Chapter 2: part 5

continued from chapter 2: part 4
Hal’s good friend Bob gave us another welcome push. He sent Hal a copy of the book, “My God, I Thought You Died,” written by Claude Dosdall, a man who was diagnosed as terminally ill with brain tumors several years ago and lived to start a support system that endures today. We devoured the book and were amazed over Claude’s search to prolong his life. He tried diet, expensive self-healing groups in the U.S., Philippine “miracle” cures, everything. We were learning there were many ways to fight the disease and there were many people out there who found the right way for them and were joyously alive.

Along with these discoveries and the refocusing of our interests something special happened within our marriage. We were a verbal couple who talked and talked our way through any difficulties, which led some friends to call us the Bickersons, after the couple Frances Langford and Don Ameche made popular on radio many years ago. This couple didn’t listen to one another but waited for a break in the conversation to jump in and tell their side. We were both adept at snapping off brilliant one-liner rejoinders that may have honed our entertainment skills but did nothing to improve our ability to listen to one another.
One day, post-surgery, Hal launched into one of those dialogues and I realized I wasn’t going to play anymore. I loved this man and I listened carefully to what he said because I wanted our time together to be precious and good. Farewell old worn-out game. Hal realized soon enough that I wasn’t playing so he hung up his verbal sparring gloves too.

During some darker moments when I was working in my study, I wondered what life might be like living alone, and swore to myself that if Hal died first, I wouldn’t make a saint out of him in my memory, so the next time we had a dispute, a minor thing but something that used to drive me nuts, I wrote myself a note about this irritating habit and tucked the note into the pocket of a jacket I don’t wear too often. It’s not a bad idea to remember some of the irritating habits when you’re alone and feeling sorry for yourself.

Childish? Sure, but it helps.

We said, “I love you,” a lot. Hal was always a romantic and since the beginning of our marriage, we’ve had candlelight dinners, first with the kids and later when we were back on our own. He never failed to thank me for preparing a meal and often sent me flowers for no reason; now we continued to appreciate one another more consciously. I had a habit of tucking a love letter under his pillow if I was going to be away overnight or longer and he saved them all, I discovered later.

Something we didn’t expect and it happens, is that once the incision healed, Hal felt fine and continued that way for some time. He felt and acted like a well man and it would have been easy to forget that this disease was buried deep inside him, and he certainly had retreated deeply into denial.

I was confused; perhaps the gloomy cancer movies were not entirely accurate. How was it possible that this man with cancer in his liver and colon could be feeling so well and energetic? Had the tumors disappeared? Had he cured himself?

Our focus was on the cancer but it was easy to forget for chunks of time that our lives weren’t the same as before. Hal felt well, he had his old energy back and had resumed his workload.

We were being given the gift of time to re-evaluate our lives and the way we spent our time, and unconsciously we were using this gift to shore up for what might be ahead of us.

to be continued in chapter 3: part 1

chapter 2: part 4

cntinued from part 3

Phoning the Cancer society was a good start. I called the office nearest our house and explained Hal’s condition to the kind voice on the phone and told of my worries, that we were new at this and that we needed to talk to other people in this predicament. What resources were available to us? The woman on the line described various support groups including the one nearest to us, and promised to mail all the information we needed to get started.

"There now," said the inner voice, " You’re beginning to take charge."

A big envelope stuffed full of pamphlets arrived two days later. I felt such relief that someone had responded to my need. I studied everything. There were casual drop-ins, formal paid self-help classes, one-on-one buddy services. Hal was curiously content to leave the sorting-out to me and agreed that he would follow any course I thought was right. He focused on the thought that if he returned to work then he would remain well. Unspoken was the understanding that he would work at staying well and I would do any fighting necessary to help keep him there.

This was the beginning of our new team effort. After sifting through the pamphlets and consulting Hal with a synopsis of what I’d read, I arranged for us to join a casual Wednesday afternoon drop-in group of cancer patients who met to encourage one another. They had an informal staff leader and it was very low key. It turned out to be an excellent place to start the journey back.

We got a kick out of walking the several city blocks to the meeting on the twelfth floor of an office building. That simple act gave us a feeling of control. We were directed into a large sunny room with about nine people there; we were greeted by everyone and invited to have refreshments. Punctually, the leader brought the group to order and the format was: each person introduces himself, tells a little about his cancer and what he’s doing with his life, and so on. Not one person in the room looked sick. I was the only caregiver in the room that day. That’s what we’re called, caregivers. It was made clear that I was there to support and if I needed support myself, then find another group. I was there for Hal. Period.

Some members had been in remission for months, even years, but kept returning to give and gain strength from the group. We met James, a man in his mid-thirties who had the upper lobe of his left lung removed five years back and was told then that his time was limited. He lost his fiancée over this, but he feels good and he’s alive with continued positive results from his periodic check ups.
There was Sylvia, a woman in her late sixties, who was the only survivor in the world of her particular type of cancer, diagnosed seven years previously. She made her living writing crossword puzzles and children’s’ books and the morning after her surgery, she claims she sat on the edge of the bed and worked steadily on her latest book. The doctors came in to tell her the grave news. She positively twinkled when she continued, “Nonsense, I’m too busy finishing my book.” No matter what happens, she could die tomorrow and chances are it would be of old age. I got the impression that being feisty is an asset.

When Hal described his condition, several people murmured, “Mary. You’ve got to talk to Mary.” She was one of the members, not present that day, who also had secondary cancer of the liver. That is something that’s hard to earn at first; the original site is the main cancer and forever takes precedence, and anything after that is the secondary site. Thus, Hal had colon cancer.

We learned of the anger people can show to cancer patients. One man said his next-door neighbor of many years at the cottage turned hostile when she learned of his cancer and slammed into her cottage whenever he came into view.
At the other extreme, one member refused to tell anyone and swore his wife to secrecy. He claimed he wanted this privacy and yet he came to the group to talk. Actually he sat there and mostly listened, except to complain, “No one would understand.” I wondered then and wonder now whether some of the complaints were a way of displaying anger at being the “victim” of a disease. Perhaps this causes shame.

The wonderful grapevine did its work and that night, Mary called Hal. They had a long talk and she told him about the less traditional treatment she had opted for and explained it in detail. She said she was free of the disease at present, two years later. Hal felt good after the talk but was prepared to hold off any decision making about treatment until he heard what the cancer specialist had to say.
He remained content to have me find approaches to handle his recovery; he would continue to concentrate on his job assignments.
to be continued in chapter 2: part 5