A Cancer Catharsis

The AC was the worst. Not AC as in air-conditioning or alternating-current, AC as in adriamycin (doxorubicin) / cyclophosphamide, a chemotherapy drug. It wasn't the side effects or the administration or even the unknown results that made it so bad; the physical existence of the drug, coming face-to-face with it, knowing it meant suffering and that you were advocating its use, that was what made it bad. You're there in the infusion room which, though quite medicinal, is comfortable and staffed by caring, competent nurses. For more than an hour you get a series of prep medicines ... steroids, anti-nausea, saline ... and suddenly, it seems, they bring out the AC. There are multiple large syringes full of this almost impossibly evil-red medicine which they set on the tray next to your infusion pump. Instead of running this through the pump, it is injected in the tubing that is connected to the port in your chest, which was surgically installed just for this purpose. The injection doesn't hurt, much; the port and the cold spray helps with that. The nurse goes through a check list with you:

"your urine will be red today"

"let me know if you feel any burning as this may indicate leakage of the medicine outside the vein"

"be sure you flush twice when you get home, you don't want to breathe any of this"

"how are you doing?" 

As you are processing this, you glance at the tray and notice that there is another AC syringe, yet to be administered. Another one? "My God," you think, "this is freaking me out, what can possibly be going on in her head?"

The AC was the worst. You sit and watch your wife injected with a toxin. There is nothing you can do. You've been married for 30+ years and you can feel her fear. You can feel it. It's tangible. And there is nothing you can do. No hand holding. No hugging. No kiss on the forehead. No butt squeeze. You know that none of that will provide comfort and your mind buzzes, searching for words to reassure. Nothing comes, and you resort to joking, distractions ... "Is that color more like strawberry jello or cherry kool-aid?" In sickness and in health they say. Who knew you would, at some point, be advocating sickness, praying for the poison to work in the hope for long term health. Those devil-red syringes, laid out so carefully, looking so proper and yet so sinister, they symbolized everything up to this point. The danger. The unknown future. The dark arts and butchery of the prescribed treatment. The AC was a trigger point. That was when it got real for me.

It was easy to be brave at the diagnosis. I've had cancer and a little surgery took care of that, no muss, no fuss. It's easy enough to be reassuring when you don't know what's ahead. You both know you're lying, but lying with good intentions, and besides, there is really no need to over-react, or start the pity-party, or rally the troops ... we are a long way from needing support and why burden them? Everyone's life is hard. It's just another project to manage, another challenge to face, another test like the job losses and relocations, losing a parent, the pregnancy that wasn't to be. Given our history, there was every expectation that the challenge would be well met. And so, it has been. It's been 18 months, and the reconstruction surgery, a major milestone, has just been completed.

You might think that the bi-lateral mastectomy would be the worst thing, and it was pretty bad. No one wants to lose body parts, but it had to be done. It had to be. The lack of options made it easier, but the drains, the recovery, the expanders, the scars ... they all leave a mark. Do you have any big scars, from bicycle accidents or surgeries or unrequited love? If so, you know that place remains numb for a long time, and that you will never have the exact same sensations in that place, but it had to be done, so you live with the numbness and you hope that some day you won't miss the sensations any more. You understand that adjustments will have to be made and hope there will be, at some point, a new, workable normal.

You also might think that the chemo side-effects would be the worst, and they were pretty bad, too. They give you a prep list to mitigate the worst of it. They load you up early and often on anti-nausea meds. They are big advocates of laxatives and mouth hygiene and hydration. Before long you get used to the routine and the weeks become marked not by the calendar, but by how far to or from infusion you are.

• Chemo day, feeling pretty good. Steroids in the infusion room give a nice boost.
• Chemo night, no sleep. Hyped from steroids and anxiety.
• For a day or so after that, surprisingly okay, until the toxins catch up to the feel-goods.
• A few days out, in the bed, on the sofa, at the toilet.
• Three to five days out, in the bed, on the sofa, at the toilet with some moments of small comfort.
• Six to ten days out, more human, no energy, on the sofa, in the bed.
• Nine to twelve days out, better, some appetite, sleeping is easier.
• Twelve to thirteen days out, taking care of business, re-grouping, organizing, resting up.
• Chemo day. So soon?

By the fourth infusion the hair is gone, the nails are thin and weak, the mouth is sensitive and, more concerning, the recovery is slower. How many weeks left?

Once the AC weeks were over it was time for the taxol regimen, which was longer and weekly, not quite as difficult and yet still very miserable, just different. Then radiation, 30+ days, every day. Then, mercifully, some peace from doctor's appointments and treatments. Just because they stop putting the drugs in you, however, doesn't mean you've recovered. It's months before you start feeling close to normal, and you're still tired and wondering what the 'new normal' might be. But it had to be done and the cancer is gone, though in your mind you always append that statement with 'for now' which makes you a bit irritated with yourself and then you realize that it's all part of the new normal. Which sucks, but is better than having cancer. Or dying. So not fun, but not the worst.

There are, of course, no good parts. It doesn't bring you closer to your loved ones. It doesn't make you stronger. It doesn't make you a super hero. It doesn't strengthen your faith or affirm your commitments or make you live "healthier" (whatever that means). It makes you aware that you can endure, that you can, at some point, if you are lucky, overcome the misery, but you already knew that and there's little benefit to trying to force something good out of something so bad. It is, more than anything else, a testament to the power of work ethic, of putting one foot in front of the other, to perseverance, to the strength of life. And you, as cancer victim or cancer care-taker, are left to make of that what you will, whether there is joy in the struggle or despair in the helplessness, whether there is a wellspring of strength or of overwhelming weakness, whether there is honor in the effort or shame in dragging others along. Cancer does not make you better; it only tests who you already are.

I'm sure there are many that would say that cancer strengthened their faith. That primarily works for those who have survived, or those who desperately want to find some good in it. "God is good, all the time" is a powerful motivator for trying to find some goodness in evil things, like cancer, but it does not displace their essential, evil nature. I believe that God is capable of creating a perfect world, and I equally believe that this is not that world. Many people believe that God can cure them of cancer. I have no doubt that He can, but I have serious doubt that he chooses to do so. A loving God, which I believe He is, would cure everyone of cancer, and yet, He does not. Some would say that is proof that God does not exist, but I believe that it is simply not the way God chooses to work in this world.

People suffer. It is our lot. Belief in God doesn't make you better or smarter or "more" blessed. It is not God's job to make you feel better about yourself. Buying products with pink ribbons saves not one life, and the lady driving the new Mercedes with the 'BL3SS3D' license plate should likely thank the finance company more than her Lord and Savior. God's comfort is not found in being holy enough to deserve to be healed or blessed, it is found in knowing that regardless of your situation, you are loved, and deserving of the perfect world that only God, not man, can create.

Cancer did not make me doubt God the Creator, picturing Him as arrogantly tolerating evil in this world, watching us suffer. It did, however, help me understand Jesus the Son, the bridegroom, watching his beloved suffer, praying for the poison to work, investing in the goodness and power of life, aching to let us know that regardless of the outcome, regardless of the present situation or our righteousness, we are loved. If I could, I would have taken her place. If you have loved, you know the truth of that sacrificial feeling. I am, however, just an imperfect man, in an imperfect world and I have nothing to offer but love, and that, I feel sure, I do not offer fully and completely enough for anyone's healing. I pray it is sufficient, but I fear that it won't be. As little as it might be, it is all I have to offer. Thankfully, I have faith in an all-sufficient love that does not depend on me.

So there you have it, my cancer catharsis, with apologies to Mr. Nooncaster who first introduced me to the word. There is much more to the story, details and difficulties that I won't give power to by mentioning since they have been overcome. It is not an easy path. I can't even imagine how it has been for her. It has altered our course, but it has not ended it, and that is the best that can be said.

Pump Jacks and Windmills

I actually wrote this last year on December 4, 2009. When I got back from my Thanksgiving trip to Pampa this year, I sat down to write something about it and realized I never published this one. It's somewhat of a cop-out, but I didn't publish this originally because it was so depressing. It made me want to stop writing, and I pretty much did. I've decided to publish it, for catharsis (thanks, Mr. Nooncaster) if nothing else.






The south end of Christy St. dead ends into a pump jack.  Looking west, across the street, through the gap provided by the Crawford's empty lot and the vacant lot on Farley St. that we called 'Sandra's Lot' (because it was next to Sandra Green's house) and the horse corral across from Sandra's, there were more pump jacks and tank batteries and pipelines.  You could also see Celanese and the carbon black plant.  There were no trees or hills blocking the view.

Farley and Christy were the last two streets in our town.  I don't recall ever seeing the Christy St. pump jack actually running, but I do remember seeing plumes from the stacks at those plants and the smell from Celanese making me nauseous on hot summer days.  I marvel at the things I learned in those few blocks in the southwest corner of Pampa, Texas.  And I wonder if I've done the right thing in abandoning my small town for the big city suburbs.

I drove through the old neighborhood the other day.  Things have certainly changed.  It is an epidemic of bare dirt front yards, chained up dogs and rickety fences around tired houses.  One house, on Faulkner St., across from Hobart St. Baptist Church, was mercifully being repaired.  On the back of that house a sheet of plywood was nailed over the spot where the sliding glass door would be and on that plywood was a sign spray painted with foot high red letters that said:

"Stay Out Or Die Drug Attics"

Since I moved away, whenever I go back to visit, regardless of the circumstances, a profound melancholy always sets in.  It's worse when I drive.  The landscape pulls me inward.  It forces me to reflect and remember the countless trips I've made over that same road for funerals and weddings, for celebrations and interventions, for running to and escaping from.  Over the years each trip has gotten harder and the sadness lasts longer.  The questions never change and I have yet to find an answer.  I don't go up there very often anymore, and I when I do, I usually fly.

Pampa, and my connection to it, has always amazed my wife.  I have lifelong friends from Pampa because simply being from there is enough to build a bond upon.  For the past 25 years we have steadily run into people with connections to Pampa ... 'my Grandmother lived on Somerville and we used to climb the trees in the median' ... 'my Aunt taught school at Horace Mann' ... 'my college roommate was from Pampa' ... 'I used to date a girl from Pampa'  There is, of course, a simple explanation for this phenomenon.  Everybody leaves.

Well, not everyone, but many if not most.  Of course, it's not just Pampa, it's every small town, particularly the ones that are isolated or that have a limited economic base.  Celanese has shut down and you can feel the impact that loss has had on the community.  With limited opportunity many young people choose to leave.  When I was younger I never understood why anyone would stay.  At about 13 years old a big part of my future plans revolved around getting out of Pampa.  Well, at least I accomplished that much.

Now, at fifty years old, I understand why some people would want to stay, and in some ways, I wish I would have.  On the long drive home I usually wonder what would need to happen to make Pampa vibrant, or at least as healthy as I remember from my high school days. What would ease the economic burden, or improve their schools or revitalize their churches?  And then I remember that I left, it's not my home anymore and there is really nothing I can do. I suffer from the curse of always wanting to fix things, to make them better, and the depression that comes from knowing that on the really important things, I can't.


Going home should, I suppose, trigger powerful feelings. They are not totally unpleasant and the resulting introspection can make you feel like you almost get it, like you are quite close to an answer, perhaps even the answer, but so far I have not put my finger on it and I am left with the melancholy of not quite knowing. Me and Don Quixote, tilting at windmills. His were hulking giants to be slayed and plundered. Mine are just Aermotors.

A Reader

Last year, before the election, a friend convinced me to start a blog. It's been fun. I think that part of me was hoping for the "starlet discovered at the soda fountain" story ... someone would read what I wrote and proclaim "GENIUS!"

I am perhaps, and however, primarily a reader and I suspect my writing, while occasionally clever, will never be profitable or acclaimed. In the meantime, I'll continue to read, and occasionally, steal ideas from the good writers I find.

I read Mark Levin's book, "Liberty and Tyranny: A Conservative Manifesto" and was expecting the typical conservative talk show host rant/memoir. Instead I got a cogent, concise, concrete (Mr. Nooncaster would be proud) and well reasoned dissertation on the conservative perspective. Critics might say that his picture of "the statist" is overstated, but then, they'd be wrong. Read this book, and you will understand that conservativism is not a club of knuckle-dragging old white guys. Conservatism has intellectual, and logical, heft and that the left is not nearly as smart as they present themselves to be. They are on the wrong side of most arguments if you consider experience, history and logic trustworthy guides.

Anyway. Read the book.

I liked the book so much, I bought 5 extra copies from Amazon and sent them to friends. I get that Chris Matthews 'tingle-up-my-leg' just thinking about a book espousing conservative principles being at the top of the best seller list for weeks. I'd like to see it up there for the rest of the year.

I sent one to my friend Tom, with the following gift note:

To: Buddy Tom
From: Texas Redneck
because you'll never buy this yourself & because it sums up conservativism nicely & I hope you pass it on to your kids

Of course, some of the people I sent a copy to are not as interested in knowledge as Tom, so as a personal touch to get their attention, I customized the gift note ...

Speaker Nancy Pelosi
Office of the Speaker
H-232, US Capitol
Washington, DC 20515

To: Speaker Pelosi
From: Charlie Tuna, American Samoa

Levin's book on your shelf ... is it more like a caterpillar? or Celine Dion?

Enjoy!




Representative Barney Frank
2252 Rayburn Building
Washington, DC 20515

To: Representative Frank
From: Moses Gobie

"These two entities—Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac—are not facing any kind of financial crisis"

Thanks a bunch, Barney!





Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid
522 Hart Senate Office Bldg
Washington, DC 20510

To: Senator Harry Reid
From: J. Brown-Whittemore

will fares on your train from L.A. to L.V. be subsidized so we can gamble our tax cuts?

You love Levin? Enjoy!





President Barack Obama
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Ave NW
Washington, DC 20500
202-456-1414

To: President Obama
From: Tony Ayers

I hear you are a reader. Hope you enjoy the nice gesture.
Levin's a big fan ... of that Constitution you swore to protect.

It cost me $17.74 to buy each book and have it shipped from Amazon. I figure these people will never read my blog ... and even if they did, they probably wouldn't understand it. They do, however, understand and acknowledge gifts. And Levin says what they need to hear much more better than I do. Ideologues aren't much for reasoned discussion, but perhaps a bright shiny object will get their attention.

I hope every conservative who can afford it sends a few extra copies to their DC favorites. They ignore the elected Republicans. They ignore and deny TEA parties. They insult us at every opportunity by denigrating our ideas and describing us a "bitter clingers" and "right wing extremists". Perhaps instead of throwing shoes, we need to throw the book at them.

Teachers

In several entries here I've mentioned teachers. Today I came across three small books that I've apparently had for some time. They are books of poetry written by a couple of my high school teachers. One book, Selected Poems 1959-1988, was written by my senior year English teacher, Mr. A.R. Nooncaster. The other two, Candles at Noon and Triumphant Moment, were written by Elaine Ledbetter, my Chemistry teacher.


The photos I've included here were taken from a website created by R. Malcolm Brown, Jr. about the 40th reunion of the Pampa High School class of 1957. No, I wasn't in school then, but I found it incredibly interesting that these photos, from 1957, were of teachers that were still teaching at PHS in 1977. In the picture above, Mr. Graham, on the left, was my junior year history teacher. Mrs. Torvie, next to him, was still teaching English in 1975.

I don't think they make teachers like they used to, or maybe I'm just suffering from Good Ol' Days Syndrome.


Mr. Nooncaster is on the far right. They probably
had to seat him, otherwise, at 6' 5", his head would
be out of frame.

POST-MORTEM
by A.R. Nooncaster

When I am dead, my foes will say,
Without a qualm, without delay,
That I was moody and aloof,
Too sensitive to bear reproof,
Demanding much and quick to flame
At others with a lesser aim,
Impatient, hard, and sometimes rude
To those I should have wisely wooed,
Volatile and vehement,
Explosive in an argument,
Too blunt in speech, too prone to see
The failings of humanity,
And in other ways perverse,
My friends, I fear, will say much worse.

Mrs. Ledbetter, with the camera.
Mrs. Morgan, Miss Dozier and Mr. Bowman.
Miss Dozier was my sophomore English teacher.
Mr. Bowman was one of my Driver's Ed instructors.

My Gifts
by Elaine Ledbetter

Each time I pause
To think upon the vast array
Of gifts bestowed
Unearned, unsought upon my way,
I bow in deep humility.

The more I have
The more I owe. How great my debt!
God, prick my heart
With pointed pain should I forget
My trust and use them selfishly.

Mr. Rice, far left, was my sophomore year Algebra
II teacher.

Remembering Bessie

I was scanning some photos when I came across this faded one of my first car, a 1956 Chevy. No, it wasn't the V8 Bel-Air model, it was a straight 6, 2 door, three on the tree, Model 210. The picture was taken in 1975, at Hobart Street Park in Pampa, Texas shortly after a new paint job. It wasn't a particularly fine paint job, but it was affordable. I called her Bessie.

I thought that I should scan the photo, save it, before it completely faded away.

Bessie had a semi-interesting history. Uncle Lonzo, my Dad's older brother, Marion Lonzo, bought the car for his daughter, my cousin Sue. Sue lived in California and though I'm not completely sure of the history, at some point M.L., which is what the adults called Uncle Lonzo, drove the car from California back to Texas. Through some brotherly dealings, and probably because it had several mechanical problems, Dad ended up with the car and drove it as his 'work car', as opposed to the 'family car' which was usually the newest model sedan in the fleet, though that didn't necessarily mean it was any more mechanically sound than the others. 'Work car' simply meant that it was safe to throw a transmission in the trunk or haul livestock in the back seat when necessary.

The car eventually ended up on blocks (meaning cinder blocks for those of you unfamiliar with the practice) in our back yard, behind the garage. At 15 I had an unquenchable lust for independent transportation so I started bugging my parents for a car, particularly my Dad because I knew he had a weakness for buying automobiles. Dad generously "gave" me the 56 Chevy, and thinking that might be my only shot at having a car of my own, I took it.

Aside from battery, tires, belts, hoses, muffler and assorted fluids, the car also needed a steering column, suspension bits, a shift linkage and U-joints. It probably needed an engine overhaul, too, but that was beyond my expertise and finances. At the time I took ownership I had no idea of the extensive repairs needed because the first order of business was to remove the four foot weeds growing up through the front grill and de-flea the trunk that had served as a dog house and nursery for some recent batch of puppies.

By the time I got my license, and with some mechanical assistance from Dad and friends, Bessie had come to life. Later, with financial assistance from Mom, came the paint job and a new vinyl interior. Bessie had been transformed from a back yard junker to, if not exactly stylish and enviable, at least unique transportation in an eclectic sort of way. I was 16. Eclectic was cool.

When I was a senior, Dad found a deal on a 1971 Chevy Monte Carlo at a used car lot in Booker, TX. It had a 350 V8, air conditioning, an automatic transmission, forest green metallic paint, rally wheels and a black vinyl roof. I was in love. My friend Don White rode up to Booker with me and Dad to pick it up one night in March. Don and I took it for a test drive while Dad negotiated. It had little or no gas in it so we put $5 worth in it at the Allsup's. Dad's comment was if we were going to spend that much on gas we might as well buy it. We drove it back in a dust storm. Bessie was parked again, but at least this time in the relative shelter of a tin garage.

In 1983, not long after I got married, I wrecked a 1974 Monte Carlo that had replaced the '71. I had no insurance and ended up selling the '74 to help pay for the damage on the other people's cars. We were living in Atlanta so I called my brother Bill, probably collect, and asked him to do what was necessary to get Bessie drivable. Cindy and I flew to Amarillo and drove Bessie from Pampa to Atlanta in the middle of summer. Cindy learned the value of a Kool-Cushion before we made it to U.S. 287.

Soon after we moved back to Texas, to Victoria, Bessie was again put into storage. After keeping her in the garage for a couple of years, with all the best intentions of doing a proper restoration*, I finally gave up the dream and sold her for $1200 to a high school kid who was lusting for some transportation.

So now, Bessie's memory, and photo, are preserved and though I may be the only person that cares, it is done.

Previously I mentioned Mr. Nooncaster, my senior English teacher at Pampa High School. One of his standard assignments was the infamous "Thursday Paper." We would show up in class, a topic would be written on the board, and we had the class period to write an essay related to it. When we returned to class on Friday he would have picked out exactly two papers to read to the class as examples of good compositions. The reason I bring this up here is because the only one of my Thursday compositions he ever read was one I wrote about my car, Bessie. I just remembered that fact. And I also remember the topic which was something like "details a casual observer might miss."

A lot of my life has, unintentionally I think, been devoted to preserving memories. I try to teach my son the things I was taught about family and community and country and God. I tell stories, not because they are historically important ... who cares about the old cars I have owned ... but because regardless of the topic, stories are more than preserved facts. We all read between the lines to assess ourselves and to understand the author. I worry about details a casual reader might not get, but I trust a careful reader will. I remember that Mr. Nooncaster chose my essay, and I remember the topic, and I wonder what I have done that will be remembered.

* example of a proper restoration

Detention?

I've gotta say, I wouldn't have passed Mr. Nooncaster's Senior English class* if I had this many tardies.


* look for the chapter "A Coach for All Seasons" on page 103 if you are unfamiliar with Aubra Nooncaster.