Today I got a letter that made me cry. It was from the
husband of someone going through what I’m going through, only worse, and he was
thanking me for our friendship. I’ve been wanting to write about her and about
my friend Bob for a long time. They are fellow travelers on this cancer journey,
and I love them very much. Bob gave me permission to use his real name. My
friend Charlotte has a pseudonym until I get a go ahead there. Meanwhile I want
to write about them because they are important to me, and because their stories
intertwine with mine, and because their stories are beautiful, and because in
telling their stories, I get to listen to them, too.
Bob is Philip’s godfather, the only North American visitor
we had when Philip was born, and he’s one of Robert’s best friends, a friend
from the Honduras days. He came to visit us in Guerrero, and we hoped one day
he’d join us in Mexico. This never happened for various reasons. This summer
he’s bringing his family down to Mexico again to stay in our house, where they will
hang out with our friends and fill the back of our truck with silliness. If
only we were there to join in, and listen to Bob playing on some guitar or
other, and singing, “Has anyone here seen Hank.” When he found out he would be
spending six days in San Francisco, isolated in a lead-lined room after an
inhuman blast of radiation, he bought a guitar on Craig’s List and had it
delivered to “his” room. Now he’s seeing if he can get it back to Chicago where
it will join all the rest of the guitars stocking his living room.
Bob married Rebecca and they had three girls: Cayla, Emily,
and Julia. Two Thanksgivings ago, Rebecca died. She fainted in an elevator at
work, slipped into a coma at the hospital, and never came back. There was only Bob,
with Cayla, Emily, and Julia. The parents from the girl’s Lutheran school brought
Bob meals. For a year. One of those
parents was Gretchen, the widow of Kevin, who died ten years ago of cancer,
leaving Gavin, whom the two decided to have anyway, knowing he’d grow up
without a dad. Now it’s Bob, Gretchen, Cayla, Emily, Gavin, and Julia. But Bob
has cancer. And it’s spread. His counts are good after the radiation, better
than the doctor expected. Yayy!
And Charlotte, not her real name. Charlotte and her husband
work…underground. We have good shared history, and they say we helped inspire
them toward this work, and if that’s true, it makes me glad. They have lived in
difficult places, and learned people’s languages (tough ones like Mixtec), and helped
people fall in love with God. Charlotte was in another country for a
conference, had a routine mammogram (our stories parallel) and was rushed home
for treatment. She’s already had her mastectomy. Charlotte has five kids: four
boys and a new baby girl (yayy!) whom she named for her Sister, also a friend I
love. Our stories diverge a bit here. My cancer is HER2+, and there’s a drug
called herceptin that targets it. Charlotte’s
is triple negative, and of yet, there is not a drug that targets it
specifically. Chemo helps. And radiation. So that is the plan right now. But
the prognosis is not what we would like. And I hate this. It distresses me. She
writes to ask what chemo is like, and is it not a betrayal to our bodies and to
God to poison ourselves this way. It is. But it is also an acceptance of the
value of human work as a gift from God. However imperfect it is, however full
of thorns and weeds, however mangled.
And what can I do?
No comments:
Post a Comment