THE NOBLE KNIGHT

i told you my life has become irrelevant when i learn of someone else's situation.

you asked about my relationship with gary. after i sent him the valentine letter, he called. we had a wonderful dinner, great conversation, and the following weekend i spent time with him and his daughter. lots of laughs and fun. i missed him so much. we had not seen each other since november.

the next day, he called me and asked if i was home, not driving, he had something to tell me, that he didn't want to tell me but he had to, he didn't want to hurt my feelings or make me upset, that's why he didn't tell me at dinner, but emmy insisted.

and i am thinking, i knew it, i hurt him so badly that he has finally smartened up and found someone else and he was just being polite responding to my attempt to reconcile....his voice cracked, he took a deep breath.

"angel, i have lung cancer. and i am dying. i only have a few months..."

i saw him again, we talked. i read his reports. stage IIIB non-small cell lung cancer, inoperable, metastatic to most of the surrounding lymph nodes, esophagus, liver, abdominal wall. palliative chemotherapy.

he was diagnosed in december.

i am so very powerless; and regretful, guilty, angry at myself for keeping my distance from him because of my own illness, my own insignificant problems that i did not want to share with him. i cannot write about it; i thought it would make for a great romantic tragedy. but it would be an insulting mockery.

i am stricken with such grief and disbelief, i am stunned, shocked. can i lessen his pain, his fears. can i comfort him. there is not enough time to make up for the time i stole from us. no one knows when he'll begin to feel the real effects of the chemo, the cumulative "delayed effects", punch drunk, chemo brain, fatigue, listlessness, confusion; the inability to make decisions about dinner.

he's all alone in that huge house; how will he manage to even climb stairs? he won't want hospice care; he would rather die now than be assisted by a caregiver. bringing soup to him is something he considers an act of pity, not compassion or love. anything he cannot do for himself is the benchmark he has set for his time to "quit". i am trying to encourage him to hang in there with the chemo, see how it goes, but i think to myself, am i doing this out of my own selfishness, like dog owners keeping their suffering pets alive...i don't want him to spend or even share this precious time he has left. live his life as he wants: travel to Europe once again, and linger where he wants to, for as much time as he wants without worrying about someone else’s needs.

and when the time comes, i pray he allows himself to succumb to being pampered, taken care of, soothed, whispered to, nurtured, held, and kissed farewell.

the noble knight is dying.

PICTURE WORTH A DOZEN ROSES

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. Last year you sent me roses, but I was in the hospital. Jim took a picture of them. They’re lovely. This year we are not together, but at least I can look at the roses you will never send to me.

I wonder where you are, how you are, what you are doing, if you are still living in your house, if you are still living… Truthfully, there is not one day I do not think about you. Just yesterday, I was struck by the resemblance of someone I saw in an elevator who reminded me of you. I had my reading glasses on because I had just come from picking up my records and I anxiously read them before leaving the hospital. On my way down to the lobby, as the elevator doors opened, a man in the middle of the floor stared directly at me, and he looked so much like you, not as stately and certainly not as gentlemanly. I was so stunned that I let the doors close without getting on.

I thought as I drove home, “What if it was him? What would I say?”

There is no excuse now. Too much has happened, too much time has passed, too many things to explain why I am not there with you. All you need to know is that I am not involved with any man and do not expect to ever be again in my life.

I may be moving to Ohio, living with friends, or up to New Hampshire. It is not certain when or where. That is the reason I disconnected from you, but also that I continue to be very ill most of the time.

Take good care of you.

'KNEE IN THE GROIN, WHATEVER"

i am looking behind at what seems to be a wasted life, and looking ahead to an uncertain one...

I.

I have so much hoped that some time you would be ready for, and would find, a good woman therapist, because so much of your trauma has come from men.

You are always in my mind. Everything you write I read with great interest. And I just want to say to you again, to urge you to remember that each of us is part of a larger Self, that no matter what you feel you have lost, whatever has been stripped away--breasts, house, mother--the spark of your soul is in no way diminished. When the gold ore is crushed and fired 98% of it is burned away, but no one who wears the ring will consider it anything but purified.

You have gold in you. I don't know that writing's all of it, but it's a part. You have the skill, the gift. But the great writers are great because they are still on the path, the path of discovering what it means to be human. They are not comfortably resting on their laurels, jotting down "Spiritual Growth for the Compleat Idiot". They're struggling with it, as they write. That's why what they write rings true, to the rest of us.

And I've got to say this. You need your memories. Sure, lots of them are awful, horrendous. Bitter fruit. But they're all done. They're past. And you're still here. You survived. You did what you did, you got your degree, you went to work, you raised your boys and nursed your mother, you were a faithful wife to a man with a troubled soul. You went through the holocaust and have potentially lived to tell about it. When you can remember. The memories are there, in detail, the harvest of your life. They haven't been deleted, I assure you--because they are being saved until you can fully process them and press them into the wine of wisdom and self-acceptance.

robert

II.

i admitted that i am probably at my most vulnerable now because of all the social and financial hardships my family is going through, all the stressors contributing to my fragility, in addition to my health, and my trying to redefine myself as a woman without breasts because i am so a nurturing woman, nurturing to all life, including animals, geese, sons, men...i cried through the confession that i am simply heartbroken, my heart is simply broken now, about everything.

not being able to nurture and hug and tuck dora into bed at night, not being able to cook for her and make her laugh, play scrabble again... and now, i cannot hold myself up when i attempt my visits at the nursing home. i merely walk in and step quietly beside her bed where she is sleeping, hold her hand, and cry until she senses i am there beside her, sitting on the floor, looking up at her silver hair encircling her sweet face...she smiles when she sees me, and hugs me.

and sobbing about michael, not being able to see his face and genuinely talk to him again, try once more before i die, apologize once more about how i messed up his young life but don't remember, damn it all, i just don't, but even so, was i at least a very good mother to him, jim knows, i worked, and went to school, listened to his problems, we were poor, mr. lenahan took all of my money for his drugs, i only had money for food. mike probably had to suffer humiliation at boston latin because of lack of diginity, lack of a good home, like his friends'. he must have had to endure harsh discipline from mr. lenahan but i cannot tell you, i do not remember, just like i don't remember what i endured, but jim witnessed it all. he tells me sometimes. then he backs off. there must have been times when the boys were not home, when jim and i were alone, God only knows what happened to me. or to mike, when he was alone with mr. lenahan.

all of the violent trauma has come from men; it is easy to trust you. i think i trust you now especially because we are friends, and we worked through the pain and suffering of forty years ago, and more...although again, almost all of it is lost in my other selves...

it helps me to process when i write to you about the sessions; you provide such interesting and rich insight.

i saw dr. miller on monday, and he graciously spent a full hour with me, mostly discussing the effects of this latest physical trauma and how serious it could have been. he knows the "lay of the land" here at island view; he had seen detailed photos in the past when i first began the landscaping renovations, and he marveled at the beauty of the property, the views of the water, and geese coming up to the back yard, the variegated colors of the unusual perennials, everything.

he encouraged me to keep applying for the housing because it is really clear to him that even with meticulous clearing of the snow, i still fell. he wants me to find a place in a building that has concierge service, (he's out of touch with the whole subsidized housing thing...) i laughed to myself while nodding in agreement, and bit my tongue from blurting out "and it must have valet parking..."

he then went on to ask me about my writing. he has always encouraged me to keep on with it, no matter what.

he also was very pleased that i found a woman therapist.

he approached the subject of socialization and actually said, "so how is that going?" didn't he realize he was talking to a hermit, an agoraphobic isolate, a pathetic person sitting in the chair diagonally across from his chair, four knees almost touching, two knees trembling... so what did he expect me to say? "it's going great. i went to a few holiday parties, and of course, the opera, and the club passim in cambridge"

(not so long this was true.)

the truth stumbled out through a series of stutters and sobs:

"i talk to no one all day except with my son before he hibernates in his cellar dwelling. (long pause.) as for making friends, or finding a companion, who would want me like this? i'm a broken down car especially now after this head injury. the village idiot. (very long pause.)

you remember what i was like last year before the cancer. bad enough losing the front bumper... if i lose the engine, i'm done. my mind is everything. without my mind, what's left?

tuna casserole in a place where no one comes to visit."

after the courtesy moment, he asked if i remembered how long since the last suicide attempt. he gently reminded me that it was only a little more than seven years.

angelina

III.

Witty. Beautifully written. It's you. But it makes me angry, want to argue with you. The world is full of people who are like this. Broken in every conceivable way. But who can't speak for themselves, like you still can. You could tell their stories. Your story. You could speak to them, you could listen to them, not as a doctor, above it all, but as one of them, a magdalene. OK, you're bitter. You've got your reasons--can't dispute that. So does James, but think how you feel when you see that bitterness in him. Think how you feel. You want him to let it go--not because it's unjustified, but because there's no future in it. It doesn't lead anywhere, or anywhere good.I don't know what to do with you, but I can't ignore you, so I'm just going to let fly.

I'm not your husband, don't claim or want to be. It's beyond that. But if I was with you now, I'd want to jump your sorry bones and fuck you until we got to some honest tears. There. Didn't that sound like a man? Righteous. Like a soldier who's confused his erection for the sword of Jesus. But it's been tried. Who could count the number of times you've been fucked in anger? At least once by me, long ago. It's not like you couldn't escape. You've become very creative at finding places to hide. You already live in a place no one comes to visit. By your own choice. But you haven't always been an isolate.... Sorry for the language. Shock treatment. Make you cry--or go numb, one or the other. Can't claim it's therapeutic--for you. It's my own woundedness talking, the hurt of being held out of your heart. I want to see, some fight out of you. Knee in the groin, whatever. Keep writing.
Robert

A DISCREET CELEBRATION OF TIME

forty-one years your hands reached out to mine (i am not
oblivious to how our hearts and souls align);

this last time i refused them, and did so with much regret, but yesterday i remembered what you thought i might forget...

"GRACE UNDER FIRE"

Dear Angelina--
Are the leaves changing out there yet? Just starting here. How about your geese?

On the phone you sounded a bit numb. Not so good. Not your style.

First time I ever heard you refer to yourself as "disabled." I know you mean in a socio-economic context. But it's dangerous to go down that road in your mind, to sell yourself out that way. You've always had challenges, had hardships. Big time. But your spirit is not disabled. I don't believe it.

Just saw a sweet movie called August Rush. Heartwarming, a romantic would say. Pure fantasy, to a cynic. About music, and the threads between people. Do you good.

Every Sunday at supper I get to watch our little gang of 4-year-olds. That's our nature-show. Gotta have some hope after that.

We're the elders now. Down to the postscript of our drama. Time to cheer for somebody else. And prepare for our exit with whatever grace we can muster.

With affection,

Robert

"LITTLE ONE"

Dora sometimes knows who I am. Other times, in her mind at that moment, I am Nina, "little one".

As soon as I clear her dinner plate, I will ask her if she enjoyed it. "Enjoy what?" She cannot tell me what she ate, less than five minutes from her last bite. This woman would blaze through an historical novel about Alexander the Great, all 672 pages, in about a week. Now she is reading catalogues from Staples with the same intense passion.

What really saddens me the most is that she makes up words when she plays Scrabble. For as long as my memory allows, she has held the championship Scrabble title among family and whoever challenged her. Now her words are made to fit where they will score the highest: jtgoxp boxed for a triple word score.

I can no longer tuck her in and lean over to kiss her good night. Dora does not remember why I have pain. “You need a nap.” Other times, while she is sitting on her bed, she tells me, "Go out and find yourself a nice young man. You're a beautiful girl." I remind her that I am almost 60 now, not 16, and anyway, no man would want a woman without breasts.

She does not remember I had breast cancer and had them removed. She is genuinely skeptical until I lift up my top and show her the terrain of my chest: flesh caved in on one side, and piled up like pizza dough on the other. She points to the many scars crisscrossing this mess. "Who did this to you?" She demands, like her daughter had just been mutilated. So be it.

It grieves me that I am slipping away from her, and she from me.

Last night, she hugged me while she was standing in her bedroom, her walker between us. She said, "I love you so much. More than anyone." I looked at her and wondered if she knew who she loves. I longed for her to say my name, to be known while being held. Many times have I heard "I love you so much..." and waited to hear my name. How can you love me if you don't know who I am?

As I shut her door, she called out, "Have a good sleep, little one."

"SIMPLE CONTINUED EXISTENCE"

Ah, lady-friend--

Your meditation about depression and suicide reminds me of something you wrote in a little scrap of 1968 journal I have (somewhere here) in which you said there was "something inherently tragic in the nature of our love." That was what you were thinking on one of the good days....

I think the writer's vision tends toward the tragic because she is not as good as other people at non-seeing, at blocking out awareness of the suffering and loss that is everywhere, like the empty cans and bottles, the scraps of greasy paper scattered along the ground at an amusement park.

Others are content to stare at the colorful signs and the flashing neon. The writer sees what is just below the surface. The skull beneath the rosy flesh. Or not-so-rosy.

You are not writing a society column, about what the beautiful people are wearing this year. You are a war correspondent at the battle front.

Your simple continued existence, without sinking into numbness, is a triumph in itself.

Robert

"MY DEAR PSYCHIATRIST"

I promised you this letter instead of a visit, or a phone call. I write more fluently than I talk, and, emoting through writing is natural for me. You miss almost all of it when I come to see you because the pain is so very well eclipsed. What I need to tell you is all here, for the moment.

Unless you’ve made it a study, a serious life’s work, as Karl Mennninger did, of why people kill themselves, you cannot possibly understand how someone who, since early childhood, has been so intrigued with suicide. Let’s explore this odd statement that I just introduced to you by telling you that there seems to be considerably more depressive illness and higher than average incidences of suicide among writers, particularly poets.

So when you really set your psychiatrist’s mind upon it, you realize that we, the writer- poets, are very fragile, by nature, to begin with, and out of this fragility and despair, some of the most incredible creative genius emerges.

We tangle with our inner selves and struggle to untangle, cycle after cycle, and in this process, we develop the craft of expressing the deepest human emotions, creating an exquisite tapestry of the most delicate fabric.

I have just described to you, my psychiatrist, the writer’s heart, my poetic mind.

I cannot avoid the prolonged periods of sadness and melancholy. Asking for your help, to make the pain disappear, is just my way of drawing you close so that I do not become another Sylvia Plath. I fear that I am at my most vulnerable than I have ever been because I am physically declining.


So, my dear psychiatrist, when I say I can no longer care for Dora, it is because I can no longer care for myself. I barely function. It feels like I walk through a jar of molasses on good days, and on my miserable days, I am weeping as though Dora has already died. I can function but at such a low level, it’s frightening. If I had my way, I would stay in bed for days just to ride out the depressive storms. I cannot force Jim to “man up” and stand in the gap for me because he is more depressed now that he is going down on his methadone, and he is exceedingly anxious about life in general, especially my state of mind. He sees me in a panic mode most of the time, or depressed, or just angry, or staring, doing nothing. He is frightened that we are not going to find a place of our own to live, separately, but he thinks we will be homeless, and I think that as well.

The gentleman with whom I had quite a significant relationship, if you recall, after everything I have done, pushing him out of my life, still, he wants me in his life, and even without breasts. This brings a smile to my face. I look hideous. I have stayed away because my life is so chaotic, so sad. I am serving a life sentence, I told him.

What do I do! Tell me. Dora sometimes knows who I am. Other times, she blankly looks at me, and in her mind at that moment, I am a nurse or someone she knew from school, or her own mother. There are times she thinks Jim is her lover. As soon as I clear her plate from dinner, I will ask her if she enjoyed it, and she cannot tell me what she ate, less than five minutes from that last bite. This depresses me so much because I know how engaging and brilliant she was. I cry and cry. I do not know what to do.

She is my mother.

Angelina

"GRACED WITH PEACE"

am i a hypocrite? i profess to believe in the Lord and follow Christ, all of His teachings. He says in His Word "be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God..."

He is not asking us to do this--He is telling us. he commands that we pray when our souls are full of unrest; that we pray, giving thanks for our blessings, and then let our troubles be known to Him. when we do this, "the peace of God, which surpassess all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." that is a promise. the Lord gives us these words of hope when we give our burdens over to Him. in His Word, it says we should pray incessantly, not just when we are in trouble, but as we are going through the day, like talking to a friend, in private conversation. He walks alongside of us, guiding us. when we pray for His wisdom, he will help us to cope. our problems may not be resolved, but He will give us the resources, the guidance, the strength to deal with them without feeling despair, without losing our way.

i have always had faith in the Lord. nothing has ever shaken my faith, or threatened my belief in Him. lately because of such overwhelming circumstances, my depression and hopelessness have been strangling me tighter and tighter, until i feel i cannot breathe.

and then yesterday i received a belated message from the chaplain i met while i was very ill in the hospital. i cannot explain how miraculous the timing of her words were, and the vivid memories they brought back of the brief but very intimate spiritual connection the Lord established between us a few months ago.

i remember that day....in the Surgical ICU, so many clinicians around my bedside, IV lines, monitors, chaos, so much chaos! i needed an explanation from the Critical Care Team of what i was up against. i was "not out of the woods yet, a delicate balance, a mysterious situation, but we'll get you through this..." as quickly as they came in, they all seemed to leave at once, and i had but a few seconds to think over what it all meant. i asked the Lord for His strength because i was so very frightened.

another parade of clinicians filed in, followed by a young woman. the Lord has blessed me with the gift of discernment so i immediately knew by looking into her eyes that she was not part of the clinical team. let's just say, she was part of the Lord's team.

she sat quietly while the clinicians finished, and after they left, she then introduced herself in a very soft voice. i did not hear her name, i only heard the word "chaplain", and i smiled. thank you, Lord. thank you, thank you, thank you.

she was faithful in her visits, always very humble, quiet, and at times we laughed so naturally together. each visit before she left, she asked if she could pray with me. she held her hand over mine, and wrapped her arm across my shoulder. i closed my eyes while she prayed from her heart to our Lord, her sincere and beautiful words of concern for my health, my family, my well-being. i wanted very much to pray for her, that her ministry touch the hearts of many, as it has mine. i wanted her to stay longer, but i knew she had other patients to visit.

when i was transferred from the ICU to a regular room, i did not expect to see her again. i thought she visited patients who were in critical condition. every day i wanted to call and ask her to come again, but instead a different chaplain visited me a few times. i missed my dear friend in Christ.

on the day i was discharged, intermittently during all my preparation for leaving, i kept searching for her. i walked all around the corridors of the floor, hoping maybe i would see her. i needed to say good bye to her, especially to thank her for being so kind and strong for me, for caring about me. i became very tired and went back to my room to rest. actually i wanted to be alone, so i drew the drape all the way around my bed and tucked into the chair beside me, so that it was almost airtight.

i'm not sure if i had fallen asleep for a while, or just closed my eyes to rest, but when i opened them, she was standing at the foot of my bed! perhaps i was dreaming, or a residual of the ICU psychosis, but no, it was really my chaplain friend! she came to say good bye. i was very happy, so happy to see her. she brought me a gift, and i was deeply moved. it was a beautiful shawl, a prayer shawl. i picked it up and held it close to my surgically removed bosom; very close to my heart. she asked if she could read the prayer which accompanied the shawl. i watched her face as she read the comforting words, and noticed that she had tears welling up in her eyes, as i did in mine...

"May God's grace be upon this shawl...warming,
comforting, enfolding and embracing. May this mantle be a safe haven...a
sacred place of security and well-being...sustaining and embracing in good times
as well as difficult ones. May the one who receives this shawl be cradled
in hope, kept in joy, graced with peace, and wrapped in love."

thank you, my friend. may the Lord continue to bless your ministry and touch the hearts of the ill, and bring to them the hope and comfort that you have brought to me. angelina

"RIDING THE RAPIDS RAW"

truthfully, only because you ask...i have been feeling desperately inadequate, ashamed that i cannot function in ways i used to; but even in the day to day responsibilities, i have difficulties with simple tasks. this is worsening of my depressive state, my anxiety, my feelings of genuine hopelessness, despair. one day last week, i actually visited suicide.com. (anonymously, of course.) minute by minute, it succeeded in stabilizing me, keeping me in session with their psych behind the curtain. i guess i was contracting for safety. i was better after about an hour, still sad though, crying, very anxious and miserable, but at least i wasn't planning anything serious.

i ordered a book, you remember, man against himself. i was so deeply involved in it when you approached me on that park bench in boston common almost forty years ago. i was studying it to gain some understanding why i wanted to do away with myself, other than the fact that life was too unbearable. menninger couldn't have possibly had any answers for me then. i was too young and vulnerable, so impulsive.

there are nights when i think i will wake up the next morning without this dreaded cloud of doom, and that i will be able to actually enjoy even a few minutes of being awake, looking forward to what the day ahead will bring, and that's when i become anxious and panicky; sometimes it takes more than an hour to pass. i realize i've lost all resources to cope, and i don't want to participate in life this day, or the next. on and on it goes, loss of interest in everything and everyone, fear of everything and everyone.

i see no way out sometimes. no way out. i just want the pain of living to go away without taking life from me. but that's not possible, is it. there are life cycles each of us must face.

some of us (and i think of you when i say this) some of us have the ability to ride the rapids without being tossed out of the canoe. i don't even remember having been in a canoe...all i remember is hitting the water hard, grasping onto branches, hugging a boulder for a brief rest, and then sucked back into the water, raw, spinning swiftly down the river again.

i am barely keeping myself alive. but i'm drowning anyway, just from the effort.

'ERGASTOLANO"

all the way home saturday, i kept thinking "the impossibility of it, the impossibility of it" because there is always something critical and desperate clawing, ripping and shredding, until finally we are not together.

to explain what happened this time would be pointless. and i would become defensive in my explanation, possibly even angry if you didn't understand. i could not find any reason for telling you why i had to leave, the urgency, the fear and expectation that something dreadful would be waiting for me.

not far from the truth, a near tragedy ensued, and lingered for a few days, now under control...but the complexities of it, the evolution of it over the immediate few days, played out like a grim film noire.

thus i am still left with the thought of "the impossibility of it..." meaning, having somewhat of a normal relationship between us, undisturbed, uninterrupted, unaffected. i am serving a life sentence.

"NEVER GIVE UP"

I must have slept at least a half a day, or a day and a half, after my double mastectomies. Probably the effects of morphine. As I was waking up, someone was breathing very close to my face, maybe checking to see if I was breathing.

"Angelina, is there someone you would like us to call? Do you have anyone, a man, you would like to come and visit you?"

"My noble knight." I was talking about my gentleman friend, telling the nurse how we met, and the operas, and what a wonderful cook he is, such a kind man, so witty, charming; but there was no one listening.

"Hello? Is anyone here?"

Intense pain, like someone had just shot an arrow through my chest. I could hardly breathe.

I was in the Surgical ICU. The room had an after-midnight stillness, but who could tell if it was day or night. A voice spoke from the corner opposite the door.

"Never give up, Angel. I want you around for the rest of my life. Be strong."

I recognized the blend of Old European accent, Italian and Hungarian. My noble knight was here! I could hardly keep myself from jumping the guard rail.

"Will you stay until I fall asleep?"

I waited for an answer. "Will you stay?" Still no answer.

I was completely awake now, my eyes were wide open. The room was very quiet. It was then I realized I had been talking to myself. Again. My breathing was more shallow and I was lightheaded, very dreamy, almost faint.

The brilliance of lights startled me. The monitors made a droning sound when the bodies of white burst through the room. They rushed around my bed, checking the IV lines, and the drains from my wounds. There were at least a half dozen from the Critical Care Team, and after the code, there were too many, so they waited outside.

My mind faded to a semi-conscious place where I kind of floated blindly around everyone. I could not see, but I could hear the urgency in their voices. I feared I was close to death.

"Please, call my son. Tell him I love him, I'm so sorry, and that he must believe this is what the Lord wants. Tell him to be strong." It was unbearable. My lips could not move to say these things and yet I felt tears on my face.

"BP 80 over 55. Pulse, wait, no pulse. O2 sat 86%."

"4 liters O2."

"BP 60."

"Come on, Angelina. Can you hear me? Angelina!"

"BP 50 over palp."

"Damn that PE. Flush the heparin again."

"Could be the Staph."

"Or both."

"Angelina!! Can you hear me?"

"BP 45, dropping, COME ON JOHN! WE'RE LOSING HER!

"Betty, call the OR. STAT."

"OK, put her into Trendelenburg, maybe that will help her pressure."

"Here's her chart."

"Let's go."

It seemed like a very long ride to the OR. I was nearly upside down in this Trendelenburg position, but my blood pressure rose a little.

We arrived: voices talking all at once, the smell of betadine and the sounds of metal behind me. My body was lifted onto the table, and my anatomy rearranged. The brilliance of light penetrated my eyelids, and for a brief moment, I opened my eyes to a slit.

"Angelina, the surgeons are scrubbing up. I'm the anesthesiologist. Soon you'll feel a stinging down your arm through the IV line."

"Angelina, dear, what's your son's number?"

".....Jim."

"His number. It's wrong in the chart."

"7...8...1...3....3......."

"Angelina, Angelina? What a shame. She's out, doctor."

I couldn't have been completely unconscious because a voice came close and said in his familiar accent, "Never give up, Angel."

"JAMES ANDRE LENAHAN"

To James Andre Lenahan who died on Mother's Day, 1988.


"When the angels came down, did they give you a choice? Would they have let you stay where you were? Not to live here in pain should not bring you shame, and the light is so hard to deter. Did the gates of Heaven look just as you thought? Did Sister Mary describe them quite well? Years of catholic school were all good to you because you were the angel who fell.



I am the one who will never die young; I am a martyr and I can not hide. But I'm not a winner, I'm just brilliantly bitter, I'm sealed by my skin, but broken inside.



Angels are fragile and devils are hot. And life is a masquerade. Colors will blend and hearts will all mend. Just tell me you were never afraid. There were babies laughing and children running saying 'read me a book, sing me a song.' I was the one who I felt so so sorry for but you are the one who is gone.

So save me a seat if I make it that far. Will you even know I am the one? I will be old for the angels have told me that I will never die young..."



Written by Lori McKenna

"TO EVERYTHING THERE IS A SEASON"

I remember when I was in the hospital, very ill from the septicemia which required subsequent emergency surgery after the mastectomies, I was waking up in the ICU. A male voice with a Venezuelan or Brazilian accent, speaking in Latin, stood next to my bed. I recognized some of the Latin words. I gradually opened my eyes and first saw the black cloth standing above me. Trying not to fall back into anesthesia hangover, I followed the black drapery of cloth until I could visualize a blur of dark skin, the hands folded in prayer. I reached up to touch those hands but my network of IV lines couldn't reach that far.

I finally succeeded in opening my eyes fully. He was a priest, and I asked him to pray in English. I closed my eyes again, and fought to stay awake. I knew I was weak, very weak, and I felt half alive. His soft voice, his accent, made it difficult for me to understand completely what he was saying, but I was shocked when I realized he was actually giving me "last rites". I heard him ask the Father to forgive my sins and ask me if I believe in Jesus Christ, to which I nodded. He then told the Father to accept this child into His Kingdom, or words to that effect.

By this time, I was weeping because I knew the medical staff had called him. Was there no hope left for me? What about my son, Jim? Why haven't they called him? What will happen to him, and my mother? No. God's plan for me is not dying now!

The priest's finger touched my forehead. I opened my eyes again. My mouth was terribly dry, my voice cracked when I spoke. "Thank you. It was a very beautiful prayer, but I am not dying. The Lord does not want me to die now. He has a plan for me, another season here on earth. Will you please ask the staff to send me a chaplain? I am a Protestant. Thank you for your kindness."

I believe in Jesus Christ as my saviour, and it is He alone who has given me eternal life, but He was not coming that day for me. There is so much work to be done here on earth. Didn't he allow me to wake up that day?

I prayed that He would place before me a woman chaplain who would truly believe that I am not dying, who would know that I believe deeply in the Lord, and that I need to share my faith and talk openly about God, Christ, Job, Abraham, and everything that has made me strong in my beliefs. I prayed that the she would be a spiritual advisor who will give me hope, someone to talk to and listen to, and be comforted by her prayers. More than anything else, this is what I needed to get well.

I fell back to sleep in the middle of my prayer. I trust that The Holy Spirit interceded and finished my requests.

To everything there is a season, and a time to
every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to
plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to
break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to
mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather
stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from
embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to
keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to
keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate;
A time of war, and a time of peace.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

"ABOVE AND BEYOND"

Often we use the word “astronomical” to mean things are beyond our finite minds to comprehend. My earliest incomprehensible thought was of the mosaic sky as I gazed in awe from my third-floor window at night. I wondered about the Heavens, God, eternity, and the myriad of stars winking at me as I drifted off to sleep.

Light travels 186,000 miles per second, approximately 6 trillion miles in one year. Some stars are billions (yes billions!) of light-years from the earth, literally an astronomical computation to ponder. Many scientists agree with theologians that astronomy indeed proclaims God's greatness.

Think of the power that reigns the vast Heavens with such mathematical precision, the One who choreographs the planets to eternally dance in orbit, the One who rules this Universe and all others; and yet, He is the same power who hears and answers our prayers.

When I consider Your heavens, the work of Your fingers, the moon and the stars, which You have ordained; what is man that You take thought of him.....

Psalm 8:3-4

"A FRIEND'S WISDOM"

"Dear Angelina--

Thank you for sending me your recent postings, lamentations though they be. What I'm hearing is that people tell you you're looking like prime rib, but you feel like ground beef. And that you're distressed to see your son sticking with you, in your vulnerable condition, potentially compromising his own freedom. He's following the model you established, of course, with your mother. And with him, too, through the low places of his addiction.

Your steadiness through suffering, your endurance, is how you've earned your strength of soul, your wings. Even though you wish he could grow into them some easier way, he will need to earn his own.

But why would you feel guilt? Because you cannot carry the world any more?

Robert "

"CHANGES"

What they don’t tell you is that your mind may suffer more damage than your body.

I did not expect the psychological trauma, one of the delayed effects. I am plagued with intense depression and anxiety, overwhelming feelings of guilt, failure, anger, and profound sadness. Nightmares. Panic. Disturbing, intrusive thoughts. I should have died.

I was telling a friend the other day, “I am always angry or frustrated or crying or so moody no one knows what to do when they're around me. I can't stand being in my own skin. I guess it's a combination of extreme stress and all the physical changes, and pain. Kind of like being hit by a truck and walking away without a scratch, but inside every bone is broken and you're bleeding to death. Everyone says ‘you look great after everything you went through’. Gee, thanks. I feel like my whole anatomy has been chopped up, tossed around and put back together again--- the wrong way.”

What saddens and troubles me so deeply is the effect all of this has on my son. He has a very difficult time accepting that his once vibrant and engaging mother, who was always there for him to offer guidance, is no longer able to listen with the same attentiveness.

He must feel abandoned. He must be very so very angry at me, and bitter at life. I see in his face that he wants to walk away from this death trap and not look back. He deserves to enjoy himself, to explore his options, and to do whatever he wants to do with his own life. I want him to realize what he has to offer the world, and discover what the world has to offer him. Yet, he continues to stay here with me, to make sure I am taken care of. What a tragedy that he should sacrifice his youth! My heart breaks because he is this good and noble.

If I were to have a choice of any thing that could be changed back to what it once was, it would not be that I have my breasts again, or that I do not have cancer, or that I am not so burdened with the stresses of this miserable life, or that I have my vibrant energy back. None of these things, nothing else that I could ever want, except that the Lord restores the happiness and joy in my son’s eyes, his laughter, his enthusiasm in life, his free spirit, his confidence in himself, and, in time, a guiltless and forgiving heart.

TWELVE MINUTES

I scheduled the appointment with the oncologist, and was told to have the hospital send my medical records. Instead I had them sent directly to me, and then made copies for the oncologist. Knowledge is empowering. I’ve been a medical editor for years with a specialty in oncology, particularly breast cancer, so I understand just about everything that's in here. My pathology report wasn’t the first thing I looked for.

Like a blood hound, I hunted down that psychiatric consult.

It took place at my bedside. There was quite a flow of visitor traffic swishing by my half closed curtain; certainly not conducive to any kind of privacy.

I remember when he was inquiring about Family and Social History, the loud bustling from across the room suddenly became hushed comments, and the TV volume was lowered. I took notice and avoided intimate details of my tragic life. I smiled through his intrusive questions with grace and dignity. My Mental Status Exam was thoroughly intact, including insight and judgment.

The entire consult was over in about twelve minutes.

Finally. Here's what I was looking for: The Impression.

“This patient’s history is extraordinarily sad...a lifetime of trauma, a number of losses. She is at risk… and I would encourage that she engage in therapy as much as possible.”



Familiar, (like I've never heard that before?) but only after many months of cognitive therapy planted firmly on a foundation of trust.


What makes this psychiatrist so unique is that in just twelve minutes, he got it. He really got it. You have to admit, I spun this guy around pretty good and blindfolded him to the details of my pathetic life...and he still managed to pin the tail on the donkey. Such precision deserves respect.


Bravo, Dr. Gallo.


Now, where is that pathology report?

"DO YA FEEL LUCKY? DO YA?"

They were bringing me down from the Surgical ICU, the second time, to my room.

I know I had lingering ICU psychosis because all through the corridors, running alongside my bed, Clint Eastwood hung over the sidebar, ducking under the swinging IV poles. When I looked to my left, I could see a crooked grin on his face, and his eyes twinkled down at me. This was a real adventure for him. We arrived to my room. He sat on the chair. The nurses came in briefly and announced that the doctors from the SICU would be down shortly to make sure everything was in place. Then they swished the curtain half closed as they filed by.

Suddenly he was at the rail of the bed. “Do ya feel lucky? Do ya?”

The exchange we had could only have been understood by the deeply convicted believer in the Lord. Nevertheless, before I could explain the difference between God’s plan for me, and “luck”, we were again interrupted, this time by the Critical Care team. They began tracing their fingers along the IV lines, flushing the heparin through the PICC line, checking the multiple IV bags, looking carefully at the wounds on my chest.

“You were very, very sick this time. I don’t think you know. Well, you’re holding your own. We have to watch your blood levels for a few days. There’s a lot going on. Get some rest, but in a day or so, you’ll be up and walking a little at a time.”

Dr. Patel looked around the room, behind the curtain to the other bed. “Didn’t you just have a visitor when we came in?”

I assured him that all my babbling was the ICU psychosis. In my most educated medical-speak voice, I contributed, “Well, you know, patients hallucinate and talk to people that no one else can see. That’s all. I’ve been talking to people for days. I realize they’re not there, but I’m certainly not psychotic. It does pass.”

He placed his hand on mine and smiled. “You’re doing just fine. You’re a very lucky woman.”

It was so painful to sit up, but my body jolted forward. “No, Dr. Patel, it is not luck! Don’t you understand? It’s not luck, it’s not luck.” Then the worst possible thing happened. I began to cry. I tried talking but it sounded garbled. He waited until the words could tumble out of my mouth without having to call for a translator.

“It’s not luck. I’m alive because of the Lord.”

Protocol won out: A psych consult was ordered.

"THY KINGDOM COME, THY WILL BE DONE."

"And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, they have their reward. But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.


But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking. Be not ye therefore like unto them: for your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask him. After this manner therefore pray ye:

Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation,

but deliver us from evil:

For thine is the kingdom,

and the power, and the glory, forever.

Amen.

For if ye forgive men their trespasses,

your heavenly Father will also forgive you:
But if ye forgive not men their trespasses,

neither will your Father forgive your trespasses."

Matthew 6:6-15

"ONE DAY AT A TIME..."

There are two days left before I go into the hospital for double mastectomies. When I went for the preoperative testing yesterday, everyone was so caring, and they spent time with me. I was understandably anxious, but they reminded me to take it "one day at a time". Most people think that "one day at a time" was coined from someone who spoke a long time ago at an AA meeting. Actually its author is Christ.

It's at the end of his sermon on the mount. He begins by talking to his disciples, instructing them how to pray sincerely and not like the hypocrites. He taught them the Lord's Prayer, and explained about forgiveness and righteousness. He spoke about where they should store up their treasures, not on earth where moth and rust destroys them, but store them in heaven; for "where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

Then he continued by reassuring them because they were anxious about what they would have to eat and drink, and what they would have to wear, and how their needs would be met. He said to them, "So do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." In other words, focus on today, and just today. When you get to tomorrow, that day will have its own difficulty as well. Live each day for itself, one at a time.

It wasn't until tonight that I remembered Christ's words in Matthew. I don't have everything organized as I had intended to before I go into the hospital, but I know that the Lord will take care of my family and make sure they are safe, fed, and warm.

As for me, I'm not worried about myself. Christ is with me as I walk on this long journey. It may seem that I'm walking by myself, but I know He's here, every step of the way.

"DO NOT FORSAKE YOUR MOTHER'S TEACHING"

My son, do not forget my law,
But let your heart keep my commands;

For length of days and long life
And peace they will add to you.

Let not mercy and truth forsake you;
Bind them around your neck,
Write them on the tablet of your heart,

And so find favor and high esteem
In the sight of God and man.

Trust in the LORD with all your heart,
And lean not on your own understanding;

In all your ways acknowledge Him,
And He shall direct your paths.

Do not be wise in your own eyes;
Fear the LORD and depart from evil.

It will be health to your flesh,
And strength to your bones.

Proverbs 3:1-8

"DO NOT LET THE SUN GO DOWN ON YOUR ANGER."

Cancer changes the dynamics of how families relate to each other. Adult children are confused, scared, lonely, and they feel guilty and sometimes they even blame themselves. They feel angry at the world and angry at the parent. They miss the quality time they had with their parent when everything was normal. They're afraid they'll never have those times again. They cannot even talk about the cancer with their parent because it may be too awkward and sad for them. It doesn't matter what age the "children" are.

My son is 30, and he's very depressed and anxious. Sometimes he is tenderhearted when he expresses his fears. Other times, the entire ordeal overwhelms him so much, it's like a boa constrictor is strangling the life out of him. He loses his temper for no justifiable reason. The more we try to defuse the emotional bomb, the closer we come to blowing ourselves up. Unkind words echo in the room long after apologies have been accepted. When we're left alone, we must wonder to ourselves is this anger because of yet another crisis we must cope with, or is it coming from the deep abyss of unresolved issues, those old wounds too unspeakable for the other to hear?

We have survived decades of wreckage, miraculously salvaged by the kindness of the Lord who roams around the junkyards of our hearts, picking up the scraps, and masterfully piecing them together, making some sense out of our pathetic lives.

Last night we had one of the most difficult and emotionally painful arguments, the kind that even the happiest of families engage in. It evolved into a heartbreaking revelation about our lives. After a couple of hours, we were both too exhausted to continue. For a few awkward moments, I lingered by his computer, and then he came over and started to show me something interesting. Within a few minutes, we were talking, and before I went upstairs, we were laughing.

Thank you, Lord, for reminding us. "Be angry, and yet do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger." (Ephesians 4:26)

PREPARING FOR THE STORM

The island was barely visible during the storm. The geese and mallards had taken shelter hours earlier when the sun was still brilliant on this crisp January afternoon. They always know when and how to prepare for a storm. One lone goose lagged considerably behind the rest, and finally flew close to the island, honking loudly and following the sounds of their honking to guide him safely. I long for their instinct. A storm unlike any other I've seen is just ahead of me, and as much as I've braced myself for it emotionally, there are many things to do before I find myself in the midst of the turbulence, ill-prepared after the mastectomies and the long painful path to recovery. I'm terrified that I'm as blind and lost as that lone goose.


With each day, there are people who e-mail or call me, or something surprises me in the mailbox. I wonder how my name has been so quickly circulated. The first surprise was a huge package delivered last month. It was the Lance Armstrong Foundation LiveStrong, a large yellow three ringed workbook, stuffed with information, material to read, links to web sites, forms to fill out for assistance. I began to receive numerous e-mails from the LAF LiveStrong social workers, financial advocates, and case manager.


My breast surgeon's nurse signed me up for some assistance, and within a week the Bridge to Recovery, a local chapter of the American Cancer Society, sent me brochures, followed by a book about nutrition for cancer patients. Inside the book was a very warm welcome letter from a member of the American Cancer Society, and a kitchen magnet with their 800 number, and the words: Hope. Progress. Answers.


I admit I felt hopelessly lost until yesterday. I realize now that there are experienced people who will navigate me through this storm, in the same way the geese escorted the lone one safely to shelter. There are clinical professionals, my dear psychiatrist, and cancer survivors, who are all leading the way. With the support of caring friends, and my precious family, I'll make it through the storm.

The above photo was taken by Jim Lenahan.

GOT SCISSORS?

I look in the mirror this morning. “What did I do?” I take a brush and wet down my hair, squirt some Paul Mitchell the size of an apple and wonder where to scrunch. No more long beautiful auburn curls cascading on my shoulders. Where do I begin? My bangs run across my forehead, rather ragged and uneven, giving my forehead a tilted appearance, as though I am wearing severely bent eyeglasses. The hair at the sides is pathetically short. I shudder when I look at the hack job I did on the back.

I’ve always had long hair. The thought of losing it when I go through the chemotherapy has been plaguing me. I’ve just about exhausted my thinking about the surgery, recovery, the radiation treatments, and all the symptoms, especially the fatigue. I’m feeling the fatigue now because the cancer isn’t being dealt with yet. So recently I began to seriously think about having my hair cut really short, military style, before the surgery, just so I won’t have to bother with this devastating aspect later.

I guess that’s what motivated me to reach for the old reliable utility scissors hanging on a hook in the kitchen. I’ve used these scissors for opening boxes, cutting through annoying hard plastic packaging, and even vinyl blinds. I figured they’d meet the challenge of cutting through 8 inches of hair. Little did I realize how tired these scissors had become. As my left hand was gripping the rope of hair, my right hand was working the blades rather painfully. After a few minutes, I discovered the blades weren’t working at all, there was no hair on the floor, and my right hand was red from gripping the scissors furiously.

Now what! I had a huge clump of hair in my grasp, running around the house searching for a sharp instrument, feeling much like I was holding my own head running away from a dull guillotine. Great!! I remembered my old sewing box buried deep underneath a pile of hardcover books that no one has ever read, but promise they will some day. With one hand, I finally uncovered the sewing box, and discovered some scissors. Well, not exactly scissors in the sense of being useful to finish the job at hand, but nonetheless, they would have to do.

After a half hour of chopping and trimming, I finally left it at that. Pinking shears can do just so much.

Definitely, with my oversized long tweed coat and my gloves with the cut-off fingers, I could easily pass for a homeless bag lady.

"I Can Do All Things Through Christ Who Strengthens Me"

Family means everything to us. We are in this fight for our survival together. We are facing personal hardships, and collectively encountering the effects they have on the rest of the family. I appreciate the well-intentioned professionals who offer resolutions to our difficulties, but they fail to realize we are not like most families. We remain together to see things through, to help one another, and give each other encouragement and love. We don't toss an elderly family member to the care of the state when we are able to care for her with in-home support. We don't kick out our young man who fights off the demons of addiction just because he loses a battle once in a while. We help him up, dust him off, and give him the encouragement he needs to fight the next battle. We know each other's idiosyncrasies, weaknesses, and strengths. We rely on each other for hope, understanding and forgiveness.

We can do it. This 94-year-old woman will not go into a respite home, or nursing facility for the time I'm in the hospital having double mastectomies, recovering, and during the long course of treatment which promises to knock me off my feet for a good long while.

We have the Lord to give us strength. He has given us courage and wisdom and love, and has provided for us in very lean times. He will make sure that we are taken care of, as a family, together.

"BREAKING TIES, BREAKING PROMISES"

He called from the bottom of the stairs, "Hey Mom, come here for a minute, no wait, I'll come up there." He knew I was tired and the day hadn't even begun yet. I fatigue easily some days. It's the cancer, but we don't like to talk about it. I try to be energetic, and believe it or not, sometimes I can pull it off. Not today. There's something about the color of my face, the lack of sparkle in my eyes, the look that says, "I really want to listen but I just need to rest."

He found me sitting comfortably in my easy chair at my computer in the living room. "Remember? No, you probably don't because of your memory," and then he had difficulty finishing what he meant to say. I wasn't sure if it was because he wanted to show me what he was holding, or because he was upset that he knew I was very tired, or maybe both. He's a very sensitive man of 30, and he's sad most of the days now because of our situation. Few things break up the darkness for him, maybe a silly remark will send him on a fit of laughter for a while, but then he's back to thinking deeply about my illness, and what will happen to me, and where his grandmother will live.

He showed me a Norman Rockwell print from a calendar, called "Breaking the Ties." It was very important to him that I remember this particular painting. To my astonishment, I did. I have amnesia for significant blocks of time in my life, up to decades. Sometimes a simple thing like a photo, or a letter, or a story will bring to mind a small part of a memory, out of its proper chronology, but nonetheless, welcomed after such a long time lost.

I stared at the young man of about seventeen in the painting. A suitcase was at his feet. He was looking beyond his father's head, anxiously waiting for a bus. His dog was resting his chin on the young man's knee. His father let the cigarette dangle carelessly, and stared at the ground. He wore working clothes, a laborer, maybe a mechanic.

Jim asked if I really remembered. "Yes. You bought this print in a glass frame for Mike when he was going off to Harvard."

It was awkward for us to linger over something this familiar now.

Families are supposed to stay together. Michael was supposed to come back from college every Thanksgiving, be a brother, a son, a grandson. Methodically he disowned the family with each Hallmark card.

The man we loved for different reasons was not supposed to die at 59 and leave a young widow of 38, a boy of 17 going off to college without shedding a tear, and the other boy of 11, burying his pain any way he could find.

Twenty years later, the duchess who bound this family together is no longer with us. We thought she would be here until she died. We made the promise to her, and we could not keep it.

The cycle of life continues. We are at this juncture once again, breaking the ties.

THE GOOD FIGHT

Yesterday my son and I were talking in the kitchen. He was discouraged and saddened by our dilemma, the direction the course of our lives has suddenly taken, and all the obstacles that seem to be placed before us, as though we are somehow cursed. Within the past couple of months, I've been diagnosed with breast cancer, and soon I'll have major surgery with intensive adjuvant postoperative therapy. This event by itself impacts the dynamics of our living situation as a family unit caring for my 94-year-old mother. It's quite possible that she will need to be placed in a nursing home for an indefinite time because of my inability to care for her.

For years we have gone against the cultural grain, America's solution for taking care of the elderly. Despite the professionals' advice from all corners, we've persevered and taken excellent care of her at home. The rewards far outweigh the inconveniences.

She delights in hearing her grandson talk so passionately about politics, animal rights, his dreams of becoming a broadcaster or photojournalist, football, baseball, old time radio....she listens, and laughs heartily because he's hilarious and witty. When he's not looking at her, she shakes her head and wipes the corner of her eye. She tells me, "I just love that young man. He's so smart. And so handsome."

When Chiefy sits in her lap, and she's gently patting him, he eventually cradles his chin on her arm and often falls asleep to the humming sounds of the chatter around him. She loves my cooking, my coffee, and everything I try to do for her. Some mornings when she barely makes it down the hallway, rolling her walker into the kitchen, her face lights up when she smells the coffee and knows that she has another day on this earth with her family. God has blessed her with wonderfully good health, almost pain-free every day except for morning stiffness.

She is so content sitting at the kitchen table, watching Jim, Chiefy and I, or looking out the window at a cardinal visiting the railing on the porch. When we're in our separate rooms, she's happily reading her books, still sitting at the table, waiting for us to reconvene for 3:00 coffee and cake, a tradition we've kept going for the past six years.

Jim came to me later in the day, and urged me to think again about what we should do. He reminded me of how people in the old country take care of their elderly. "They do not have nursing homes; they all live together until the parents die." He encouraged me to think about keeping her here while I'm getting surgery. When I come home (with tubes and drains and very weak), maybe the VNA could take care of me, and we could step up my mom's PCA visits.

I was thinking about it seriously, and asking the Lord to please help me with this, when my sister called. She also has breast cancer, although hers is metastatic to the bones, and lung and brain. We had a wonderful conversation about her end of life issues, her fears, and what she would like to do from now until that time. We both agreed that she's not "there yet" and should be thinking about today because she's feeling quite well, and tolerating her treatments without any serious toxic side effects.

Then a brief pause. I was looking out the window and watching a swan flying by the island, and it was as though an angel were flying. I could not speak because my voice would give me away. My eyes were filling up quickly with tears, and I could sense that hers were, too, but she is strong and mellow, and much older than I am. She suddenly asked me, "Have you had second thoughts about what to do with Mom?" I was astonished. Where did that come from? It didn't take me long to realize it was the Lord's doing, simply by opening up the discussion and listening to what she had to say. She affirmed without knowing what Jim suggested. Isn't that how the Lord works? He answers prayer, and affirms through others, and also in his Word.

Yesterday, I talked to Jim about "fighting the good fight", not looking at the obstacles you've already overcome, but running the race and concentrating on the prize, the finish line. When you come across the hurdles along the way, they'll be easier to jump over, because you want to finish the race to the end.

Today I was reading the Bible, specifically the second letter of Paul to Timothy.

"But you, be sober in all things, endure hardship... I have fought the good fight, I have finished the course, I have kept the faith."

HOW MUCH "BREAST CANCER AWARENESS" IS ENOUGH?

I was told to make a list of "good" questions to ask my surgeon at the preoperative appointment before having bilateral mastectomies. These questions should be based on the materials I was given to read, and my own research on the internet from reliable sites. Additionally, she would answer questions I may have after consulting with the radiation oncologist and medical oncologist about my postoperative treatment.

Really, at this point, I have just a few. They have to do with the popular phrase "breast cancer awareness."

Having worked at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, and continuing my health information documentation editor speciality in oncology, particularly breast cancer, I would say that I've been very aware, always ahead of the curve, excuse the pun...

Nine years ago when I had my first breast cancer, my focus was intense on keeping myself healthy, making sure I had a fighting chance to prevent the cancer from recurring. After the surgery, I was placed on five years of tamoxifen. I followed up closely with my oncologist with physical exams, blood tests which included tumor markers, and mammograms at six month intervals. When I learned about BRCA1 and BRCA2 gene mutation testing, I inquired about being tested to see if I carried the gene. It was "inconclusive". I have a very strong family history of breast, uterine/ovarian and colon cancer in aunts, my sister, and my mother. This history, and my own diagnosis of early stage breast cancer, put me at high risk for recurrence. The decision was made to alternate the mammograms with breast MRI scans every six months. I continued this regimen over the years faithfully. I also kept aware of new breast cancer treatments, different medications that had gone through appropriate clinical trials and were now FDA approved, and the latest information I could possibly read, every day, while editing the medical documents. I have been a long-time subscriber of several medical journals. I have access to medical information beyond the popular web sites. These include medical sites that provide research results from clinical trials and studies conducted all over the world.

I was fully aware.

In October, as usual, I had my six month mammogram at the Sagoff Breast Imaging Center at the Faulkner Hospital in Boston. I waited for the radiologist to call me into his office and go over the films. I was delighted that he didn't see anything new or different, and everything looked the same as it has for the past eight years. I was relieved. Yet, I knew about a rare type of breast cancer that appears on the top of the skin, and therefore cannot be picked up by a mammogram. It appears around the nipple and areolar complex, and looks very much like eczema, so most people think it's a rash from new detergent or soap.

"Would you mind taking a look at this?" I opened my examining robe and showed him the rash. I did not expect him to tell me it was eczema. What I heard him say is what I expected.

"Well, it does look like this rare type of breast cancer, Paget's. When are you seeing your oncologist?"

Fortunately, I had an appointment with my oncologist the following day,who agreed with the diagnosis of Paget's. A biopsy was scheduled in a few weeks. The pathology showed not only Paget's disease of the breast, but also ductal carcinoma in situ underlying the areolar complex, and invasive ductal carcinoma, approximately 1 cm. The surgeon was suspicious. An MRI was done to look for other possible sites of cancer in the same breast and also the contralateral breast.

What I heard from my surgeon was not what I had expected. The MRI results were positive for a larger, more "significant amount" of cancer. The tumor measured 3.5 cms.

Prior to the MRI, the surgeon and I had discussed mastectomy and reconstructive surgery, but I knew now that the treatment plans would change. The surgery would include a sentinel lymph node biopsy to see if the cancer has spread to the lymph nodes. We also agreed that bilateral mastectomies would make sense in my case. I guess the part of the treatment I wasn't prepared for was the adjuvant radiation and chemotherapy. I thought I could get away with surgery alone, like I did the first time nine years ago. This is a complicated presentation. Paget's, underlying ductal carcinoma in situ, invasive ductal carcinoma, and now a 3.5 cm tumor of which the immunohistochemistry won't be known until after surgery. It may not be the same type of cancer; it may be a more aggressive, fast-growing cancer.

I'm not concerned now about reconstructive surgery, putting myself back together to look anatomically beautiful and feminine again. So I have no questions about what kind of implants, silicone or saline, or tissue expanders, or prostheses. My questions have to do with the success of the chemotherapy, the possibility of being placed on Herceptin, and my ability to tolerate it, the survival percentages over the next 10 to 20 years, and the 3.5 cm tumor's immunohistochemistry, i.e., will it reveal metastatic cancer? Will I wake up one morning and discover a palpable something underneath the skin, my arm, anywhere else in my body? Will the follow-up interval CT scans and bone scans reveal metastases to the liver, lungs, or bones?

Yes, these are very "good" questions to bring to my appointment next week. There is one question no one can really answer. I've done everything I could to be proactive.

Someone, please tell me, how much breast cancer awareness is enough?

GIVE US THIS DAY...

Recently I learned I have breast cancer.

From the moment I learned that I needed a mastectomy, actually bilateral mastectomies, it became evident that my physical appearance will change dramatically over the next year. After the surgery, the treatment will include radiation and chemotherapy. Not only will I lose my breasts, but also my very long hair. I won't be able to have immediate breast reconstruction until after the treatment. For a while, I will be physically "beaten up" by the treatments, so it really won't matter much what I look like because I probably won't care. Excessive fatigue, nausea, vomiting, and severe depression are the standard side effects of the treatments.

Breast cancer has taken away the very undeniable essence of the feminine and nurturing aspects of being a woman.


This is not my deepest concern, though. At this time in my life, having breast cancer has turned my world inside out. Family events, which normally would have taken place in their own time, will now happen on an unnatural time line, one that is measured according to and because of my cancer treatments.


My family consists of my 94-year-old mother, and my grown son who helps me take care of her. We all live together in this sweet little cottage by the pond. We've made a commitment six years ago to come and live with her and take care of her so she could continue to live here instead of going to a nursing home. Now I must betray that promise. I will not be able to care for her, and my son could not possibly care for the both of us. It appears that very soon, our little family will be living in separate housing situations. This is very painful, and breaks my heart every time I sit with my mother at breakfast, or brush her silver hair, or watch her in secret as she covers up her stuffed animals with her shawl before she goes to bed.


The Elder Services are involved, and during their home visits, we discuss arranging her placement during the time of my surgery, but now this period has been extended because of the postoperative treatments. She is present during these conversations and at first she understood and accepted that it would be only for a week or two. I am not sure if she knows this has been changed from temporary to an indefinite living situation at a nursing facility.


She knows I have cancer, but some times she forgets by the end of the day. She is reminded when she comes silently into the living room and sees that I've been crying. Yesterday she took my face in her hands and said, "You are a very brave woman. I love you." She hugged me and kissed me on my face. I cannot imagine what she is thinking. How sad it must be for her if she realizes she is not coming back to her home after all.


She loves us all so dearly, especially her grandson, Jim. She cherishes his company, and she is so proud of him. He is very kind and compassionate, and spends a great deal of time with her, talking about history and current events, and baseball. She loves Chiefy, the little dog Jim brought into this family. We're all a family, even Chiefy, but in a few weeks, we will be separated. It is very painful to think about. Very, very sad.


"Give us this day, our daily bread…."

That Old Car Radio

It was quite early; the sun hadn’t taken its first look at the island yet, and the geese were beginning to organize their flight pattern for the day. I could hear their callings from one side of the pond to the other. My night had been a restless one filled with fear and turmoil. The hours waltzed through the darkness around my tiny room in slow motion. I sat up and parted the blinds of the window. I finally admitted that I belonged with the creatures of this predawn rhapsody and rose from my bed, more tired today than yesterday, and more inquiring of the Lord. I felt it was time for an answer. As I moved slowly through the blackness, fumbling with the silhouettes of pajamas and robe, I asked the Lord, “Why now? You had your chance 20 years ago when I didn’t give a damn about anything; I was the scum of the earth. All I wanted was a drink and a man to share it with. When I ran out of good times, I was so miserable, I actually wanted to die. That’s when you had your chance, Lord. Seven times I gave you the chance, but no, you wouldn’t let me die."

I nearly tripped going out of my room, realizing I had two of my legs in one pajama leg. I was getting up my courage, like Dorothy before the Wizard.

“Don’t you remember, God? Don’t you remember what happened? I was drinking Johnny Walker and gulping a bunch of pills that night, and speeding in my old Chevy on Route 3A, over the Fore River Bridge. I didn’t care about me or anyone. I just wanted out. I was drunk and high, and in the pit of my own misery. I started banging on that old car radio, the one with the chrome buttons, looking for something, anything, to quiet the noise in my head, until all of the buttons jammed up. Remember, Lord? That was a pretty neat trick you pulled.”

I measured out the coffee and poured the water in the pot. Leaning against the counter, I thought for a moment why I was replaying this. What for? God already knows what happened. Did I need to remind Him? Yes. Damn it. He’s been ignoring me lately. That’s how I felt this morning, that he needed to know I’m still here, and I’m in trouble, and I need His help. I may have not wanted it back then, but I want it now.

“Lord, of course you remember. You arranged the whole thing. You made those radio buttons get stuck so that only one station would come through. It was the voice of the preacher, that slow-talking, southern voice coming through that radio just like he was sitting beside me, telling me the story about Christ and the prostitute, and how the men dragged her to the city because they were going to stone her to death. Christ looked at them and told them something like ‘he that is without sin, let him cast the first stone’. And then he looked at her and told her to sin no more. I was so stunned. The preacher kept saying just like he was talking to me, ‘sin no more’. Christ would forgive me of all my sins because He died on the cross for me, and for all sinners, for everyone. Lord, I have to tell you, I pulled over and sobbed like a baby. I couldn’t stop crying. I had never heard of Christ as a grown man and talking to his disciples, and I had never heard of forgiveness of sins, or eternal life if we believe in Him.

And from that day until now, I haven’t been a drunkard, I haven’t been a prostitute, I haven’t cheated or stolen from anyone or did any of the things I used to. Lord you know that. You know how my life has changed, how I’ve changed. So I ask you, Lord, why? Why do you let this happen to me now?”

I took my coffee and sat in the living room, opened my bible, not really expecting a Charlton Heston moment, but in my simplistic mind, it came astonishingly close. I thought for a while before looking down at the page I had opened and asked the Lord to give me some reasons, some answers to what seem to be a universal question of mankind: why do the righteous suffer? Then I looked down and began to read the commentary to the Book of Job. The first line: “The book of Job wrestles with the age-old question, “If God is just and loving, why does He permit a truly righteous man like Job to suffer intensely?”

For nearly two hours, I read through the entire book of Job. I discovered many truths about life and integrity and humility, and suffering. One of the most important tenets remains that the real foundation of faith is not in God’s blessings He has bestowed upon us, but, rather, in the revelation of God Himself to us. When we pray to Him in humility and honestly, talking to Him from our hearts, He does reveal who He is--Almighty God Himself-- as natural and candid as that preacher did to me. One way He reveals Himself is through His Word, when we spend the time with Him in fellowship, talking to him in prayer, and waiting for His answer.

It is truly miraculous what He revealed about Himself to me today, just because I spoke to Him, alone, in the quiet of the morning, searching for the answers, asking Him honestly why He is allowing my life to take this direction now. I learned that in my heart of confusion, anger, despair, and frustration, the Lord heard my words because I was earnestly seeking Him. I pray that He give me strength to endure the trials and sufferings He has called upon me to undergo.

THE CUP OF AGONY

Oftentimes when someone is downtrodden and enduring life’s troubles, others may casually say, “We all have our cross to bear.” This, of course, refers to the cross Christ was forced to carry on his flogged shoulders—that very cross on which he was nailed, crucified, and suffered excruciating and unimaginable physical pain. It is almost blasphemous when we attempt to compare our human sufferings to those of Christ.

This morning I was reading the scriptural account of Christ’s prayers in the Garden of Gethsemane. The LORD set the cup of agony before him—this was the purpose of his life on earth. He was praying in the Garden, a stone’s throw away from his disciples who were sleeping. He was praying so fervently and in such agony that he was “sweating drops of blood”, asking first of the Father that the cup be taken from him. After an angel appeared before Christ to strengthen and encourage Him, He again prayed, “ O my Father, if this cup may not pass from me except I drink it, thy will be done”.

At any time, Christ could have called a legion of angels to help him fight off the centurions coming for him, led by Judas. At any time, Christ could have prevented his appointed fate and lived beyond his thirty-third year, a life of human manhood, taking a wife and continuing his carpentry work, raising a family, living out his years faithful to God as a human man. He knew from the beginning of time the purpose of His destiny on earth. In perfect submission and obedience, he “drank the bitter cup of agony”.

The dark abysmal times ahead of me and my family, the physical and emotional pain we must endure for a while, and the financial hardships we’ve suddenly been thrown into, have brought me to my knees before God. I have asked Him for strength and wisdom so that I may endure the struggles in my life.
This cup of agony is sweet compared to that which the Lord had to drink.

Upon a time, 40 years and 3 days ago...

i was pulling up the blinds and looking out over the pond at two swans, one was struggling a bit in the partly frozen ice to keep up with its mate.


i thought about last year when perhaps it was the very same two who were caught in the sudden northeaster and could not find their way home to the island, or to any shelter along the coast, and there they were in the morning, stuck in frozen drifts of snow, looking toward one another, about twenty feet apart. my sobbing would not end that day. i thought one was dead because i could see the other was dragging itself, literally a few inches every few minutes, and the other wasn't responding, not lifting its head or wing, giving no sign of life at all. i watched for hours, checking on them, drove around to the other side to get a closer look, and there they were, two white mounds like marshmallows on the pond which was covered with huge drifts of wet, heavy snow. two days in frigid temperatures and cloudy days, and still this devoted bird would not give up the fight. the third morning i lifted the blinds, the bright sun's reflective rays were on the snow. i looked for the swans. i saw the tracks, and then i saw one swan. i gasped and sobbed, but then i grabbed my binoculars and focused with trembling hands. the swan had reached its mate, and was covering it with both wings and half its body. i watched for so long, ignoring everything around me while this incredible miracle unfolded. apparently it was able to reach the other probably in the middle of the night, and provided warmth, at least comfort, to its dying mate. it was to me the saddest story i had witnessed of these beloved birds. i went about my day as the sun was brilliantly making its climb above the trees. i knew it would soon be shining directly onto the pond. thick clumps of icy snow that hung on tree limbs were finally dropping to the ground. boxes of snow on car roofs slid down onto the windows and rested on their hoods. i looked out the window at the mound of snow where the swans were. i couldn't understand what i saw at first. there were two sets of tracks and two mounds of white moving toward the shore! i grabbed my jacket, quickly slid into my unlaced boots, and ran down to the pond where i saw, just a few feet away from me, these champions of the winter, the snow beauties who survived the brutality of subzero winds and 8 foot drifts. they thawed out and began their journey of survival together. i was so astonished that the other was not dead. i hung onto their every move, watching and sobbing, and moving closer to them, and they to me. finally, they stretched out their wings, their beautiful, delicate and strong white wings. they leaned their necks back and then forward, and suddenly they lifted themselves off of the snow and flew majestically into the air, gracefully, slowly, around the island and around again, touching down in the middle of the pond. in a few minutes, they flew off again, around the island two or three times, and again touched down. they did this a few times before finally disappearing behind the cove and reappearing a few moments later with several more swans, apparently the rest of their family...i clapped "bravo" and excitedly ran back home.


i thought about your email you sent a few days ago as i was pulling up the blinds, looking at the swans, thinking about the connection between the swans, you, and "me". and then i thought how strange and haunting, how sad that last paragraph of yours sounded to me. what were you referring to? before turning on my computer this morning, i sat on the couch drinking coffee, thinking about it. then i thought about the date you sent it. december. december what. this is only december 5th. why would you want me to know if i remembered a day in early december. the meaning of this day was important. it was 40 years ago. my only clue.



the swans represent undying love, devotion, caring. swans usually mate for life unless the other dies. ah, it came to me. december 2nd. 40 years ago.


happy anniversary. happy friendship. happy life. especially, happy life.


i will write about everything soon, i promise.


life is changing rapidly for me, and because it is changing for me, it is for my family. life now is sad. we have lost the laughing of the day that lingered around supper time and stayed with us until we fell asleep, a peaceful, carefree sleep, so that we could wake up happy. i think we sometimes wish we did not wake up at all. now we are worried and sad, anxious and frightened. and we are angry at God, at doctors, at ourselves, and tragically at each other. we cry. i know we all cry because we are miserable. we hurt because we are broken, and we think we cannot be fixed. we say unkind thoughtless things to each other, and then we expect apologies. things seem convoluted, surreal.


one thing is certain. there is hope. there has to be hope. i know it because there are miracles of God and survivors of Nature and good friends like you and professionals who sincerely help. the waiting is unbearable at times. waiting for answers, waiting for pain to go away, waiting for peace.


waiting for a sustainable peace, inside the mind. does it come to one who must practice meditation, or to one who must earn the right to have a quiet mind? or does it come to one who is humble and undeserving, and simply believes that the Lord will provide?


"they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint."

YOU ARE MY SISTER

Dear Connie,

How are you holding up with your monthly chemo? Are you beginning to feel the benefits, i.e., less bone pain, less nausea, no more headaches? I know the weather affects your pain dramatically; that's why many people who can afford it move to warmer and drier locations. Or they go on a "chemo holiday" for a couple of months and take a trip somewhere they've never been.

It's important for you to have fun, "get out of Dodge" and enjoy yourself. If you have a special friend who would go with you for a weekend trip to Gloucester or Newburyport, or Martha's Vineyard, then you should go. Have a great time for yourself. Shop. Take pictures. Eat, eat, eat.

I found a couple of photos of Paul and Annie. Adorable.

I know it must sound insignificant, but pieces of information help with my memory. Looking at those photos of when you and Annie were younger, I may begin to remember what it was like when I was that age.

Was I happy being your sister even though I was a profoundly sad daughter traumatized by our father?

I talked to Annie yesterday and asked her how you are. She doesn't want to tell me. I cannot remember growing up, you don't know that. She didn't know until I told her. I have not been able to remember many decades of my life. My doctors tell me it was a protective mechanism. Still, there was always the reference to my relationship with you, that because you were so much older, 14 years older, and left the family to get married when I was only 5, that I didn't really know who you were. I don't remember when you came to visit, or when you finally moved back to Massachusetts.

I guess the first time I remember anything meaningful was when we both got breast cancer eight years ago. We talked about it, about the similarities, the different treatments we sought, and then we went our separate ways again.

Now you are dying. Your cancer has come back so insidiously to your bones and lung, and brain. I am frightened for you, and I cry often. They told me all I can do for you is be there and listen, wait, respect your treatment choices, and the way you want to live the rest of your life, and the way you want to die. I know there are better ways for you to live, and better ways to approach the end-of-life.

You do not want to see me. It would be too distressing for me to see you in so much pain? You are right; it would hurt me to see you like that and not be able to do anything to help you.

The real reason I believe is that you do not want to frighten me because you fear I may face this some day. You are protecting me.

You are my sister.

WHEN YOU ARE IN TROUBLE

“DO NOT hide Your face from me in the day of my trouble;
Incline Your ear to me;
In the day that I call, answer me speedily.
For my days are consumed like smoke,
And my bones are burned like a hearth.
My heart is stricken and withered like grass,
So that I forget to eat my bread.
Because of the sound of my groaning
My bones cling to my skin.
I am like a pelican of the wilderness;
I am like an owl of the desert.
I lie awake,
And am like a sparrow alone on the housetop.

He shall regard the prayer of the destitute,
And shall not despise their prayer.
This will be written for the generation to come,
That a people yet to be created may praise the LORD.
To hear the groaning of the prisoner,
To release those appointed to death.”

Psalm 102

THE ONE WHO SITS ON YOUR BED TONIGHT

Just when we think we’ve made some progress with our innermost shortcomings—our weaknesses and darkest souls—something happens to remind us that we have more work to do, more self examination of our hearts, more humbling, more praying, more asking for God’s help and forgiveness.

The great theologian, Oswald Chambers, wrote about this process:

“Ultimately, God will allow nothing to escape; every detail of our lives is under His scrutiny. God will bring us back in countless ways to the same point over and over again. And He never tires of bringing us back to that one point until we learn the lesson, because His purpose is to produce the finished product. It may be a problem arising from our impulsive nature, but again and again, with the most persistent patience, God has brought us back to that one particular point. Through this process, God is trying to impress upon us the one thing that is not entirely right in our lives.”

Notice that God brings us back over and over again to the same point, that same weakness; but are we willing to actually give it up?

Think about it. Let’s say the Lord is sitting beside you on your bed tonight, and He says to you, “There are a few things we need to talk about.” And He patiently begins to list quite a bit more than you expected. After He is through talking, He then asks you, “So, do you think you’ll be able to give these things up?” What do you think you would say?

I know what I’d say. “You want me to give up ALL OF THESE THINGS?”

The Lord is kind and merciful, and full of compassion and love, but He’s no fool. He is also a judge, and that means when we sin, knowingly, repeatedly, we deserve to be punished. He gives us so many chances, so many ways out of bad situations. But the Lord knows our hearts, and He knows when we really genuinely try to give up things in our lives that are hurtful, sinful, and unhealthy for us and our families.

He’s still sitting beside you on your bed. You can ask Him now. “Take this darkness away from me, cut it out of my heart, Lord, and take it from me! Forgive me for what I have done to shame You, Lord, and please have mercy on me. You know my heart, Lord. Show me what’s wrong, and make me the person You want me to be.”

He’ll walk with you and direct each step. He’ll be your friend, your brother, your father, your counselor, your Spirit guide. He’s God. God the Father, God the Son Jesus Christ, and God the Holy Spirit. He will help you. All you have to do is ask. He knows you’re not perfect, and He doesn’t expect you to be perfect. He’s just waiting for you to ask for His help.

LILIES OF THE FIELD

Sunday, mid morning, and we are taking Chiefy to the park. Inside my own head is where I am, and I feel guilty.

There are many troubles I allow myself to think about, soaking up precious time instead of participating.

It was a few days ago that I asked the Lord to show me something that would take me back to being the person of faith I used to be. Years ago, even when I had so many troubles, no money or job, nothing but difficulties, I was always thanking the Lord for each day that He provided for us, and I was always reading His Word and praying.

He wouldn’t answer me right away because that’s how God is. Sometimes He makes us wait it out and He gives us time to think upon things ourselves. Then when we least expect it, the answer is in something that He created for us to meditate on. If we understand God’s nature, we know to dig deeper and there will be more answers waiting for us in His Word.

On the way to the park, we are winding around the narrow street, the curbs edged with graceful lilies, their tall stems stretching toward the clouds, and their orange faces proudly glistening in the sun. We agree that they are just beautiful, and marvel at how they seed themselves each year. That’s how they spread along the sides of the roads and into the fields (into the fields, lilies into the fields, lilies of the fields.)

Thank you, Lord.

“Therefore I say to you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink; nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; and yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

For your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things.

But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you.

Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.”

TO MY SON, JIM

“Let not your heart be troubled, nor let it be fearful.”

For many months I have been in physical pain and anxious about the uncertainty of my prognosis.

My dear son has shared in my sufferings. I look at his face and I grieve that I do not have the answers to his questions.

This morning, the Lord led me to a scripture in John 14: 21. “Let not your heart be troubled, nor let it be fearful.” I continued reading. I started from the beginning of the chapter.

The following is an excerpt from Matthew Henry’s commentary on John 14.

A general caution which Christ gives to his disciples against trouble of heart Let not your heart be troubled. They now began to be troubled, were entering into this temptation.


Christ took notice of it. Perhaps it was apparent in their looks; it was said (ch. 13:22), They looked one upon another with anxiety and concern, and Christ looked upon them all, and observed it; at least, it was intelligible to the Lord Jesus, who is acquainted with all our secret undiscovered sorrows, with the wound that bleeds inwardly; he knows not only how we are afflicted, but how we stand affected under our afflictions, and how near they lie to our hearts; he takes cognizance of all the trouble which his people are at any time in danger of being overwhelmed with; he knows our souls in adversity. Many things concurred to trouble the disciples now.


Christ had just told them of the unkindness he should receive from some of them, and this troubled them all. Peter, no doubt, looked very sorrowful upon what Christ said to him, and all the rest were sorry for him and for themselves too, not knowing whose turn it should be to be told next of some ill thing or other they should do. As to this, Christ comforts them; though a godly jealousy over ourselves is of great use to keep us humble and watchful, yet it must not prevail to the disquieting of our spirits and the damping of our holy joy.


He had just told them of his own departure from them, that he should not only go away, but go away in a cloud of sufferings. They must shortly hear him loaded with reproaches, and these will be as a sword in their bones; they must see him barbarously abused and put to death, and this also will be a sword piercing through their own souls, for they had loved him, and chosen him, and left all to follow him. When we now look upon Christ pierced, we cannot but mourn and be in bitterness, though we see the glorious issue and fruit of it; much more grievous must the sight be to them, who could then look no further.

Let not your heart be troubled.

Upon the word troubled, Be not so troubled as to be put into a hurry and confusion, like the troubled sea when it cannot rest.

Upon the word heart: "Though the nation and city be troubled, though your little family and flock be troubled, yet let not your heart be troubled. Keep possession of your own souls when you can keep possession of nothing else.’’

The heart is the main fort; whatever you do, keep trouble from this, keep this with all diligence. The spirit must sustain the infirmity, therefore, see that this be not wounded.

The remedy he prescribes against this trouble of mind, which he saw ready to prevail over them; in general, believe. "Believe in God, and his perfections and providence, believe also in me, and my mediation. Build with confidence upon the great acknowledged principles of natural religion: that there is a God, that he is most holy, wise, powerful, and good; that he is the governor of the world, and has the sovereign disposal of all events…


Here is a particular direction to act faith upon the promise of eternal life, v. 2, 3. He had directed them to trust to God, and to trust in him; but what must they trust God and Christ for? Trust them for a happiness to come when this body and this world shall be no more, and for a happiness to last as long as the immortal soul and the eternal world shall last.

Believe and consider that really there is such a happiness: In my Father’s house there are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you, v. 2.

See under what notion the happiness of heaven is here represented: as mansions, many mansions in Christ’s Father’s house. Heaven is a house, not a tent or tabernacle; it is a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. It is a Father’s house: my Father’s house; and his Father is our Father, to whom he was now ascending; so that in right of their elder brother all true believers shall be welcome to that happiness as to their home. It is his house who is King of kings and Lord of lords, dwells in light, and inhabits eternity.

Here we are as in an inn; in heaven we shall gain a settlement. The disciples had quitted their houses to attend Christ, who had not where to lay his head, but the mansions in heaven will make them amends. There are many mansions, for there are many to be brought to glory, and Christ exactly knows their number, nor will be straitened for room by the coming of more company than he expects. He had told Peter that he should follow him (ch. 13:36), but let not the rest be discouraged, in heaven there are mansions for them all.

See what assurance we have of the reality of the happiness itself, and the sincerity of the proposal of it to us: "If it were not so, I would have told you. If you had deceived yourselves, when you quitted your livelihoods, and ventured your lives for me, in prospect of a happiness future and unseen, I would soon have undeceived you.’’ The assurance is built, upon the veracity of his word. "If there were not such a happiness, valuable and attainable, I would not have told you that there was.’’


The belief of Christ’s second coming, of which he has given us the assurance, is an excellent preservative against trouble of heart, Phil. 4:5; James 5:8. That he will come again to receive all his faithful followers to himself. He sends for them privately at death, and gathers them one by one; but they are to make their public entry in solemn state all together at the last day, and then Christ himself will come to receive them, to conduct them in the abundance of his grace, and to welcome them in the abundance of his love. The coming of Christ is in order to our gathering together unto him, 2 Th. 2:1


If he has prepared the place for us, he will prepare us for it, and in due time put us in possession of it. As the resurrection of Christ is the assurance of our resurrection, so his ascension, victory, and glory, are an assurance of ours.


"If I go and prepare a place for you, if this be the errand of my journey, you may be sure, when every thing is ready, I will come again, and receive you to myself, so that you shall follow me hereafter, that where I am there you may be also.’’

WHO IS GOD TO US?

This sermon was delivered on Sabbath Morning, April 22, 1855, by the
REV. C.H. SPURGEON

"The carnal mind is enmity against God"--Romans 8:7

What is God to us? He is the Creator of the heavens and the earth; he bears up the pillars of the universe; his breath perfumes the flowers; his pencil paints them; he is the author of this fair creation; "we are the sheep of his pasture; he hath made us, and not we ourselves." He stands to us in the relationship of a Maker and Creator; and from that fact he claims to be our King. He is our legislator, our law-maker; and then, to make our crime still worse and worse, he is the ruler of providence; for it is he who keeps up from day to day. He supplys our wants; he keeps the breath within our nostrils; he bids the blood still pursue its course through the veins; he holdeth us in life, and preventeth us from death; he standeth before us, our creator, our king, our sustainer, our benefactor, and I ask, is it not a sin of enormous magnitude--is it not high treason against the emperor of heaven--is it not an awful sin, the depth of which we cannot fathom with the line of all our judgment--that we, his creatures, dependent upon him, should be at enmity with God?

But the crime may seem to be worse when we think of what God is. Let me appeal personally to you in an interrogatory style, for this has weight with it. Sinner! why art thou at enmity with God? God is the God of love; he is kind to his creatures; he regards you with his love of benevolence; for this very day his sun hath shone upon you, this day you have had food and raiment, and you have come up here in health and strength. Do you hate God because he loves you? Is that the reason? Consider how many mercies you have received at his hands all your life long! You are born with a body not deformed; you have had a tolerable share of health; you have been recovered many times from sickness; when lying at the gates of death, his arm has held back your soul from the last step to destruction. Do you hate God for all this? Do you hate him because he spared your life by his tender mercy? Behold his goodness that he hath spread before you! He might have sent you to hell; but you are here. Now, do you hate God for sparing you? Oh, wherefore art thou at enmity with him? My fellow creature, dost thou not know that God sent his Son from his bosom, hung him on the tree, and there suffered him to die for sinners, the just for the unjust? And dost thou hate God for that? Oh, sinner! is this the cause of thine enmity? Art thou so estranged that thou givest enmity for love? And when he surroundeth thee with favors, girdeth thee with mercies, encircleth thee with loving kindness, dost thou hate him for this? He might say, as Jesus did to the Jews, "For which of these works do ye stone me?" For which of these works do ye hate God? Did an earthly benefactor feed you, would you hate him? Did he clothe you, would you abuse him to his face? Did he give you talents, would you turn those powers against him? Oh, speak! Would you forge the iron and strike the dagger into the heart of your best friend? Do you hate your mother, who nursed you on her knee? Do you curse your father, who so wisely watched over you? Nay, ye say, we have some little gratitude towards earthly relatives. Where are your hearts, then? Where are your hearts, that ye can still despise God, and be at enmity with him? Oh! diabolical crime! Oh! satanic enormity! Oh! iniquity for which words fail in description! To hate the all-lovely--to despise the essentially good--to abhor the constantly merciful--to spurn the ever beneficent--to scorn the kind, the gracious one; above all, to hate the God who sent his son to die for man! Ah! in that thought--"The carnal mind is enmity with God;" there is something which may make us shake; for it is a terrible sin to be at enmity with God. I would I could speak more powerfully, but my Master alone can impress upon you the enormous evil of this horrid state of heart.

QUALITY OF LIFE AND THE RIGHT TO DIE

When I was much younger, a vibrant animated woman, I took care of my very ill husband, a commitment that I made to myself and to God. I could not walk away from that. I could not leave a very ill man alone or worse, put him in a nursing facility at the age of 50. How unkind, heartless. I took care of him without the assistance of any one else, no one, no visiting nurse, no health care assistant.


At times he would deliberately cause bitter and hateful arguments to provoke violence because he wanted me to just go away. His pride and manhood were injured very badly. After all, he was a very robust and vigorous man who was used to being independent, and physically active. His disease took him down with no mercy. It stripped him of all his dignity and denied him of his masculinity, his sexuality.


To make matters so much worse, he was a generation older than I, and he imagined all kinds of things once I stepped out of the door. He could not help his fantasies. It was beyond his control. I was once a beautiful woman who was genuinely innocent about what lurks inside a man's heart. The most seemingly benign gestures were meant to seduce me away from him, but thankfully I never spent even more than a smile on another man.


He knew the world in a way that I didn't. He was an ex-felon who did his hard time at Levenworth for bank robbery back in the 40s. Horrific thoughts of what evil men could do to me plagued his mind to the extent of paranoia.


Many times I was followed by a black town car, moving slowly behind me as I walked. I didn't know if men would jump out to kidnap me, or if they were from the FBI protecting me.


His illness became worse with each month, despite the excellent care he received from the best doctors and hospitals. I became bitter inside, very depressed, always on edge, but always faithful, and loving, yet fearful and vigilant.


No one is able to predict what their temperament will be like when they reach their threshold of pain, their fear of dying, their agony. Guilt and suffering. Night terrors and restlessness. Beyond the ability of reason. They beg to die. They beg for you to help them die.


"Here's the gun, wear these gloves, and then throw it over the bridge into the river…."


"This is a cocaine dealer. Here's $200. Meet him at Park Street. I'll go out in peace, just clean up before you dial 911. Tonight. Do it!"


"Call Roger, tell him to get me some Valium, 100 of the 5's. Tonight. Here's $500. He knows where. Just wait for his call and meet him later."


Day after day, demanding I go along with these schemes to assist in his death. He was in so much pain. He just wanted to die.


It was a Sunday in May, Mother's Day, the sky was parakeet blue. He sent the boys out for the morning. It was just as though he was the Jim Lenahan in the days of laughing and storytelling, and that sparkle was in his Irish eyes….it all came back to him, to us. He took me in his arms, unsteadily at first, and then whirled me around a few times, laughing and dancing, until we fell on the bed. When I looked up at him, his eyes were open, and he was smiling.


I knew he was gone.

I did not authorize an autopsy. They assumed he died from complications of his recent heart surgery.


I was most thankful that he no longer had to suffer the anguish, and that the last few moments of his life were happy.

EVERY HUMAN LIFE

“In Iraq, lives differ in value -- and so do deaths. In this disparity lies an important reason why the United States has botched this war.” Those were the first words I had ever read by Andrew J. Bacevich. It was an article in the Washington Post, July of 2006, “What’s an Iraqi’s Life Worth?”


The insurance claim to the beneficiaries of an American soldier who dies in the line of duty is $400,000, while a dead Iraqi civilian is reportedly worth up to $2,500 in condolence payments. Bush stated during one of his speeches that "every human life is a precious gift of matchless value," it really isn’t so in Iraq.


Andrew Bacevich is a professional military man, having attended West Point, obtained a PhD from Princeton, served for 20 years in the U.S. Army, and is a Professor of History and International Relations at Boston University. I’ve since read his contributions to the Weekly Standard and National Review, and I just finished his latest book The New American Militarism: How Americans Are Seduced by War. He has an interesting political viewpoint regarding the war, and the military, which at first glance seem to be in conflict, but after reading the book, I understood how we Americans have placed our trust in our country’s military power, just on the say-so of its generals. Bacevich reminds of President Eisenhower’s farewell address in 1961, when he warned the country about the development of “the military-industrial complex”. I remember that coined phrase all too well in the 60s.

It was while driving on the expressway last week that I heard the name Bacevich and wondered if he was giving a lecture or maybe appearing on Bill O’Reilly, since BU is O’Reilly’s alma mater. I turned up the volume.


“The Department of Defense announced today the death of a soldier who was supporting Operating Iraqi Freedom. First Lieutenant Andrew J. Bacevich, 27, of Walpole, Massachusetts, died on May 13th, in Balad, Iraq, of wounds suffered when an improvised device exploded near his unit during combat patrol operations….”


An ironic tragedy it is when a retired colonel, a conservative, now against the war and building up the military machinery, loses his son to the very military machinery he once supported.


No matter how you lose a child, in times of war or peace, it’s a pain that never leaves.

The following is an excerpt from Basic, a poem written by Steven Kowit from the Dumbbell Nebula (Roundhouse Press).

“One gray morning in the second week of basic training, lacing up his boots, that shy, phlegmatic, red-haired boy who bunked above me whispered,
‘Steve, I don’t believe I’m gonna make it…’
‘No way, man! You’re doing fine! Hey, look, c’mon, we’re late.’
and shrugged him off to race out just in time to make formation in the mist of that Kentucky morning.
--He was right. He didn’t. He took a razor blade that night, and crawling underneath the barracks, slashed his throat.”

THE HALLWAY

I'm sure we've all choked on the well-intended advice: "When God closes one door, He opens another..."


Sometimes we have to wait a long time between locked doors, the hallway.


The hallway is where some of us lose faith and hope. We forget why He's making us wait, or why He even closed the door.


I've pounded my clenched fists on those doors and demanded He let me out of this hell, this frightening darkness, only to discover that He will, but in His time.


He makes us wait it out to think things over. Then, when we're ready to accept His plan unconditionally and without questions, He opens the door, and we're free to walk.


I'll tell you the truth, the last time the door opened, and I realized what He chose for this phase of my life, I discovered that maybe I should have stayed in the hallway. Maybe I wasn't ready for what He wanted from me.


Many are called, few are chosen. I responded to His call without counting the costs, and picked up the cross and followed.


What He chose for me requires personal daily sacrifice, giving of myself, and being isolated from a vibrant world I had once been a part of. A few times I tried running back into the hallway, but of course, the door was closed and locked.


I remain in this circumstance the Lord has arranged for me and my 93-year-old mother. I thank Him each day for bringing my heart to the place of humility and compassion, a place I otherwise never would have known had it not been for the hallway.

WHERE TO DIE

Ever read The Random Friday Question in The Washington Post (it’s actually under the title of Raw Fisher by Marc Fisher). Sometimes he has the most thought provoking ideas.

Today, for instance, his question was Where to Die. Well, I’ve given it a lot of thought, only because I’m a firm believer in families. The entire concept of putting a family member, who is elderly, mentally ill, disabled or terminally ill, in a nursing home facility really goes against my core belief of taking care of one’s own family.

In the Old Country, they did not have that luxury. When the generations before ours came to America, they must have been appalled at the thought of growing old, witnessing what Americans do to their beloved parents and grandparents when they become incontinent, or when they cannot speak in complete sentences, or when they shuffle when they walk, and have tremors as they lift the fork to their toothless mouths. How terrified it must have been for them, our grandparents, and our parents, wondering what would become of them, when they could no longer do for themselves?

My grandmother lived in a little village outside of Milan, Italy, until she came here to America as a teenager, alone. She made her way by cleaning and cooking. She spoke only Italian, Classical Northern Italian. She was very cultured, very intelligent. She knew all of the operas because she used to sneak into La Scala opera house and listen to the opera singers. She knew so much about politics, what was happening all over Europe politically, and she knew about ancient history, art, and great literature. She taught herself to read and write and speak English. After my grandfather died at a young age, my grandmother lived alone in New Hampshire, enduring the bitter harsh winters, and led an isolated and independent life. She lived alone for twenty-three years.

The day came when, after a serious fall, she could no longer live independently. My parents brought her to Massachusetts, to a nursing home within walking distance of their house. I don’t understand why. My mother and father were only in their late fifties, and they had an extra bedroom. They lived on this beautiful pond. My grandmother would have loved spending the rest of her life with them.

My mother is widowed, and is ninety-three. I’ve been taking care of her for the past five years. I have assistance from my son and a nurse. We really love living here on the beautiful pond. My son and I came here so that she will be able to live- and die- here, with her family, in her own home.