THROUGH TURMOIL,
CHAMBER, AND LOVE
When Death Announces Its Nearness, Part II

Evelyn King Mumaw

From Crisis to Rest

The conflict was fierce and raging. Should I submit to the poison of chemotherapy and the burning of radiation even though it was clear this would not cure the cancer? Or should I submit to time and the ravages of the disease?

I was tossed about from one approach to the other. I suffered intensely. I cried out to God for direction. But only silence surrounded me. To do or not to do—either way was a decision. Seldom if ever have I so thrashed around when faced with a major decision.

It was on a misinformed premise that I made my decision. I was to have another CT scan before starting treatment. I assumed it would inform whether there had been change in the tumor. If it was shrinking, I would not submit to treatment. If it had grown, I would take treatment. But by the time I learned that information would not be available, I was already in the system.

Strangely enough, I relaxed. I figured if I had not had the treatment, the time could come when I would think, If only I had had the treatment when it was advisable. But having had treatment, I would have the satisfaction of knowing I had done what I could. I would not need to deal with "if onlys." And I was at peace.

Waiting Room—Gloom

They come—young and old—on foot and in wheelchairs, from various walks of life, the obviously privileged and underprivileged, and the turbaned ones who shrink from exposing their hairless heads.

They sign the "in" register, are seated, and wait for the lady in the pink vest to call their names. Usually they are accompanied by a family member, a neighbor, or a friend. Mostly they wait in silence. No cheery banter or animated conversation. The atmosphere tends more toward gloom, hopelessness, and despair.

The in-out process continues for hours at a time. I am aghast at the numbers of people who must come to this place. And the "all kinds" of people struck by this plague!

Lord, help me and others to rise above this gloom and sense your presence, warm and intimate, regardless of this other ominous invader of our bodies.

The Chamber

The walls are six feet thick. The inside of the room is cold and sterile. The treatment table is hard, straight metal. The paper cover slides uncontrollably as I try to position myself on it properly. I lie there, hands above my head, midriff exposed. Above me is an ominous movable machine.

The attendant positions me perfectly. Then she says, "I’ll be back," as she exits the chamber and leaves me there alone.

I know it will not hurt at the moment the radiation strikes my body. I know the technician is watching from her safe place. But for a moment I think of other chambers where observers watch the final struggle of the chamber’s occupant. I try to think of other things and await the zapping hum and quick release to the world of unzapped people. Twenty-eight times I follow this procedure.

Radiation Technicians

What a task to have! One after another they lead their "victims" to the interior of the chamber. They position a patient on the table and the radiation machine above her before they exit, push the proper buttons, and watch by remote view.

Routine? Yes, but they are more than functioning robots. They are warm, gentle, sensitive, caring persons. It almost seems they know their patients personally as they anticipate their needs and calm their anxieties. They offer a warm blanket to temper the coldness of the chamber, a birthday card to recognize a landmark of special significance, a friendly greeting, a cheery good-bye, and a congratulations card and a hug when the course is finished.

In tears I plead with them never to lose their caring warmth, never to let their work become routine or to harden them. "You know," I say, "You are dealing with so many hurting people."

"We meet so many wonderful people!" comes their reply.

A Bastion of Support

Thirty-plus journeys to the cancer center. Sometimes the trip involved a brief time; sometimes it was for hours.

Family, neighbors and friends. They gave their time, presence, support, and transportation freely, willingly, and graciously. With all those trips I never needed to drive my car, travel by myself, hunt for parking, or stay alone in the waiting room.

They were Grace, Kathryn, Lelia, Arlene, Evelyn, Mary, Kenneth, Florence, Esther, Byron, and Audrey. And they were there as needed.

Thank God and all his emissaries who formed that circle of loving protection around me!

Holy Nudges

I wonder. Again.

Is Jesus trying to wean me from life so that I will be ready for him to take me home to spend my days with him?

Was that his first effort when I walked through the valley with my heart surgery? But I resisted. I let the doctors take me apart and put me back together.

I gradually rebounded and loved this life again. I was once more an earth child, albeit with a greater sensitivity to heaven.

Now this. A whole new vocabulary bombards and invades my thinking: incurable, terminal, palliative, core, hospice, and one year. Why this? I think again.

Maybe it is Jesus making his bid again. Nudging me. Weaning me gradually from earth. Calling me to think of heaven and a new home. And family and friends gone on before. Even more, calling me to reach toward comprehending my incomprehensible God. Getting me ready for face to face fellowship with him.

"I am coming, Lord. I just don’t know when."

Doctor Visits

Each Tuesday I’d see the radiologist and each Monday the chemotherapist. For weeks the visits were much the same.

"Are you having trouble with nausea?"

"Not really. Just a little queasy."

"How is your appetite?"

"Oh, good. And my weight is holding steady."

"Do you have pain?"

"No. Not more than my arthritis."

"Any soreness in your mouth?"

"No."

"Any soreness where you’re receiving the radiation?"

"No, not really."

The doctors looked pleased and I was surprised.

Then it hit me—the nausea, the loss of appetite, the vomiting, the weight loss, the weakness. It didn’t take me long to lose ten pounds.

Now my countdown was becoming more and more difficult. Twenty-five down, three to go. Twenty-six down and two to go. So sick I missed going one day. But finally twenty-eight down. Finished! Congratulation card and a hug from the therapist

Followed by weeks of effort to regain appetite. And another CT scan.

New Empathies

My empathetic ability has expanded. Almost every time I look in the newspaper, turn on the TV, scan the obituaries, or listen to conversations around me, I hear or see that someone has or had cancer.

A whole new population with which to identify or empathize presents itself. And I can do it. I know the shock, the denial, the fear, the dread, the helplessness, the anger, the side effects of treatment.

"Lord, help me to use every emotion, every pain, every struggle . . . to understand, to care, to be a channel of your love and grace."

So soon Jesus responded to that commitment and fellow sufferers came.

Jeanette: Child of artistic promise, lover of birds, brim full of life and potential. Now at nine years old—with brain cancer that threatens her vision, her mobility, and her very life. She is completely bald from chemo.

I invite her to sit by me on the sofa. With my arm around her we talk, even though her participation is limited. When she leaves, she looks at me and says, "We could write!" Yes, little Jeanette, we will write about our cancers and about the Lord and our bird sightings, too.

Then came Brian: Young, hearty-looking, married less than two years. He too has been told it is malignant. Though surgery has presumably left him "clean," the experience is fresh in his thoughts and emotions, and he shares freely. "It changes your whole outlook on life," he says.

We understand each other’s feelings. We recognize also the difference in age and circumstances. But despite those differences, we find each other in a special way.

Gethsemane

The chemo and radiation treatments are completed. The moment of truth approaches. The time for the scheduled CT scan draws near. The test that will tell the truth of my condition. Has there been any shrinkage of the tumor? Is it the same size as when the treatment began? Or is it larger than it has ever been?

I approach the day of the scan with deep feelings. If the Lord is to bring healing, it seems it should be now, before the scan.

I think of the thousands of prayers that have been and are still being offered for my healing. I beseech the Lord to gather them all together into one great petition and hear them.

I think of Jesus in the garden and plead as he did that this cup should pass from me. Please, please Lord, you can shrink it, slough it away, heal my body.

But I know my body well enough to know the deadly growth is still there. I sense its presence—its effects. "You need to work fast, Lord."

And what if he doesn’t? What if the scan tells clearly the dreaded story? Will I be angry? Doubt the efficacy of prayer? Doubt God himself?

I think of Jesus as he faced his death. His plea had been offered up. His whole being begged to avoid the horror that awaited him. Nevertheless, there was something greater, more perfect than release—"Not as I will, not my will, but as thou wilt, thy will be done," he cries.

I can’t see what would be good about death by cancer, about how it would bring him glory, fulfill his purposes. . . . But I can trust the One who sees what I cannot see; whose ways are far beyond my ways.

And so I say, "Nevertheless, not as I will but as you will; your will be done. And I will rest in your will."

The Report

The CT scan has been given. The hour has come for me to meet the chemotherapist and hear her report on the findings of the scan.

Matter-of-factly she tells me in essence that there has been no real change in the tumor since the earlier CT scan. It is the same size now as it was then. Furthermore, she adds that their treatment possibilities have run out; there is nothing significant they can do for me.

The one positive note I pick up is that the tumor has not grown since the last scan.

I receive the report as matter-of-factly as it was given to me. I am not surprised or even dismayed. It is much as I expected it might be.

Disappointed? Yes. I have endured a lot of misery and expense without having positive results.

I have been thinking of three young Hebrew men who, faced with a terminal trial, declared clearly and bravely that they knew their God was able to deliver them—but if God did not choose to do so, they would remain true to him.

I have endured the trial and have not been delivered. Now is my time to trust.

I remember that God is still able to heal. He is not dependent on the treatments.

Now what shall I do?

Alternatives

When the oncologists say they have no more help to offer one, it seems reasonable to pay attention to alternative suggestions. These came to me gradually from a variety of sources.

Soon after I came home from the hospital, I was cleaning out my files when I came to a folder labeled "Personal Medical." In it I found an item I had not thought of for a long time. It was entitled "Asparagus Therapy." Several years earlier a cousin who had been ill with cancer but was now doing fine sent me this material. I received the clear impression that this could be my answer. I read with interest how a group of cancer patients had regained their health by using four tablespoons of liquefied asparagus in the morning and the same amount in the evening.

My sister Almeda lives down in Paraguay. Soon after she learned of my illness she wrote about the bark of LaPacho. This tree grows in Paraguay and is used to treat cancer. I discovered in our country it is called Pau d’ Arco and can be acquired in tea bags or health food stores. It is claimed that "its active ingredient lapachol has direct anti-tumor activities."

A friend offered "they say grape juice is good for your problem."

Another friend had heard of a doctor who had been considered terminally ill with cancer taking over her care and treating herself nutritionally. She had stopped using sugar and animal products. She now appears to be in good health.

A neighbor reminded me of Essential Oils and wondered if they might help. I called Reba. She brought her book and samples. It sounded interesting. I suggested we start with a basic limited program. Clove, frankincense, lavender, and mint are all oils considered anti-tumor agents. I settled for these, drops in hands rubbed on the tumor area and bottom of feet twice a day.

Even the medical world is acknowledging the benefit of prayer for the ill. Many people are praying for me. I have been greatly supported and strengthened by these prayers.

None of these alternatives is toxic, difficult to acquire or to use, very expensive, or in conflict with FDA recommendations. Whatever else they may or may not do, they are hope producers. And an attitude of hope is in itself therapeutic.

—Evelyn King Mumaw, Harrisonburg, Virginia, has long been a retreat leader as well as author of many articles and books, including Journey Through Grief (Masthof Press, 1997) and The Merging: A Story of Two Families and Their Child (DreamSeeker Books, 2000). This article continues the story of her illness begun in the Winter 2003 issue of DSM. As she notes, her health is tenuous and at the moment it is unclear whether she will have energy to continue writing.