Sandy Glum - Damned Near Killed Him: A Chronicle of Love, Hope and Despair in a Time of Cancer

DAMNED NEAR KILLED HIM

A chronicle of love, hope and despair in a time of cancer

Sandy Glum

BIG TREE PUBLISHING

LANGLEY, BC

September 29, 2007

I Am Undone

Four weeks ago today, I got my diagnosis. In some ways it seems like only days ago, and in other ways it seems a lifetime away. How can one person experience so many emotions in four short weeks? Sometimes I worry that the top of my head is going to blow off. To my relief, I no longer feel as though I am about to shake off these mortal coils any time soon. And yet. Cancer is still a pretty powerful word, as words go.

Really, I think I am almost numb. With so many raging emotions racing through my body, I am left rather limp and ragged. Yesterday, the school accountant told Bryan that someone had paid our childrens tuition for the entire year. Thats four thousand dollars. Four. Thousand. Dollars.

No words exist to express my heart. I am undone. All I can do is weep.

I remember a little how I felt when I first realized that Jesuss sacrifice was for me, too. Unworthy. Paltry. But loved with such a love I didnt know existed. With no way to repay and no need to repay. With no words to say and no words needed. Undone in the face of such benevolence and goodness. Such lavish generosity.

I felt a little of that yesterday. I have done nothing to deserve such a gift. Helplessly grateful and silent, I accept.

I told Tony that I have trouble receiving. And that I knew I would have to learn how to receive the gifts people wanted to give. But I didnt know how excruciatingly difficult it would be. How broken and helpless I would feel. How powerless.

Chris talks about self as an idol that we must cast down. I cast it down. Or, at least I try. Is this what its all about? Or is it about anything at all?

October 4, 2007

Its All About Me

One of the most peculiar things about this past month was how time continued to march inexorably on. Mundane tasks and appointments nipped at my heels: lunches, piano lessons, dance class and the crowning insult of all, mounds and mounds of laundry. Surely time should stop, suspended by the tragedy of a serious disease? Surely life should become embalmed, preserved from the buffets of minutiae. Surely one should be exempt from laundry.

And yet, I find myself grateful for these tasks that remind me that I am still here, and that life does go on. One of the most trying things about being ill is that people tend to think they need to protect you from unpleasantness. Thinking you have enough to worry you, they exclude you from their own trials and difficulties, with the inevitable result that you feel more alone than before. More crippled. More useless.

Im the person I was five weeks ago, just refined a little by sorrow and care. I worry that this friend seems depressed or that the other is experiencing difficulties with her pregnancy, and I want to be a part of these concerns. But sometimes Im not allowed in. And sometimes my head is too full to hear. I am distracted by my body, and I fret that all I talk about is my body. I worry that I am boring everyone with repeated discussions about appointments, plans, procedures, and speculations. I dont want to lose my ability to laugh, or to see the utter absurdities of life, or to share in the sorrows of others. But there is a sense of self-absorption that is really appalling. To some degree, everything is about me.

I think Im a little depressed tonight. I probably shouldnt write late at night when the rain is pelting with unwonted ferocity at my window. I think Ill go wrap myself in my luxurious new blankie and listen to Pavarotti until my mind relaxes and I can sleep.

October 6, 2007

The Madwoman in the Attic

Tony asked me today how I am feeling about the surgery. I only grinned at him in a very foolish way. How can I say it without sounding cheesy, or insincere, or delusional? I feel great! Sort of giddy and excited. Buoyant. Happy. Glad to be moving forward. Ten days ago, when I first realized that surgery was imminent, I felt a clutch of fear around my heart. I lost my breath. I lost my focus. I couldnt sit still, and wandered about my house like a demented banshee, wailing and wringing my hands.

And then I had an epiphany. I stopped dead in the tracks of my looming hysteria, and asked myself, What are you afraid of? After a moment of pondering, I had no answer. I tried tracing back my thoughts to see if I could discover what had brought on such a strong and fearful reaction, but I couldnt find it. So I realized that I had been chasing phantoms. I have nothing to fear.

That is a hugely profound statement for me. I have been plagued by fear, defined by fear, cabind, cribbed, confined by fear all my life. The irony is not lost on me. The moment when some would say I have a legitimate reason to fear, is the moment when I am freed from it. The moment when dread, confusion and darkness should threaten me is the moment I achieve clarity and light. Its a mystery.

I just hope I havent peaked too soon. I have a lot of hours to pass before Tuesday 0645.

October 9, 2007

A Birth Day

The house is eerily quiet tonight. Ive never been in my house at night without my children sleeping nearby. I wouldnt have thought the sound of two small sleeping bodies would make such a difference, but it does. Tonight my children sleep at Lauries, and I know they sleep secure and happy.

I have to be at the hospital very early in the morning, and I should be sleeping, but my mind is too unquiet for sleep. I dont feel worried or anxious. Maybe restless. I cant seem to settle to any task. My belongings are scattered across the room, and my bag gapes emptily at me.

Five years ago tonight, I also wandered my house restlessly. My labour pains had intensified, and I knew that my baby would be born. At 2:04 a.m. she arriveda beautiful, round, black-haired baby girl with eyes the colour of a stormy sea. My Anna.

What I remember most about that moment is her eyes. So steady and unwavering. She didnt blink at all, just gazed at me. My heart. I thought maybe it would stop beating, it was so full. It didnt stop, but from that moment it was held captive by my sweet, impetuous, imperious little dancing princess.

Saying goodbye to Anna and Nathan last night was painful. I wanted to clutch them to me greedily. I wanted to weep over them and avow my love over and over, but I knew that would do nothing but churn everyone up and ruin any possibility of sleep. So, I just snuggled them gently, said I love you once, and let them go.

Theres that phrase again Let go.

Im not a let-goer. Im a hold-oner. A cling-on-er.

But tomorrow morning I have to let everything go. Everything. I hope I can do it with grace and courage. I hope I can do it with laughter. I hope I can do it.

October 21, 2007

Sunday Oct 14 5 Days Post Op

My life is constantly descending into absurdities. Diagnosed with rectal cancer, given an anterior resection of the rectum, four-day epidural, plunging heart rate and blood pressure, and a seven-inch scar on my abdomen. And what is it that brings me to tears? Urinating.

I wonder why it is that the simplest biological functions cause me such grief? Getting pregnant was excruciatingly difficult. What most women can accomplish in one good romp in the hay took me ten years to accomplish. And now urinatingthe most basic human function seems elusive and impossible. So now I lay in bed, absorbing the most serene and relaxing music; I close my eyes, think of rain, and wait.

I wonder, briefly, if Jesus ever had trouble peeing. The Bible says that He is intimately acquainted with all human suffering. Before I entered the hospital, I thought a lot about Jesus, and His familiarity with pain and suffering. I pictured Him hungry, exhausted, sleep deprived, homeless. I saw Him relinquish His desire for wife, family, home. Alone, lonely, betrayed, tortured. I saw Him gasping for His last breath as He hung dying on the cross. I knew that there wasnt anything about suffering that He didnt already know.