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November 6
Assumption, Eden Valley
Not even a week into my pilgrimage, I made a conscious effort to notice what made each church unique. An evening weekday Mass was unusual and Assumption also uncharacteristically filled up in the front pews. Scott and I met Anita, my co-worker, who we’d hoped to join us afterwards for a bite to eat, but was needed back home to help her husband and son who were harvesting corn. The harvest was a visual theme with hay bale and corn stalks adorning the entrance and the altar. The dark beams crossing the ceiling contrasted with the creamy walls for an overall very cozy affect. I recognized Father Nett from his days subbing at ROCORI ages ago. His service offered more Latin than I had ever experienced and I was not able to contribute, but it made me want to find an all Latin Mass, recalling tales from my Dad serving as an altar boy pre-Vatican II.
Using your talents and finding your place in the church was the theme of Father Nett’s homily. He shared details about members of a forum in St. Anthony’s in neighboring Watkins who were speaking about their different roles in the church as married, lay persons, and seminarians. It fit well with the Gospel Luke 14:25-33 where Jesus said ‘whoever does not carry his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple.” and used examples of being ill prepared for construction of a tower or lacking soldiers in battle to his disciples needing to renounce their possessions and claiming their place with Jesus.
Just a month before I had attended a healing Mass at Assumption led by several priests, but I was there to listen to Father Mark Stang. From his cousins I worked with at ROCORI, I knew a bit of the miraculous healing experience he had while fighting cancer during his discernment to priesthood. Also when I had heard him while he was priest at St. Donaus in Brooten, I could feel the Holy Spirit working through him from the moment he began Mass with “In the Name of the Father” until the final “Amen.” Never before had I heard someone preach from the heart and hold each word with such reverence. His story, Finding the Water, focused on the challenges he faced throughout his life: struggling with school, vacillating between becoming a priest or farmer, and facing a dire cancer diagnosis. Over the course of a few perfect summer days curled up in my hammock, I read his short memoir so engaged with his message that I did not notice my next door neighbor mowing his lawn. Several passages gave me goosebumps from head to toe despite the hot summer temperatures. His powerful prayer of surrender resonated with me:
Lord, I thank You for another day of life. I surrender everything to You–all that I have, all my talents. Take me and lead me and guide me where You want me to go, whom You want me to meet, and what You want me to say. I surrender everything to You. Use me as You see fit to give You the glory. Send Your Holy Spirit to fill me and guide me. Amen.
Father Mark’s enthusiasm as a priest coupled with his genuine concern for others and impassioned preaching gave me great hope for the future of the Catholic Church. I just found myself amazed at not only the things he noticed, but also what I noticed when listening to him speak.
Rant
A lot of my terminal diagnosis made me cherish the past, hope for the future, while trying to stay centered in the present. It very much altered shopping. Groceries shopping changed little, but to be honest it was years before I purchased a double pack of the toothpaste that only I use. The constant fear of short-term survival was in my subconscious. After stage IV, expiration dates caused me to choke up. During the first few months, I had become fairly jealous of some Grey Poupon mustard because I thought it might outlast me. That mustard could produce any type of reaction beyond salivatory was a testimony to my fragile emotional state. Though I routinely scoured the fridge and chucked any expired foods, I kept that Grey Poupon after its best by date. Admittedly, I had some weird connection to that mustard. Over a year after the shock of having a terminal diagnosis, I was a bit more relaxed, but hardly made any clothing purchases. I needed nothing for work; I could not possibly wear out what I had even after downsizing just a few months before. There were lots of things that I noticed more in my terminal world. Although this section is kinda ranty, I don’t apologize; this was my experience.
I noticed the unique perspective of appreciating life to its fullest as both a blessing and a curse. I embraced the ability to ignore the weather and news blips including politics for the most part. It was fully impossible to live every moment in this intensity, but Oh, Thoreau, I finally understand you! My Walden moments were longer and more frequent. Without the diagnosis, I would have scarcely taken notice. I found myself craving the mundane when mired in transcendentalism.
I noticed every day started with cancer. The effects from any brain tumors would present first thing in the morning after lying prone. I started the day scanning for symptoms: dizziness, balance issues, nausea, blurred vision, wonky peripheral vision etc. It was bitter to wake up and remember I was in a fight at the very cellular level of my being and it was so sweet to have yet another day to live.
I noticed the concern. The slight or extreme tilt of the head with “How are you?” in a tone that begs an answer, not just an automated acknowledgement. “I feel well,” was my patented reply. I might have not been well, but it was short and true. Unless someone inquired further, I assumed they meant the question casually, not looking for a health history.
I noticed when someone asked about my health and followed with their own pains. I often noticed that mine are fewer and less profound, except for the Big C.
I noticed when I used my insurance card as frequently as my credit card.
I noticed when my peers complained of looking older or when older folks complained of their age. I wouldn’t verbally acknowledge my jealousy, but I am sure my microexpressions registered it.
I noticed how often people say, “I would just die….” or use gallows humor. Sometimes they noticed me noticing and when they blanched, I usually responded with my own dark humor to put them at ease. I actually had to reign in a lot of what I found to be hilarious dark humor because I didn’t want those around me to worry. Maybe the next book…
I noticed my already-low level of embarrassment plummeting in a checkout line at Target with stool softener, laxatives and Centrum Silver when I saw the awkward glance from the cashier who was in my second hour class or at Victoria’s Secret uncomfortably replying to a former student asking my size, “Um no, I have no idea what size since they are transplants” during a bra fitting after my reconstruction.
I noticed pink, that color ubiquitous to October, second only to Halloween’s orange and black combo. I would find myself scowling at pink products, like a pink can of Pringles I suspected was marketed with a feel-good motivator to increase sales when actually consuming them was not healthy. Pink for the cure brought breast cancer to the forefront, but that limelight made me feel for all other types of cancer. Even if it is the most common type of cancer, I know that it gets more focus because breasts are sexier and easier to market than other body parts. I don’t shun pink gifts because they are well intentioned, but the disparity in funding makes me uncomfortable.
I noticed too that most of the pinkification corporate donations actually went to breast cancer awareness, and while this focus was beneficial initially, it feels like awareness has been met but financial support for research is desperately needed.
I tried not to, but I noticed statistics. Stage I five year survival rate topped 99% but 30% of stage I go on to stage IV where the five year survival drops to 22%. And 30-50% of those stage IV progress to brain mets with survival numbers that were appreciably shorter. I had to remind myself that the stats were often old and might not account for the new treatments, especially for Her2+. Maybe these stats would fall in my favor. I never gambled and hoped somehow this gave me better odds; I did not want to roll the dice with the 112 metastatic breast cancer patients that die every day in the US.
I also noticed the drug trials and would read of a new drug in the works only to read in the conclusion that it added mere months of overall survival (OS) and had only been tested in mice. I cherished the amazing drugs I had since I knew many patients had gone before me in clinical trials and without these meds, my OS was grim.
I noticed the inevitable scanxiety that crept in as scans and tests were scheduled. Probably I most noticed it during the wee hours when I could not sleep or distract myself.
I noticed the chill in the portable scanner and the antiseptic smell but mostly the incredible banging and swishing and clanging and pinging of the MRI as it snapped images in tiny slices of my brain. Did it matter what I thought? Would positive thoughts dissolve tumors? I prayed and sang silently.
I noticed the absolute terror in someone else whose own scans or tests left them locked in that horrific limbo of time between testing and results. I told several poor souls who had confided in me while they waited that I felt this to be cancer: emotional malignancy. They might not have gotten a diagnosis of cancer, but in those dark moments felt the cancer.
I noticed the slight trepidation in my husband’s voice if I called him. I rarely did. The poor man did not deserve the stress. Even 18 months after a diagnosis, he was on high guard, like a toddler whose arms are up with their first steps as they prepare to fall. That level of alert is unfair to caregivers, showing how the cancer spread hits those around the patient.
I noticed the extra tight or long hug and soft back pats from my sons. I noticed when they initiated the hugs, which is remarkable as I dolled out hugs like they were tolls whenever they passed by. I noticed the gratitude for our conversations, our vacations and the everyday ordinary moments we shared.
I noticed myself talking about having fun with my classmates’ moms as my expanding circle of friends included a lot of Paynesville High School Class of 1988’s parents. The hours I spent playing mah jong kept me sane in the long Minnesota winters. Moving back to Paynesville after almost 30 years was a good decision as we got reacquainted with many old friends and also made new ones, not caring one whit that I had jumped a generation.
I noticed the crafty, wily cells’ impressive ability to mutate. It might take years and several mutations to form the first cancerous cell, but that same amazing duplication in normal cells that kept me alive also worked for the cancer cell. An admirable foe? Despite chemo and radiation, the growth-focused cells’ ability to find nesting grounds away from the original tumor was impressive. In a lymph node nearby or a rib that is more porous now because of osteopenia or in my brain, the malignancy taking up space, growing and damaging cells in its path. I was fighting myself. I would lose physically, but would win spiritually.
I noticed headaches. Most aches and pains got little notice, but headaches gave me headaches. I noticed and celebrated when a headache disappeared as persistence is the hallmark of tumors. Whenever I had a headache with an aura, for me a bright light similar to the flashbulb from old-school cameras, I would close one eye and then the other. If the aura was in both, I had a migraine. Party on! It wasn’t a brain tumor.
I noticed I celebrated what others would lament. One morning in the tiny Eucharastic adoration chapel a back ache that was mild when I arrived kept getting worse and no amount of shifting would bring relief. The next adorer arrived early and I started for home, but drove to the emergency room instead when I broke out in a full body sweat from the pain. The ED nurse quickly assessed me and suggested it was a kidney stone. There was a bit of a struggle getting meds via my port, but I was celebrating the pain as it was non-cancer related. The painkillers brought immediate relief, but that kidney stone pain was no joke! The ED in Paynesville did a smash-up job getting me through so I could get to the PET scan scheduled in St. Cloud. I had some meds to take and a strainer for urine to try to catch the stone(s). I would have driven myself but the lovely painkillers required Scott to drive. On the way, I started laughing hysterically and pointing at the in-vehicle display. It took Scott a while to notice while he chalked it up to my meds until he deciphered why I found the song “Peace Train” so funny. (Say it aloud a few times ala Mad Gab.)