This is the second essay I’ve found that appears to have been intended for inclusion in Volume 2: God from Stage IV. The Big Surgery was in November 2016. This essay was drafted in summer 2018 while she was preparing to resume active treatment for her cancer.
“Living on borrowed time” is a stupid idea. Like I’m supposed to be dead already. As if I’m lucky to still be alive. I am supposed to live a long life. We all are. You’re born and you get a right to a reasonable number of years. That’s why murder is a crime. Cain and Abel. My time isn’t borrowed. It’s been stolen.
So my blood will cry out from the ground. But no one will be judged. No one will be cursed or put to death. No one else. The irony: I feel like I’ve been banished. To Cancerland. Where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. It’s me. I have been sent there until I die. I can’t blame anyone else. What do they call that? Victim something – when the victim blames herself.
Blaming God is heresy. Blaming the devil feels like a cop out. There’s no one else to blame except myself. For not demanding a colonoscopy at the first sign of irritable bowels. For not obsessing about my gurgling gut. For not eating more fiber. I should have been hypochondriatic. What could have happened if I had whined more, been more narcissistic, or threatened to sue. I hate living in a reality where those bad adolescent behaviors might actually get rewarded.
In the end, the blame game doesn’t get you far unless you somehow have the power to execute judgement, payback, or settlement. My well-meaning Christian friends tell me the Psalms are mostly about lament. Complaining to God. So, I’m going to side-step blame for a while and voice some complaints that everyone wants to say but nice folks usually don’t. Because we don’t dare. We don’t want to be remembered as whiney and self-centered. Am I the only one who really feels this way? I guess I’m just not as pulled together as those Christians who can end their care-blogs with #heavenbound or #peacethatpassesallunderstanding.
Being at the center of Stage IV is, pardon the pun, not the role I auditioned for. Cooking, caring, tucking in blankets, encouraging – that’s what I’m supposed to do. I’m good at it. At least I like to think I am.
My husband, whose grandfather died of a heart attack at 50, was supposed to get the sick person role. He’s much better at dealing with pain and discomfort. He’s matter-of-fact and doesn’t over-think himself into tears over the philosophical or theological issues of WHY or How come. Of course, I don’t WANT him to be sick. But whoever did the casting got it wrong. Are you listening, God?
My last surgery lasted more than nine hours and was indisputably maximally invasive. I got sliced straight down the middle from breast bone to pelvic bone. They would have made an even longer incision but they ran out of soft tissue to cut. The surgeon inspected everything by touch. All the bits and pieces that had cancer on them got removed, including carefully cutting away segments of the peritoneum (the lining of the abdominal area). Then they pour in a hot chemotherapy liquid and sew you back up. Then, I’m not joking, they shake you around for 90 minutes to make sure the chemo gets sloshed and squished all over your insides. Then, you can guess what comes next, they cut you back open again and somehow drain or suck out as much of the chemo goo as they can. This is called a HIPEC. You can google it. And since they aren’t going to keep you in surgery for ever, they do sew and glue you back together again. It took me six months to recover from that surgery.
At my last appointment, the surgeon indicated that cancer is growing again. A spot on my liver and probably some small areas in the peritoneum. In all likelihood, I will need to have this surgery again. Some people have this surgery 3 or 4 times. This is the cost of life. Of living longer. Six months of misery for … I dunno … 2 or 3 more years of life. This is my horizon. Really: this is what my best hope for a future looks like. THAT is so unfair. Are you listening, God?
And how is this fair for my husband. He’s a good one. He’ll stick with me for better or worse, in sickness and in health. But there has been and is going to be a whole lot of “worse” and “sickness.” Is that fair to him? I don’t think so. Are you listening, God?
More than one good friend has told me that I accomplish more in a day than others in a week. I like that feeling of productivity, accomplishments, checking projects off my list. I have a long list of books I still want to write, courses I want to teach, projects I want to pursue to help groups of people understand refugees and immigration issues, build capacity for engaging across lines of difference, think deeply about being Christian in the 21st century. Aren’t I worth saving? I mean, at least as much as the next guy? But really, I could produce some really helpful stuff if I weren’t sidetracked by warding off my impending death. It’s not like I’m just working to put food on the table, have an occasional beer with a buddy, watch football on the weekend, and go back to work on Monday. I have so many bigger things I want to do. Still. Are you listening, God?
I measure “good use of time” also by the quality of my friendships including with my own children and their significant others. I am proud of my children and the relationships our family has with each other. Two of my children have found wonderful others to share their lives with. I’m planning on being at both their weddings, even if it’s in a wheel chair. Last week my youngest Jason cornered me with another one of his really huge bear hugs. “You have to be around for my wedding, too, Mom.” What could I say? “I’m making a concerted effort.” My youngest son wants me to see him graduate. He wants me at his wedding. Are you listening, God?
We’re the opposite of the dysfunctional family. I’d almost call us “geeky-functional.” Why can’t you zap someone who doesn’t have family relations to get in the way of dying. There are folks who say they couldn’t care less what their father thinks, or that their estranged brother doesn’t show up for the family reunion, or whether so-and-so falls off a cliff. My family belongs together. We need each other in the most healthy of ways. Cancer is shaking this family that has time and again taken others in, offered a home or temporary home-base for folks who needed some love, who needed a really good family to surround them. We want to continue to offer bed and food, friendship and compassion, hope and love to folks who need it. But we can’t do this very well with the threat of maximally invasive surgeries looming. Are you listening, God?
How can a dead person live for you? How many prayers would it take to sway the hand of God? You are all-powerful and could do something if you wanted to, right? So, why don’t you do something?
Are you listening, God?
In addition to writing, Penny liked to “doodle”. Many of these were responses to songs or scripture. I’m not sure when this one was created, but it fits the theme of lament.
