The view from Houston
HOUSTON — I teared up a little today.
So did Jim. And LeAnn.
Jim had an appointment at the M.D. Anderson cancer hospital here. Actually, a couple of them. Yesterday, I accompanied him as he had blood work done and watched from the technician’s consoles as he got a chest X-ray and a CT scan. I saw Jim from the inside out, including the telltale spots and shadows of his cancer.
Jim has been dreading this trip to Houston. In recent weeks, he’s been feeling pain in his lower back, especially toward the right side. It shows up every day and hurts worse when he strains or lifts heavy objects. He’s gotten used to evaluating the signals his body sends him, and usually if something new occurs it’s an indication to him that his condition is worsening.
“I’m not expecting any good news,” he said repeatedly, both back home in Oklahoma and here in Texas.
So we were all bracing for the worst when he met today with Dr. Scott Kopetz. Jim and LeAnn sat on one side of a small examination room, the type you find at pretty much every medical facility in the country. Examination table. Sink. Rolling stool. Desk. Posters on the walls.
John Clanton and I huddled on the other side of the room, trying (in vain) to be unobtrusive as Jim and LeAnn nervously awaited the doctor’s arrival. John snapped photographs and operated a video camera. My audio recorder sat on the desk.
Dr. Kopetz bustled in bristling with efficiency and confidence. He ignored John and me, for the most part, and focused on Jim, asking questions about Jim’s condition and checking his breathing and lower back.
Then he pulled out the documentation from Jim’s tests.
I think we all took a breath. This was it: the big moment. How bad would it be? Had the cancer spread? Were the tumors bigger? Would Jim still have months left or only weeks? How much worse could it possibly get?
But Dr. Kopetz said something utterly unexpected.
Two words.
“Good news.”
Jim’s cancer hadn’t grown. It hadn’t shrunk, either, but it hadn’t gotten worse. The chemo was working; the cancer had stabilized.
It wasn’t miraculous, fantastic, stupendously amazing news. It wasn’t a cure. It wasn’t remission.
Under the circumstances, though, it was about the best news possible … and it was more than good enough.
LeAnn cried quietly as the words struck home — the first time, I think, I’ve ever seen her tears. Jim’s chin quivered.
Watching them, tears filled my eyes, too. I couldn’t help it. LeAnn hides her fear so well, but it was there, evident in the relieved smile that stretched across her face even as she cried. And Jim looked somehow stunned, as if he couldn’t comprehend hearing something that didn’t speak of tragedy.
For once, in this vast stretch of Job-like misery, they’d caught a break. And God, do they deserve it.
Jim will continue the chemo. He won’t come back here for three months. And if things continue like this, he’ll be alive when Maddye graduates from high school in May. Alive and well enough to watch her walk across the stage, to hug her and congratulate her, to see her throw her cap into the air. He’ll be there.
“Good news,” Dr. Kopetz said again a little while later.
Jim replied with a smile: “That’s one in a row.”
Here’s hoping there’s more.
First chapter should be out this Sunday
I can never guarantee that a story will run on a certain date — this is a newspaper, after all, and you never know when a major news event will cause a feature to be postponed — but the plan is for Chapter One in the Chastains’ saga to appear on Jan 11.
If you like it, thank Jim, LeAnn, Maddye, Ford and their extended family for giving me so much access to their lives. If you hate it, blame me.
This first story centers on Jim’s cancer battle. Later stories, which should appear about once a month, will focus on his biography, his family, his writing and more. I hope you’ll stick with us throughout the series and post comments on the blogs: mine, Jim’s and Charlotte Lankard’s. Photographer and videographer John Clanton would welcome your comments, as well. You can reach him at jclanton@opubco.com.
