. Oh yes, there was also some other girl watching, with a somewhat horrified look on her face.
The whole shaving experience was, to be truthful, a little awkward. I was slightly nervous and a bit sad. John was professional about it, but I think he was catching my melancholy vibe. Skye was kind, but I could tell she was feeling sorry for me. In fact, she said “I’m sorry” several times, as if she’d nicked my ear with the razor.
Anyway, it was all over pretty quickly. We started with a “3″ razor, but that didn’t look all that great. So we switched to a “1″. That didn’t look so great either, but it was about as good as it was going to get.
And then, as the last hairs hit the floor, my mad scientist look was gone, and I joined the many thousands if not millions who have gone through this same surreal experience. I tried to play the reporter during the ordeal, for the role of disinterested third party sounded much better than the role of victim. But the mirrors made that difficult, and whenever I caught a glimpse of myself I was anything but disinterested.
Now it’s the day after, and I’m still “adjusting.” Most of the time I’ve had a hat on, but every now and then I’ve gone bare, so to speak.
If you’re curious and want to see me, well, you’re probably going to have to wait or run into me somewhere. My wife and kids have seen me, of course. And I briefly took the hat off for the good folks at NorthHaven Church this morning, for they were kind enough to invite me to do a reading. I also showed the neighbors.
But that’s about as far as I’ve gotten.
Tomorrow it’s chemo again, and then I’ll be dead in bed for who knows how long. But by Thursday, if you happen to be in Norman, Ada, or Oklahoma City and you see some pale as a ghost guy with one arm, dark glasses, and a hat, it’s probably me. Or else you’ve stumbled upon the longest of long shots.
You can always check by taking off the guy’s hat and seeing if his head has been shaved by a number “1″ razor.
The Countdown Begins
Okay. I finally booked it.
Tomorrow at 5 p.m., the razor will do it’s magic and my hair will hit the floor. And you won’t have to hear me gripe and moan about what chemo has done to my hair any longer!
That’s a little more than 30 hours from now.
Will I go completely bald?
Hmmmm… I’m still not sure. My plan is to let Skye, the girl who cuts my hair and has been encouraging the “mad scientist” look I’ve been going with for the last couple of years, to make the call.
The question I’ll pose to her is simple: what will look better? Completely bald or a close-but-not-quite buzz? And then we’ll just git-r-done.
I’ve had a call out for solidarity on my facebook page for a couple of days. “Who’s in?” I asked.
But so far the only people who’ve said they’re willing to join me are a couple of already bald guys or wives of already bald guys on behalf of their husbands.
“It’s no big deal,” people tell me. “Get over it.”
But where are they now, these big talkers, these naysayers, these pooh-poohers?
They’re hiding.
My plan was to have a hat party following the shaving, but alas it looks as though mother nature has decided to drop a major snow storm on the area right about showtime. (Yes, that’s snow in Oklahoma City, about a week before April.)
But my friend Kyle did drop off a hat at my house yesterday, and another friend is promising to send one from Michigan.
And I’m hoping to score an Elvis wig soon. And maybe a Farrah wig too.
A Curious Mixture
I was in my car yesterday, heading for lunch, when I saw a friend I hadn’t seen in several months. I rolled down my window and said hi, and she walked over to my car.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” she said. “So… how’s life?”
“Life is a curious mixture of wonderful and awful,” I said.
I wasn’t being philosophical. Right now, life seems to bounce back and forth between breathtaking mountaintops and scary-dark valleys.
My writing life couldn’t be much better. With this blog, as well as new prose and poetry projects, I have more work than I could have ever hoped for or imagined. As far as creative writing is concerned, I’m exactly where I once wanted to be.
But my health couldn’t be much worse. In the last year, I’ve had cancer in three vital organs. Large tumors remain in my liver, and they are inoperable, according to one of the best doctors in the world. Chemo, which I have every other week, is zapping my energy like never before. Last week, it took me five days till I began feeling good enough to resume normal activities.
However, as a result of my books and this blog, I’ve been fortunate to connect with many people in a very real way. People I don’t even know write and say some of the nicest things, the kind of notes that are good for hours and hours of happiness. Just today I received an email from someone who said they’d passed my cancer memoir on to about ten people. Yesterday, someone wrote encouraging words about the blog and how they enjoy all the stories with humor blended in. An old childhood friend wrote me a nice note, thanking me for the video about a tree we all used to climb. A dear friend from high school sent me a long letter filled with wonderful memories of days gone by. And I chatted with another dear friend who encouraged and cheered me up.
But there’s another side to all this connecting. Believe it or not, people write mean letters too. They are almost always religious in nature and accuse me of awful things. Today, it was from some guy lecturing me on prayer. He had completely misread or misinterpreted one of my blog entries and felt “compelled” to respond, i.e., he needed to teach a dying man a lesson or two.
Oh well… you get used to it.
But on the positive side, I continue to get a steady stream of speaking opportunities. A couple of weeks ago, it was a fun writer’s group in Norman, then an incredible house concert in Dallas with my friends Nathan Brown and Billy Crockett. This weekend I’m speaking at a church. After that I’m reading at the Scissortail Creative Writing Festival, OU Law School, a local business, and the Edmond library. Future house concerts and readings are in the works in Wichita, Bartlesville, Austin, and Houston.
Of course public appearance require me to, well, appear in public. This means people I know get to see me slowly disentegrating before their eyes or, if they don’t know me, to form a first impression. This is a bit of a challenge, as my right arm, gall bladder, and hair are gone. I now wear hats as a matter of course, and I’m already dreading the naked mole rat look I’ll be sporting outdoors in the coming months.
Oh well, at least I’ve been able to spend some wonderful time with friends and family recently, collecting what amounts to many years of priceless memories during a short amount of time. At times I’ve wanted to pinch myself and ask, “Does it get any better than this?” Like when I watched my wife lead Whittier’s Math Counts team to the State Championship a few weeks ago. That was a thrill, for she will now coach Oklahoma’s team when it goes to Nationals in Orlando this May. Yea!
But, to be honest, I’ve also been at the end of my rope several times in this same time period. At least three times I’ve sincerely questioned how much more a person can take.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Highs and lows.
Up on the mountain. Down in the valley. (Valley so low)
Of course I’m not the only one in the world experiencing pain. I know many of you are too. You’ve written. You’ve called. You’ve told me, face-to-face.
And I’m feeling your pain.
Why?
Because life is real.
Really good and really bad.
A curious mixture of wonderful and awful.
The Daily Ritual
Each morning of late, I awaken from my Rip Van Winkle-like slumber, surprised to find yet another day waiting for me. I slowly raise my head from the pillow, for the former seems to be glued to the latter, then pry my body up and away from the mattress, like metal from a magnet.
I have made it to the sitting position now, but the after-effects of chemo are trying to drag me back down, urging me to return to dreamland. But there is no solace there, for my dreams have been vivid lately and scary.
My eyes adjust to the light filtering in from outside, but I’m so blind I cannot begin to tell what time it is, even from the light. I grab my glasses from the bed stand and put them on. Then I reach over for the blessed cup of coffee my wife has made for me, like an angel who grants unspoken wishes. I take a sip and then it’s time to clear my nasal passages, which have been abused all night by Avastin, a medication I receive twice a month.
It’s about at this point that reality sets in, and I remember.
Oh yeah, I think. I’m dying.
After that, it’s hello to the wife and hello to the bathroom, but not necessarily in that order. My brain is beginning to make sense of things now, so I think of the day and what I’m supposed to accomplish. I let the dog and cat out, then return to bed, hoping to gain more strength with a little more rest and coffee.
I’m about to grab the pillows and place them comfortably behind me, but I notice they are covered in hair.
How gross, I think. I can’t sit against those hairy things. Even though it’s my own hair, I still find it disgusting. So I try to dust the hairs off the pillows, but for some reason this produces a gagging effect and I have to just shake them instead.
At some point, I stagger over to the shower, unsure if my knees will buckle along the way and I will fall, conking my head on the toilet.
“Nope, it weren’t the cancer that got him,” I imagine someone’s grandfather will say. “It was the durned toilet!”
I turn on the water and wait for it to get hot, then adjust it downward, to a temperature that will keep me from barfing or shivering, a fine line I assure you. Then I step into the shower, all the while keeping my lone hand on the wall for balance.
Showers are no longer soothing. Blood drips from my nose and I can hardly breathe. Nausea comes and goes. I’m itchy. Plus, I feel wobbly, so I eventually sit down on the floor, just to be safe.
I grab the soap and shampoo, and sometimes the razor. I wash myself quickly, then contemplate the shampoo. Should I wash my hair? Washing it will surely cause me to lose at least a hundred more hairs. But not washing seems to be an even scarier choice.
I eventually put a little dab of Head and Shoulders in my hand, and scrub it around a bit, checking my hand every five seconds or so for lost soldiers. When too many have gathered at one time, I stick my head under the water and let the water rain down on me, as one who is watering a pot of flowers.
Afterward, while drying off and dressing, I sneak glimpses at my ever balding head in the mirror.
Oh God, I think. It’s getting really bad now. I’ve moved from Woody Allen to Art Garfunkal territory. Or, worse, Larry from the Three Stooges.
Meanwhile, I’m dabbing my head with the towel, being careful all the while to avoid ”friction.”
This is my daily ritual.
Which is a long-winded way of saying that I’m now accepting hats.
Poems, Prayers and Promises
I’m not sure if you noticed, but during the last week I’ve been writing a bit about ”spiritual” matters, i.e., asking forgiveness, faith, prayer, and healing. I wanted to be careful with these issues, as they have religious implications and people have strong opinions regarding them. (Trust me on this. The steady stream of “heal thyself” letters I receive bears this out.)
Plus, this blog is really about the subject of dying, not religion.
But it is difficult to completely separate one issue from the other. As I’ve said many times, cancer is by and large a spiritual journey. It will test everything you believe about life, love, God, prayer, meaning, and the seemingly random nature of this world. It will force you to reevaluate where you stand on the most challenging questions life throws at you.
And terminal illness? Even more so.
The word “spiritual” has a lot of baggage that comes with it. It does not necessarily mean religious, of course. And being a spiritual person is certainly not tied to one particular faith. I come from a Christian background, and my writing will inevitably touch upon that part of my life. But hopefully it will never exclude readers from other faith backgrounds, or agnostics for that matter, for if it does then I would view my writing as a failure.
Here are two poems from my book Antidotes & Home Remedies that touch upon some of the “spiritual” issues I wrote about last week and hopefully help illustrate my point. Although each springs from my religious experiences to a certain degree, the subject matter of each poem is fairly universal, something that people from all religious faiths could potentially embrace.
Beatitude
In the chemo room, the wife,
now bald, still serves her husband.
Rising from the infusion chair,
she walks dutifully to the food cart
and selects three juice varieties,
then wobbles back to present them
to her man, who’s there for “support.”
I want to say something mean.
This is my nature in such situations.
But maybe she finds servanthood
soothing, even now when she’s at risk.
Perhaps a sudden switching of roles
would swallow them whole,
would send her over the cliff.
Too much change too soon, you know.
But at a gradual pace we can
get used to anything, even death.
It’s admirable that he’s here at all.
So many are in this alone.
And although he’s just sitting there
reading the paper, providing
brief commentary as she takes
phone calls from her nervous mom
and distressed daughter,
that seems to be enough.
Blessed are the comforters,
for they will be comforted.
The Madness of Miracles
Our friend had suffered a near tragedy.
For two full weeks, her child’s life hung
in the balance while the world prayed.
Even I cried. Even I dialed up the Almighty.
What else could we do with such horrors?
When the tragedy turned in their favor,
I braced myself as explanations emerged,
how God had heard the prayers
and intervened with a miracle. Meanwhile,
I, the unhealed, sat waiting, all alone.
I’m Sorry!
One of the things you eventually learn when you have a terminal illness is how much it messes with your emotions. Life is hard for everyone, of course, or at least for almost everyone. Being married (or in a serious relationship), raising kids (ouch!), holding down a job, balancing work and life, paying the bills, etc. None of it’s easy.
But when you add serious illness into the mix, well, things can spiral out of control. A person who is normally calm and collected may find themselves suddenly and unexpectedly lashing out at someone. An Incredible Hulk like change comes about, fueled by the release of pent up emotions. One second everything’s fine, the next second, fireworks.
I would never define myself as an angry person. And I don’t think very many people would define me that way. Indeed, anger and I have very little to do with each other.
However there’s this guy who stole the parking spot I was waiting for during the Christmas rush who probably thinks I should attend anger management classes. I think he was a little surprised when I shouted at him, accused him of stealing “my” spot (I’d been waiting longer, but he pulled in anyway), and gave him a completely unacceptable gesture.
While driving away from that ugly scene, I remember thinking to myself, What’s wrong with me? I never do anything like that!
My only conclusion was that it was my frustrating situation, how I’m dying way before my time and there’s nothing much I can do about it. I couldn’t explain my complete change of character in any other way.
A few minutes later, embarrassed and overwhelmed with guilt, I drove back towards the parking spot stealer and his buddy. Even though he’d started it, my reaction was completely unacceptable. So I told them that I was a complete idiot and that I was sorry.
They agreed with me about the idiot part and went on their way. And I thought to myself, You’d better be careful, Jim old boy. You have a lot of messed up emotions percolating deep down inside, and they’re just waiting for a chance to boil over.
Fast forward two months and that monster inside escaped once again.
I was at a copy place in Norman, a business that may have once had a name that rhymes with Stinkos. I was in a pretty good mood and was going to buy a few heavy-duty envelopes, because I had some books to mail.
When I entered the store, I was pleased to find I was the only customer inside. (Well, to be honest, there was one other guy. But he was at one of those self-serve copiers, so he didn’t really count.) It was late, but there were still four employees in the store. So with four employees for one customer, my chances of getting in and out of there quickly were good.
I grabbed the envelopes and headed toward the cash register. Nobody was there, but I wasn’t concerned. They’d get there soon enough, and I wasn’t really in a hurry.
I stood at the register for a couple of minutes, which is pretty long really, given the situation. At that point, I began wondering, what’s the deal? I noticed one of the employees was working on some machine in the back. This left one employee who was busy on a copying job and two female employees who were talking to each other behind the back counter.
Maybe they haven’t seen me, I thought. And so I moved over to the back counter. And there I stood patiently for another minute or two.
The female employees were about fifteen feet away and chatting about something. Could be work related, but it might not be. It was hard to tell. They weren’t facing me. They were turned to the side. Still, with any effort at all, they could’ve seen me with their peripheral vision. They wouldn’t even have to turn their heads.
How rude, I thought. A bell rings when you enter the store, so they were on notice that I was there.
Nevertheless, they kept chatting, somewhat nonchalantly, while I stood at the counter.
I wasn’t angry. If anything I was just surprised by the poor service. But I decided to rise above it, to handle it with grace.
I cleared my throat and said, “Excuse me.”
One of the chatting women, the one closest to me, turned slowly and gave me what appeared to be a “go to hell” look.
“Yes?” she said with a put-off tone that had a hint of sarcasm.
“Umm… I was, uh, ready to check out.”
“Check out?” she said again with that same tone as before. “And what were you wanting to check out?”
It’s hard for me to describe the scornful tone she’d used when saying these things. But it was clear that she wanted me to know that she considered me a nuisance. That I had interrupted her.
What was I wanting to check out? Was she kidding? I was holding the envelopes in my hand, right there, in plain view.
The monster inside me was unleashed.
“Well,” I said with anger rising as I spoke. “I was under the impression that this is a store. You know, a place where customers walk in, pick up something they need, and then take it to the cash register to be checked out! Am I wrong?”
The employee gave me a hateful look that said, well, I hate you. She walked over, as slowly as she could, took the envelopes, and rang me up. I gave her a ten dollar bill, and she gave me the change, while staring at me and never speaking, much less apologizing.
“Thank you,” I said. “I don’t mean to be an ass, but come on!”
I turned and left. Then I went to the car and told Ford what had happened, expecting him to be on my side.
“Jeez, Dad,” he said. “You need to chill out.”
This bothered me. Ford hadn’t seen it my way. But he hadn’t been in there, for if he had he’d know that I was the one who was wearing the white hat here. In retail, the customer is always right.
But you can’t live a life you can be proud of that way, always looking for who’s right and who’s wrong. Turn the other cheek is a much better life philosophy, I think, even when you’re dying from cancer.
A couple weeks later, I was dropping off some videos nearby and saw that copy store again. And when I did I was ashamed at my actions. So I’d had to wait a few more minutes than I should have. Sure the service had been poor. Sure the woman had thrown fuel on the fire. But I was the one who had responded by humiliating her for her actions. Did she deserve it? Maybe. Did it make me feel good about myself? No. Quite the opposite.
On a whim, I headed to the copy store to apologize. After all, isn’t that what terminally ill people are supposed to do? You apologize to all those people you’ve ever wronged.
I stepped into the store to see if “she” was there. Yes, she was.
Oh dear.
“She” was helping a male customer at the same back counter where I’d confronted her two weeks before. I took my place in line behind the customer. We briefly made eye contact, and I could see that she recognized me.
As I waited for my turn, my thoughts turned briefly to this apologizing business. Who else did I need to apologize to?
Let’s see… there was my second grade teacher, who retired a few years back after forty years of teaching. At her retirement party, she’d named my class as her worst ever. I knew I had played a big part in that, so she was a good apology candidate.
Sorry Mrs. G.!
A girl named Cindy lived down the street from me when I was in grade school. I’d played a joke on her one time, burying a note in my backyard at a time when I knew she was watching. Afterward, she asked me if I liked anyone, and I said yes, but I would never tell. I had written it down and hidden it though. Afterward, I hid and watched her sneak into my backyard and dig up the note. “Fooled you, you big dummy,” the note said. I don’t know if it bothered her, but it had always bothered me.
Sorry Cindy!
A girl named Joleta from junior high school wrote me recently to remind me how I used to tease her relentlessly and how she had to fish her comb out of the library book drop everyday after I’d dropped it in there.
No permanent damage hopefully, but sorry Joleta!
I got into a fist fight with one of my best friends in college. It was a regrettable event, fueled by competition for a certain girl and happy hour. Our relationship never recovered.
Sorry Gary!
Other names were surfacing. Shawn and Stan. Mollie. An Assistant Manager at Taco Tico. Caroline. A lawyer named David.
But wait a minute. What the heck was taking so long?
I looked up and saw the female employee who had started this stroll down bad memories lane. She was being rude to the customer in front of me, rolling her eyes, sighing, giving off all kinds of negative body language.
What?
I turned and walked away, saving that particular I’m sorry for someone more deserving.
Thanks for the Prayers
It’s impossible to know, but I may be one of the most prayed for people in the history of the world. Honestly, although I’m wholly undeserving, you’d have to look long and hard to find someone who has received more prayers than me.
Part of it has to do with how long I’ve been actively dealing with serious illness. My eight-year cancer anniversary is coming up, for I first noticed a problem in May of 2001. The prayers began not too long after that.
It’s not just the length of time, those eight years, of course. It has more to do with the back-and-forth intensity of the battle, all the recurrences, surgeries, radiation, and chemo. Cancer came, but then it went away. It came back after about a year, but then went away again. Then it came back and went away for the third time.
Third time’s a charm, right? Wrong. Cancer hit me for the fourth time in 2004 and they took my arm as a result. And then after three years, cancer came roaring back for the fifth time, and it seems to have no definitive plans to leave.
So I’ve had many crises during the last eight years, and prayers tend to spike during such times, like telephone calls at the end of American Idol. When news gets out that someone is sick or about to have surgery, people pray. What else can we do?
The amount of prayers I’ve received also has to do with the fact that I’m fortunate to know a lot of people. I try to keep up with friends from my hometown, high school, college, and past jobs. I’ve met a lot of people as a result of my current job as a lawyer and my work as a film critic, writer, poet, and band manager. And more importantly, my wife teaches at a middle school and knows half of Norman. She’s also the friendly, outgoing type, and that goes a long way.
I also know a lot of people as a result of my time in church. My wife and I were quite involved at one particular church for many years. LeAnn was on staff briefly and I served in many roles. As a result, we met and became friends with dozens upon dozens of great people from good families, including many church staff members, most of whom are now scattered around the country.
Also, many people have come to know of my situation as a result of my cancer memoir (I Survived Cancer, but Never Won the Tour de France), my website (www.jimchastain.com), and this Life is Real series.
Anyway, all these things, as well as the ongoing madness that is terminal illness, have combined to create a situation that’s ripe for prayer. And as a result, I’ve been blessed with a faithful prayer community, one that would likely register in heavenly record books.
I’ve received a card from a men’s prayer group in Shreveport almost every month for the last seven years. They’ve prayed for me, the card says, usually without further amplification. I’m not exactly sure of my connection to these guys, but I’m thankful for them.
My boss’s Sunday School class has been praying for me diligently over the years. It’s one of the constancies in my life, something I can count on. In this crazy, mixed up world, that matters.
Many other churches pray for me regularly. My parents’ church, for example, and many Norman churches to which we are somehow connected. I’ll receive a card from the staff or a note from a pastor or an email from a church member that tells me they prayed. (One church never sends a card, but does send regular notices about their upcoming money raising efforts– but that’s another topic.)
People stop me all the time and say they’ve been praying for me. Others tell me this via incredible hand-written letters, thoughtful cards, or encouraging email messages. Some have posted nice notes on this blog.
It’s quite a blessing, to know you’re being prayed for. It makes you feel connected, cared for, loved. It helps when you’re dealing with the loneliness and isolation of terminal illness or thoughts of being gone and forgotten.
Still, if I’m to be completely honest, I don’t always know what to do with prayer. After all these years, it still confuses me. Obviously, praying does not always, or even usually, give you the result you want. It often seems like a one-way activity, that is, one side does all the talking while the other does all the listening.
It does help in efforts to decompress, however. And it does help sort things out. Poetry is a big part of my life, and I don’t see an appreciable difference between poetry and prayer in most instances, especially when you consider the Psalms, which are ancient poem/songs. (By the way, if you’re interested in this topic, I’ve written more about prayer in my cancer memoir.)
Even though prayer is more than a little mysterious, when people tell me they’ve been praying for me, or that they pray for me every day, or that they just prayed for me, I’m truly grateful. “Thank you for your prayers,” I say, for I know that a prayer means they care about me and took the time from their busy life to put those concerns into words.
I wanted to do the same thing here. And so, for all of you who’ve prayed for me, thank you! I may not be “well,” in the medical sense, but I’m still here.
Oh Brother!
I was in this cancer center, receiving treatments, minding my own business. Although I was typing away on my computer, a woman sitting not too far away wanted to talk. It didn’t matter that I was busy. We both had cancer, and she was bound and determined to share.
Oh well, I thought. What can you do?
When the conversation began, it was within that great circle we’d all consider normal chit-chat, or at least on its fringes. But the discussion soon moved outside the circle, into what I considered bizarre, perhaps even worrisome, territory. And not too long after that it ventured out even further, into … the Twilight Zone.
She started telling me about all the doctors and hospitals that had committed malpractice with respect to her medical care. Something about all the abortions she’d had and how the doctors hadn’t taken those into account. I responded to her observations with a polite word or two, then went back to work. But she continued pursuing me, like a bully on the playground.
“Hey, a group of us are putting some money together to bring in Brother Bob–the faith healer,” she said.
The man’s name wasn’t Brother Bob, of course. It was something else I’d never heard of and have long since forgotten. But my chatty co-patient certainly knew him, this Brother Bob fellow. The mere mention of his name was supposed to impress me, apparently, for she’d dropped his name like a fisherman drops his hook into the water and leaves it hanging for the next hungry fish that swims by.
I didn’t take the bait. Didn’t even glance in her direction.
“And…” she said, with the pause to end all pauses. “Rumor has it he’s bringin’ Sister Clementine with him.”
She spoke these words, which I’m now paraphrasing, with the sort of drama and emphasis one might use upon discovering U2 was planning a secret concert in a friend’s backyard. She seemed to think the news would make the few remaining hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end and the tears flow freely from my dry, bloodshot eyes.
Or, she was a complete huckster. It was hard to say.
(By the way, I apologize to all the Brother Bobs and Sister Clementines out there, faith healers or not. I’ve picked your names out randomly with no knowledge of your existence or healing propensities and with a complete absence of malice.)
“It’s a great opportunity for people like you and me,” she said.
I kept typing, hoping it might somehow discourage her. I wasn’t sure, but it seemed as though this woman was about to hit me up for some money to pay for these superstar faith healers.
“I mean, when the medical route fails you, you gotta go with the spiritual route, right? And these guys are the real thing. There are documented accounts.”
She went on to speak of some of these accounts, all hearsay of course. And then she waited for me to respond.
I stopped typing, looked her in the eyes, and said, firmly, ”I’m really not interested.” Then I started typing again.
But she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Now I don’t know about you, but I believe in the Bible,” she said, somewhat accusatorily. ”And the more I read it, the more I discover how absolutely perfect and true it is.”
I didn’t want to fight her on it. It was the Bible, after all, and people have strong opinions about it. And I really didn’t want to get into religion. Still, I could see where this conversation was heading.
“Did you know that there isn’t a time in the Bible when Jesus came across a sick person and didn’t heal them? You see God wants us to be well! And you know what else? The Bible promises us seven score years. That’s a promise, a guarantee! God’s plan is for everyone to be healthy, to live at least seventy years. Problem is, we’ve gone and messed everything up.”
Now I’ve been to church more than my fair share, and I’d never heard any of this seventy year business. I figured it was pure baloney. Besides, who other than Abraham Lincoln and King James uses the phrase “seven score years?”
“I want my seventy years!” she said. “And I’d get ‘em if these medical quacks hadn’t messed it all up. But that’s where someone like Brother Bob come in. And faith. You’ve gotta have enough faith.”
I couldn’t remain quiet anymore. Someone had to speak up for all the people who had died of an illness before the age of seventy.
“I don’t believe any of that crap,” I said, suppressing as much anger and indignity as I could.
“What, the Bible?” she asked.
“I don’t believe that every person in the history of time who ever died from a sickness before the age of seventy died because they didn’t have enough faith or because they didn’t meet the right faith healer. I mean, think about it. What about the plague? What about all the children who’ve died, not to mention the infants? Did they all die from a lack of faith?”
“Children are different,” she explained.
“Okay. So what about all the people who’ve never even heard of the Bible? And what about those who were raised in some other faith? It doesn’t make sense!”
“Well, for them …” she began. But I interrupted her.
“And why,” I asked, ”would a person’s ’faith’ be an absolute guarantee of seventy years of good health, but have no effect whatsoever on, say, murder or natural disasters? Do you know how many wives and children are killed each year as a result of domestic violence? Why was it okay for all but one of Jesus’ disciples to be horribly murdered, but it’s not okay for them to die of the flu at age 69?”
“Well…,” she said.
“What about tornadoes and tsunamis? What about all those kids who were crushed to death in China’s earthquakes? Why would one’s faith control one thing but not the other?”
I was on a rant, I suppose. But this was a touchy subject for someone dying of stage four colon cancer that had spread to the liver and lungs.
“Health is different,” she said.
“Why?”
She went on to explain about prayer and sin and “God’s plan,” before asking some very personal questions about my beliefs and the amount of faith that I’d applied to my current situation.
I countered with how maddening it is when people use that elusive concept known as ”God’s plan” to explain every difficult issue under the sun. I spoke of the guilt and sorrow that results when someone is accused of not having enough faith when they’re fighting to live. And I mentioned the impossibility of knowing, much less proving, how much faith a person has.
“I’ve prayed the prayers,” I said. “I’ve applied as much faith as I can muster to my situation. Yet here I sit. There are no guarantees.”
She remained quiet for a moment, gathering her thoughts after our heated discussion. I hadn’t stopped her, but she had realized I wasn’t going to roll over. But before she could start a new round, a nurse stepped into the room and interrupted us.
As it goes with such discussions, nobody had won. Neither of us had changed the other’s mind. We’d simply stated our positions and left them hanging there. She represented a viewpoint held by thousands of others, one that will never go away, one that generates a lot of mail and email for recipients like me.
Did she have her heart in the right place? Was she just plain dumb or smart as a fox? Were her words the result of anger and depression or was she on to something?
Well, you’ll have to make your own mind up about that. I’m just trying to tell you what happened. But here’s how the conversation ended.
She’d been going on about a certain media personality and whether or not he was a “bleeding heart liberal,” her term for an idiot, someone who was headed, as Billy Bob Thornton might say in Sling Blade, “straight to Hades.” I had responded by saying that, although I sometimes agreed with this person, I didn’t agree with their confrontational tone, when someone’s persona is defined by attacking others.
At this point, my treatments were over and I was heading out the door. But she had one more piece of advice for me before I left, one parting shot: “Hey, if you do give up, you’d better decide which side you’re on.”
Regarding Liars
All The Pretty Liars
“It’s only a cyst,”
they said, long ago.
But I wasn’t sure
and wanted to know.
“It’s only so big,”
they said. What an answer!
Little or not the
damn thing was cancer.
“It’s only an arm,”
they said, with a knife.
“So what will it be then,
your arm or your life?”
“It’s only one organ,”
they said. “You don’t need it.
We’ll take it right out
and a pump will succeed it.”
‘It’s only your hair,”
they said. “Don’t get down.
Bald guys are everywhere,
they’re all over town.”
“It’s only your eyebrows,”
they said. ‘No big deal.”
But whenever they’re missing
it’s a little surreal.
“It’s only your dignity,
only your pride.
You’re lookin’ terrific!”
they said. But they lied.
march 2009
Head Cold
I’ve been amazingly free of sickness during the last fifteen months.
Well, that is if you don’t include cancer.
Or the after-effects of chemo.
But now I have a cold–or a head cold, if there’s a difference. You know the drill. My nose is running like a streaker in Alaska. My throat is itchy. I have a slight cough. I’m tired and sleepy, and I’m running hot and cold. And then there’s the obligatory headache, the kind that keeps you from doing much of anything except, as you see, complaining.
I remember when all of this “you’re gonna die” cancer business began, fifteen months ago, back in October of 2007. The doctors and nurses told me to watch out for colds, because my immunities would be down. But how do you watch out for a cold? It’s like telling someone to watch out for grey hair or freckles.
I think their point is to take good care of yourself, especially when you’re getting a cold or right in the middle of one. But guys are notoriously bad about taking care of themselves in these situations. We’re great big, helpless babies, by and large.
So I guess I need to “cowboy up” and take care of myself.
Feed a cold and starve a fever, right? Or is it the other way around? I can never remember. So I just eat a lot either way.
Met a friend for breakfast. Meeting another one tomorrow. Met my parents for lunch. Have lunch plans for the next two days too.
If I get lucky, and it’s feed a cold, then I should be okay. And if I’m wrong? Well, at least I’ve helped the economy a little.
