Chicken Soup for the Cancer Survivor's Soul (28 page)

3. Bring gifts. The best kind are ones that can be shared. One friend brought a new game to the hospital, but instead of handing the gift to Rebekah, she played the game with her. Rebekah’s grandmother brought a coloring book and they spent the afternoon coloring together. Don’t bring candy or snacks without checking with the parent first. Gifts that stimulate the mind, such as crayons, books, puzzles or tape cassettes, are always appreciated.

4. Spend the night. If you’re a close relative or friend, consider sharing the responsibility of spending a night at the hospital. It is important for those in constant contact with the child to take a break. My husband, Nolan, and I alternate. Nolan tells funny stories and I read books, but Rebekah often enjoys the comfort of a different familiar face.

        One evening when Rebekah was especially tense, my friend Donnette, a first-grade teacher, insisted on spending the night at the hospital. She always seems to cheer my daughter up. That night the two of them stayed up late, talking and giggling, relieving much of Rebekah’s anxiety.

5. Entertain. Despite hectic routines, hospitalization can be very boring. How grateful I have been for celebrations organized by the hospital staff. When the circus was in town, they arranged a costume party for the children. Rebekah was a princess, and it didn’t seem to bother her that she had an I.V. attached to her arm.

        If you know someone in the hospital, think imaginatively. Can a few members of your church choir drop by for some singing (and not just at Christmas time)? Do you have a friend who can perform magic tricks or dress as a clown? How about taking a birthday party to the hospital? Don’t wait for the patient’s birth date—do it now.

6. Pray. “Don’t be weary in prayer; keep at it; watch for God’s answers and remember to be thankful when they come” (Colossians 4:2, The Living Bible). Send a note that simply says, “We are praying for you.” Notify the church when a child is hospitalized. Rebekah has been comforted to know that our pastor and staff prayed specifically for her.

With a little thought and creativity, you can make a sick child’s day brighter. Let the child know that you are aware of the illness, care deeply and are praying daily for a recovery.

Marilyn Phillips

The Way Back

Her medical chart said that she was in her mid-30s, but framed by the four white corners of an overstuffed pillow and the high collar of a lacy pink bedjacket, her small face looked more like that of a lost and frightened little girl.

“Mind if I open the blinds?” I asked.

“Whatever,” she responded listlessly.

I pulled the slender cord and the tiny hospital room was filled with the gray, wet light of a rainy day.

“My name is Doris Knight,” I smiled, pulling up a chair. “Your doctor suggested that I stop by for a visit.”

Still, she stared straight ahead.

“You see,” I continued, “eight years ago, I had breast cancer, too, and the same kind of operation that you just had. Your doctor thought we might talk about it.”

“I’d rather not,” she said in a low voice. And then, slowly, she turned to face me, eyes filled with fear and desperation. For a moment, I became lost in their bleak and empty blueness. Looking beyond her, my mind spun back to a cold and drizzly Sunday morning in October, 1970....

Nestled in an easy chair by our warm and crackling fireplace, I tried to find the strength to tackle an endless list of long-overdue thank-you notes. I’d been home from the hospital for three weeks, but it was the first time I’d been left alone.

My husband, John, was at church. Our 27-year-old son, Steve, was a continent away, stationed at San Diego’s U.S. Naval Air Station. My sister, who flew in from out-of-state to be with me, had returned home to her family yesterday. And two days had passed since I’d heard from any of my friends—loyal neighbors, church members and coworkers. Loneliness, until now held at bay, swiftly enveloped me.

Equally disheartening was my extreme discomfort, weakness and inability to do the simplest chores. Just getting into and out of my clothes was a task of staggering proportions. Back zippers and hooks were impossible. I spent the entire morning getting dressed.

And I was depressed. Gone now were the blessed sedatives and painkillers that had made life bearable for the past few weeks. And gone with them was the spunky trouper, the incredibly cheerful optimist whose postoperative good humor had elicited choruses of “Gosh, isn’t she wonderful” from friends and family. In her place was a 53-year-old scared and hurting woman.

How I longed for someone to talk to. Lurking in the darkest part of my soul were deep-seated fears too painful, too horrifying, for me to even admit. I knew I needed more than the expert medical counsel provided by my doctors. I needed more than the well-intentioned pep talks proffered by my friends. I even needed more than the unspoken love and compassion that showed in the eyes of my husband. What I needed was someone to talk to—a woman, perhaps, who had been through this whole ugly ordeal herself and who could understand firsthand what I was going through.

Reaching for a pen, I brushed against the corner of a slim volume of inspirational verse, a gift from a friend, that had been balanced on the arm of the chair. It clattered to the floor. Without thinking, I bent to pick it up. I moved too quickly. Searing pain, like nothing I’d ever felt before, pierced my chest.

“Why?” I sobbed. “Why?”

All the fears I had been trying to repress were unleashed at once with savage fury. A barrage of words, nightmarish and taunting, swirled behind my closed eyes. Breast can–cer... malignancy... mastectomy... prosthesis...

I shuddered and pulled my robe more tightly around me, trying not to notice my oddly concave right side. I knew the pain was temporary; that the jolt I had just suffered was merely damaged nerve endings in the slow process of mending. I knew that with time and exercise I’d be able to resume near-normal use of my affected side. The doctors had said so. But the ugly scar would be with me forever.

Where, I wondered, was God? How could He have let this happen to me?

Never had I felt so helpless. I was especially worried about my career. After working for the telephone company for nearly half my life, a few months ago I had finally found my niche as staff editor for one of the company’s statewide magazines. It was rewarding, challenging and exciting work. But it was also a job that required strength, stamina—and self-confidence. I felt no longer qualified.

More than anything else, I was worried about my husband. John, who had been a tower of strength, had a severe health problem of his own. A victim of worsening emphysema, he soon faced early retirement and needed me more than ever. In those fast-approaching days, how would I, a crippled half-shell of a woman, ever be able to give him the love and support—emotional and physical— that he deserved?

If only I had someone to talk to. Surely other women who survived breast cancer had suffered similar problems. I wondered how they coped. I wondered what they knew that I didn’t.

Again, I reached down to pick up the fallen book. This time I moved slowly, deliberately, bending from the waist. The book had landed face-up. Picking it up, my eyes were drawn to two short lines of verse.

“This body is my house —it is not I.
Triumphant in this faith, I live and die.”

The author was unknown, but the words seemed to have been written expressly for me. I reread the passage out loud. It had a strangely calming and soothing effect.

With this in mind, I resolved to stop worrying—at least for the moment—and concentrate all my energy on getting better. After all, I reasoned, I should be thankful. I had survived.

Settling back in the deep, soft chair, I closed my eyes. Listening to the falling rain, the crackle and pop of burning embers, the steady, rhythmic ticking of the old clock in the hall, I slept.

Two months later, I was strong enough to return to my job. I worked hard. Most evenings I came home too exhausted to worry about anything more complicated than slipping into something loose and comfortable, fixing a simple supper for John and myself, and going to bed.

As time went on, the ragged scar healed, leveled out, and all but disappeared. I was fitted with a standard prosthesis and, to the casual observer, my appearance was absolutely normal. Still, a part of me died inside whenever I saw the curious eyes of those who knew about my operation travel to my chest. It was even worse when encountering someone who was obviously doing everything humanly possible not to look. It wasn’t until some time later that I realized what a wide variety of highly sophisticated, natural-looking breast forms were available. I splurged on one of the more expensive ones. It was worth it. Before long, I was comfortable and confident wearing it all day long, and my self-image improved considerably.

It would be misleading to imply that every day thereafter was sunshine and roses. There were bad moments— undressing before a mirror with a too-critical eye, or waking in terror in the middle of the night when dark panic threatened like a storm cloud and unreasonable fears swept through me like a cold wind. John, however, was always there to hold me close and whisper words of reassurance and encouragement.

One spring day, I received a letter from the American Cancer Society. “Mrs. Knight,” it read, “your name is on our list as having recently undergone a mastectomy. Would you be interested in helping to organize a local Reach to Recovery* chapter in your community for women who have undergone similar surgery?”

Through enclosed brochures, I learned that the Reach to Recovery program was founded in 1953 by Mrs. Terese Lasser, herself a mastectomy patient, and today has active chapters nationwide. The program depends on trained volunteers, all former mastectomy patients, who call new patients and help them adjust to their various psychological, physical and cosmetic needs.

The planning meeting was scheduled to take place at Valdosta’s Mental Health Office, 7:00 P.M., on a Wednesday night. Aching and tired from a full day at the office, I almost didn’t attend.

It was a good thing I did. It was an evening of discoveries— most notably that my struggle with cancer had left me not handicapped, not less of a person, but uniquely qualified for a highly specialized service.

My gaze returned from the hospital window to the despondent young woman lying on the bed. Her breakfast tray, I noticed, was untouched.

“I understand how you feel,” I said softly. “Would it be all right if I just sat with you for a while?”

“If you like.” She looked away and busied herself folding and refolding a green cloth napkin.

“I’m just so darn weak,” she murmured. “I can’t find the strength to do anything.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And I’m so sore, it hurts me to even move. Especially my elbow—here, where I’ve been leaning on it.”

Ah, I thought. Just the break I’d been waiting for. I reached in my bag for a doughnut-shaped piece of foam rubber.

“Here,” I said, “rest your elbow in this.”

Accepting the soft cushion gratefully, she smiled. For the first time since our meeting, the veil of fear that clouded her pretty blue eyes lifted.

“I really do understand how you’re feeling,” I repeated. “But there’s no reason why, with time and effort, you can’t be just as useful, productive, whole and happy a person as you were before your operation. I know how unbelievable that may sound at the moment, but it’s true. And that’s why I want you to feel free to talk.”

From then on, our visit was easy. Question followed question, and soon we were engaged in lively conversation. Together we worked on the prescribed simple therapeutic exercises. She followed with interest as I walked my fingers up the wall and grinned ironically when I told her we referred to that one as “Climbing the Wall.” Before we knew it, 45 minutes had flown by and it was time for me to leave.

“Now remember,” I said, playfully wagging my finger. “Next time we meet, I want to hear you’ve been climbing the walls!”

She actually laughed out loud.

And in that sound was sheer joy and relief—for both of us. Her laughter seemed to travel back in time to soothe my own pain of eight years ago when I, like she, had so desperately needed someone to talk to. In a sudden flash of insight, I better understood the wonder of God’s working in our lives; how He, in His own time and ultimate wisdom, can use the most hopeless and tragic human conditions for eventual good.

It had stopped raining, and yellow sunlight streamed in through the open blinds. As I gathered my bag and coat, I couldn’t help but smile. I couldn’t recall when I’d ever been happier.

Doris Knight

* You can contact Reach to Recovery by writing to Reach to Recovery, c/o American Cancer Society, 1599 Clifton Road North East, Atlanta, GA 30329, or by calling 800-ACS–2345.

Reach to Recovery

In 1979, I was a 37-year-old single mother of an 11-year–old girl and an 8-year-old boy. I was an executive secretary for the president of an office systems company. As I dressed for work one morning, I hooked my bra in the front, moved it around and my left hand brushed under my left breast, detecting a lump.

I was unaware of breast cancer; there was none in my family or among my acquaintances. Perhaps because my father had passed away six months earlier from lymphoma, I immediately contacted my gynecologist. Neither he nor the surgeon he referred me to was suspicious of cancer, but suggested a biopsy. We were all very surprised when indeed the lump was malignant. In 1979, a modified radical mastectomy was my only option, and within four days I had the surgery.