The Terror Trap (Department Z Book 7)

by John Creasey

  I knew her better than anyone. I often introduced her to strangers as “This is my wife, Dixie.” Then after living a few years together as husband and wife, I came to realize she was never meant to be mine in the possessive, ownership sense of the word. She was on loan to me, to help mold and shape me into a man that God might actually want to hang out with and use someday. Like Paul of old, she was “not called by any group or agency. (Her) call is from Jesus Christ himself and from God the Father who raised him from the dead” (Galatians 1:1 TLB).

  She offered me and countless others the most precious gifts any person can give; a lifetime of presence, time and energy, encouragement and wisdom. Courage. A mind that listened and love regardless. She was good here. She is perfect there. She is experiencing the completion of a promise made to every Christ follower. If anyone is in Christ, he/she is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come (2 Corinthians 5:17).

  Life is meant to be a Sacred Journey is her story. It became our story. We understand our own stories best sometimes by seeing us in someone else. Perhaps this will happen for you and Dixie. I know it has for me.

  I can’t wait to meet her again one day for the very first time!

  1

  Calm before Storm

  The year was 1935. The stock market had crashed six years before, causing a domino effect of bank failures, unemployment, disintegrated fortunes and homes lost to foreclosures, leaving people feeling helpless and fearful. Many lived in despair, while others reached for strong inner resources and fought their despair with hope. And some just gave up on life, choosing death by their own devices. Still others existed in a living death of fear and anger, my parents included. My family were farmers in Oklahoma, and probably not greatly affected by bank failures and stock market demise. They lost their land! The lack of rain and fury of winds and irreparable farming practices collided in mid-America, creating the perfect storm for soil erosion as farms literally blew away ~ DLT diary, 2015.

  There is no doubt. Loss brings with it its own demons. And when crises subside, the demons are not gone with the winds. They settle in with no intention of going away. ~ WT

  Early in January, after two long travel days driving south from our home in Bellevue Washington, we arrive in Indio California, exhausted and wondering why we left the comforts and conveniences of home to accept the inconveniences and less comfortable circumstances of a hotel situated in the middle of a desert. This is a different kind of desert however; an oasis made beautiful by money and water. Oh yes, and sun. Well, there is that! When rain is normal and seeing the sun in January a rare event, this might be enough. But there is more.

  1 Desert

  A different place helps me gather up life’s fringes and draw them into my center. To focus and think. To plan and pray. It can happen almost anywhere, but there is something for me that is truly restorative about the desert. The warmth and sun, the barren hills and jagged mountains. I grew up in the high desert of eastern Washington state. This could be part of it. Or maybe it’s because so much of what happens in the Bible, what Jesus did, how God reveals himself to us, takes place in the desert.

  It’s about roots. The desert has a way of speaking to us. The trees, the barrenness, sudden rain-flooded streams and dry river beds. When you plant something here and water and nurture it, it grows quickly, leafs out, bears fruit, becomes a beautiful thing. I like that. It shouldn’t happen, but it does. A stick turns into an orange or lemon or grapefruit tree almost overnight it seems. A little water and the desert blooms. It’s extraordinary!

  Life, I think, is like this. Even in January.

  Dixie and I spend the entire month of days here in this desert where once we lived for four years. In the early morning sunshine, we stretch our legs by walking a 2.8-mile route before preparing a breakfast we enjoy outdoors on the deck. Later I go for a swim, then sit by the pool and read. I am preparing to go to Russia in a few weeks to teach in a seminary extension program. Dixie prefers the quiet of our room to do some catch up reading and meditation.

  We do not tell acquaintances in the area we are here. We want to be together, but alone. Just the two of us. Something we need, especially since I will be leaving soon. Each day is a pleasant repeat of the one before. Evenings are warm and quiet and meals are simple. We enjoy desert sunsets, more beautiful, we agree, than anywhere else in the world. At least we feel that way right now.

  The final day comes at last as we knew it would. Reluctantly we leave this desert hideaway to resume our real life. As we drive north on I-5, we are unaware we have just completed our last major trip together.

  The day following our arrival home is Super Bowl Sunday. Seattle and Denver square off against one another. In a few hours, we are ecstatic over Seattle winning its first Super Bowl victory ever! Dixie doesn’t watch the game. She spends most of the day upstairs lying down with a recurrence of headaches and dizziness. She is not feeling well. In the following days her discomfort increases.

  On Tuesday, Dixie participates in a breast exam at nine o’clock and an MRI at eleven. At one-thirty we meet with a neurosurgeon who assures us nothing untoward has been found. He points to a small spot shown in the X-ray that is likely nothing at all. It should be re-examined in a year. She goes for a haircut the following day. The day after is First Thursday, and a night out with our daughter, Michele. On each month’s first Thursday, Michele meets me for Starbucks coffee at 5 o’clock in the morning, before going off to work. It’s her Father’s Day gift. This way Dad gets to celebrate Father’s Day twelve times a year. In the evening she and Mom spend time together.

  On Friday, I fly to the Bay Area for an Assist International board meeting. On Saturday, Dixie speaks at a Presbyterian women’s retreat in Tacoma. Life goes on as usual. But life is about to change. When I return home on Sunday early afternoon, I find Dixie feeling even more under the weather.

  The following Tuesday, I go for my annual physical checkup. I have jotted down a list of questions to ask. On completion of my exam, I remind Dr. Anne Bankson, “We haven’t talked about this item that’s at the top of my list. Dixie’s not here today, but she is really sick and I am concerned. Since last October it seems like she’s had every exam possible. Nothing has been found, yet I know she is not well. Her pain has increased since we came home from the desert. She has an appointment to see a naturopathic physician to discuss dietary options. Her digestive system seems out of sync. It’s not doing its job. She’s even beginning to look jaundiced.”

  When I say the word, “jaundiced,” Dr. Anne jumps to her feet.

  “She doesn’t need to go to a naturopath,” she declares emphatically, turning to her computer. “It’s not dietary.”

  “It’s not?” I question, startled by her sudden response. “So what then?”

  “I’m sending her to gastroenterology,” she says, continuing to type.

  “But she’s had a colonoscopy and an endoscopy not very long ago. And she just had an MRI.”

  “This is different,” she said. “I don’t know for sure, but we need to take a look.”

  When I return home with news that the doctor’s office will call us with an appointment for another exam, Dixie listens, taking it in, then turns away without a word. What is she thinking? When she is quiet like this one can only guess. I am cautious about probing further. If she wants to tell me something she will without me pressing the point. Besides, I’m not sure I want to go there right now. Something unsettling is hovering. Our amazing respite in the desert seems like a distant memory. Storm clouds are building. Today the sun is not shining.

  2

  Valentine’s Day

  Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone ~ we find it with another. ~ Thomas Merton

  “I’m leaving. I won’t be long.” Dixie is standing at the door with hat and coat on.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Doctor’s appointment.”

  “I’m g
oing with you,” I say, pushing away from the desk and reaching for my jacket.

  “Why? He is just going to give me the results of the test.”

  “I’m going with you,” I repeat.

  She says nothing further.

  We head out together, locking the door behind us.

  Thirty minutes later we sit quietly in the doctor’s office. We are alone. The reception desk is unoccupied. There is an opaque glass door on the left side of the room and I see the blurred outlines of people behind the door, their voices unintelligible, but obviously discussing something. I think this is taking longer than it should. I don’t have a good feeling. I glance at Dixie. Her hands are folded together in her lap. I place mine on hers. Hers are often cold and this morning is no exception.

  When the door finally opens, Dr. Wohlman enters followed by his nurse assistant. They greet us and seat themselves across from us. There is a long silence as I watch the doctor shuffle the papers in his hands. The nurse’s face is turned toward him and looking down, her eyes on what I assume is a report of medical findings. I think to myself, this can’t be good. At last the doctor speaks, gazing steadily at Dixie.

  “I’m afraid the news is not good,” he begins carefully. “From the samples we have taken, we are ninety-five percent certain you have pancreatic cancer.”

  The words are surreal, brief, matter-of-fact, to the point. A mixture of fact and incredulity. It’s as though the world has suddenly stopped. My hand remains on hers. We sit staring at each other, waiting for . . . what? This cannot be happening. Is he going to say anything more? At last he does. “We need to confirm our findings so I am going to schedule you in the hospital for additional scrapings in the suspected area in order to make a final determination.”

  My mind is swimming, trying to absorb what we’ve just heard. Cancer? Okay. But not just any cancer. This is the worst kind. Isn’t it? Pancreatic cancer!

  “So how should I feel about this diagnosis?” Dixie asks at last. I glance at her. She has not moved, yet looks smaller somehow, as though bracing herself against the impact of what we’ve just heard.

  The doctor pauses, appearing unsure how to answer a question so direct. At last he says simply, “Nervous?”

  Minutes later we are outside, walking hand in hand down the hall leading to the parking lot elevator. We cover the short distance home in a matter of minutes, living only two miles away from the hospital. The drive time is quiet, as if the weight of words spoken might shatter the last remaining evidence of something no longer existing for us, the surety of what is coming next. I cover her hand with mine, breaking our silence at last and say, “I am so sorry.”

  “Me, too,” she answers.

  It’s Valentine’s Day. A day to celebrate love and happiness. Chocolates and romantic cards and dinner out. None of these things are happening for us today.

  Two days later, alone with her thoughts, Dixie writes in her diary.

  When we first heard the diagnosis “cancer,” it was a surreal moment. I was numb. I had no other immediate emotion or reaction. I even asked the doctor how I should feel about this diagnosis. His response was a one-word question. “Nervous?”

  I do not feel nervous. Instead, I seem to be wrapped in a cocoon of peace. That peace remains with me as I move along a pathway that leads me to the shadows of biopsies and scans and surgery and chemotherapy. Jesus’ words in John 14:27, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you,” take on new meaning for me. All the peace Jesus exhibited while here on earth, he gives to me now. His peace feels warm and comforting, like the blankets caring nurses wrap around me.

  “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for you are with me” ~ Psalm 23:4. Oh, how blessed to know that truth. Thank you, Lord!

  Watching a tiny hummingbird outside my window reminds me that you know all the birds of the air and not one falls without your knowing. You are aware of me and what the next days will hold. Thank you for holding me during this part of my journey. I ask for strength through these days, however long it takes. Please give Ward and my family peace and strength. Their journey is different than mine. Theirs much more difficult. Hold them in your care. ~ DLT diary, February 2014

  The following Wednesday, at 12 noon, we return to Overlake Medical Center for an endoscopic biopsy. We hold hands and kiss goodbye and she is wheeled away from me by strangers to the operating room.

  Two hours later, Dr. Selinger enters the room where I have begun the first of what is destined to be hundreds of waiting hours in five regional medical centers. Her evaluation is forthright and cautious.

  “Dixie is fine and in recovery,” she says. “We will come get you when she is fully awake. We X-rayed the ducts that carry bile from the liver to the gallbladder and from the gallbladder to the small intestine. This is where the blockage is that’s causing the extreme discomfort and the jaundice. It’s what is making food difficult for her to digest, and contributes to her weight loss. Once the esophageal insertion reached the blocked area, we inserted a stent and left it in place to keep the duct open and hopefully provide Dixie some much needed relief. Tissue samples are already on their way to a pathology lab.”

  She pauses briefly before continuing. “We have confirmed she has pancreatic cancer, Stage II. I’m referring her to Seattle Cancer Care Alliance. They are the best. They’ll take a look at what we’ve found and make a treatment recommendation. A team of doctors and medical specialists from SCCA and University of Washington Medical Center meet every Friday morning to go over their cases and make recommendations. It’s Wednesday afternoon and I’m told their case load is full so they will not get to Dixie until a week from Friday. Sorry.”

  I thank her as she leaves and resume my seat, trying to assimilate the dreaded news. Stage II. What does that mean? I look up stages of cancer on the Internet. I already know there are four, but now I am looking for reassurance, something that will tell me Stage II is manageable, maybe even curable. I am aware more than ever at just how little I really know about this illness, even less about the journey on which we are embarking. I am already on a quest to fix this terrible thing that is happening, to somehow change the course we are on. I send up arrow prayers. Then I look for the phone number and place a call to SCCA myself.

  I explain the reason for my call to the person answering. She transfers me to someone called a scheduler. I explain our circumstance again and ask, if possible, that Dixie be included in this Friday’s agenda, even though I understand it is filled already. I am given little encouragement but assured my request will be passed along. Meanwhile Dixie is transferred to a private hospital room. Our daughter, Michele, joins us. Late in the evening Dixie is released and we arrive back home at 9 o’clock.

  The following day she is drained of energy, although she decides to make some real chicken soup (as opposed to the hospital version), so we’re in for a tasty treat for dinner. Being active in the kitchen seems therapeutic. The soup, coupled with cornbread she may or may not be able to eat, represents comfort food, though taste is not coming easily for her. She is quite sore throughout the esophageal area today and her gut hurts too. It is a quiet day. No word on pathology outcomes.

  GG (Great Gramma) braces herself for a love attack from the little dude, Corbin, our 2–1/2-year-old great-grandson whom we haven’t seen since Christmas. Gramma Michele is bringing him by after work.

  Late that evening, I answer the telephone to hear a woman’s voice telling me that if we are still interested, Dixie will be included in tomorrow’s SCCA medical team agenda. Of course we are interested. Dixie is growing weaker, unable to absorb anything beyond sipping an occasional Boost, a little soup, some soda crackers and water. This is an answer to prayer. I love it when things happen the way I want them to. She proceeds to give us instructions as to where and when to arrive and what to expect.

  Early the next morning we pray and prepare.
At seven-thirty we are engulfed in Seattle’s Mercer Street exit traffic mess as we get off I-5, something we soon learn is an everyday, sometimes all-day occurrence. By 8 o’clock we have navigated underground parking where spaces are the size of wheelchairs and gray cement pillars are eager to befriend your car. We take an elevator to F1 and stand in line at the Seattle Cancer Center Alliance admissions desk, ready to begin whatever is next, but with apprehension rising. This is a scary time in which life has suddenly gone off course. How much of what is happening to us is random and how much is being guided by an Unseen Hand? If we ever were in control it is certain we are not now!

  3

  Options Are Good

  The farm was not the first agonizing loss for Samuel and Edna Anne Francis Barbee, my parents. Their firstborn child, Franklin, died in my mother’s arms at the age of thirteen months, death by choking from food she had given him to eat. The doctor could not help. How they grieved their loss, or if they grieved at all, I will never know. The wounds from their losses, however, were etched deeply into their own lives and embedded lifetime scars in my two brothers, Pete and Don, and me as well. Confronting and conquering the torment that inflicted those scars has been for me, a precarious adventure.

  2 Barbee family ~ Sam and Edna Barbee; Don, Dixie, Darvin

  Someone once said in essence, “Whatever doesn’t kill you can only make you stronger.” I’ve often wondered why some people faced with overwhelming circumstances are resilient and durable, while others wither in the heat of turmoil. Can one’s attitude determine the outcome? I have come to believe it does. My parents exhibited disparate attitudes; both equally destructive to their own wellbeing and ultimately crippling to their progeny.