The Terror Trap (Department Z Book 7)

by John Creasey

  Our Enemy Cancer, is making an effort to infiltrate beyond the initial battleground and our assignment is to stop it in its diabolical tracks. Our primary weapons are prayer, the promises in his Word, and the rest and restoration one finds in “green pastures, beside still waters” (Psalm 23).

  The days are hard for Dixie. Some parts in her body are beginning to stir again, ever so slowly and painfully. She likens it to giving birth. Her bodily functions continue to accelerate, and here is the real winner. For the first time since the end of January, she is eating (and digesting) real food!

  When I ask what she wants for dinner this evening, she replies, “You know what sounds good to me? What I’d really like to eat? Some Kentucky fried chicken, dark meat, mashed potatoes and gravy.” Then she blinks a big underfed and pathetic, brown-eyed look, and gives me the smile that has made me do anything she has ever wanted for sixty all too swiftly passing years. I am certain Dr. Park stirred up dormant southern cells while he was in there! So I get in the car, drive across town, order up, and bring the Colonel home. And she did it.

  The week begins quietly, with a church service. I stand as the choir and congregation sing. I want to sing with them, try to sing, but I cannot join in. My heart is heavy. The voices of others surround me, spilling over, leaking rivulets of worship into my dry, empty place; but I am alone in a crowd. Verses of a hymn and songs of praise, an offering lifted up to God by voices, some in tune, others off key, all singing nonetheless. All but me.

  Why is this morning different from countless other mornings when we were apart while serving, teaching, preaching? I can’t truly say. I am deciding how to slip out unobtrusively when I look up to see my daughter and her husband. They move into my row to be beside me. She nudges in close, puts her arm through mine and whispers, “I love you, Dad.”

  And all at once I am struck by the importance of the Church. “C” denoting not just the church local, but the larger all-encompassing body of Christ. The church (small “c”) is painful for me just now. It is the music. It is the sermon I am not preaching; could not even if I wanted to. It is the feeling of being with people once broken, standing as one with those broken still. I am not sure anyone understands this, but I have always loved being with once broken and broken still people. They are my people. My family-in-Christ people. People who need to be touched by God through someone with flesh on. People like me.

  Dixie’s life and mine are fruit of the church vine. Our faith was birthed in the church. We found each other and grew together because of the church, answered a call to serve God in the Church, raised our children to believe in God and be active in the big “C” Church as well as in a small “c” local church. I learned about Jesus at an early age in a country Sunday school, accepted him as my Savior, was baptized, and later made a no turning back commitment of my life to God in a small town church. Dixie’s faith was developed in a big city church. We’ve served the capitol “C” church with its many stripes, denominations and tribes all our lives. But this morning, the church, big “C” or little “c” . . . any church feels dissonant, out of harmony. It doesn’t feel like my family anymore. Is this a foreshadowing? Is it that she is not here? Is this the way it’s going to be?

  She is there; resting alone at home. Getting ready for Monday. And I am here; grieving alone at church, twisted inward, way too vulnerable, and not at all ready for Monday.

  7

  Regrets . . . There Are a Few

  My best friend in elementary school had a great family. Their home was warm and welcoming. I liked being there. Her mother was gentle and when she smiled, her eyes smiled, too. She was kind and I liked being near her. She sewed beautiful clothes for my friend. I often witnessed fittings of her latest creations. Her father, a firefighter, frightened me a little. He was a big man with a big voice; but he often brought home neat gifts for my friend.

  One of those gifts was a puppy that she named, “Dixie,” which irked me not a little. However, the thoughtfulness of her father was impressive to me. I had to ask my father for everything I needed. It was not automatically provided for me as it was for my friend. In the years Dad was absent from home, I waited on the curb in front of the store where he would eventually arrive on his regular, weekly sales route, just to ask for money for a current need. My needs were as varied as any nine to twelve-year-old would have, but the process was humiliating. My friend rarely had to ask. Her needs and wants were anticipated and provided.

  Dad was absent from my piano recitals, school talent shows, church performances, and graduations even when he lived with us. When he and Mom separated the last time, I had just graduated high school and was planning for college. He asked me if I wanted to live with him or with Mom. He had already made it very clear that he would not pay any financial support. I was a few months shy of eighteen and knew instinctively that Mom and I were on our own. College would have to wait.

  I wanted to see where Dad was going to live, but it did not occur to me until in a counseling session twenty some years later that I could recall how his living arrangements looked when he took me to see his apartment. It was a studio apartment. He had made no provisions for me to live with him. It was just a rhetorical question. He had no intention to care for me. At the urging of the counselor, I wrote him a letter asking, among other things, about that day. I never mailed it. I was afraid to hear his answers. ~ DLT diary, 2015

  The psychological push-pull of an extremely dysfunctional family may affect a child for a lifetime. Every child wants a parent who is really there for him or her, of whom they can be proud. We want our friends to “Get to know my Dad. He is a really cool guy.” “Once you meet Mom, she will like you.”

  Desperately needing our parents to be something they are unable or unwilling to attain is a heartache for children. Covering up neglect, erratic behavior, emotional or physical abuse, is hurtful and embarrassing. It may result in feelings of shame or inadequacy, withdrawal or lashing out, or the need to measure up to someone else’s standards or expectations in order to feel accepted. These are not the gifts we want to pass on to our children.

  Monday is a day of first appointments. We begin with Dr. Kim and the team at UWMC Radiology, outlining what Dixie can expect from their services. Then a short drive to SCCA and an hour consultation with Dr. Kasser, specialist in medical nutrition therapy. Next, more nurses, assistants, and Dr. Chiorean, head of the oncology team, to review the proposed chemotherapy treatments.

  Three appointments. A full day for anyone, especially when still recovering from what doctors all are calling the “Cadillac of surgeries” (I translate this as meaning the biggest and most expensive on the showroom floor). By the time we begin this final interview of the day, Dixie has had it. She is chilling, shaking uncontrollably, so we leave F4 for a few minutes to go to F2 and the Red Brick Cafe to order some hot tea. When we return to F4, we are met by a nurse who begins lecturing us for not being where we should have been when Dixie’s name was called a few minutes before.

  Her lectures continue as we follow her to the room where we are to wait for Dr. Chiorean. She just won’t let it go that we were not in the right place at the right time. Finally, I hold up my hand and say, “Please stop. We hear you. We apologize. It’s our first time and we didn’t know the drill, but my wife is not well. Do you not see how she is chilling? This is her third appointment today, so give us a break here.”

  All at once it seems, the proverbial lights go on.

  “Would you like a warm blanket?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe two?”

  The woman disappears and moments later returns with two heated blankets. We wrap them around Dixie as she leans into them, waiting for the doctor to appear. It is the only time we were not treated with polite dignity during any of her treatments. We did not say anything to anyone about it. We never saw this person again. A few minutes later we are introduced to Dr. Chiorean.

  On Tuesday, Dixie is still not feeling well and shows a temperature high
enough to suggest infection. Wednesday morning, SCCA calls and asks us to come in. By 10 o’clock, we are there. After a few tests, we are sent to ER at UWMC for further tests, cultures, a CT scan and X-ray. Then it’s overnight at the hospital again, back on 4th floor SE Tower, where Dixie is greeted by nurses like an old friend, not just a patient they had served a few days before.

  By Thursday, Dr. Park has been contacted. He is out of town at a cancer conference. He orders a procedure to remove a plastic stent that had been inserted during surgery. It is thought this may be the culprit causing fluctuating temperatures and a rise in liver counts. E-coli has also been identified, requiring treatment with antibiotics. It is apparent this is a “really big deal,” and that maintaining the delicate healing balance on all levels is critical if we are to have a successful outcome.

  Friday mid-afternoon, we walk out of the hospital to retrieve our car. Once again the parking attendant asks, “Will you be returning today?”

  I am able to respond with a smile, “No, not today.”

  This time we drive through heavy rain and wind, crossing the SR 520 floating bridge to our home on the Eastside. From our condo underground parking we take the elevator to the third floor and our apartment, then up the stairs to bed and rest. After awhile, a friend comes to our door with chicken soup. Everyone knows chicken soup has been healing mankind for generations. We receive this gift with grateful hearts. God is on his throne tonight. I think he is smiling. At least I hope so. The sparrow is once more in her nest.

  I have two lingering regrets where Dad is concerned. One is that I did not let him walk me down the aisle at my wedding. Mom had made it clear to me that if he did, she would not come. My embarrassment over their divorce and fear they would not be civil to each other, caused me to make the decision to have my family as guests only. What would Ward’s parents think? I had not met them yet and I wanted them to like me. In reality, I was afraid they would not accept me if they knew the awful truth about my family. How would Mom act toward Dad and my new stepmother, Alma, whom I had just met? My moms had known each other many years before when they were teenagers. What would she do when she saw Grandmother Barbee who was also an invited guest? Would my two new stepsisters, ages 6 and 9, whom my dad seemed to enjoy, come, too? Perhaps it would have been easier to sort it out if I had talked with someone about it, but I kept it all bottled up inside, too afraid of being exposed. Our wedding pictures reveal the true story. Mom smiling is the only family member in the pictures. I walked the aisle on the arm of our youth pastor.

  My other regret is not having the courage to resolve my issues with Dad before he died. I was still angry with him, even after seven years had separated my last visit with him and his death. His children and grandchildren were all together at Mom’s funeral and we wondered why he didn’t come just to connect with us. We had all been there for him when Alma died three years before.

  He made no effort to sort me out in his empty memory bank nor did he attempt to keep in touch. All his worldly goods were willed to his stepdaughters and my brothers, except for his remaining bank balance. That was divided equally. In the end, I felt optional, nonessential to him, like a “sticky note” attached to his life. Looking now through the rear view mirror, I can thankfully acknowledge those issues have been settled; I have forgiven him, but a lingering sense of loss remains.

  Admittedly, my parents’ negative reactions were like manacles attached to my emotional wellbeing and I have carried them like iron weights through much of my adult life. I have had to examine my own lingering negative attitudes and discard the dead weights of an injured self-concept. Slowly, I’m finding the right keys to unlock the “real” me. I’m discovering the woman God created when He chose the strands of DNA and wove them together in my mother’s womb.

  I was not a mistake. I was planned by a loving God! ~ DLT diary, 2015

  8

  Looking for My Father

  What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us.

  ~ A. W. Tozer

  In diaries written as a young adult, I find many notations of my desire to know God as Father. Jesus was my Friend, but I longed to know God as an attentive, loving, and caring Father. I’ve searched for him often in Scripture, and wept through many prayers to be worthy of his presence in my life.

  Looking back over my journey, I see vividly how he has cared for me all through my life. I continue to be amazed at the intimacy of his presence. I will never be worthy, but I do not have to earn his love. He is my heavenly Father. He cares for me. He is attentive to me. He anticipates my need and everything I need for today is already provided by him. I don’t need to be concerned about tomorrow. God is already in tomorrow and His provisions will be there, too. He teaches me consistently and continually to trust him. As I relinquish my preconceived notions about God and open my mind to really know him, my understanding of his actions in Scripture, his answers to my prayers, and his actions in our present culture has increased exponentially. I am humbled at his wisdom and patience with his creation. He teaches me carefully and wisely about himself. And I am a grateful and eager learner. ~ DLT diary, 2015

  In his book, A Shelter in the Time of Storm2, Paul David Tripp points up a great temptation: that in times of waiting for answers, instead of filling our thoughts with reminders of God’s limitless power and growing stronger in faith, our tendency may be “to focus on the thing we are waiting for, all the obstacles that are in our way, (italics mine) our inability to make it happen, and all the other people who haven’t seemed to have had to wait.”

  It will be this kind of week for us. One marked with waiting while “all the obstacles that are in our way” test our focus and our faith.

  On Sunday, we host a family gathering in our home, consisting of our daughter, Michele, and her husband, Mark; Robin, a niece; Linda, who worked as my assistant in our California church and who now lives nearby; and Janine, a dear friend and prayer partner. All except Michele have in common the fact that immediate family members do not live close geographically or have already passed on.

  Janine leads today’s devotional with a collective reading about family, sharing how much the gathering represents family to her, a feeling quickly affirmed by everyone present. We share in holy communion. Next a luncheon to which everyone contributes something each time we meet. Hugs and kisses mark the end of a quality time in the presence of our Lord and with one another. Very New Testament.

  On Wednesday the guys in our C3Leaders Forum3 begin gathering at 7 o’clock for our weekly meeting. Soon the living room is comfortably filled. Everyone wants the latest on Dixie. Jerry leads a good what’s-next discussion on leadership. Time to pray for one another. By 9:00 the last guy is out the door. A bite of breakfast for Dixie. A telephone conversation and a couple of callbacks. Then Dixie and I prepare for the afternoon at SCCA.

  At SCCA, we listen as Drs. Chiorean and McClintock share disturbing findings. There appear to be abscesses in the liver area. What exactly they represent remains questionable. There are bits of good news scattered throughout the report as well, cloaked in medical mumbo jumbo; but all that is lost on the fact that something has been identified in the liver that should not be there.

  I ask Dr. Chiorean, “Given everything you’ve outlined, just how nervous should we be?”

  “You should be very nervous,” is her reply, and the look in her eyes confirms her concern.

  “ . . . all the obstacles that are in our way . . . ”

  Thursday, we return to SCCA for another blood draw and CT scan. Driving to either SCCA or UWMC is 15–20 minutes each way across the SR 520 Lake Washington floating bridge. Tack on another 2–3 hours for the appointment and the afternoon is gone. Dixie is discouraged and, frankly, so am I. Once we are home, however, I try to put the best possible spin on the report. I interpret the look she gives me in response to mean, “Don’t play me. I know what you’re trying to do and it’s not working.” After fifty-eight married yea
rs, what should I expect?

  This is First Thursday, and Michele is sitting with Mom in front of the fireplace, doing her best to help sell my futile attempts at encouragement, but we both can see we are failing. Mom is not buying. Tonight is not the best of nights. Dixie must begin a medical fast after a small bowl of soup, in preparation for an appointment with the Infectious Diseases medical unit. Infectious diseases? Dixie? What’s this about? What is happening to us?

  The following dreaded Infectious Diseases Day turns out to be not so bad. The doctors who meet with us are nice, efficient, apologize for making us wait, poke and push and pull and make Dixie say, “Ah,” and ask, “In what countries have you traveled?” and other infectious diseases types of questions.

  Eventually Doctor Deb says, “Let’s not waste any more of our time. We are going to talk with Dr. Chiorean. Then we’ll get an appointment with the radiology department to do a needle biopsy of the liver. In the meantime, we will send a couple of antibiotics prescriptions to your pharmacist. You’ll begin taking these tonight. Get lots of rest over the weekend. We will find out for sure what is happening next week.”

  Don’t you love it when someone just steps up and takes charge?

  The remainder of the afternoon is spent in making new appointments, canceling old ones, and cautiously agreeing we feel more optimistic than we did twenty-four hours ago.

  Saturday. Dixie is trying to eat more today and bring a halt to the weight skid. We walk around the block in a gentle rain. Katy and Geoff bring Corbin, “our little dude,” by for a short visit with GG and Papa.

  During Corbin’s first year, GG cared for him five days a week while Katy was at work. He became too much for her during his second year because of his physical growth and her reduced stamina, so reluctantly she cut her care time to one day a week. When asked why she took on such a task at her age, when she could be traveling or doing things for herself and taking life easy, her response was, “I want to be sure Corbin always remembers who his great-grandmother is. I am busy creating memories.”