An Ordinary Life Touched by an Extraordinary God – Part Twenty-four

Still cancer on my liver, still pain with no relief and, having had surgery and chemo, the doctor had no further solutions. Of course, I prayed about it and it happened that my husband and I had lunch with our pastor and wife shortly after. In the course of our conversation the pastor asked if we had any concerns he could pray about for us. The cancer and pain always on my mind I brought up that. “Have you looked into radiation?” he asked.

“My oncologist believes it wouldn’t give me any relief so, no, I haven’t considered it.”

“There’s a doctor in our church who does radiation. You might consult him and see what he thinks,” he said.

Thinking about our conversation awhile later, I decided it couldn’t hurt to check into it. I made an appointment and off I went for a consultation. The upshot of it was the good doctor believed radiation might help. There were no guarantees of course, but hope appeared on the horizon. The doctor prescribed a six-week course, five days a week for the treatment. My first Monday there, on a sunny day in March, I felt some trepidation but also felt ready to give it a try and go for it.

The nurse ushered me into a changing room where I removed my upper clothing and put on a hospital gown then off to the radiation room we went. They had me lay on a bed, a fairly comfortable apparatus but looming overhead looking down at me was a huge machine like a big eye. They measured and poked and prodded and measured some more than marked, with a permanent marker, an “X” on the site of the cancer on my liver where the radiation would be trained.

Next, everyone left the room except me, of course, and as they left they admonished me to “lie still.” I was agreeable to that but the telling thing that settled in my brain was no one else was in the room. I suppose radiation treatment is a miracle of science and there are probably some good things about it, but too much. . .   Well, over my lifetime I’ve had more than my share of it so when the lights go out, just plug me in and I’ll light up the room (just kidding.)

The huge machine aimed at my “X”, zapped me for fifteen to twenty minutes then they sent me back to get dressed and sent me on my way. As I left, I mused that I had no pain, no after effects. I felt just as I did when I walked in the door.

Just in case you’re wondering—about the middle of the third week I realized there were effects and I was feeling them. I drug myself home and immediately had to lie down and rest. The next week I was dragging and I noticed my mind didn’t work as well as it usually did. I worked at Front Range Community College during this time and one day asked my boss, “Does it seem to you that I’m slower and my mind isn’t working like it did?” He said, “Well, I didn’t want to mention it but since you’ve brought it up, yes, I’ve noticed that.  But,” he continued, “when you’re through with the radiation treatments, I’m sure you’ll bounce back.”

That encouraged me and I needed that. I hoped he was right. The last week of treatment I took most of it as sick leave and the last couple of days a friend drove me back and forth to the medical facility as I was incapable of driving. I could barely change my clothes and dress myself afterwards.

The good news was I had the weekend to rest up and regain my strength. Still dragging some I went to work on the following Monday. The bad news was the radiation gave me only about eight to nine months relief from the pain then I was right back where I started.

Did you know constant pain is wearing on a body and tiresome? But I struggled on, still looking for relief.

An Ordinary Life Touched by an Extraordinary God – Part Twenty-three

In November of 2000 I was given the opportunity to go to Africa on a mission trip with others from my church. We call these Work & Witness trips and we pay our own expenses although on this particular trip, as I was the president of the Mission Council, someone anonymously paid all my expenses for the trip. The exception, of course, was any personal costs like passport, extra clothing (we needed to wear only long, modest dresses) and any souvenirs.

As I mentioned in a previous blog, in January of 2000 I spent two weeks in the hospital following a chemotherapy treatment that left me weak as well as bald. My doctor assured me I’d have my hair back by March or April at the latest but although I’d regained my strength by then, my hair wasn’t cooperating. By November I finally had enough hair to allow me to leave my wigs at home. But it was so very short and since I have such fine hair my hair stylist suggested dyeing it as it would give it some body. I’m still dyeing it—for the body, of course—not to cover any gray.

I joined seven others as we flew out of DIA to Atlanta, Georgia. From there we flew to France where we changed planes in a drizzling rain. We deplaned on the tarmac and bussed to our next plane that then made a stop in Riyhadh, Saudi Arabia. I’ve never seen a place so lit up—it even outdid the Las Vegas strip. From there we landed in Djibouti City, Djibouti in the Horn of Africa, our destination. Four of the group stayed there while another group of four, including me, took a plane the next day to Hargeisa, Somaliland, a Muslim country and our assignment was to go to an orphanage to make it more habitable for the children. The country was in the process of recovering after a civil war. We found bullet holes in the roofs and walls of the orphanage.

Three missionaries stationed in the Horn of Africa accompanied our group. Our task consisted of making repairs to the buildings while showing the people what Christians are really like. We found out that Muslims there believe all Christians are like the people they see in our movies. I don’t know about you but I don’t feel these type people portray Christians at all.

There are so many stories I could tell you about this trip but I think I’ll keep most of them till later. We spent our time at the orphanage fixing it up, making repairs, putting together a playground including a huge tire embedded in the sand for climbing over, under and through, and teaching life skills to some of the older children. My main job took place in the nursery rooms where I painted bright figures on the walls.

We also presented them with a new computer, sewing machines and the fellows in our group made beds for the older children who still slept on the hard floor. The playground equipment and the bed frames were all fashioned from materials the orphanage had lying around. The guys were quite ingenious in all they did.

After our week and a half there we flew—in a Russian airplane, with a Russian pilot, yet—back to Djibouti to join the other group. Scheduled to leave on a Monday the missionary leader stationed in Africa held a service on Sunday evening in the apartment where we all stayed and included a healing service. I asked for prayer for healing of the cancer as during the trip my pain reared its ugly head—again. It wasn’t unendurable, yet, but I just wanted it gone forever.

For those who don’t know, God answers prayer but not always when we ask or as soon as we’d like Him to. I know, I know, sometimes we feel we needed the answer yesterday. My response to that—get over it. God’s love resides in everything that comes our way.

Praise the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits—

            Psalm 103:2

The Lord is compassionate and gracious,

            slow to anger, abounding in love.

                        Psalm 103:8

An Ordinary Life Touched by an Extraordinary God – Part Twenty-two

My last day in the hospital finally arrived two weeks after my admittance. But the oxygen was an issue. I really didn’t want the hassle of using oxygen at home and it all hinged on getting the bright red ball on their measuring gadget up, up, up. I struggled and struggled through a few times but—yes—I succeeded at last. My oxygen level reached the level needed. I was free from it at last.

Another problem then arose. The doctor informed me I needed at least another week of antibiotics by IV. No problem, I thought, but when I asked the insurance company for a home nurse to administer it they told me I had to do it myself. Me?! I went home still weak and shaky. I needed a cane to get around and they wanted me to do what? Even at the grocery store where it looked huge and I knew there was no way I could walk around it, I had to resort to the drivable carts. At least my husband accompanied me to show me how to work it and help me get things off the shelves. Otherwise you’re sunk. So the day I got home I had to get on the phone and fight with the insurance company, and fight I did, call after call. Finally, they agreed and scheduled a nurse to come out twice a day to set up the drip bag and insert the needle. Whew!

I returned to work the next week. They’d been very understanding and it felt good to be back and feeling relatively healthy. My hair was no more but I had two wigs so put them to good use exchanging them according to my mood. One was short, curly and my natural color, the other longer and a sassy dark red. The beauty of it was I could take my hair off at night, place it on the wig stand and put every hair in place for the next day—and no bed head in the morning! There was one minor problem. I had no hair so there was nothing to attach the wig to and it would have looked strange to tie it on so I found myself at the mercy of the elements—and other things.

The first hapless incident happened as I drove home from work one evening. A guy in a pickup rear- ended four of us. It delivered quite a jolt even though I was at the front of the pack. All the drivers got out to survey the damage—except for the woman in the small car looking like an accordion. She left in an ambulance but the EMTs said she wasn’t injured too badly.

I stood in the median talking to the guy who drove the car behind me. We chatted for a while about careless drivers until I caught a reflection of myself in my car window. I was bald! My wig! Where was my wig?! I dove into my car feeling so embarrassed and so puzzled. I looked all over the car and outside it, too. I got up on my knees in the driver’s seat and looked in the back seat and there it sat. The jolt had thrown it onto the floor in the back right behind my seat. I grabbed it, dusted it off and jammed it on my head. Even using the car mirror I felt unsure that it was on straight but it would do. I still had to talk to the police officer.

Another time we visited friends in Casper, Wyoming, which is notorious for blowing wind. The minute you cross from Colorado into Wyoming the wind blows fiercely. After church on Sunday we stopped at a restaurant for lunch with our friends. The minute I got out of the car my wig went flying across the parking lot with my husband, bless his heart, in fast pursuit. My husband did recover the wig after it pin wheeled across the lot. I didn’t stand around to watch. I dove into the car and covered my head with a scarf. When I got the wig back I dusted it off, jammed it on my head and hoped it was straight. 

Did I tell you I am vain? I know, some women are much braver and maybe put on a cap or a scarf or even nothing at all and manage quite nicely. I, on the other hand, feel exposed, ugly and desperate for a covering. I wished for some way to attach the wig to my head but glue was out of the question so I tried to be careful and conscious at all times of the precarious wig on my head since that’s where I wanted to keep it.

Thus ends my Wig Tales. I’m sure there were other times besides these two but they’ve, thankfully, slipped out of my memory bank into oblivion.

Next, I take a trip to Africa—with my own hair! But did the chemo get rid of my problem?

An Ordinary Life Touched by an Extraordinary God – Part Twenty-one

I remained in Isolation for about a week. While there I could eat anything I wanted but the last thing I wanted, strangely enough, was to eat. Believe me, that’s unusual for me. The head dietitian, a little bird-like lady with an iron will, visited me regularly.

“I’ll fix you anything you want,” she said. I, wanting to send her away happy, wracked my feeble brain for something edible that appealed to me. Nothing, not even chocolate! The things I loved to eat made my stomach turn when I thought about them.  She brought me a bunch of grapes one day and those I found I could eat. So, bless her heart, she kept me constantly supplied with grapes.

Toward the end of the week in Isolation the doctor moved me to Rehab. My weakness had been so profound that I couldn’t walk unaided. Rehab, the nurse explained, meant I would be retrained to help me regain the abilities I’d lost. The oxygen nasal cannulars stayed in my nose and the antibiotic IV in my arm but every day a few times a day I went for a walk with one of the nurses. Short walks at first, of course. I found it impossible to climb stairs so that became part of my retraining as well.

One of the requirements for a person in Rehab, I found, was to walk to the dining room and eat with the other inmates also in Rehab. That turned out to be a trial for me because eating with those other folks for reasons only my stomach knows, made me lose my appetite even more. The little dietitian even promised me she’d go out and buy something and fix it herself if I would eat it. But my stomach rebelled. I ate grapes.

The good news was I lost 25 pounds. The bad news was I needed more nutrients. However, even if I wanted to eat I couldn’t. It happened to be the best diet I ever went on but the doctor and dietitian were not happy with me. Well, you can’t make everyone happy.

Other than my problem with eating while in Rehab, I found one fine morning, my hair coming out in chunks. I had hoped that with just the one chemo treatment my hair would be spared. Wrong! In just a day or so I lost all my hair. From the time I was 4 and had a Dutch bob (picture the little guy on the Dutch Boy paint can) my hair gave me fits. At the ripe old age of 6 I begged and pleaded for curly hair and my mother finally gave in and gave me my first perm. I loved my curls. My regular hair, though, was stick straight and thin—and now it was gone. I decided thin and straight was better than bald but before I left the hospital my hair left first. Good thing I’d bought 2 wigs before the chemo because, I admit it, I am vain and never felt baldness helped my self-image at all.

A good friend, Barbara Higgins-Wilson, bought me 3 (can you believe it, 3!) hats. These I wore in the hospital, as my wig didn’t work well there. And I still wear them occasionally on a bad hair day.

Two weeks after my admission into the hospital the doctor scheduled me to go home. Finally, going home, but I still needed the antibiotic by IV and could I get off the oxygen in time? Plus the insurance company wanted me to administer my own IV? They had to be kidding!

An Ordinary Life Touched by an Extraordinary God – Part Twenty

It was a long night. Oh, how I wished my body could sink into the bed and become one with it. Every part of me felt tired and impossible to move. My limbs were too heavy to move. The hands on the clock on the dingy green wall crawled up one side and struggled down the other.

So tired but I couldn’t summon sleep. I tried but sleep eluded me. And for some reason I can’t explain the first digit on my right hand found the little button on the gadget that controlled the up and down movement of the bed. All night long my finger moved the button and the bed responded by undulating beneath me. Slowly up and down the bed moved as I watched the slowly moving hands of the clock. This somehow comforted me and helped me make it through the night.

At about three in the morning a little nurse completely swathed in the blue isolation garb including mask and cap entered the dimly lit room where I lay alone. Others had previously entered at different times for various reasons, too. I paid her scant attention until she approached my bedside and said, “I don’t know if you’re aware of this but you may not make it through the night.”

“Believe me I know I could die at any time, I’m so tired and weak.” I said.

“I’m here because I’m concerned about your relationship with God. I don’t want you to die without knowing God.”

As tired as I felt, amazement at her words struck me because I knew the hospital discouraged such conversation—perhaps even meted out hard consequences for such boldness.

I replied, “I’m okay with God. We have a close and active relationship but I appreciate your concern.” Finished with her mission she slipped out as quietly as she entered.

All through this exchange my finger kept the bed moving beneath me. Along towards morning activity increased in and out of my room someone took my vital signs, took my blood and whatever else that needed doing. I think they offered me breakfast, not to sure, but I wasn’t hungry. Around eight-thirty a.m., I realized I’d survived through the night and knew then I would make it. I finally fell asleep.

I awoke at eleven-thirty that morning and found a note on my bedside table from a close friend. It said, “I didn’t want to wake you so sat here while you slept, held your and hand prayed for you. Love you. Carol” I don’t think she’ll ever really know how special and dear that note was and is to me. I still have it.

The next day, my doctor, Dr. Lee, stopped by to see me. He wanted to tell me why I was so weak and ill. I remember so well, he looked at me and his eyes, which are normal oriental eyes, were big and round as he said, “Your immune system was wiped out and you have double pneumonia and pseudomonas.” He added, “Pseudomonas is a blood infection that kills in six hours. I almost killed you.” I’m pretty sure he felt relieved I’d survived but at the same time wondering why I hadn’t died. I can’t tell you when the blood infection raised its ugly self in my system but I have a feeling it was for far more than six hours.

I thanked the good doctor for his care of me and have never had any ill-will toward him for the illness I suffered. I believe he did what he thought best for me.

I still slept most of the time when the nurses weren’t bustling in and out of my room. I still felt extremely weak and unable to eat or even sit up on my own. The doctor kept me on oxygen and antibiotics by IV but I knew I was well on my way to recovery. I didn’t know then what a long recovery it would be.

An Ordinary Life Touched by an Extraordinary God – Part Nineteen

The second Sunday in January 2000 remains hazy in my memory except for the midnight hours. Tired and weak with the unrelenting diarrhea, I spent most of the night up and down and in and out of the bathroom. It was not a pretty sight and at one point I remember so well I was too weak to replace the Depends I knew I needed so my long-suffering husband did it or me. If that’s not an expression of love I don’t know what is.

Monday morning I knew I couldn’t make it to work so had Larry call my doctor and make an appointment for me and I called my friend and superior at work, Carol, and relayed the information to her. I’d purchased a couple of wigs in December knowing I would need them later. I still had my hair but no energy to fix it so slapped a wig on my head and off we went to Dr. Lee’s office.

The first thing he asked me was why I didn’t keep my appointment on Friday for my second chemo drip. I’d completely spaced it out. In fact I had very little memory of that week—most of what I know today has been told to me by friends and Larry. It appears I faithfully went to work every day, taught my Wednesday night Bible study, Sunday morning Bible study and evidently did okay. I don’t remember doing either.

The second question Dr. Lee asked me after carefully observing me, “Do you want to go to the hospital?” I prefer to avoid hospitals as much as possible but I heard myself say, “Oh, I really want to.” I did? Yes, I just wanted to lie down and lay aside all responsibility.

While Larry drove me to the hospital only a few blocks away the doctor called and gave instructions for my arrival. We drove up to the entrance and parked in a “No Parking” zone. Larry helped me through the sliding doors where I was met with a wheelchair—which looked so good to me—and a nurse whisked me up to my room while Larry filled out the admittance papers.

The nurse gave me a hospital gown—you know the kind—and told me not to put a diaper back on. I told her that wasn’t a good idea but she warmly assured me they’d have no problem cleaning me up if I had an accident. If I had an accident—she should have said when I had an accident.

I’m an independent sort, which sometimes gets me into a lot of trouble. I gratefully laid back on the clean, cool sheets and the crinkly bed mat under my rear. Immediately I knew I needed to quickly get to the bathroom. They hadn’t hooked me up to the IV yet so I hastened as fast as I could in my weakened condition. I made it to the bathroom but unfortunately had an “accident” before I got to the toilet and worse than that I slipped in the mess, fell down and hit my head on the wall. And, of course, I couldn’t get up or reach the call button. The good thing was they hadn’t finished getting me set up so a nurse came bustling in shortly. She stopped dead still when she saw me and I saw a deep frown and her arms akimbo as she looked down on me.

She called for more nurses and they got me up, cleaned me up and someone conferred with the doctor who said to take me to x-ray to check my head for any damage. Actually the only damage was to my ego. Then when they brought me back from x-ray the nurse tucked me into bed, raised the bars on the bedside and said, “Mrs. Luke, you are not to get out of this bed unless a nurse is in the room with you.” I responded with a meek, “Okay.” She hooked me up to the IV to start the antibiotics I needed and I gave myself up to the comfort of the bed.

I didn’t know they’d put me in Isolation until that night. Everyone coming into my room had to put on a blue gown, shower cap, slippers and mask. It turns out the chemo compromised my entire immune system. One of my nurses explained the garb was to protect me from their germs not the other way around.

That night, knowing I was at death’s door, I longed to sleep but couldn’t.

An Ordinary Life Touched by an Extraordinary God – Part Eighteen

It was around the middle of December, 1999, while I worked full time I wasn't getting enough sleep because of the pain. I refused to take a narcotic since it made me drowsy and not fully functioning so I resorted to Tylenol which provided not much relief.

As a result I reluctantly called Dr. Lee, my oncologist and said, “I can’t deal with the pain any more. I guess I’m ready to do chemo.” He understood my feelings and assured me that he felt this was the best help available. Yeah, right—poison.

On the last Friday of that year I found myself seated in a comfortable recliner in Dr. Lee’s office. My dear friend, Velma, offered to drive me there and home and even to stay with me for the duration. What a gift from her! So there we sat in a row of about six similar recliners all with an individual as unfortunate as I, each in various stages of this awful disease. Velma sat on a straight chair beside me so we could talk. She didn’t hold my hand but it would have been a nice touch. She knew me too well, though, and knew it would embarrass me.

The nurse came over to start the chemo drip on me through an IV line into my arm. I noticed immediately her fingers were chapped and red and I wondered how she maintained the sensibility in her fingers needed to place needles in veins all day long. I commented to her about her hands and she said it resulted from the chemo. She never handled it but evidently enough of it got on her fingers to cause the state they were in. I should have called it quits then and there but the pain kept me in the chair.

Velma and I sat there for six hours while the poison dripped into my body. The nurse came by frequently to check on me and offer water and words of encouragement. I felt nothing—it could have been a saline drip for all I could tell. Velma and I kept a lively conversation going and I am still thankful to her for generously giving me her time and keeping my mind on other topics. We had a great time. She is now with the Lord she loves.

Y2K (remember when everyone worried about that?) came and went with no startling changes. I went to work everyday but discovered about mid week I’d developed a severe case of diarrhea. Now, diarrhea is not something I really like to talk about or dwell on and perhaps you might wish I wouldn’t mention something so gross but it is germane to my story.

I purchased a box of adult diapers amazed I needed them but I’d found it had become imperative.  On Friday of that week, I discussed with my superior at work and good friend, Carol, how difficult it had become to drive myself to work. She suggested I contact Access-a-Ride so I wouldn’t risk my life and others driving to work. I thought that a good idea and said I would arrange that for Monday.

However, I didn’t arrive at work on Monday. Instead I found myself in the hospital close to death.