Here for You

by Pat Simmons

  While Clara prepared the light meal, Rachel texted Nicholas. I’m eating. She added an emoji of a face with a tongue sticking out. Afterward, she stared out her balcony window, desperately wanting to be among the masses, collaborating with colleagues on projects that would make life easier for people to navigate the world. Looking for a distraction so as not to focus on the pain, Rachel called the office for an update and to offer her assistance from home.

  “Rachel, I want you to concentrate on getting better. I sent Jackson to Lexington as your backup. Take advantage of the Family Medical Leave Act. It’s supposed to be three months of unpaid leave, but the firm will compensate you for half your salary during that time.”

  It wasn’t about the money. Aunt Tweet made sure her great-nieces would never want for anything if they used wisdom in managing their money. But Rachel earned a good salary, almost six figures, so his generosity was humbling. She thanked God for the blessing, then her boss as tears sprang up in her eyes.

  “You’re a valuable part of our team,” Harlan said. “We want you healthy when you rejoin us.”

  “The contract we won requires a dedicated team, so maybe I can Skype in on conference meetings,” she pleaded. Rachel wasn’t a homebody by nature, so boredom would only make her wallow in depression. “I’ll go crazy sitting at home for three months.”

  Harlan huffed. “Didn’t you start going to church a while back?” He waited for her answer before continuing. “Read your Bible. Did you get the basket Jenny sent from the office?”

  “Yes, and it will take days to find all the goodies stuffed in there.” She spied the ridiculously huge, round picnic-size basket on her kitchen counter. On the surface, she saw toiletries, snacks, even a white teddy bear she had taken out and used for something soft to hug since her surgery. Someone had put in a box of fake eyelashes, along with a couple of surgical masks—some were plain, others had lips drawn on with a marker that were colored bright red, like lipstick. These had to be for laughs, and they did make her smile. There was an adult coloring book and other small boxes and bags she hadn’t yet investigated.

  “Keep us posted, young lady,” her boss said, then signed off as Clara set food on the table before Rachel.

  Surprisingly, the warm substance felt good in her stomach, but it did nothing for the pain. After eating about half and taking another pain pill, she braced for the nausea that tagged along with hydrocodone. When it hit not long after that, Rachel hurried to the bathroom.

  Exhausted afterward, Clara helped her into the bed. Hours later, Rachel stirred from her nap when the doorbell sounded. Getting her bearings, she scooted up when she heard voices that grew louder coming to her bedroom. The door slowly opened, and Mother Jenkins with her booming voice stood in the doorway. Her presence made Rachel smile. “Mother Jenkins!”

  “Why, praise the Lord, sweet Sister Rachel.”

  True to her persona, the woman stood larger than life in her white blouse, black skirt that matched her cape, and white stockings and shoes. She clutched the same worn, big, heavy Bible. Although Rachel would rather see Nicholas, Mother Jenkins was a welcome sight.

  Rachel tried to scoot up more, and a wave of nausea hit her. Clara and Mother Jenkins were at her side immediately and helped her into the bathroom, where she barely made it to the toilet before she spilled her guts. She moaned. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Miss Knicely—I mean Rachel.” Clara dabbed to clean Rachel’s mouth and chin.

  “Come on, sugar. I’ll help you back to your bed.” Mother Jenkins guided her gently into her bedroom, then pulled back the covers and exposed her white teddy bear to her company.

  “I still sleep with one of those.” Mother Jenkins pointed and chuckled to herself. Once the woman took her seat, she seemed just as winded as Rachel.

  “Now, how you feelin’?” Mother Jenkins asked.

  “Not a good day.” Rachel shook her head. “And I haven’t even started chemotherapy. I know God doesn’t want me to be fearful, but in the back of my mind, I’m wondering if I’m going to make it through this.”

  “It’s all according to the will of God that we live, die, and have our being. Is anything too hard for God?” Her voice boomed.

  Rachel shook her head. But was it God’s will for her to suffer? Then she remembered God suffered for her.

  “Jesus is in charge of our lives,” Mother Jenkins said, breaking into her reverie. “I’m a survivor of two cancers.”

  Rachel perked up. “Really?”

  “Yeah, chile. You’ve got to go through something to have a testimony about God’s goodness.”

  “That sounds good until it’s your turn.” Rachel paused to let the pain pass. “Then you’ll want to skip your turn.”

  Mother Jenkins humphed. “I didn’t skip my turn. Cancer hit me twice, and I fought back with the strength the Lord gave me. After that battle, God gave me ten children.”

  Rachel blinked. She was looking at a survivor. “Children,” she repeated. “I hope I have one or two.”

  “Why stop there when God can give you eight more?” Mother Jenkins said with such a serious expression that Rachel dared not laugh. It hurt, but the woman’s statement was amusing.

  To keep a straight face, Rachel changed the subject. “Now I understand what it means to be on the sick list. I’m the person who is waiting for someone to take time out of their busy schedule to come and bring me some cheer and encouragement.” And to think she balked at the idea of a minister showing up to pray for Aunt Tweet as if he were the Death Angel. Now it was Rachel’s turn.

  She looked away and blinked back tears before facing the older woman. “I can’t recall the last person I visited who was convalescing at home, or in the hospital, for that matter.”

  “Life keeps us busy until it slows us down.” Mother Jenkins leaned closer. “The Bible tells us to visit the sick and those in prison. Some ministers preach, others evangelize, but the ministers who petition God on behalf of the sick folks and homebound count it a privilege to be faithful to strengthen someone with hope.”

  Opening her Bible, Mother Jenkins fumbled through some pages before she read a passage. Her voice wasn’t soothing like Nicholas’s, but it was powerfully clear that Mother Jenkins believed what she read there.

  Rachel closed her eyes and found herself drifting. She was getting tired. She had almost dozed off when she felt Mother Jenkins dab oil on her forehead and, as if she were summoning every angel and saint of God, she shouted “Jesus!” Rachel shivered and imagined every creature bowing to God’s presence. After Mother Jenkins finished her prayer, Rachel drifted off into a peaceful rest. No nausea or pain, just peace as she mumbled, “Jesus, please let my healing be of Your will. Amen.”

  Chapter 24

  Saturday morning, Nicholas walked into Vanderbilt University Medical Center to visit one of two church members who were recovering after surgery. Then he had one more stop before going to see Rachel. She had suffered the death of her aunt, and now she was dealing with her own life-threatening illness.

  He cleared his mind and said a prayer before strolling into Deacon Cates’s room. He could feel the heaviness of sorrow from the handful of the Cates family who were cramped in the small private room. Sullen faces brightened when some recognized Nicholas.

  “Minister Adams! Thanks for coming,” the deacon’s wife greeted him softly. Tears moistened her eyes, and worry lines marred her forehead.

  Nicholas smiled, then turned to her husband. “How you doing, Deacon Cates?”

  “The stroke has left my husband partially paralyzed, so he can’t respond except for a few blinks,” she explained.

  The man’s twisted features verified that. Nicholas nodded. “So how are you and your family holding up, Mrs. Cates?” He listened intently. The ministry was always more than just for the patient. “Deacon, we’re praying for your recovery,” Nicholas said an
d grasped his hand, which seemed lifeless as a brick.

  Mrs. Cates shared the prognosis the doctors had given them. “The next twenty-four hours are critical, so we’re holding a prayer vigil.”

  “I see.” Nicholas nodded and faced the deacon. “The stroke might have robbed you of your voice for now, but your mind and spirit are still strong, so here are some encouraging words for you and the family from John 14: ‘Let not your heart be troubled…’”

  He read the entire chapter, ending at verse 31, then closed his Bible and offered a prayer of comfort.

  A few family members sniffed and reached for nearby tissues.

  Saying his goodbyes, Nicholas headed toward the elevators. He texted Rachel. Miss you.

  Seconds later, she replied with Love you. You okay?

  Am I okay? He chuckled and shook his head. I should be asking you. See you soon. Nicholas pushed the elevator button and stepped inside and hit the next floor. After sharing that one incident with the disrespectful son during a sick visit, Rachel always asked if everything was all right when he was making calls. Knowing she was concerned about him, even in her state, was heartwarming.

  Nicholas knocked softly on the room assigned to Mrs. Anders, who was recovering from a knee replacement.

  “Come in.” He slowly opened the wide door. In contrast to the deacon’s room, she was alone. “Well, look who the Lord sent: Minister Adams. How you doin’ today?”

  Her warm personality and sweet spirit endeared her to everyone. She slowly shifted in her bed.

  “Do you need any help?” Nicholas rushed to assist, but she waved him off.

  “What’s it doin’ outside?” She craned her neck to peek out her window, where the blinds were partially opened. “Doctors say I have to go to rehab before going home…”

  Nicholas didn’t interrupt. Sometimes, people wanted someone to listen as part of their healing process, but Mrs. Anders seemed more interested in Nicholas’s affairs.

  “What are you waiting on to get married, Minister Adams?” Her aging eyes twinkled. “Every good man needs an even better woman. There are plenty at the church.”

  He smirked. The woman knew he was dating. “I’ve settled on Rachel Knicely.”

  “Hmm. That’s the one with all that long hair, ain’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Anders bobbed her head as if she approved, then motioned for Nicholas to help her stand. “The doctors want me to get up and move around. Can you believe that? Well, thanks for visiting.”

  “Wouldn’t you like me to read a Bible passage?” he asked as they made their way into the hall.

  She shook her head. “God said He would put His Word in our hearts and minds, so pull something out of your mind and recite it.”

  Amused, Nicholas started with the first verse in Romans 12.

  “That’s right.” She nodded as they inched along. When he reached verse 3, Mrs. Anders stopped him. “I know the rest, Minister Adams. Give me a word of prayer, and you can be on your way.”

  Nicholas laughed as he steered her to a nearby lounge that was empty of visitors and prayed for healing and blessings over her life. “Do you want me to walk you back to your room?”

  “Oh, no, I’ll be fine. Go on and finish doing God’s business.” She shooed him away.

  His last stop was with a terminally ill member of the church. That morning, Nicholas had received word that Mr. Larson’s condition had deteriorated, and he had been placed in hospice. The near-death visits were always spiritually draining and sorrowful, especially as Nicholas thought about the loved ones who would be left behind.

  The tiny house was well kept. Four cars occupied the driveway. Nicholas parked and walked up to the porch. He heard voices before he knocked.

  Mrs. Larson opened the door and bid him inside. He greeted everyone he knew from church and introduced himself to others and, after a few minutes, took a seat by the bed. Mr. Larson was breathing, but his eyes were closed. Whether he was conscious or not, Nicholas spoke to his spirit. He quoted John 3:16, then prayed. Mrs. Larson asked him to sing a song with them. Nicholas did, then twenty minutes or so later, he left.

  * * *

  Prayer was a struggle, but Rachel prayed to Jesus about her fears of the unknown. Was He listening? Sunday morning, the Knicely sisters attended church, and Pastor Mann’s message hit home with Proverbs 3:5–6: Trust in the Lord with all thy heart…

  He explained, “That means we have to trust God when things don’t make sense. Trust Him just as much when things are going wrong as when things are going right.”

  Kym nudged her. “Trust, Sis, that everything is going to be all right.” They joined hands.

  I’m trying! she wanted to scream. “Right now, I need the faith,” she said, feeling hopeless, “so I can trust.”

  Chapter 25

  “Now for the fun stuff—chemo,” Rachel said, trying her hand at humor as she braced herself for her first chemo session.

  “None of us are laughing.” Kym squinted at her.

  Rachel exhaled and sighed. “Me either. I wish this were a dream.” There was no turning back if she wanted to live. When she woke early this morning and grabbed her Bible, the pages opened to Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane before his arrest and trial. He asked God, if it was His will, to let the cup pass from him. She had prayed and asked the Lord to let her bitter cup pass from her. She was beginning to struggle with her faith.

  “I know, Sis. Me too,” Tabitha said.

  “I can’t wait for this to be over,” Rachel said and took another glance at her reflection in the mirror. She had planned to put on an old sweater and sweatpants, but her sisters wouldn’t hear of it.

  “That is not the Rachel Knicely I know. If you’re going to fight this, dress to fight. Not only spiritually but physically. Put on a pair of your stylish jeans, a nice top, and comfortable heels. Jazz it up!”

  Kym crossed her arms and snickered. “One day, we’ll talk about the time someone had to give you fashion advice.” She wagged her finger at Rachel.

  “Right.” Rachel found herself chuckling. Half an hour later, she was glad she took her sister’s advice—upgrading her attire did help her attitude. Once at the Vanderbilt-Ingram Cancer Center, Rachel signed in and marveled at the inviting decor and seating arrangements for family privacy. There was no hint that anyone was sick or a death sentence was looming. Folks were chatting and smiling while they waited for their loved ones on the other side of the door.

  Rachel was surrounded by love. Jacqui had taken off work, and her sisters had flown back into Nashville, racking up frequent flier points. Nicholas would be there shortly, after his managers meeting at the plant. She couldn’t ask for a better support system.

  “It really means so much to me that you’re all here.” Rachel exhaled as Tabitha and Kym wrapped their arms around her. “I’m nervous but glad I’m not alone.” But after a ten-minute wait, Rachel became anxious. She wanted to get it over with. As if the staff read her thoughts, a nurse opened the door and called her name.

  Rachel stood and wiped her sweaty palms against her jeans. She glanced back at the trio and nodded with a smile, then turned toward the nurse with dread. I can do this, right?

  She remembered the words Be not afraid for I am with you, even until the end of time, and they seemed to tickle her ears. The calming effect seemed to flow through her body.

  “Hi, I’m Amanda Ford, your oncology nurse who will administer your treatment.” She scanned Rachel’s attire. “Cute, but for your next treatment, wear something more comfortable and put those heels back in your closet for now. You might be unsteady after the treatments. Now, I’m going to take care of you, and if you have any questions, let me know. First, let me get your vitals.”

  The nurse closed the door to the lounge area, separating Rachel from the world that had seemed normal until a
month ago. This new world as a cancer patient was still hard to accept.

  In an examination room, Amanda recorded her blood pressure, temperature, pulse rate, and respiration rate. “I’ll need your height and weight so I can calculate the right doses of medicine to give you.”

  “I want to double-check the names of the drugs you’re administering again.” Having a drug rep as a sister, Tabitha had drilled into her sisters to ask about the medicine.

  “You’re getting methotrexate and 5-fluorouracil as an infusion through an IV. The other medicine is Cytoxan in a pill,” Amanda said.

  Nothing had changed since her initial consultation. Tabitha said those drugs could cause some thinning but weren’t linked to hair loss. There were more drugs that Rachel couldn’t remember, but Tabitha was keeping a list of them.

  “Did you take your pre-chemo meds: dexamethasone and ranitidine?”

  “Yes,” Rachel answered dutifully while questioning why this fate had fallen on her.

  “That should reduce your nausea and your chance of having an allergic reaction to the chemo. I’m also going to give you some fluids to help all your chemo meds work more efficiently.”

  Rachel scrunched her nose as Amanda set the supplies on the table. “I hate needles.”

  “You didn’t want a port or catheter? That would have been a one-time prick.”

  After the lumpectomy, Rachel had an in-depth discussion with Dr. Brooks and an oncology team about treatment options and the entire process. Rachel didn’t want to be cut again so soon, so surgically implanting a port to receive the chemo wasn’t a favorable option for her. Plus, she had read horror stories about infections, blood clots, and the port not working properly.

  Rachel shivered. “Just seems creepy.” She frowned. “I mean I don’t feel sick—at least not until I have this chemo treatment. To have those surgically inserted would be a daily reminder that I’m not well.”

  “But you will be. My job as an oncology nurse is to fight to rid your body of cancer.” Amanda smiled and patted Rachel’s shoulder. “I’m going to get a blood sample so we can keep track of the number of your red and white blood cells.” After that collection, Amanda inserted the IV into Rachel’s hand to start the infusion process.