By Roger Owens
For the greater part of a year, my wife, Cindy, and I have been dancing with the Devil as we battled the specter of her breast cancer. I include myself, because all caregivers to cancer patients should be included, for the perfect reason that it is our battle as well. No less than a war correspondent or an unarmed medical corpsman is subject to the same enemy fire as any soldier, are those of us who care for cancer victims we love vulnerable to the destruction of the afflicted. Arguably the greatest war correspondent of modern times was Ernest Taylor “Ernie” Pyle, and that great soul was killed at the very end of the war in the Pacific, at the battle of Ie Shima (eeyayshima), at a time when the area was believed to be safe. Pyle was speaking to a regimental commander when enemy machine-gun fire ended his storied life. We all take risks, and losing a friend in combat is as common as dirt.
It has been a long battle, and the toughest of our lives. We’ve had good times and bad but never until now worried we might not make it through. This dance with Lucifer is as chancy as playing craps with thugs in a dark alley; you never know when a bad roll of the dice will come up “snake eyes,” or when a resentful loser might pull a razor and commence slashing. We have met many new friends, and many old ones have come to our aid when we least expected it. Day after day, folks have appeared at our door with food, offers to transport Cindy for treatments when I had to work, or just hugs and sympathy. Unlike reports we have had from many others, we have not had friends retreat from us, but just the opposite; they came out of the woodwork. It has truly been an uplifting experience when we needed it the most.
As veterans of this war, we have learned the hard lessons that come with surviving battle after battle; with experience comes understanding. We learned how long it would be after a treatment before Cindy could see straight again, how long it might be before she could eat certain foods again, or when the smell of a dish she loves might send her running. She has never cared for the smell of my coffee in the morning; she likens it to the odor of cat urine, which offends me no end. Now it is nearly too much for her. She won’t come out of the bedroom until I’m finished with it, not that she is normally up that early these days anyway, what with the exhaustion of the chemotherapy. I’ll sacrifice a lot, but I draw the line at my coffee. I cook chicken for my salad lunch nearly every day, which aids in keeping those extra pounds off – a lifelong battle for me. The vapors of the chicken now turn her stomach. I switch on the vent over the range, and she retires outside to the overhang where we spend most of our free time here in tropical Florida.
Right off it became clear she couldn’t drive at all during her treatments, which is obviously a serious setback to her lifestyle. She used to spend several hours every day at the gym, not only as a body-builder but also as a large part of her social life. Let me tell you, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen a little five-foot-two gal leg-press four hundred pounds! This has, of course, along with most other excursions both social and utilitarian, gone completely by the board. She now literally has dreams about going to the grocery store. A sushi dinner out, once a weekly occurrence, now takes on epic proportions. We do what we can when we can, and when we can’t we shrug it off.
Cindy has had her last treatment, about three weeks past, and from all tests and indications she is now cancer-free. It seems we have fought Satan to a standstill, and for now our forced waltz with the Prince of Darkness has come to an uneasy end. He has battered us bloody; we have resisted Him with all our might. Peace negotiations at the highest levels bode well for a cessation of hostilities. While a real treaty is not in the offing, somewhat like the Koreas we seem to have made a cease-fire acceptable to both sides. Like the Koreas, the battleground is not really our true war; higher powers struggle unseen for the heart and soul of our world. We have a truce of sorts, but no one on either side accepts either victory or defeat. The battle is over, but the War goes on.
| Copyright © 2018 by Roger Owens |
I had my last treatment 12 years ago, it's something you never get over. It is as you say, akin to combat. After going back for check ups for three years(each time waiting to hear the bad news) I was told it looked like the cancer was gone and I need not come back for 5 years. It was then I went into a deep depression. With the cancer I made no plans for the future so at that point I was lost. I had prepared myself for death not life. I still wait for the other shoe to drop. But I went to Costa Rica and lived there for 4 years that I never thought I'd have. I guess what I'm trying to say Bob is, the memory doesn't go away but it becomes easier to live with it. May the rest of your life together be long and happy.
ReplyDeleteRoger I just noticed I called you Bob I'm so sorry.
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