by John Creasey
We wish all our friends a happy Easter, being confident of this one thing. He is risen. Christ is risen indeed!
Let your steadfast love comfort me, according to your promise to your servant.
~ Psalm 119:76
50
Traits of the Long Distance Runner
(I wanted) to make sure I was not running or had not run in vain. ~ Galatians 2:2
In 1962, Alan Sillitoe wrote the book (later a movie), The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner. It is the story of a rebellious young lad who discovers himself in long distance running. It raises the question, “What are the qualities essential in making a mentally tough runner?”
Dr. JoAnn Dahlkoetter, at http://www.DrJoAnn.com, Sports Psychologist, author of Your Performing Edge, winner of the San Francisco Marathon and second-place finisher in the World Championship Hawaii Ironman Triathlon, lists seven key traits inherent among runners who succeed:
•Resilience: Able to bounce back from adversity, pain or a disappointing performance.
•Focus: Able to focus in the face of distractions or unexpected circumstances.
•Strength: Mentally tough, strong and flexible, able to respond to any situation that arises.
•Preparation: Anticipates situations ahead of time. Feels prepared. Doesn’t panic in a crisis.
•Vision: Keeps moving forward with the objective, even when there are no immediate signs of getting closer to the finish line.
•Openness: Constantly learning, open to all possibilities, listens to the inner voice saying, “I can do this.”
•Trust: Has faith in oneself, trusts in her training, her plan and her coach, even when there is no one close by to boost her confidence, even when the finish line seems far away.11
I see these traits as being similar to those required of the long-distance cancer patient. Or for anyone facing an uphill struggle with no initial guarantee of success. Resilience. Focus. Strength. Preparation. Vision. Openness. Trust.
And one more besides.
Having observed Dixie and others we have met on their long distance run for more than a year now, the difference maker setting some runners apart from the others in attitude and determination is their clear faith in the Almighty God. These outstanding souls, running steadily, often painfully on their sacred journey, are running to, not from. They are not quitters. For them the victor’s crown is the prize waiting at the finish line. It is a “Well done, good and faithful runner . . . ” spoken by the Master Runner himself, winner of the greatest marathon of all time, Jesus Christ.
We are enjoying our son, Stephen, this week, visiting again from Hong Kong. Taking a break from chemo and proton therapy until the end of the month, Dixie prepares Mom’s favorite meals for her family in the evenings. And we all enjoy them. Sis and brother-in-law open their guest room and loan a car to Steve during the day. We are together. Life is good. God is good. All the time.
Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us. ~ Hebrews 12:1
51
More Traits . . .
Language . . . has created the word “loneliness” to express the pain of being alone. And it has created the word “solitude” to express the glory of being alone. ~ Paul Tillich
To the aforementioned traits of the long distance runner, these elements must be added: loneliness, patience, solitude. These three are not optional. They are as much required as any part of one’s sacred journey. It may seem strange to some, but if these are not engaged in with intentionality the journey will be empty, without true meaning, without the joy of life lived in fullness to the very end.
It is said that long distance runners are a tribe apart. For example, marathoners often choose only runners as close friends. Running is the centerpiece of their lives. They may have other relationships, but believe only runners truly understand their world. They are often introverted, since running long stretches alone requires runners to embrace solitude.
Mother Teresa once said, “Loneliness and the feeling of being unwanted is the most terrible poverty.” Loss, dashed hopes, sadness, despair are hungers that gnaw at the human spirit. Still, the “glory of being alone” (Tillich) speaks to another kind of loneliness, a transforming of patient endurance into sacred solitude.
But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience . . . . ~ Galatians 5:22–23 (emphasis mine)
By its very nature “the glory of being alone” with Christ nourishes the quiet strength of the human spirit.
After he (Jesus) had dismissed the crowds, he went up on the mountain by himself to pray.
When evening came, he was there alone. ~ Matthew 14:23
Loneliness. Cancer patients with whom I have spoken affirm this to be true. Especially those with faith in the resurrected Jesus. It is true for long distance caregivers as well. Even while friends and family care for loved ones and cheer them on through their Valley of Shadows, serving them with acts of love and kindness, it is vital to not feel pity or regret, but to acknowledge the essential courage and awesome sacredness of the lonely marathon itself. Those being cared for are on a journey that is, at times, so personal only they can understand it. Theirs is not a loneliness expressed in the pain of one’s being lonely. It is a solitude in which to explore and express the “glory of being alone.”
Patience. On Tuesday, late in April, Dixie goes through two full body CT scans, one at UWMC in the morning and another at SCCA in the afternoon. The following Thursday, we visit with Dr. A at the Proton Therapy Center, where he shares with us “some good news and some not so good news.”
The “good news” is there are no additional tumors visible in the liver. However, the resistant bad-boy tumor is larger than at the beginning of Proton treatment. He says more time must pass before its size increase is determined to be due to the radiation itself, or something more sinister. We pray for continued success. Killing the liver tumor is key to our cancer battle.
The “bad news” from Dr A is that during recess from chemotherapy, the previously observed spots in the lungs are growing and additional spots are now visible. Also there is new activity showing in two lymph nodes, one close to the heart. This is very discouraging indeed.
Yesterday, Michele and I accompanied Dixie on her return to SCCA for a blood draw and appointment with Dr. Chiorean (who can actually say “Apisarnthanarax” without blinking, though she admits it took practice). She concurs with Dr. A’s assessment of the CT scans. We spend time reviewing where we have been and best options for moving forward, including a genome study that is an option requiring further conversation before deciding. Its potential value must be weighed carefully.
Solitude. What Dixie agrees to is a return to chemotherapy. This next Monday, she will resume chemotherapy infusion treatment at SCCA. Long procedure hours that we hope will not be as debilitating as the rounds of FOLFOX were in January. This new infusion treatment will take place every three weeks instead of two, plus daily medications.
We ask for a CT scan, but Dr. Chiorean says we must wait until after three more infusion treatments. We want to know more quickly than in nine weeks how things are going, especially given what we’ve heard today.
Rest and renewal. Reading and prayer. As much activity as energy permits. Quality of life. These are the selections on the menu. Emotionally, we need to recharge. The love, prayers and encouragement of others are what fuel the human spirit in us right now.
52
Chemotherapy Round 4
Question: What are the only man-made things in heaven?
Answer: the wounds in the hands, feet and side of Jesus.
If we have never sought, we seek Thee now;
Thine eyes burn through the dark, our only stars;
we must have sight of thorn pricks on Thy brow;
we must have Thee, O Jesus of the scars.
~ Edward Shillito (written near the
end of World War I)
Monday 18 May. Michele gets off work early today to join us for the drive across the SR 520 floating bridge. It is a lovely sun-drenched afternoon in the Northwest. The kind of day when everyone moves outside. White sails, fueled by a warm gentle breeze crisscross back and forth across the azure surface of Lake Washington, a pleasant precursor that disappears suddenly once we enter the underground parking levels beneath SCCA.
How quickly reality takes over. Blood draw. Teaching session for a new chemo drug. Meet with Claire Stockhausen, PA-C. And finally, here we are again, this time on F5 Bay 23.
Evening’s furtive shadows stretch eastward along city streets. Patios, decks and sidewalk cafes are favorite places to be tonight in Seattle’s seventy-five-degree weather. A handful of white clouds dot the sky. It’s past six-thirty when Michele and I return from sharing a Caesar salad and a Brazilian something-or-other at a nearby restaurant. Meanwhile, Dixie is drinking water from a plastic bottle, eating cheese and crackers from the nurse’s larder, and a health bar she brought with her from home. Proof once more that life isn’t fair!
A familiar face enters. Nurse Debbie is serving Dixie again today. A lovely mom with two children at home, she has been our nurse before. Dixie is finishing her anti-nausea meds infusion. A must with the powerful drugs yet to come. We watch as Debbie slips into her protective plastic gown and gloves. She calls for a second nurse, Sarah, and together they begin what has become for us the all too familiar routine of reading aloud to each other the chemotherapy checklist.
At seven o’clock it’s a go. Push the on switch, and for the next two hours a clear white substance called Oxaliplatin makes its way into Dixie’s system.
By this time we grasp how cancerous tumors are characterized by out-of-control cell division. Oxaliplatin interferes with cancer cell growth and random spread. That’s the good news and we get that.
The problem is it can also lower good blood cells that help fight infections and your blood to clot, making infections or bleeding always potential problems, along with other rather dramatic side effects we must watch for during the days following infusion. Chemo is not for sissies. At last, after two plus hours of chemo online into Dixie’s port, we unplug and head for home, arriving at nine-thirty, ready for bed.
This morning she stares out the window from her bed to where flowers are in colorful bloom, doing their best to lift the spirit of the one who planted them there.
While reading silently, I come across these words written by someone known only to God, found on the wall in a Nazi concentration camp after WWII:
I believe in the sun, even when it isn’t shining,
I believe in love, even when I feel it not,
I believe in God, even when he is silent.
I look up to see her watching me. I smile, press back tears I do not want her to see. She is so beautiful lying there. And so fragile. Nothing is left that matters that is not in this room. And I am losing her. Slowly, surely, with each day passing I feel her slipping away.
The world outside goes on without me.
I sit with thoughts left unspoken as an unknown prisoner carves his commemorative epitaph of ultimate hope on the walls of my heart.
Today the sun is shining.
Tonight the stars will burn through a Northwest darkness like the eyes of God.
Today I am loved by you.
Tonight I will believe in you, even if you remain silent.
In you O Lord, by you, and for you.
Amen.
53
Icons of Aging
We are the only icons of aging that younger people will ever meet.
What we show them as we go, gives them a model of what they, too, can strive for.
We show them the way to the fullness of life. ~ Joan Chittister, The Gift of Years
But I am like a green olive tree in the house of God;
I trust in the mercies of God forever and ever. ~ Psalm 52:8
I never read this verse in the Psalms without being reminded of the olive tree standing at the center of the patio as you entered the Little Chapel in which we began what, over time, became twenty-three years of pastoral ministry in Dublin California. It was a beautiful tree. It was full of biblical analogy and symbolic meaning, especially for those who had lovingly planted it sometime prior to my coming on the scene.
It was also filled with messy, allergy producing pollen dust.
Many an early Sunday morning at certain times of the year, you could find me out front on the patio, broom in hand, making a clean sweep of green pollen dust from under the olive tree before people started arriving for and sneezing through another worship service.
23 Dixie with the Charles River and Boston in background
In spite of this inconvenience, it did serve as a strong symbol to every person who walked beneath it. In any circumstance: hot, dry, cold, wet, rocky, or sandy, an olive tree will live and produce fruit. It is said that you can never kill an olive tree. When cut down or burned, new shoots will emerge from its roots. It is a reminder that no matter what comes your way or how messy life becomes, you can stand sturdy in the presence of God . . . like the olive tree . . . always green (faithful) and always bearing fruit in season.
I know of “green olive trees” like this. I have seen them, walked among them, plucked fruit from off their branches. Sometimes they are messy, always strong in spirit, always sturdy in practicing the presence of God, always with the green of faithfulness, always living fruitful lives . . . “icons of aging,” spiritual giants, examples for others of what they, too, can strive for, showing the way to the fullness of life. I believe it is true . . .
. . . you can never kill a green olive tree.
Friday 22 May. Early this morning she is very sick. She throws up steadily, one sick bag after another, for several hours until I wonder what can possibly be left for her to give up! At 3 o’clock we make an emergency run to SCCA. Michele confiscates a wheelchair and delivers her through the main entrance while I park the car. She is too weak to walk in on her own. Soon we are assigned a treatment bay. For the next couple of hours, nurses administer hydration infusion mixed with pain-killers. And by 6 o’clock we are home again.
A long Memorial Day weekend follows, stretching out the remaining days of May. Dixie stops taking further infusion or oral chemotherapy. Dr. Chiorean is away at a cancer conference and so we arrange an appointment for her on 08 June, to discuss next options. Dixie continues to grow weaker. Her appetite is almost nonexistent. I ask what sounds good and she thinks awhile before responding. One day it is half a deli sandwich. On another it is tapioca pudding. Then, non-spicy pad Thai noodles. It feels like I’m feeding a pregnant woman.
Except instead of eating voraciously, she eats a bite, maybe two, then pushes the rest aside.
Monday 01 June. We drive north a couple of hours to a quiet resort with a view across the water into Canada. A place where the maid makes up your room each day, and a chef cooks wonderful breakfasts and dinners, and nice young people who plan to spend the summer in Europe after graduating from college serve your meals and pick up your empty dishes.
Usually when I travel, Dixie packs. This time, being the consummate caregiver, I give her a break and do my own bag. Other than arriving with no deodorant and no underwear, I think I did pretty well. We hang out together, talk, read, take short beach walks, enjoy a lovely dinner at the best table, thanks to Michele and Mark’s generous advance dinner reservation.
Under a cloudy sky, we rock alone in a row of twenty outdoor wooden rocking chairs, bask in fresh sea breezes, watch boats and seagulls sail by, and hold one another’s hand as we celebrate our 59th wedding anniversary. Creating mind pictures. It’s the way we started married life. Just the two of us. Together.
. . . for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.
Thursday 04 June. By the time we arrive home, Dixie is exhausted. She retires immediately while I unpack our things. I am sad. I make
a mental note that while world travelers we have been, we have just experienced our new limits for travel.
Monday 08 June. We arrive at SCCA at 12 noon for blood draw and our appointment with Dr. Chiorean. After the blood draw is done we are informed the doctor has a family emergency and will not be available. I keep my thoughts to myself. We return home.
Once Dixie is settled in, I step outside. I don’t want her to see that I am angry. Angry at Dr. Chiorean’s family emergency. At medicine that is failing us. At the world for just being the world. At God for not doing his job. It seems a very long time since we’ve spoken with Dr. Chiorean and this meeting had been important to us. It’s been an even longer time since God has spoken and that isn’t right either. Doesn’t he know how much I love her? How much I need her?
After awhile, I go back inside. We settle in for a quiet evening.
Tuesday 09 June. By 9:30, Dixie, Michele and I are seated in the SCCA F4 waiting room. How many times have we done this drill? At 10 o’clock we are led by a nurse to an examination room. Weight. Blood pressure. Temperature. Had any falls? The doctor will be in shortly. Sure she will. She has served us well and we’ve learned to adapt to this professional foible. But today I’m on edge. At 10:35, Dr. Chiorean arrives.
Now we are together at last to ask the hard questions and listen to equally difficult-to-hear answers. We understand options are diminishing. Dixie does not want more Oxaliplatin. Combined with the daily intake of Capecitabine (Xeloda) chemo tablets, the side effects are overpowering to her.
Dr. Chiorean offers the possibility of three infusions with reduced tolerance levels of Oxaliplatin and Capecitabine, one every three weeks, to see if Dixie can absorb them, and then do a CT scan. We want a scan now so we can see what our status really is. Dr. Chiorean tells us it is too early and that we need to go through the treatments first.
