"JOURNEY OF GRACE"
Chapter 1: "A CHRISTMAS SURPRISE"
Christmas
in Portland, Oregon is a magical time of year. By December, the last of
the golden, red, and orange leaves have left their mother branches and
now form an endless carpet of color beneath the bare trees. Crisp cold
winds swirl through the city, ushering in snow-laden clouds. Silently,
orphan snowflakes begin their fall to earth. Soon, this beautiful city,
perched on the banks of the Willamette River, will glisten with a fresh
white mantle.
During this season of
joy, however, I was not in a joyous mood. As the first snow softly
blanketed Portland, I sat anxiously waiting for the doctor, seated
across the cluttered desk from me, to speak.
I hope his mind is more organized than his desk, I thought.
The straight-backed
wooden chair I occupied felt hard as a rock and made it impossible to
relax. Tense and clammy, I sought my handkerchief to wipe the moisture
from my forehead and hands. I removed my red ski jacket and dried my
hands again on my denim jeans. In the dead silence of the room, I could
feel my heart beating. The doctor sat hunched over two typewritten
pages that occupied his attention. The pain in my kidneys told me the
diagnosis would not be good. Five minutes passed as I studied the
specialist before me. Dr. Adams looked to be about forty. He'd removed
a white doctor's smock and loosened the collar of his dark blue shirt,
letting a paisley yellow tie hang limply from his neck. His husky build
reminded me more of an athlete than a doctor. Fair in complexion with
curly brown hair, he conveyed a pleasant, confident spirit. As he
studied the CAT-Scan report, I knew he was searching for the right
words to express the gravity of my situation.
Finally, he looked up from the records, smiled, and said, "I have good news and bad news. Which would you like first?"
"Well, it's Christmas time," I said. "Give me the good news first."
"You have cancer of the
lymph nodes," he said calmly. "This type of cancer is called Lymphoma
and, in your case, it's reached a very critical state."
"I have cancer! You call that good news?" I stammered, then jokingly added, "I can't wait to hear the bad news!"
"You have Classic Fourth
Stage Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma," the doctor continued, ignoring my
outburst. "The cancer is in the lymph nodes in your chest and under
your arms. Your kidneys and liver are also involved. Over fifty-percent
of each of these organs is infected. Left to follow its present course,
the cancer will kill you within the month."
"That's the good news?" I asked.
"The good news," he added with a smile, "is that we have the drug chemotherapy which will stop the progress of the cancer."
"Well, that's better," I thought. "Just a little chemotherapy and my troubles will be over."
"So, what's the bad news?" I boldly inquired.
"The bad news," the
doctor said somberly, "is we do not have the medicine to cure your type
of Lymphoma, and eventually you will die."
That revelation jolted
me like a blind sided, left-hook. "Let me get this straight," I
replied, trying to keep a tone of sarcasm from my voice. "I'm dying of
cancer, but the chemotherapy will delay the dying process."
"Yes, the chemotherapy will buy you time," came the doctor's candid reply.
"Time for what? Time for dying?" I replied in a frustrated tone.
"Time to get your affairs in order," the doctor said grimly.
Sweat continued to seep
from my pores as I slumped back in my chair and tried to absorb this
mind-boggling information. His solemn words echoed in my brain, "You
are dying, but we can prolong your life with chemotherapy." Suddenly I
felt chilly and light-headed. "Could you turn up the heat, doc?" I
asked. "I'm a little cold."
"You could be
experiencing a mild shock reaction," he replied, reaching in his desk
drawer and pulling out a paper stick. Breaking the end off, he handed
it to me. "Here, pass this ammonia stick under your nose a few times
and I think you'll feel better."
I did as he instructed and the pungent aroma smell cleared my head in a few seconds.
Across the desk, the
doctor continued to study the report, keeping his head down and
avoiding my shocked expression. He swiveled in his leather chair and
pulled a medical book from the bookshelves that formed the back wall of
the office. Quickly, he found the pages he needed and perused their
contents. I wondered how many other patients he'd crushed with the same
news.
Are they still alive? How long did they last on chemotherapy?
Lifting his head for a moment, Dr. Adams smiled and asked, "Would you like a cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin?"
Would I like a cup of
coffee and a muffin! I repeated to myself. This doctor dealt with death
every day, I guessed, so to him having a cup of coffee and a muffin was
simply part of the business. Tell the patient he or she has terminal
cancer and then cordially offer to share coffee and a muffin with them!
Of course!
"Sure, I'll take coffee and a blueberry muffin," I heard myself saying. "All this bad news is making me hungry!"
The doctor pressed the
intercom button and requested two cups of coffee and two blueberry
muffins and then went back to his reading.
I noticed a kind of
surreal peace filled the room. A hundred questions wrestled for answers
in my mind, but the effect of the ammonia calmed my nerves.
Rosewood-paneled walls, a worn leather couch, and a window that
captured the landscape cloaked in a mantle of fresh snow served to put
my thoughts at ease. The unfortunate souls who find themselves in this
room need this serenity as they wait for a prognosis they do not want
to hear.
Soon, a door opened from
the side of the room and a lovely blonde receptionist, wearing a chic
navy blue suit, entered. Carrying a small tray with two steaming cups
of coffee and two warm muffins on napkins, she smiled sweetly at me.
"Will there be anything else?" she inquired of Dr. Adams as she put the tray on the desk.
"Thank you Judy, that will be all," the doctor responded. "By the way, this is Mr. Miller. He'll be our patient."
"Glad to know you," Judy said, extending her hand.
"The pleasure is all
mine," I answered, as I shook her hand and stared into her piercing
blue eyes. "I hope I'll be your patient for a long time."
"I hope you will, too!" she said smiling, her sparkling eyes capturing my heart as she
turned and left the room.
"Wow, what a beautiful woman! She'll get my mind off my troubles anytime," I said in a humorous tone.
"She is a wonderful person and an efficient receptionist," the doctor replied, as he handed me a cup of coffee and a muffin.
The coffee stimulated my
thinking and the muffin filled the gnawing hunger in my stomach,
restoring some strength to my body. "I thought modern medicine
conquered cancer!" I protested. "Where are all the miracle drugs I keep
hearing about?"
"Science has made
significant accomplishments in discovering cures for many cancers," the
doctor explained, "however some tumors defy control. We can prolong
your life for one, two, maybe three years, but that's the best we can
do."
"What about carrot juice?" I asked in an inquisitive voice. "I hear that's good for curing cancer."
"Carrot juice and a
fruit and vegetable diet are a holistic approach to curing cancer," my
doctor responded. "That approach won't work for terminal patients."
"Then how about Laetrile?" I persisted.
"Laetrile is not an FDA approved drug and can't be administered in this country," Dr. Adams replied.
"I could go to Mexico and check into a Laetrile clinic," I said, in a defiant tone.
"You could do that, but
you could also die before you got there. I wouldn't recommend that
course of action," the doctor added tersely. "You need chemotherapy
now! We'll start the treatments tomorrow."
I finished my coffee and
muffin and rose from my chair. Dr. Adams came around the desk and put
his hand on my shoulder in a comforting manner. "Don't worry," he said,
"we'll take good care of you."
"Thanks," I said, as I walked to the door and turned to shake his hand.
"Don't give up hope," he continued calmly, "miracles do happen!"
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