Lymph Journal # 19

1/26/2012

Boys’ day at the start of chemo this morning.  When I came in the same older gentleman who occupied the corner chair was there again.  I chose a slightly different seat than yesterday, hoping it might be slightly more comfortable, and the guy jokingly pointed to yesterday’s seat surprised I didn’t return to it.  After explaining hat, “Mein Deutsch ist nicht so gut.” We “conversed about the merits of the different chairs and the need for a “kissen” (pillow) to really make it work.  Ah, wrestling with words across the language barrier – well, one thing all this is good for is sharpening my limited German skills.  One of the IV supervisory nurses yesterday was explaining the three quick shots she was introducing to my IV line.  As she explained one was for the “vomitation prevention” – I appreciated that turn of phrase.  She originally was from India and came to Germany 12 years ago and has since learned German and nursing.  I asked which course of study was more difficult and, to no great surprise, she said German was tougher and that she was now trying to walk her beginning school age kids through some of the pitfalls of German grammar.

The conviviality continued with the boys.  One of the guys (by now there were four of us) filled his cup with mineral water (most drink the fizzy stuff here – we usually do as well) and lifted in in a salute and then commented on how it was kein sekt (no champagne).  This was followed up by coffee orders taken by the nurses (you know this is downright civilized).  Oops, we’ve got our first female patient of the day so I guess boy’s day is over.  As you can see, I’m writing this from the room – I decided to try taking the computer today so that what comes to me for this won’t have to go through the longhand stage.

I passed a milestone yesterday when I found the first full page of my treatment passbook filled in.  Yes, in Germany you become a card-carrying cancer patient.  In this case the stereotypical picture of a form-obsessed system seems to work.  The book keeps a record of treatments done, blood work results and future appointments.  It serves as your calling card to the clinic – once it’s in their hands you know that service will not be far behind.  So I’ve left behind any apprehensions about such a passbook, apprehensions built on too many war movie –“May I see your papers?” – sorts of scenes.

 "Vell, ve see sat your papers are in order, you may proceed to the treatment room." (They didn't really say this)

Forty minutes in and four of the phases of this round of R-CHOP therapy are done.  Yesterday was the “R” infusion.  This morning I started the “P” (prednisone) at home and today’s infusion should cover the rest.

Well, on to the second topic that I was focused on during treatment (and beyond) yesterday.  In this situation of cancer and treatment many people have encouraged me to express my fears, my outrage, my despair – mein angst we’d say - in Germany in the middle of all this.  I get this.  I’ve read the despairing thoughts of Qoheleth (Ecclesiastes’ author’s pen name) and I’ve certainly seen in many of the Psalms cries of disbelief, shocks of alarm, and the disappointed hearts and souls of men who recognize their predicaments and their God.

I know it’s OK to “go there”, to allow the cry of my heart to reflect the gravity of the situation I’m now in.  And I do have, every now and then, glimpses of it.  I, and I should say we, usually deal with it through a sense of wry humor we’ve developed over the years amid periods of severe trial.   A few days ago I received the BFA summer plans sheet and was sorely tempted to complete the projected summer schedule with my plan summed up in one word, “SURVIVE”.  I hope they get the joke!

I know I can and might die from this disease or its complications.  It’s not a morbid pre-occupation and it’s not resignation and an unwillingness to fight the good fight.  It’s just recognizing the odds.  Diane and I have had and will continue to have discussions  on the practical matters that come with the prospect of death.

But, and in no way to my credit but to the grace of God I’ve seen play out over my years and the same grace of God embedded in history and in his promises to those who follow him, great waves of despair are yet to roll over me.  Maybe this has much to do with changes I’ve seen in what we call the veil of death or the curtain between now and forever or the Jordan of gospel music that so often signifies the border between life and death.  Right now in my life (and I’m sure this will be challenged from time to time) I’ve got a sense that it’s the dry season in the hills that feed the Jordan’s flow.  When I visited the nation of Jordan a few years ago and traveled to the banks of the Dead Sea you could almost make out the “promised land” on the other side.  It wasn’t until we flew out of Amman for Europe that I could get a clear view of what lay across as we overflew a corner of Israel.  But now my sense is that it’s easier to see across the metaphoric Jordan.  The river seems low and crossing it might just mean a brief, ankle-wetting wade.  Perhaps the rains may come and bar passage for now.  I don’t know, I have no firm convictions either way.  But what I do know, what I can be sure of is God’s goodness and from that knowledge comes peace about the outcome.

For this I am so grateful.  I spent much time in the chair yesterday listening to David Crowder’s music.  One line goes, “From wherever you are to wherever you’ve been, He’s been there, He’s built a monument…”“From wherever you are to wherever you’ve been, He’s been there, He’s built a monument…”.  Just like the twelve stones plucked from the bed of the Jordan as God held back the waters so the nation of Israel could cross to the promised land.  The monument of the stones told the story of God’s continued patience, promise, redemption and grace. 

Well, if you don’t hear from me for a day or two chalk it up to the “chemo brain” phase of chemotherapy.  If it’s like last time they’ll be at least two days where mental activity is about as likely as me running a mile in my present condition.