Breast Cancer and Stem Cell Transplant Journal (My Cancer Journal is included here in the hope it might help someone else who must travel the same path. It consists of letters and journals and wild dreams experienced during heavy doses of chemotherapy. Some of it is funny - some is sad - but I hope it is also informative.) I was diagnosed with breast cancer in July of 1994, had a partial mastectomy and a bilateral breast reduction. I was scheduled for a total mastectomy, chemotherapy, and radiation, then I decided to go home to California for a second opinion before further treatment. I ended up having heavy dose chemotherapy, a stem cell transplant, and radiation. Today it is two years since I left the hospital, and I feel well again. I am trying to hold onto the important lessons I learned during my illness..."Much of your pain is self-chosen. It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self..." (March 17, 1997)
by Denna Rae Bryant
Introduction -
"...for some patients, though conscious that their condition is perilous, recover their health simply through their contentment with the goodness of the physician." - Hippocrates
I believe we have three components to our beings: the Spiritual, the Mental, and the Physical, and as long as these components are balanced and interact well with one another, we are in good health. I further believe we become susceptible to disease when there is a lack of harmony among these components, and that is what happened to me. Due to the stress of my teaching career, a very high-maintenance marriage, and a general lack of having fun in my life, my spiritual, mental, and physical aspects became unbalanced, and I got cancer.
Becoming ill tends to jolt one out of oneself, and forces one to focus on only one aspect of the psyche. And being slivered, so to speak, causes some very basic changes in one's thinking and operating. A patient feels fragmented and is forced to focus on the physical aspects of oneself, but you get used to it, and you learn to concentrate on the one that is most important at the moment. That is why a well-rounded treatment incorporates the other aspects, the spiritual and the mental, to some degree as well. It is an attempt to put the patient back together as a complete entity.
When I got cancer, I was fortunate to find the Hoag Cancer Center where my physician concentrated on my physical well-being, and the cancer center provided additional services to concentrate on the spiritual and mental aspects of the psyche - support groups, yoga classes, and a make-up and wig artist were only a few of the services available to me.
If you've entered the hospital for anything, or have even gone to the doctor's office, you know you leave part of your identity at the door. However, going into the hospital for cancer is totally immersing into your basic physical needs, and maybe that's what helps us to survive. Because we allow our physical/animal natures to take over for us to fight to keep the other levels alive.
We lose our modesty. Our interests and our conversations revolve around bladder and bowel and other functions with which we have been only partially inconvenienced in the past. I can remember a perfectly lovely lady calling me in the hospital to find out how my stem cell transplant was going, because she is facing the same thing within a month or so, and all I wanted to tell her was how important it was to try out and bring soothing baby wipes with her because the rectal pain is so severe during diarrhea. I hardly knew this woman, but I was trying to give her the most valuable piece of information I'd gleaned to make her stay easier. She's still out functioning in the realm of the semi-normal; still worrying about her clothing and scarves and wigs and make-up, and I'm here in the hospital tending to my basic physical rectal needs.
In any case, because of her response, and because of the time-warp I'm feeling here, I can relate to both her perspective and mine at the same time. That is when I thought it might be valuable to set something down to help those others who must take this journey into the Inferno - "Through Hell to Get Well."
When I first returned to California for treatment and chose Hoag Hospital and Cancer Center, I went to a wonderful support group at the Center. One day there was a grand affair; a banquet for all the Stem Cell Transplant Survivors. At that time I longed so to be allowed just to peek into the banquet room, so that I could count them - to reassure myself that people did, indeed, survive the path that had been laid before me. I felt like the 13th fairy who had been overlooked an invitation to dine because there was not enough silver or china or some such. But I also didn't feel like a Survivor then. I was a Victim of cancer, and I even questioned being in the correct support group since those courageous women had battled the disease, and I was just beginning my combat.
In this article, I will share with you what I have learned about fighting cancer and some tips I want to share about your Spiritual, Mental, and Physical immersion and renewal. This is my gift to all those who sent and continue to send me so many prayers and so much love during my battle.
Today is my Day 0 - My Stem Cell Infusion Day. Today I will be reborn to the world in the broadest sense of the word - at the age of almost 52 instead of at 9+ months, which gives me a different perspective at this time. At this moment I have been lead right to death's door - and believe me, chubby women of the world - there was a huge, black-backed, looming scale sitting at the opening, its maw ready to receive the offering of my flaccid little body. The first thing a very efficient nurse did this morning in the dead of the small hours was to weigh me, and I'm still a chunky little cherub, even with a nine-month cancer battle under my belt so far. In fact, this is the first time in my life that I have appreciated having a few extra pounds: I still have little fat places to poke and shoot that don't hurt.
Of course, the awakening avenging nurse also poked and probed and prodded for vital signs, blood, and pulse. Next to me in my room is a serving cart carrying - I swear - a steam table contraption along with vials, syringes, medicines, etc. - a regalia that would rival The Frankenstein Monster's creation. In this pressure cooker, four bags of my frozen stem cells, which were harvested two weeks ago from me, and which have been been growing in a laboratory into colonies awaiting this momentous occasion, will be defrosted and regrafted into my own bone marrow today. How totally amazing!
No boring into bones. No expensive and exhaustive search for a bone marrow transplant donor. One's own blood cells are used for this treatment. I have been given a 90% chance of full recovery from a very aggressive double cancer - infiltrating and comeda carcinoma of the left breast and left lymph nodes through this process. How could I not feel blessed?
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My Story -
I live in Alaska. I am a full-time high school English teacher and a part-time university instructor with a Master's degree in counseling, . As almost every other female teacher I know does, I tend to put off until summertime all the physical examinations, and even my income taxes, until I have a couple of months off during which I come up for air. During the school year my head goes down; my bottom goes up, and I don't come up until June. I teach hard; I'm dedicated, and I love my job, even after 21 years at it. But I have become totally immersed in it.
Last June I made my usual appointments for physicals and eye exams and my usual, dreaded mammogram. I have had a mammogram ever since my fortieth birthday because I had very large breasts filled with fibroids. I wouldn't have been able to detect a golf ball in those masses. In the past I have been sent to a surgeon several times regarding a possible need for a biopsy, but none was ever deemed necessary until last July.
During the actual mammogram, a very astute young technician decided she would do a couple of enlargements of my left breast because she had noticed a very slight change in an area of calcification within the breast since last year. I grumbled and groaned and pulled my gown off again for another excruciating squeeze. When I left, I was cussing her out for putting me through another ordeal, figuring she was just angry because I had warned her to use the large film rather than the small film she had originally had out for my breasts. I thought she was just trying to cut costs at my pain. (Thank you, My Dear, you probably saved my life. I owe that young woman a lot.)
Within a few days I was back in the Mammography Center, this time for a needle biopsy. Yes, we do have a needle biopsy machine in Anchorage, Alaska - thanks to a very far-thinking, hard-headed young doctor who has been pioneering the treatment of breast cancer in the Great White North.
After a few plinks with the needle biopsy I was sent to the breast cancer surgeon who seemed to think that they had detected the cancer in its infancy because there were no large areas of concern. Two types of cancer had been uncovered: comeda carcinoma in situ (which, I understand, likes to stay in a site creating lumps and masses and likes to return to the same site. That's why surgeons like to hack it out completely) and infiltrating carcinoma (that likes to travel around the body looking for cozy beds and breakfasts it might occupy. Obviously, the more dangerous).
The surgeon and I decided to go for a double breast reduction, anticipating the size of the cancer to be removed at the same time. So, theoretically, I would come out of surgery with nice "C" cups sans cancer, and go merrily on my way. She had not even suspected cancer in the lymph nodes because the sites looked so small.
During the surgery there was more cancer in the left breast than expected, and when the surgeon decided to go into the left lymph nodes, she found it "cauliflowered" there. So I ended up stripped of lymph nodes and left with one "B" cup and one "C" cup. (B.C. - like before cancer)
It was also time for the surgeon to go on her annual vacation, and time for me to listen to my mother's protests to come home to California to seek treatment.
We began frantically looking for the best of all possible treatment centers, and U.C.L.A. Breast Cancer Clinic seemed a natural choice. Mom made calls and appointments, and then my aunt called to tell Mother about the most wonderful doctor at Hoag Cancer Center in Newport Beach who had cured her daughter of lymphoma when she was given so little hope by others. He was a very busy doctor, but he might find time to see me - if I was lucky.
I managed to speak to his assistant who was rearranging his schedule, as she was leaving to go back to school, and she made an appointment that squeezed me in the day before U.C.L.A. on a weekend. I was to told to gather and bring slides and films and scans and x-rays and hospital notes so copious that when I took off from Anchorage Airport, the flight attendants scowled at me as I explained that I couldn't lift them up into the overhead bin myself, and they were too important to be checked.
Well, I made it to Hoag, and I made it to Dr. Neil Barth, and that has made all the difference for me. Dr. Barth was so obviously bright, aggressive, and dedicated that I felt instantly at ease. He was on top of all that was new in the treatment of cancer, and was so willing to go to bat for his patients against the dreaded insurance companies that had previously dragged their feet refusing to cover this procedure that I canceled the appointment at U.C.L.A. and began receiving treatment at a much more conveniently located Hoag Cancer Center. Spending 45 minutes each day each way to commute down Pacific Coast Highway may be tiring at times, but driving the freeway for 2 or 3 hours a day to go to U.C.L.A. Cancer Center would have sapped the very strength I was using to heal. And all the people at Hoag are wonderful.
Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Hoag for this phenomenal facility. I am so sorry that George Hoag recently died because I was looking forward to meeting and thanking him for the wonderful hospital and cancer center he founded. I feel cheated of the honor, and I don't know where to send my thank you note although I do have a good idea where he is.
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Treatment -
When I started with Dr. Barth, in my mind I was still in the lesser is better mode of treatment. I believed my cancer was minimal, and I would keep my hair and all other parts of me intact. I would merely change my diet and exercise regimens, I would have my breast removed, get a free tummy tuck, and be merrily on my way. Maybe a few radiation treatments later on in Alaska. Ha!
I listened to Dr. Barth talk of monoclonal and multiclonal cancers, the rates of cancer growth, chemotherapy and radiation and stem cell transplants at a quarter of a million dollars, and I felt numb.
That's when my parents and I decided to take it just a little at a time - one treatment, one week, one segment. With my penchant toward literature, I divided treatment into my own Descent into the Inferno - with a twist - YOU GO THROUGH HELL...YOU GET WELL! (Someone forgot to put in the "no guarantees" disclaimer.)
Those first two weeks are a blur. I was scheduled to have breast surgery immediately and a transflap, then it was changed to having a Hickman, double lumen catheter installed because it became most urgent to begin a chemotherapy protocol. The presence of another growth was indicated in my chest during a scan that might mean metastasis in the chest wall cavity. Thank you, Mr. Hickman. I treasure your little tubes saving my little veins.
I began a 4 cycle chemotherapy protocol revolving around 21 days each. I received Adryomycin, Five F-U, and Methatrexate. The Adryomycin and 5 F-U were placed into little tubes pinned to my camisole that slowly infused the chemo over a 36 hour period. I began walking and trying to eat properly, shopping for scarves and hats and accessories, and waiting for my hair to fall out. My shoulder length auburn hair was cut into a little boy's style that was cute. Then clumps of it started falling out, so I got a Susan Powter butch - even that I could live with. Then the little hair twigs started snapping off at the scalp, and I asked my Dad to shave my head.
What an adventure! Dad whipped out his comb and some shears. With a glint in his eye, he asked me how much I'd like off the top. After he'd cut as much as he could, we tried to shave my head and clogged his electric razor. In desperation we turned to a bowl of water, a bar of soap, and a Bic, but we weren't successful. It's really difficult to shave a head.
I ended up calling a cosmotologist friend who came over with professional shears to take me down to a Telly Savalas look. Talk about trauma and a woman's crowning glory. I went through it all. I bought a darling little wig which I hate to wear because it is hot and uncomfortable. "But it does look so lovely on you," people say. People are afraid. They want you to look well. It reassures them because your illness has made a tiny, uncomfortable little chink in their own ideas about mortality, and they have a certain degree of energy invested in your wellness - I mean besides their really loving and caring about you. Even my own family was uncomfortable with my going around the house bald at first, but they eventually got used to it.
On Halloween I painted my entire head orange and drew on a pumpkin face. I thought it was a wonderful idea, but my mother said I'd scare the Trick-or-Treaters, so I put a straw hat over my bald head.
I did have one wonderful adventure with a pizza delivery boy. On a visit home to Alaska, I ordered pizza from a favorite restaurant and forgot I didn't have a hat on when I answered the front door. The teenaged-delivery boy just stood on the porch, staring at me. I had to take the pizza out of his hands and put the check into them. He was so shocked, he forgot to verify the amount of the check and went directly to his delivery truck. About that time my toy poodle, who had a broken leg and a bright, neon green cast on, ran out of the house and out into the driveway to bark at the truck. I flew out of the door, still carrying the pizza and began running around the snow covered driveway chasing Tidbit, trying to keep him out from under the truck's tires. The poor delivery boy just sat in his truck trying not to look at the bald-headed woman in the robe holding a pizza in one hand and trying to grab a poodle the size of a large rat wearing a green cast with the other hand. Afterwards, I was mortified until I started telling the story to my daughter when she called. Then we had hysterics. It's a great bald story.
During this phase of my treatment I had mouth sores at one stage of the cycle, and the bottoms of my feet blistered which necessitated my staying off of them for a week. My stomach often felt queasy, but I never threw up. In fact, I have never thrown up during any phase of treatment.
I attribute my doing so well to the fact that while under anesthesia during a biopsy, I had the anesthetist read me a list of positive suggestions I had written out that said I would do well during my treatment and recover rapidly. I have done so consistently.
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The Harvesting -
After the series of four chemotherapies, it was time to harvest stem cells. In order to get the bone marrow to produce large amounts of stem cells, an infusion chemotherapy of Taxol and Cytoxin was given to me. That was the worst part of my entire treatment. For several days I wheeled around a little luggage cart that constantly infused the chemotherapy drugs and dispensed anti-nausea medication. I felt like I had a bad case of the flu, with achy bones and joints and always on the verge of upchucking, but never doing it. I just lay around thinking and wishing I were going to die.
I had bizarre dreams about having yarn and pot holders in my stomach, and knowing if they would just come out, I would feel a lot better. I also dreamed of piles of cadavers forming a peninsula upon which we had built a house. Fortunately, Dr. Barth's assistant, Kelly, had warned me of strange dreams and flu symptoms. In addition, a light show revolved around the periphery of my vision. It was like looking at a Las Vegas billboard that revolved slowly on the outer edges of my vision. I could see out of the center of my eyes, but my peripheral vision was refracting light through mirrored prisms.
Also during this week of intermediate chemotherapy, I gained and lost 20 pounds of fluids. My face looked like a Toltec god - round and moon-like, and my body resembled the Pillsbury doughboy. But my weight equalized to my normal pudge when the week was over.
Then for about another week my body created stem cells, and we watched to see when the count would rise, so I could be "harvested." I was sent to the Day Hospital a few days before, where another catheter was placed into the other side of my chest. Dr. Heather Bryan was the surgeon, and she really knows her stuff. That placement was smooth and relatively painless, considering how difficult the surgery had been for my original catheter.
When my counts went up, I was sent to the Day Hospital four days in a row to be harvested by Hannah, a contraption that looks a little like a washing machine with a centrifuge for a stomach. She pumps the blood out of one of the catheter's tubes, sucks it through her stomach, takes it on a wild merry-go-round ride, removes the stems cells, and returns the blood through the other tube. All the time calcium was being pumped into my other catheter, and the nurse kept popping Tums into my mouth because little shudders were vibrating throughout my body. The process takes about six hours, and one would be well-advised to take a book or something to occupy yourself because there were days when my room did not have a television or even a window to look out.
After the "harvesting" the second catheter was removed, and there was a two week wait while the stem cells grew and multiplied and formed little colonies in the laboratory. Then they were frozen and prepared to be transplanted into my body through my original Hickman catheter.
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The Stem Cell Transplant -
I entered the hospital for a three-week stay. The first few days I was given heavy dose chemotherapy (ICE), and then a week later, I received my stem cell transplant. ICE, the heavy dose chemotherapy before my stem cell transplant, consisted of;
Ifosfamide }
Carboplatin } Chemo drugs for 4 days
Etoposide }
Mesna - not a chemo drug, was given for 5 days (4 days with chemo & 24 four hours after) to protect the bladder from side effects of ifosfumide (can cause cystitis = irritation and bleeding in the bladder). This was followed by a cleaning out regimen to completely flush the chemo from the body.
The heavy dose chemotherapy was not as bad as the previous Taxol and Cytoxin had been. I was disoriented, had strange dreams, heard sounds that weren't there, and saw light shows in my mind's eye. I also lost my hearing to some degree. I felt as though I had cotton in my ears, but I didn't have those achy flu symptoms.
I was unable to read or concentrate for most of my hospital stay and just lay in bed when I wasn't running to the bathroom with diarrhea. After a few days of this, I asked Dr. Barth to "shut off my gut" so it would stop. I went from real food to a bag of white stuff that sustained me for about a week then I started begging for food again, especially when my birthday came and went without chocolate cake and ice cream. After several days Dr. Barth gave in, but the diarrhea did not stop for several more days. That's why I say one is reduced to the lowest common denominator - one's rectum. The gastrointestinal system becomes the most important aspect of your being. That's when I was giving that caller advice about baby wipes.
During the stem cell transplant, it is important to note that Day Zero or Day One does not mean that you'll start feeling good. It takes about a week of lying around feeling disoriented and weak before things start looking up. I expected to recover quickly, and I did, but not as quickly as I thought I would. Although things definitely started looking up when I started ordering scrambled eggs for breakfast.
The one thing I most longed for during the no eating phase and the chemotherapy was an frosty glass of fresh orange juice with slivers of crushed ice in it. That's a "no-no," so forget it. Too much acid.
Be very careful of bumping yourself while in the hospital. Even getting in and out of bed can cause bruising because of the low platelet count. Also for the first few days after the stem cell transplant there will be blood in your urine, so don't be alarmed. And don't scratch yourself too hard; it will bruise you as well. When you itch, rub some cream on your skin to soothe it.
After being released from the hospital I felt weak and stiff, but I immediately started taking walks with my mother at the Dana Point Marina, and every day I would try to go a little farther to build my muscles back up. My back is still stiff, after almost a week out of the hospital, but it is slowly loosening up, and I am getting stronger.
Next week I'll have my catheter removed after 9 months of having Mr. Hickman in my chest, and I'm off to Alaska to begin my radiation therapy and my final recovery and to watch my hair hopefully grow back thick and luxurious and maybe even curly! This has been quite an adventure. I hope I have learned not to take too many things for granted and to enjoy something special about each day.
I will remember Dr. Barth's confidence and his blush when I suggested changing the name from the Hawaiian to the Conception Islands in his honor. I will remember Kelly's determined efficiency, Becky's empathy, Cheryl's laugh, Sue's hug, and Peggy's gentleness with a needle. I will always remember Sandy at Hoag Hospital as an outstanding and sensitive nurse and Ellen as considerate. I will recall how Harriet, another patient, told me what to expect and how her smile gave me the confidence to go through what she had already gone through with grace. I will remember the brave ladies in Sue Win's support group, and be thankful to Laurel for the wig and the make-over. I will never forget Cathy Mansfield and her courageous struggle, and I will remember Sue McNeal's infectious smile. But most of all, I will remember that if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. And I will try to remember that there aren't any guarantees in life, so each day must be cherished.
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What to take to the hospital -
Writing implements - I took my laptop computer and a carrier disk. I should have included a simple writing pad with pen and pencil for quick notes when I didn't feel like pulling out my Apple. I missed a lot of simple quips and fleeting thoughts.
Several boxes of tried and true baby wipes - field tested on yourself beforehand, if possible.
Very soft nighties that open in the front and button or snap down. The sleeves should cover your arms, if they're sensitive to harsh bedding. Have enough so that if you soil some, you'll have extras, depending upon your back-up laundering facilities. I needed fresh nighties almost daily.
Slippers; two pair of washable slip-ons.
A robe that is roomy and comfortable and that fastens down the front for easy catheter access. You'll be walking down the halls for the first week or so before you're totally isolated, and later when you're feeling better.
A & D ointment for the rectal area - try this out, too, beforehand, as some are more emollient and soothing. Avoid the drier types. (I liked the Fougere they gave me in the hospital the best.)
Vaseline for lip care.
Very soft bristle toothbrush for tooth care.
Floss - if you regularly floss your teeth, you can continue to do so gently. I recommend using "Glide" floss which is a little wider and less likely to cut into gums.
Tooth sponges are provided because at times a toothbrush may cause nausea.
You will need special, gentle mouth swishes and swallows. Hoag Hospital provided 1000 mL jugs of 0.9% sodium chloride for irrigation and Fougera Nystatin Oral Suspension USP for swishing and swallowing. Rinse at least after every meal and at bed time, and a few more times to prevent open cankers on your tongue, down your throat, and in your mouth.
Before entering the hospital, when I was having earlier chemo and got mouth sores, I used CankerEase to soothe it, which I ordered from my drug store. I used either a solution of baking soda or of table salt to rinse then.
Also, during my entire treatment, I made more frequent appointments at my dentist and periodontist for cleanings. I am sure that is one reason I did not have troublesome mouth or throat ulcers during my hospital stay.
Gentle, soothing toothpaste, if you like the reassurances of toothpaste ads. I never quite feel clean until I give my teeth a little brush with Close Up (very little paste at this sensitive juncture).
A good fingernail brush with brush bristles to keep your undernails and cuticles and hands well scrubbed and germ free is essential, especially after rectal care.
I have a recommendation about artificial fingernails. I know during treatment we women have so little left of which to be proud, and we need our little vanities, but if you can have your artificial nails removed before hospitalization, you might be wise to do so. I elected to keep my silk nails on, and now I'm faced with not being able to have them done because my blood count is too low. I am trying to determine the least caustic method of removing them myself. Somehow, soaking my hands in acetone just doesn't seem very healthy at this point.
Cotton balls and Q Tips for cleansing and swabbing.
Soft nose tissues for sensitive skin; the ones in the hospital are not nose friendly, at least not to my nose.
A good dry skin cream to keep you from tearing at your sensitive skin. Watch for over scratching of skin - it is easy to bruise yourself when your platelets and blood are low.
Your favorite cosmetic skin care creams - to keep those dry lines at bay, and to keep your femininity alive.
Facial cleansing creams or soap, whichever you prefer.
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For the inner child -
When you enter the hospital, give yourself a point of light upon which to focus - something toward which you can look forward with anticipation. Because of the cost of my cancer care, I had enough air miles on my VISA bill to pay for a free ticket to England, and even though I have no extra money, and even though I will be paying off my medical bills for a long time, I am going to take 2 weeks to just roam through museums and streets in London where I've always longed to be.
A stash of soft drinks you can have over the coldest ice you'll ever desire - but will not attain; it doesn't exist in reality. Funny, I gave up cola during my treatment, and my favorite drinks and fruits tended to be orange, lemon, root beer, melon, etc. In the hospital I absolutely craved cold orange juice over slivered ice. Dr. Barth said that was definitely the devil seducing me because too much acid will "rot the vessel," so they say.
Books, tapes, CDs, videos, electronic games - anything to keep you from going "bonkers".
The books I chose for the hospital were simple page-turners; just stories that made me want to read on, and I chose an author who had enough of these pulps to keep me going. God bless her. I wish I could earn a living with tight little stories. What a gift!
I think reading or listening to some of Dr. Bernie Siegel's (Love, Medicine & Miracles) books and tapes is important, especially at the beginning of treatment because of his resources and his expertise in dealing with cancer, and because of the positive mind set you will need.
I also liked a book of short vignettes called: Chicken Soup for the Soul into which I could dip my spoon when I had a moment or needed some sustenance.
The other tapes, C.D.s, videos, were a mixed bag - some healing, some heavy, some entertaining or educational, some uplifting. I chose a potpourri. Baroque music is very good for relaxing and brain exercising.
A few favorite foods - like chocolate - which I now note, except for a few out of control moments at first, I haven't touched. But it's there, secure in my room, ready for me at any moment - my inner child "paste."
A few pretzels sometimes soothe your tummy. A package or two of graham crackers is therapeutic.
An understuffed animal for your inner child is essential, I think. Be sure it's cuddly and might serve as a book holder when turned upside down or a pillow when propped. My Mom's bed bunny became my Chemo Bunny, and she's not getting it back.
You can take your make-up/"war paint" - like Revlon, etc. but you probably won't devote much energy to drawing on your eyebrows or lining your lips. Although I do think doctors really watch their female patients for signs of "war paint" - it's a sure sign they're feeling better. (You will need some lip emollient when they dry out.)
A travel clock if desired, although you have ready wake up calls often enough, and there's a clock on the wall.
For visual stimulation and just plain vegetating, there are a T.V. and VCR with a shelf; there are also a couple of pleasant paintings on the wall. The window views are beautiful, up and down the coast, if you can get out of bed to enjoy them, but you are mostly hooked to pumps and tubes and I.V. bags, so traveling is a bit cumbersome. You may just ensconce yourself on the sofa-bed periodically, but you'll still be called to the bathroom sometime.
You can hang personal stuff and cards and banners, etc.
You may not accept real flowers or plants or mold-producing entities - like fresh carved pumpkins on Halloween.
There is no exercise machine. I wish there were.
There is some storage space - a small closet with a shelf, a cabinet with a cupboard and drawer, a little round breakfast table, some storage above and below the nurse's sink, very little shelf room in the bathroom.
A few dollars for incidentals - if wished.
A long distance calling card, if you're out of the Newport Beach area.
A comfortable sleep hat or scarf. Avoid a turban with a thick seam down the back of the head. It will not be as comfortable as a soft sleep hat.
Later you may want lounging outfits that are loose and comfortable and accessible at the front.
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Correspondence -
During my nine months of treatment I found it necessary to respond to the people who kept sending me gifts and cards and letters and prayers, and since there were 150 on my list, I decided to write a single form letter during or after each phase of my treatment to let them know how I was doing. I used my computer and printer to make copies and did a general mailing about every month or so. For my teaching colleagues I was able to send only one or two letters to school to be Xeroxed and distributed to their mail boxes. These letters kept everyone up-to-date, and I was told they were appreciated by their recipients. They also provide a more realistic record of my experiences and my emotions during treatment. I have included them in case they hold more information that might be useful.
August 23, 1994
To: Bartlett English Department and Other Wonderful Friends
From: Denna Rae Bryant
San Juan Capistrano, California
Hi!
I sure hope you don't mind my typing one gigantic missive instead of writing
to each of you individually. Even though my normal "guilt level" is high,
I just don't have enough energy to write separate notes, and I know each
of you will certainly understand under these circumstances.
Before leaving Alaska to come down here for treatment, I kept quipping
"If soup could cure cancer, I'd be clean" because of all the wonderful
women who came bearing soups, breads, fruits, flowers, goodies, and armfuls of hugs.
You are really wonderful, and it makes me stop to consider how often I've been
too busy or oblivious to perform such kindnesses, thinking that my little efforts
just don't mean that much. Every crisis brings with it opportunities for growth,
and you have been my gentle guides. Thank you.
Now to the gruesome stuff! The decision has been made to remove my left breast
and follow up with at least 6 months of chemotherapy. BUT you know California
sunshine always has a ray or two even on cloudy days, and the doctors at Hoag Cancer Center
do miraculous things. I will not have to have a separate reconstructive surgery
which I had decided not to have anyway because I just couldn't face the prospect
of another operation. But these hotshot doctors are able to do a mastectomy and
to reconstruct the breast at the same time - using my own tissue. No saline bags
or silicon or even those new soy bean bags. My own tissue! And guess what kind
of tissue it is - FAT! And as the doctor said, I have an ample amount.
I get a free tummy tuck to boot.
Just think how blessed I am to be pudgy! If I were some little 90 pound lady,
there wouldn't be any extra fat to move up to my chest. In any case, my mother
thinks I'm crazy to be concentrating on the tummy tuck instead of the cancer,
but I asked her why would I want to dwell on the negative aspects of this coming
surgery instead of looking at the positive outcome. The cancer is there and may
be moving all over the place, so I'll just visualize a new me with perky little
breasts and a flat tummy.
The surgery is tentatively scheduled for this Friday afternoon, August 26th,
at Hoag Hospital in Newport Beach. I am expected to be hospitalized for about
5 days because of the abdominal incisions, and it's just as well because I think
it would be too much of a strain on my parents to have me home too soon, moaning
and groaning. They say I'm welcome to stay as long as I need to, but my mother's
blood pressure is up from this whole thing, and talk about guilt - if anything
happened to her because of my illness - WOW! My mother is so precious to me, and
we are so close that I would just wither without her at this point in my life.
As to when I'll be able to come back to Alaska, I'm not sure yet. My oncologist
is awaiting the results of my tests to determine what kinds of cancer I have,
how fast they are duplicating, how they are cloning, and where else they have
traveled. (All this has given me an idea for a "far-out" science fiction story.
I hope the class is offered next semester.) So far I've been pricked and prodded
and scanned and resonated until I feel like a walking specimen. But I've asked
Dr. Barth for some kind of schedule, so I can plan my life and my airline tickets
with "tentative certainty" (sounds like an oxymoron). I'm shooting to return to
school at the beginning of 2nd semester, but again, that depends on how ill
chemotherapy makes me and how far the cancer has spread. I sure hope I'm
covered with the school district, or I'll also be facing bankruptcy when this
is over.
I also may be able to start chemotherapy here and continue it in Alaska,
depending upon how ill I become. Mom already took me down to buy a wig,
so I'm ready for that trauma - as much as I can be. The problem I have
with chemotherapy in Alaska is that the medical center and oncologist
Dr. B. sent me to were more disturbing to me than the cancer has been so far.
That place was like a chamber of horrors, and I will NOT go there.
Here at Hoag Cancer Center, Newport Bay beckons from the window, and tropical
fish meander around the doctor's aquarium.
In Alaska they decorated their waiting room with an antique console that
looked as if it had been used to deliver shock therapy in an asylum.
Next to it they placed a vintage examination table complete with stirrups.
Alaska chic! And when they weighed me, something to which I never look forward,
they led me through aisles of glass-doored cabinets containing chemo-drugs and
forests of stainless steel I.V. trees with their pendulous bag-branches hanging
ready to drip out their healing poisons. No! I do not look forward to chemotherapy
in Alaska unless I can find someplace that doesn't call to mind Count Dracula's chateau.
So, that's all the news from California for now, and I probably will not be
able to write for awhile. My best to you all. I'm thinking of you.
Hopefully yours,
Denna Rae
RETURN HOME
September 2, 1994
Dearest Friends,
I am just overwhelmed! It is really amazing to me that such a little "stinker"
as I, can gather so many good wishes and so much love. It makes me think that what
I've been telling my students all these years about the importance of loving and
caring isn't a fraud after all. Sometimes I become so cynical when "bad" things
happen - especially to good people - that I wonder if I'm doing kids a disservice
trying to show them the good rather than to prepare them to combat the evil that
pops up intermittently. This is especially true of my own little grandson, who
is so gentle and loving, and who often becomes a target for mean kids.
I keep telling him to learn to "fight" when I think I should be telling him to learn
to "defend" instead. (I haven't quite gotten to the stage of "turning the other cheek,"
so I guess this "opportunity" I've been given to change my life hasn't converted me into
a saint - yet. "Saint Denna Rae" - nah! It just doesn't fit me. I have too much fun
being "naughty," but my faith in Goodness has been restored.)
Anyway, the "opportunity" I've been given has taken a different course from
my last letter. I did not have the surgery that was scheduled. I did have a minor
surgery to implant a Hickman catheter, so I can receive chemotherapy directly into
my heart instead of being poked each time. Because of the size of the tumor next
to my trachea, Dr. Barth thought chemotherapy should be started immediately, and
we'll wait and see if the mastectomy and reconstruction is still necessary later.
No free tummy tuck after all, dang! But my father has put me on a radical, almost
fat-free cancer diet, and I'm already shedding some excess Alaska blubber, so all
I'll need to do is "firm" it up. I sure am fortunate to have my parents and big
brother here to take care of me. My brother is getting even with me for all my years
of "brathood;" he's the one who gives me my daily injection to raise my "T" cell count.
The good news is that what I have is curable; the bad news is that it will take
approximately 8-9 months, and I will have to go through "heavy dose" chemotherapy which
involves having a bone marrow/stem cell transplant, followed by radiation therapy.
But the good news is that the bone marrow stem cells can be "mined" from my own blood
and grown in a laboratory here, so there is no need to try to find a donor or to have
the painful surgery involved. The bad news is that it is up to the insurance company
whether they will approve this final treatment. It will cost one quarter of a million
dollars (My parents think I'm worth every penny of it, so no wise cracks), so Dr. Barth
must demonstrate that my tumor is responding to the initial chemotherapy, then gain
approval to move into the "heavy dose" stage.
It is a little intimidating to realize that Blue Cross has my life in their hands,
and that the School Board can decide if I'm destined to be destitute or not during this
school year; a hard pill to swallow for someone as independent as I have been. It becomes
very humbling and very frightening. I guess that's why each time I receive a remembrance
from one of you, I get so choked up with gratitude.
You are really wonderful friends, and I appreciate each of you. Thank you, Peggy
& Pat for the beautiful flowers. Mom took a picture of me holding them, so you can see
my boys' haircut before I lose all my hair and my semi-flat chest. Thank you for the good
wishes, and Jim (I thought you said I had started with the rear-end. I must be eating
this elephant inside out because it sure is nasty! But if you can do it, I can do it
because I have a lot for which to get strong and healthy, and I WILL be back next school year.
I sure miss all your smiles and your giant hugs; you are my sunshine!
Love to you all. Thank you for the prayers and good thoughts.
Sincerely yours,
Denna Rae
RETURN HOME
September 15-26, 1994 (Sorry it took so long. I couldn't find a printer to work with my MAC,
and I got tired of trying to figure out Mom's IBM.)
Dear Friends and Colleagues,
Again, please forgive me for not writing to each of you individually.
I just don't have the energy, but I do want you to know that I am thinking of you,
and I have been warmed by all the cards, letters, flowers, and gifts you have sent.
All I want to know is what happened to the chocolate? I guess I'll have to wait until
I get home to collect on Kathryn's "Chocolate on Demand" voucher although See's is
everywhere down here, and I do have a little stash of chocolate nut fudge for an emergency.
Just a little update to let you know what is going on in Never-Never Land
(may you never suffer through this excursion). Although I knew it, and had been told it,
but didn't want to accept it, it was still quite a shock to have my hair begin to fall out,
so yesterday (9/14) I had it "butched," and for a few days, until it comes out completely,
I will look like Susan Powter of Stop the Insanity. (I wish I had her body and her bucks
but not her hair.)
I am at the end of the first round of the first cycle of chemotherapy, and it has
been draining. (9/15) Now I am on the second round of chemotherapy. On some days I have
a hard time shuffling around at all, and on others, I feel almost human. Now (9/25) I have
blisters on my feet, so I can't even shuffle around much. I can't imagine anyone being able
to work while going through this, although I realize that there are as many chemotherapies
as there are types of cancers, and mine is a heavy dose regimen.
There are so many things to do every day just to maintain the requirements: I have
to rinse my mouth 4 times a day with salt water to avoid mouth ulcers; exercise my left arm
3 times a day, so I won't lose mobility where the lymph nodes were removed; walk for at
least 30 minutes a day (which I can't do now); take prescriptions on precise schedules;
clean my catheters; inject myself with drugs and with solutions to keep my lumens
(the two tubes in the catheter) clear; clean and change the dressing around the open hole
in my chest from which my catheter hangs; plus go to the doctor about every other day
for additional medications, treatments, and tests. And talk about the price of drugs -
WOW - I paid $225.00 for 12 pills to keep me from being nauseated during my heaviest
chemo days. (No Carr's $2.00 prescriptions here although I have sent home for some things.)
Being sick is really a drag! Yesterday I almost fainted as I changed my dressing,
and then I became nauseated, so I had to spend most of the day in bed just resting and
"psyching" myself up. I would trade places with you and your 38-42 students in a class
in a heartbeat. I miss not teaching The Crucible for the first time in a million years,
and as I was taking my walk yesterday, there was a young man sitting on the sea wall at
the marina reading it. As I walked by him, I quoted, "'A fart on Thomas Putnam,' said
Giles Corey," and the young man almost lost his balance and fell into the water as he
heard the play brought to life by some strange bald-headed lady in a baseball cap just
shuffling along.
Thank you, Math Department, for the very appropriate card with the string of
elephants on it. You do know the significance of my elephant remarks, I presume.
Before I left, Jim Taylor told me that my cancer cure would be like eating an elephant -
that I would have to eat the entire elephant piece by piece, but I would get through it.
I remarked that I was starting with the anus, and he laughed and agreed, but I have yet
to find a palatable part of this particular pachyderm. So, you can see, your card was
perfect with its numerous trunks and tails and ponderous bodies.
Thank you, too, for all the cards, good wishes, flowers, and gifts. Also I
appreciate the letters and cards from my students. It really cheers me to think they
took time to remember me. Please thank them for me, and tell them I'll be back to
drill Latin and Greek roots into them yet, but I will not be able to write to each of
them individually. I hope I haven't overlooked anyone who has written. If I have,
please forgive me. Things just aren't normal here. But then, am I ever really normal?
And just what is normal, anyway?
The weather here is still very warm which makes wearing the hats I bought a
bit uncomfortable, but sporting my bald pate would be even more strange, so I look
at bit like a character from Gone With the Wind in my big straw hats. Come to think
of it, that's exactly where my hair is going. I think I told you, I suggested to my
mother that I rent a convertible, put the top down, and drive down the freeway at
65 miles an hour, letting my hair just fly off my head instead of meekly watching
it slide down the bathtub drain.
You may have heard of the book, DAY OF THE DRONES. Well, yesterday (9/24) I
lived through "Day of the Hones" - I got tired of my wispy little butch coming out
all over the place - on pillow cases, down the bathtub drain, down my neck, so I
asked my dad to shave my head. What an experience! It is really difficult to
completely shave a head. We bogged down his Norelco with my fuzzies, then we went
the Bic and soap route, but still he only managed to make me look like the Phantom
of the Opera instead of Telly Savalas. It is weird! And today I donned my wig for
the first time. I wonder why they always put so much hair in wigs? They always look
so "wiggy." But it makes my mother feel better not to have to look at her Humpty
Dumpty almost bald daughter. It is really hard on my parents to watch me go through
all this. They feel so helpless. Mom keeps saying she wishes she could take my
suffering on herself. But still, it's good to be at home with my family instead
of staying in some hotel room in Seattle trying to get similar treatment as Blue
Cross wanted me to do. It's also good to be in a place that still has flowers and
sunshine instead of rain, sleet, and snow.
I talked to Benefits recently and was told that my catastrophic illness leave
has been granted for the entire school year, so now I can concentrate on just getting
well. Thank heavens we have such a wonderful benefit available to us. I don't know
how we would get along without it. It just seems that even in this adversity, I am
still blessed, and I'm really thankful, especially to Dr. Sears and our administrators
who did everything in their power to smooth the way for my leave. It feels good to
be supported. Thank you for your help.
William told me that while he was taping the board meeting, he learned that the
school board has decided to come back to the bargaining table, so that sounds encouraging.
But I have conflicting reports of a strike looming. I will never understand why we
teachers who give everything to our kids, always come last during negotiations.
I have worked so hard for 21 years to strive for excellence in my classroom, and
no one seems to notice or care, except my kids. They know the difference between
a thrown-together lesson and one that has been carefully planned all weekend, but
they don't vote, do they!
Neither can I comprehend the district's thinking as they pack more and more
programs into Bartlett, and our classrooms become tighter and tighter. Haven't
they considered what happens to rats when they're over-crowded? The consequences
could really be devastating for our students. But I keep laboring under the misconception
that common sense rules decisions made in schools. You'd think I'd learn after 21 years,
wouldn't you? I guess I am ever a Don Quixote at heart. I keep hoping that the "powers
that be" will start acting in the interest of students and teachers, allowing us all
to work together in an atmosphere of respect and of honest give-and-take. Although
I certainly cannot complain about how I've been treated in my emergency. So enough
tilting at windmills and politics and biting the hand that feeds me - back to things
over which I have some control.
I am trying to eat properly, but when I get past the worst days, I find myself
craving a Taco Bell taco instead of a healthy, anti-cancer squash, so the battle
wages constantly within me. I have lost some weight, but getting healthy is my goal,
not necessarily getting slim.
Yesterday the doctor told me I will be able to come home for Thanksgiving because
it will be at the end of the 1st 4 rounds of chemotherapy. So today I made my reservation
for November the 16th, then I'll have to come back down to "mine" my white cells for the
stem cell transplant immediately after the Christmas holidays. Which means I can also
come home for Christmas. Good news for my family whom I miss so terribly. But the
heavy dose chemotherapy awaits me with the New Year which means 21 days of hospitalization
and isolation because my immune system will be nonexistent. But I'll cross that bridge
when I come to it; for now I'm thankful about Thanksgiving. (Most appropriate) I've
even been fantasizing that I would feel good enough to have an open house of sorts
because I would love to see you all. If there is any way to get as many of us together
as possible, maybe on the Friday after Thanksgiving, please advise me. William would
have to clean the house and his room, but what's new? That is how I get him to clean
his dungeon.
My thoughts are with you all, and I really do appreciate all the cards, letters,
good wishes and prayers spilling in from Alaska. Do you think you could arrange to send
me some A positive blood later when I need it? Just kidding. They won't transport blood
that far, so I'm at the mercy of these wild and crazy Californians, and I'll have to
arrange for some down here, unless, of course, some of you are planning a little trip
to Southern California. Wouldn't that be neat? "Hi! How are you? How about a pint
of A positive blood?" or "All's I want for Christmas is a pint of blood, a pint of
blood, yes, a pint of blood." It all reminds me of Nolvia's Blood Lite joke.
Ask her to tell you around Halloween. She does it well.
This letter is getting long, but I don't know when I'll feel up to writing
another, and I'm trying to keep you all up to date, as so many of you have asked.
Just skim it, skip the self-pity parts, and focus on the funny stuff. That's how
I'm handling it myself. Love to you all. Please keep me in your thoughts and prayers.
Hopefully yours,
Denna Rae
RETURN HOME
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
e.e. cummings
October 8, 1994
Dearest Friends, Family, and Colleagues,
Greetings from the 3rd ring of the Inferno. I can't remember whom
Dante placed in his 3rd ring, but Denna Rae's 3rd ring houses the naked
soul facing itself, and it is a wonderment. It is a little frightening
and awful - in the sense of "awe" full - to face oneself without the
usual trappings of vanity and "busyness." It is pretty difficult to look
at oneself bald and stripped of everything but the barest essence, and
try to deceive yourself about the "intense fragility" of life.
I know the cummings' poem is a love poem, but something in it speaks
to me differently during this ordeal, and since it is my favorite, I wanted
to share it with you. Now it seems to speak of the power of love, in general
and its ability to open a heart, as raindrops open petals. I have been shown,
and I keep being shown by you, how the love and warm wishes you send have
the power to "open" a soul, and that "nobody, not even the rain, has such
small hands."
As I wrote previously, before all this happened to me, I can remember
passing around cards at school to be signed for sick colleagues, and if it
was convenient, I always signed them, but when I was busy teaching or
helping students at lunch, I seldom made a special trip to walk down to
the office to sign something. I was just too tired. Yet, as lightly as
you might consider it, every card you have sent, every butcher paper banner
you have signed has meant so much to me. I have read every word and have
heard the sounds of your voices and have imagined the expressions on your
faces as you wrote. And perhaps it is my condition that has caused such
drama, but I believe it is the enormous energy surging from your thoughts
that has "unclosed" me and now makes me weep joyfully each time I open a
card or letter from one of you. Everything touches me more poignantly than
before.
I hope all this doesn't sound too emotional, but I'm feeling so
incredibly vulnerable, and somehow it feels right not to hide it as I so
often do in the business of day-to-day living. In fact, the only times
I consistently allow myself that tender vulnerability is with my students
because they usually aren't totally encased in protective shells yet,
and they sometimes recognize genuine feelings and respond to them when
I can't get through to them in any other way. I think that is why good
literature and poetry speaks to so many of them - even without their
conscious awareness. All we have to do is be sure to "put it out there" -
read it to them, let it touch them, discuss some meanings and applications,
and their subconscious eventually does the rest.
Talk about not being able to determine merit pay for English teachers.
Sometimes it takes years, and the experiencing of an emotion, for a story or
poem to sink in, and the meaning to become crystallized.
Speaking of experience and crystallization - for those of you who have
been praying for my redemption for years now (and there really are some) -I
have to confess that I am a bit ashamed to admit that I still can't quite
handle God or say the "P" (prayer) word. Yet I do have an innate optimism,
and I am a fighter, and I believe deeply in GOoDness. Somehow I can conceive
of angels and the Blessed Mother, but I can't seem to grasp God. S/he is just
too amorphous for me to realize in anything except nature itself, but I am
trying, and I am actually asking for faith - if you can believe that! Do
you think that counts? I just keep recalling Emily Dickinson's poem about
"Some keep the Sabbath going to church - I keep it staying at home -
with a bobolink for a chorister and an orchard for a dome..." It just
feels right to me. Nature - not churches - speaks to my soul. It must be
my pagan Celtic blood.
Anyway, I'm in the 3rd ring of hell because Monday I begin the 3rd
chemotherapy in this first cycle, and I am dreading the effects. I hate
to admit it, but I seem to be getting weaker with each treatment, and although
I fight it, I run out of steam pretty quickly. I wonder what kind of condition
I'll be in when I do finally arrive home for Thanksgiving. Thank heavens
Deni Taree is cooking the dinner; I just have to manage the apple pies.
Mrs. Smith may receive an emergency visit from me at Carr's. But I still
want to see as many of you as I can, so William is planning an open house
the Friday after Thanksgiving. If you are on strike, you'll need the meal
by then, so try to stop by. I would imagine about 1:00 - 4:00 PM is about
as long as I'll be able to go. I'll just be sure Deni Taree bakes a ham
along with the turkey for Thanksgiving, so we'll have sandwiches and punch
and whatever "finger foods" people are willing to bring. Think of it this way -
what a perfect opportunity to get rid of your Thanksgiving leftovers!
I have only one caveat: if you have a cold or something else contagious,
I won't be able to see you because my immune system will be at a very low ebb.
So call. I'll still be missing you.
The weather here in San Juan Capistrano has changed again. It's hot -
in the 90s. Yesterday I had on my Bartlett Rock Hard sweatshirt and my Levi's
and my big wig, and I started out the door for a walk. Two seconds later
I was pulling off shirt, pants, and wig and donning a cotton outfit with a
cotton bandanna for my head. I know I will get absolutely no sympathy from
you for this discomfort, as the snow begins to fall there and blanket Alaska
until next May. I guess that is why in my last letter I included all the
gruesome details of my treatment, so you wouldn't think I was just down
here in California lying on the sand, basking in the sun, and slurping
Margaritas. (I haven't even had a Diet Coke since July! No caffeine!)
That's all the sun news and the ruminations from the 3rd ring -
now for the worrisome news. It is my sincere hope that somehow the
strike will be averted. What hell to go through one way or another.
I feel so bad for our students, but especially for the teachers who decide
to cross the picket line. I can just imagine the agony of deciding whether
you individually can/will strike or not. I keep thinking of my own
single-parent daughter and her two children. What if she just got a
teaching job and was asked to strike? What if she were a substitute
and needed the money to feed her children, so she crossed the picket
line to work? It is just an agonizing decision, and it is impossible
to judge someone else's motive for or against walking out. Again, I know
I have cancer, and life is no picnic here, but I feel blessed not to be
there in that turmoil. I just hope that somehow anger and resentment
won't displace the general respect we teachers have always had for one
another's individuality and decisions.
I also hope that the school board and the superintendent will reallocate
some funds to the benefit of students and teachers. It seems there's always
money for pet projects but not to decrease class size or for us. Again, I
just can't get too involved. I need all my energy to melt the tumor in my
chest and stay strong, but I shall add a little additional message to my
daily talks with my angel. And I know Bettie "Mac" is busy baking cookies
for teachers. She says, "Bartlett will NOT be hungry!"
My love to you all. Thank you for your concern. Every message is
cherished indeed.
With Love and Hope,
Denna Rae
P.S.
Dear Jim,
Thank you so much for the note, the little guardian angel, and
the magnet. I am sorry to hear about G.B. He looks like such a healthy
hunk, and he's such a super guy, I hate to think of anything happening to
him. I'm glad his condition can be medicated.
It feels good to have a "comrade in catheters." I get so paranoid
cleaning my dressing; I'm always afraid I'll infect it because I know
it is a precious little tube that saves me a lot of pain, and I don't
want to have to have another "installed." I was mostly awake, and it
wasn't pleasant having the surgeon digging into my clavicle to find my
non-existent veins.
I've never really asked because I didn't want to be nosy, but I
am concerned about you. Are they able to treat you with a stem cell
transplant as they can me? You said you'll be glad to get rid of your
Hickman. Does that mean you're well now?
It's ironic that I was getting all my medical "stuff" done, so I
could see if I could be a bone marrow donor for you when all this happened
to me. I just feel that you are such a fine man whom I really love and
respect, and that you deserve the absolute best of everything. I hope
your new job is going well although I can't imagine anyone "doing discipline"
as well as you did. It takes talent, understanding, and a super sense
of humor as well as a sense of what's ultimately important in the great
scheme of things - if there is anything that important.
Take care of yourself.
Dear Donna,
Thank you for the letter, the book, and the magazine. I don't think
I can lose any weight during chemotherapy, but I appreciate the thought.
One woman in my support group gained 40 pounds - HEAVEN FORBID! I started
reading the Creative Visualization last night. Isn't it strange, I had purchased
that book several years ago and haven't had time to read it, so I really
appreciated receiving it - especially from you. I don't know if I'll ever
be able to tell you how much love I feel for you. You are just so good and kind.
Please don't feel ashamed about writing because that makes me feel
guilty about writing "group letters," but I just don't know how else to
communicate with everyone as often as I'd like with the limited amount of
energy I possess. At least, this time I'm sending a personalized message
to those who have written or sent things separately. No matter how or when,
your letter was welcome. Thank you, too, for the compliment. I'm afraid my
last letter was a real mess. It had gone on for two weeks and so many things
had changed or were juxtaposed. It reminded me a little of James Joyce - you
had to live my life to understand me. But I felt that I needed to write
something.
I have discovered so many things - or rather have had time to think
about so many things I had only touched upon or read about in the past.
I still haven't grasped life fully for the gift I know it is because I
just keep thinking I will simply get well, and that will be an end to
all this. But I am searching for more.
Ironic, now that I have time, I don't feel inspired to write
anything creative. I have no stories bursting to be liberated from my
brain. I did ask Deni Taree to send me the disk of the fantasy novel
I wrote years ago that became so bogged down in my own vocabulary and
self-consciousness that it lost sight of the story line. I think it is
worth some editing, so I may have a go at it. I'd also like to write
some short stories about people in my life - even my "wicked step-father."
As for writing something for other cancer patients - what could
I say? I could only tell them about the emotional roller-coaster I am
riding and about my thoughts and fears. If it would help anyone, I'd be
glad to share it, but I don't know. I do so appreciate your faith in me
though, and I'll gladly accept any advice you have.
To the mundane - If teachers strike, will you go out too? What
happens there? I know William has been busy removing all my personal
items, and he's packing up my files too. I am just heartsick about
it because it took me so many years to organize my teaching materials
for ease, now if I go back into the classroom, it is going to be a
behemoth task to reorganize all that material. Another very strong
reason to visualize myself counseling instead of teaching. I also
don't think I can handle the stress any more, especially knowing the
physical toll it has taken upon me. But I do miss Bartlett and those
there I care about.
RETURN HOME
Dear Juliana and Glenn,
I really love the cards you send and the excuses for not doing
your homework. It makes me homesick for sophomores - almost.
I hope you'll excuse my form letter, but William is flying in
tonight, and my brother and sister-in-law have gone to pick him up,
and I'm having difficulty just finding enough energy to redraw the
eyebrows I washed off while bathing. I'm feeling a little unsure
of myself because William hasn't seen me without hair yet, and that
first-time, shocked look cuts through me like a raw wind.
I'm glad I'm not there either. I don't quite understand the
public's negative feelings for us. They all readily admit that we
do a job they wouldn't, yet they consistently begrudge us cost of
living raises. Again, I guess I've been blessed - even though someone
else might doubt it under the circumstances. How fortunate I was to be
granted the catastrophic illness leave before all this happened. I'm
assuming I will not be affected by the strike. I hope I'm right.
California is healing. It's still green and blooming, and my family
has been absolutely wonderful. Every time we drive to Hoag Cancer Center,
we go along the coast and are treated to the most spectacular views of the
ocean and crashing waves. If one has to be sick, this is definitely the
place to be.
RETURN HOME
November 7, 1994
Dear Friends and Colleagues,
It's been awhile since I've written, so I thought I'd better
fill you in on the latest in my "adventures." I finished my 3rd
cycle of chemotherapy and was anxious to view the results of my CAT
Scan to see how much the tumors in my chest had shrunk, but there was
no change in the size of the lymph nodes, so now I'm scheduled for
another biopsy tomorrow to see what's going on. It could be good news.
Since the lymph nodes are not responding to chemotherapy, there
is a chance that they are not cancerous, but I may have a condition
called sarcoidosis which is benign. When I asked my doctor what that
meant, he said if I have sarcoidosis, I have just raised my chances for
a cure from 50-50 to 80 or 90%.
I will still have to have the 4th cycle of chemotherapy and the
stem cell transplant to sterilize every cell in my body, but I'm more
likely to beat this whole cancer thing dead if my biopsy brings good news.
In any case, I plan to be on the plane to Anchorage on November
16th and stay until the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Don't forget, you're
all invited to our Open House the Friday after Thanksgiving from 1:00 - 4:00.
I figure I will be able to see more of you all at once and become blissfully
exhausted for one day rather than to try to see a few of you each day
and come back to California totally wiped out. I hope you won't mind
and will be able to stop by for a visit.
My Christmas visit home has been changed because of this new development.
I will come home on about December 15th and must return to California
on January 3rd to begin the heaviest doses of chemotherapy, the harvesting
of my stem cells, and the final 3-week isolation in the hospital for the
stem cell transplant.
I should be finished with my treatments by my birthday in March,
then I must begin radiation therapy on my breast and consider what I want
done about the asymmetry of my bustline. That tummy tuck/reconstruction
would sure be nice, but I don't know if it would be worth another surgery.
And I have NOT lost a pound - I'm just as "fat and sassy" as ever.
Wouldn't you just know it? Some people actually GAIN weight while
undergoing chemotherapy. And, of course, being a "zaftig" type, I am
always inclined to plumpness. Just my luck! I thought I'd finally
get skinny and emaciated. I had visions of returning looking like
an under-fed model with my high cheekbones protruding provocatively.
I could even imagine myself being a bit exotic looking with my bald head.
But no! I'll be as plump as ever. There just isn't any justice.
Of course, it could have something to do with the chocolate I stuff down
my throat when I'm not feeling nauseated.
Tomorrow during my surgery I'm having the anesthesiologist read me
some suggestions while I'm "under," to avoid chocolate and sweets.
I've read that the brain is really susceptible in that state, so I'm
hoping for a small miracle. Might as well get my money's worth - or
Blue Cross'. Probably nowhere but in California would an anesthesiologist
cooperate in such an experiment. My home state is just like a bowl of
granola - full of fruits, nuts, and flakes. It suits me somehow.
Thank you for the many cards and letters and gifts you've sent.
I feel really special and cared about. You'll never know how much you've
touched me with your thoughts and remembrances - yes, and prayers, too!
There! I've said the "P" word.
I've even gone to Mass with Mom several times, but everything has
changed so drastically in the Catholic Church that I don't know when to sit,
kneel, or stand, and I certainly don't know many of the responses in English.
Give me the old fashioned Latin Mass any day, and I'd feel right at home.
Somehow the feeling of mystery is gone now for me - the magic of ritual
has been replaced by common simplicity. Perhaps had I been reared to it,
I would love the new church, but I long for the formal choir, the priests
splendidly garbed, and the mystical feeling I used to get when the bells
chimed the coming of the sacrifice. I guess it's the Irish Celt in me that
loves mythos and shuns the mundane.
But I still find God in nature - the crashing sea, the shimmering rippled
ocean with the golden ball of the sun slowly sinking into its crimson sunset
smeared depths thrills me even when I'm feeling really awful.
Merle and Pete Askeland took me to lunch yesterday, and we caught
ourselves up on everything we knew or had heard about Alaska. They've
been gone a month, just rolling around the country. What a life! Merle
is happy, and yes, she does look younger since she retired. They're
staying down awhile longer, and are even going to use my parents' time
share down in Mexico for a week while they're here. I wish I could join
them, but I'll be recuperating from getting my "throat cut" - which is
where the surgeon will be cutting for this latest intrusion into my innards.
That's about all the news from the rings of the Inferno. I'm still
chomping on this enormous elephant, and I will get through it - from
trunk to tail - with your warm wishes and my family's support and love.
I hope to see and hug you all in a couple of weeks.
Yours in perseverance,
Denna Rae
RETURN HOME
December 8, 1994
Dear Friends and Family,
Greetings from the 4th ring of the Inferno, although with the
sun pouring into Mom's window, and I about to go outside to capture
a few rays of it on my Beluga white body, have a difficult time writing
those words. It is absolutely glorious here. Everything is green and
lush: there are Oriental poppies blooming right next to Christmas
poinsettias; the bougainvillea spreads itself over fences and walls,
dripping purple, red, and coral blossoms; and I have Johnny Mathis'
Christmas album playing in the background. Before you get upset,
don't forget how ill I am. I am relaxing and fighting off these cancer
cells, and what better place to do that than San Juan Capistrano!
This fourth chemo cycle hasn't been as devastating as the others.
I think it was because of the 3 week break I had while they did the biopsy,
discovering sarcoidosis in my chest. In any case, I have told myself
that I just don't choose to have any terrible side effects, and I haven't.
I think those suggestions I had the anesthesiologist read to me while I
was "under" were effective - except for the one suggesting I give up
chocolate, although I have noticed it doesn't really agree with my system
now, but that doesn't stop me from stopping by See's when I'm "out and about."
Dad just told me he thinks we're going to have four blossoms on the
amaryllis we planted. We have been watching their progress for three weeks;
one is a foot high already. The one I planted isn't doing as well; it's
only about an inch tall.
At this point in my letter I had to stop and put on a bathing suit
and go out into Dad's garden to soak up a few rays - very few because of
the chemotherapy, but it made me feel good to be able to do it in December
since I return to Anchorage on the 15th for the Christmas holidays.
It was really wonderful to see all of you who came over for our open
house the day after Thanksgiving, and I appreciate all your thoughtful wishes
and gifts. I was especially overwhelmed by the fantastic flower arrangement
Ellen McKelvey and Becky Schaeffer sent. The base of the basket holding the
arrangement was made of real corn cobs, and the rest of it was made of husks
and other "corny" parts. It was filled with a cornucopia of gourds and maize,
dried corn and flowers. It really set an autumn theme for the gathering.
Coming home and seeing so many of the people I care most about really
gave me a chance to reflect on my blessings. I started enumerating them one
night, and it was really enlightening: I don't have to color my hair or go
to the hair dresser's; I don't have to shave my legs or underarms; and I don't
have to wax my bikini line (as if I'd ever don one!). So, you see, there are
always little rays of sunshine piercing dark clouds, if you look hard enough.
Kathryn and Herb Berkowitz brought an exquisite little pouch that
Kathryn had beaded with iridescent blue beads and filled with magical
rocks and rings and peacock-feathered bangles. The next day as it lay
and caught the sun from my office window, it came alive with colors
refracting off the beads. It truly looked enchanted and made me think of
the magic of love shared with friends.
Pat Mesplay brought a Pandora's box she and Peggy Cummings bought, made
of chocolate and filled with fat little Santas to keep me fat and jolly.
And Ellen decided to just give me the portable fan she had previously loaned
me to take to Greece. I guess she has faith that I will, indeed, be up for
the trip with Juliana during the summer of '96, and she's right! Wild horses
will not keep me from finally getting to Greece.
And speaking of Juliana who always finds perfect little treasures here
and there for her friends, she gave me the most precious miniature flowers
and vase to go into my dollhouse's green house. The flowers were exquisite
and far beyond my power to make them myself, but the fact that she was
thinking of me touched me even more.
RETURN HOME
December 26, 1994
Eagle River, Alaska
What a shock! Snow piled higher than I can peak over, zero degree
temperatures chilling my bones, icicles clinging to roof edges, and streets
like ice skating rinks. In fact, my grandson, David Sean, was out on the
street trying out his new ice hockey skates! Talk about going from the
sublime to the ridiculous! But it's still good to be home in my own house
surrounded by my family and loving friends who call and send cards.
Since I don't have a lot of energy, and since I don't have my father's
garden for solace, I have taken to starting a fire in the fireplace and lying
in the living room reading and watching the snow laden trees bow and nod under
the weight of the wet snow. It is a strange feeling to know that all I have
to do for the day is take care of myself, relax, and let my body heal itself -
I mean besides doing my exercises and giving myself the proper injections and
medications at the proper times.
Funny, I always thought it would be heaven to be stranded someplace for
awhile if I had enough good books to read, but now I'm finding it hard to find
books that "grab" me. Things that used to interest me just don't seem as
compelling as they once did. I wonder if my perspective has changed with this
illness. It's funny, I don't feel any different really except I don't seem to
get as upset with things that are out of my control - like William always running
late. My stomach isn't tied in knots the way it used to be. I just sit down,
all ready to walk out the door and pick up a book or magazine and read until
he's ready.
I am a bit worried about the treatment I'm facing with the new year -
the "Harvesting." It sounds a little like a grain fertility rite. When I
get back to California I know I will have two massive chemotherapy sessions,
probably on the 5th and 6th, then about two weeks later I will go into the
Hoag Cancer Center Day Hospital to have another catheter "installed" on the
right side of my chest from which they will draw my blood - which will have
been producing gigantic quantities of stem cells sparked by the chemo. Then
they'll run the blood through a centrifuge, remove the stem cells, and pump
the "divested" blood back into my other catheter. For two weeks they'll grow
these stem cells in the laboratory, producing "killer T cells" - I think.
In February I will then enter Hoag Hospital for three weeks of isolation
while they give me massive doses of chemotherapy that will compromise my immune
system drastically and then pump in these wonderful new killer cells that will
"seek out and destroy" all the remaining cancer cells infiltrating my body.
These new cells will then help me rejuvenate and rebuild a healthy body from
the toes up. (If only they would skip rebuilding the fat cells!)
In any case, while I'm isolated for three weeks, I believe I will have
an ocean and bay view of Newport Beach, and I've been told that there is a
hide-a-bed sofa in my room, so Mom or William can come and stay overnight a
time or two. I can have visitors; they just have to be sterile and wear masks.
(Don't worry, fellows, it's not that kind of "sterile.")
And if you're in California and are so inclined, I will need some blood
(A positive) both for the harvesting (2 units) and for the stem cell transplant
(6 units + 10 of platelets - which I believe my brother can donate). I would
really appreciate getting blood from friends rather than from strangers.
All one needs to do is go to Hoag Cancer Center Blood Donor Services at
4000 W. Pacific Coast Highway, Newport Beach, California, a couple of days
before I need the blood and give it to be deposited into my account. It is
a good idea to call for an appointment. Whole blood is good for about a month,
but my brother will have to give the platelets within 5 days of their use.
Enough cancer and sickness stuff. I hope the holidays and the new year
bring us all happiness and health. Thank you for your kind wishes and prayers.
I'm sure that is why I am able to sail through these treatments with such a
positive attitude.
Deni Taree and the kids are fine. She's enjoying her Christmas
break from UAA, and she's deftly avoiding studying to take the math exam
she must pass before taking her methods classes. She hasn't changed much,
has she?
William is holding up pretty well with the added responsibilities
of taking care of coordinating all the doctors' bills and insurance payments.
We're both learning a little about not taking each other for granted quite
so much, but we're far from sainthood yet.
I'm running out of energy, so I'll just wish you happiness in the
new year and joy throughout the holidays.
With warmth and love,
RETURN HOME
February 16, 1995
Dear Friends and Family,
The Fifth Ring of Hell has been the worst so far, and I haven't
written because I haven't had the strength. Before I forget, please
forgive me if I fail to thank any one of you for anything you have
sent me. The chemotherapy has definitely affected my brain cells
along with every other cell in my body, and I honestly do not remember
some things that happen to me, especially when they occur during really
unpleasant chemo days. Maybe it's selective amnesia; a way for the
persona to protect itself from pain during especially stressful periods.
Or maybe "old-timers" is just setting in early. In any case, I do hope
you'll forgive not receiving the usual thank you notes from me, and
know in your hearts that my guilty little Catholic school girl is
suffering, wondering whom I have forgotten to thank for what wonderful,
thoughtful gift.
The Fifth Ring of the Inferno housed hitherto unknown horrors.
I was given Taxol and Cytoxin. That name should have tipped me off:
the roots translate "Cyto" meaning cell and "Tox" meaning poison, and
that's just what the stuff did. It poisoned my cells. For a week
I felt as though I was going to die, and I told Mom if I had to feel
that way for the rest of my life, I would want to die. For three days
I lay awake with all the symptoms of the flu. (Chemo creates insomnia
as well as hell.) All my bones ached, and I felt on the verge of
up chucking at any moment. I had a little luggage carrier which held
my chemotherapy medications that pumped into my catheter steadily.
I also had a little pump that administered anti-nausea medication,
and if I needed to, I could press a button to give an additional dose.
I got to carry the chemo around with me like a mother with a child outside
of her womb, connected by a perverse umbilical cord to her heart.
It was weird.
The strangest thing was gaining and losing 20 pounds of fluids
within 6 days when they flushed out the chemo and tried to get my
system balanced. My body looked like the Pillsbury dough boy, and
my face resembled a Toltec god - round and moon-like.
Then came the harvesting of the stem cells a few days later.
Another catheter was inserted into the other side of my chest under
local anesthetic, but it still hurt. Then for four days I was hooked
up to "Hannah" for 6 hours a day. "Hannah" sucked my blood out of one
tube of the catheter, removed the stem cells which she took on a
merry-go-round ride through the centrifuge in her giant metallic
belly, then she pumped my stripped blood back into me through the
other tube. All the time calcium was being sent into the catheter
on the other side of my chest, and the nurse kept popping Tums into
my mouth because little shudders were vibrating throughout my body.
After the harvesting, I was told I had two weeks off while the
stem cells were taken to the laboratory to multiply like little
rutting rabbits. I was also told I would feel good, so I decided
to go home to Alaska because William was off to Korea being a
"Weekend Warrior" in the Air Guard for two weeks, and Deni Taree
was going up to the house to feed and exercise our 5 dogs and to
give one of them medications twice a day for epilepsy. Just what
we need now - an epileptic Irish setter. But we haven't the heart
to send her to doggie heaven yet. Tidbit, the toy poodle, had also
broken his leg, so he was hobbling around on a neon green cast and
needed extra T.L.C.
I flew home, but I didn't feel good. The trip was traumatic
and endless, fighting both headwinds and Mark Air delays, and I arrived
to find my daughter very ill. Chuck Norton, my wonderful surrogate
brother-friend, picked Poo, my shih-tzu I had taken along to California,
and me up at the airport. Chuck was wonderful when we stopped for gas,
and Poo "pooed" on the driver's side carmat which Chuck stepped in when
he got back into the car. I asked him what smelled so awful, and when
we discovered what it was, he calmly cleaned off his loafers while he
polished off the hot dog he'd bought in the service station, and then
drove me to Eagle River, where we discovered I didn't have a key to my
house. So we had to swing by Deni Taree's to borrow her key and dodge
germs and grandchildren. When we finally got home, I was too tired to
talk, so we just ate take-out pizza, then Chuck left.
For several days I only had enough strength to get up, eat
breakfast, and go back to bed; get up, feed the dogs, and go back to
bed; get up, eat lunch, and go back to bed; watch T.V. and read nothing
heavier than Mary Higgins Clark. I only called one or two people per day
because I was so exhausted. And when it came time to get dressed and go
to the Valentine's Tea Kathryn and Lin had invited me to attend, Donna
Edmundson was kind enough to come and get me and take me home afterwards
because I hadn't the strength to drive. Heck, my hands were shaking when
I was trying to put on my warpaint! But I managed to camouflage my lack
of eyebrows and eyelashes with Maybelline and Lancome, and with my bouncy
wig in place, I didn't look half bad for a bald-headed, middle-aged broad
with breast cancer.
It was great to see so many of my teaching colleagues, and to assure
myself that there is life out there that doesn't sustain itself on chemicals
and needles and misery. Now after almost a week at home, I'm starting to
feel half human, although I'm still disinclined to clean the messy house
that Bill has been "bacheloring" in since August, so I know my old, compulsive
self has been transformed to some extent.
During my stay here, my next door neighbors have been wonderful - as usual.
Yvonne made me fudge when I said I was craving chocolate, then she and her
husband, Roger, shoveled and blew the snow from my drive-way when I couldn't
get my car out, and finally she brought me a picnic basket filled with goodies
enough for two wonderfully nutritious turkey dinners. Tomorrow she plans to
drop by with turkey dumplings. She is really a marvel; sending me books and
cakes and an electronic Thesaurus that plays hang-man and anagrams, and which
saved my sanity when I was unexpectedly sent to the hospital for a blood
transfusion one day and was stuck there for four hours without anything to do.
People like the Paynes are a marvel to me; so loving and giving. I really
don't know how to adequately express my appreciation to them, but I'm trying
to think of something to do to show them how much I treasure them.
February 18th - Today I pick up William at the airport. He's coming
in from Korea, and then I'm whisking him off to California to drive me to
myriad M.R.I.s and Cat Scans and blood tests before I enter the hospital
next Thursday, the 23rd, for 3 weeks of total isolation. That's when
they'll wipe out my bone marrow with high dose chemotherapy, thus
sterilizing every cell in my body, hopefully killing all the cancer
cells that have migrated about, and then they'll shoot my stem cells
back into me to rejuvenate me. This coming treatment is really daunting.
This is where I become a quarter of a million dollar woman. Who would
have "thunk" it! My family says I'm worth it. I sometimes wonder.
The one thing that really ticks me off is spending my birthday in
Hoag Hospital, but I should have a view of Newport Bay and the ocean to
console me, and I should be out by St. Patrick's Day. Pat Ryan, one of
my colleagues, has assured me she will celebrate twice as hard for both
of us. She is always so thoughtful. But I do have something wonderful
to look forward to: all these medical bills have run up my air miles on
my VISA card, so I have enough to fly William and me to England for two
weeks in mid-April. And we're going! "God willing and the creek don't
rise."
I have to have a speck of light waiting at the end of this tunnel,
and my speck is a beacon calling me to England for two wonderful weeks
of exploration and meandering. I am so excited I can hardly contain
myself. After that I will go for radiation therapy for 5 weeks in Alaska;
I think every day. I hope it won't be too tiring because I plan to go
back to Bartlett High to volunteer in the counseling office, so I can
learn to use the computer for scheduling and get some more recent
on-the-job training since it has been so long since I got my master's
in counseling, and I definitely want to transfer out of the classroom
and into counseling within a year or two.
"That's the news. Up-to-the-date that's all the news." And it's
probably too much news for some of you, but I am trying to use these
letters as a sort of diary for myself as well, so I won't forget any
of this experience. I'm thinking, "Who would want to remember this?"
But I have been asked to share my experiences with other cancer survivors,
so I don't want to lose anything.
Thank you again for all your prayers (Yes, I can now say the "P" word.)
and good thoughts and wishes and healing energy - and for the cards and
chocolate and flowers and tapes, disks, books and computers. You guys
are just overwhelming me. I never knew there was so much love out there,
and I am certainly feeling it and reveling in it. How will I ever let
you know how deeply you have touched me and how much I appreciate and
love you all?
When I arrived home unexpectedly for this visit and called Juliana
Armstrong, she told be to get right back on that plane and go back to
California because she had mailed me a wonderful Valentine box of
remembrances from my friends in Alaska. So I know when I get back
to Mom and Dad's to face this final stage of the stem cell transplant,
I will have a Pandora's box to open, but it will be filled with good
wishes instead of the ills she found. It will also contain the same
hope she trapped before it could escape, and that hope comes from
the phenomenal caring feelings you have shared with me. Thank you.
With love to you all,
RETURN HOME
(The following was written in Hoag Hospital during the stem cell transplant,
and it is a bit bizarre due to the heavy doses of chemotherapy and
other drugs I was receiving. I have included it so others going through
similar experiences won't think they're totally insane.)
March 1, 1995
Bizarre dreams - potholders in stomach - peninsula of cadavers
Light shows in my eyes - woman in bee suit with chartreuse
lighted earrings
Angel sent the bird and a cloud
My inner eye as interpreted by me - a little bird-like eye
that sometimes is feathered and puffy and sometimes the head
snakes a bit like a swan and sometimes it slowly changes to
less wraith-like creatures.
I think of angels now a lot like Mennoly's dragons in Ursula LeGuinn's
books about Pern. It seems that they beneficently work toward
helping for the little tasks of humanity, so I asked mine for help.
I asked my Grandmother Angel to take up the "rear guard," as I know she
had when I was a baby. And my rear felt better. I really needed
some assistance in that area, and I feel my Angel Grandmother
covered there well for me as she had for me as an infant.
I began "ASKING" for things
Visions/images/light shows
My hand looks like a leaf - like a lizard - frail, non-real, not mine -
like I'm borrowing this body to use for my earthly journey, which I believe,
and I haven't been very respectful of it thus far. I vow to treat it with
more respect.
Very expensive cheap thrills. Las Vegas light-show with the Taxol
and Cytoxin - prisms changing around an elongated helix oval - with patterns
similar to Wheel of Fortune's main turn around letters board.
Searching for ski areas - Didn't ski, just looked at lifts and winches.
Pleasant.
Starting water venture business renting out equipment from who knows
where to whom for what? I got to wake up rather than face the consequences.
We all have at least three components to our psyches:
Spiritual, Mental, and Physical which correspond to the idea of the
Parent, the Adult, and the Child in some psychologies. And we all tend
to operate within these three revolving identities much like electrons
vibrate around neurons or vice-versa. (I'm out of my realm here) -
Much like shimmers of light reflect around a halo.
In any case having an equilibrium - like an illness -
will jolt you out of your reflection into splitting one of your
triple prisms into a shingle shard. And being spliced, so to
speak, causes some very basic changes in your thinking and operating.
If you've entered the hospital for anything, or even gone to
the doctor's office, you know you leave part of your identity at
the door, but I suppose we all do when we enter any environment
that is different than our home. But going into the hospital for
cancer is totally immersing into your Physical, and maybe that's
what helps us to survive. Because we allow our physical/animal
natures to take over for us to fight to keep the other levels alive.
We lose our modesty. Our interests and our conversations
revolve around bladder and bowels and other functions with which
we have been only partially inconvenienced in the past. I can
remember a perfectly lovely lady calling me in the hospital to
find out how my blood stem cell transplant was going - because
she is facing the same thing within a month or so - and all I
wanted to tell her was how important it was to try out and
bring soothing baby wipes with her because the rectal pain is
so bad during diarrhea. I hardly knew this woman, but I was
trying to give her the most valuable piece of information I'd
gleaned to make her stay easier.
In this book, I will share with you what I have learned
about fighting cancer and some tips I want to share about your
Spiritual, Mental, and Physical immersion and renewal. This is
my gift to all those who send me so many prayers and so much love
during my year of the battle.
Today is my Day 0 - My Stem Cell Infusion Day. Today I will
be reborn to the world in the broadest sense of the word - at the age
of almost 52 instead of at 9+ months, which gives me a different
perspective at this time. At this moment I have been led right to
death's door - and believe me, chubby women of the world - there was
a huge, black, looming scale sitting - with a back on it - at the opening.
The first thing the nurse did today was weigh me, and I'm still a
chunky little cherub even with a nine month battle under my belt.
Of course, the nurse also poked and probed and prodded for
vital signs, blood, and pulse. Next to me in my room is a serving
tray carrying - I swear - a steam table contraption along with vials,
syringes, medicines, etc. In this pressure cooker, my frozen stem
cells, which were harvested two weeks ago from me, and which have
been being grown in a laboratory into colonies awaiting this occasion,
will be defrosted and regrafted into my own bone marrow today.
No boring into bones. No expensive and exhaustive search for
a bone marrow transplant. One's own blood cells are used for this
amazing treatment. I will be given a 90% chance of full recovery from
a very aggressive double infiltrating and comeda carcinoma of the left
breast and left lymph nodes through this process.
RETURN HOME
Calendar on the wall when I entered the hospital, showing daily blood and platelet count,
what the date was, and what date of treatment it was considered.
One important point to remember is that at Day Zero I expected
to be feeling better with each + day, but that is not what +1 and +2 means.
I had to get used to just existing in a kind of twilight zone of recuperation,
not expecting dramatic changes too quickly.
Entered hospital 2/23/95 - day (-8) at about 5:00 P.M.
Date 2/23/95 2/24 2/25 2/26 2/27
Day -8 -7 -6 -5 -4
White Blood Count 7.0 5.1 10.0 13.6 8.5
Hemoglobin 10.8 10.1 30.1 10.4 10.1
Hematocrit 31.5 30.1 29.5 30.0 29.1
Platelets 364 341 278 265 250
Date 2/28 3/1 3/2 3/3 3/4
Day -3 -2 -1 -0- +1
White Blood Count 7.0 6.6 2.7 0.7 .4
Hemoglobin 10.3 10.1 9.0 8.5 9.1*
Hematocrit 30.1 29.3 26.5 24.6 26.1
Platelets 212 145 92 46 25
Date 3/5 3/6 3/7* 3/8 3/9
Day +2 +3 +4 +5 +6
White Blood Count 0.3 0.3 0.3 0.1 0.2
Hemoglobin 10.9 11.3 10.2 9.8 9.4
Hematocrit 32.2 32.5 29.5 28.4 27.6
Platelets 7* 12 2 2 12
Date 3/10 3/11* 3/12 3/13 3/14
Day +7 +8 +9 +10 +11
White Blood Count 0.6 3.3 9.1 8.7 10.4
Hemoglobin 9.7 9.3 9.2 7.8 10.7
Hematocrit 27.9 28.0 26.5 22.0 30.4
Platelets 5 5 5 7 6
Date 3/15* 3/16 3/17* 3/18
Day +12 +13 +14 +15
White Blood Count 10.7 10.3
Hemoglobin 11.4 10.8
Hematocrit 32.8 30.5
Platelets 8 9
Date *Mom's birthday, my birthday, Ides of March, St. Patrick's Day
Hb *transfusion - 2 units of red
Plate *transfusion - 1 unit of platelets - (I test non sensitive to herpes,
so unpolluted supply must be found for me) [Wow! All that "clean" living
paid off]
*I lost track of my blood and platelet transfusions. It seemed for awhile
I had either blood or platelets almost daily.
3/5/95 Dr. Barth said my liver and bladder are in great shape.
We also decided it was time to stop taking food by mouth for a day or two
(more like a week) because of the rectal discomfort caused by the passing
of any digestive bits. Even cleansing the rectum gently causes burning
because of tenderness. No reason not to alleviate the situation for a
day of two and allow everything to heal. It was really difficult when
the dietitian arrived with my tray of sliced meat, potatoes and gravy,
and vegetables - all looking so healthful and innocent, but I held fast,
calling for Nurse Sandy for reinforcements. Unfortunately, I had seen
the specially ordered piece of lemon meringue pie gazing at me in its
sunny-yellow ambiance. The only thing that saved me was a swift rescue
by Sandy, and the remembrance in my mind of Dr. Barth warning me that
my absolute passionate longing for orange juice in shaved ice was the
Devil tempting my intestines into ruin.
Recently I have been reading a lot about trusting your body cravings,
but Beelzebub himself rises up to do mischief in unsuspecting little
suppliants who adore at his altar of food.
RETURN HOME
Start at Day 0 - Birth
Talk about 3 areas affected - Spiritual, Mental, Physical -
how they are even further divided - Physical - aesthetic/ego and
physiological functions - which is where we descend pretty fast
for the important healing and attention.
Losing of hair and eyebrows and sexual attractiveness
Affects on others
My gaining of spiritual when I used to be embarrassed to say
the word "prayer."
Learning to ASK - "Ask and ye shall receive. Knock and it
will be opened unto you." What a powerful image - too powerful
for a spoiled woman who thought if selfish to ask for spiritual
needs to be met.
Looking at past life choices and paths for the future
Care of the spiritual, mental, physical - books, scarves, cosmetics,
support groups, choices
Relationship with doctor - purely physical until your general
spiritual and mental parts come into play.
The findings - descent into the Inferno - step by step -
the new paths to be chosen - the light at the end of the tunnel.
The expenses - the insurance carriers, the doctors, and
bills, and set up accounts to manage incoming and outgoing
We all have at least three components to our psyches:
the Spiritual, the Mental, and the Physical which psychologists
often relate to the Parent, the Adult, and the Child. I believe
we tend to operate within these three revolving identities much
like prisms of light, and when everything is well-balanced, we
function normally, but when there is an imbalance, I believe, a
condition is created that invites disease.
RETURN HOME
March 24, 1995
Dear Family and Friends,
I have descended and emerged from the Sixth Ring of Hell, and I'm not
going to take you through the Seventh, and last ring, because that consists of
radiation therapy and Tomoxifin, and I'm thinking it will be a breeze compared
to what I've experienced thus far. In fact, this will be my last letter to
most of you because I am not a good correspondent, and I will be returning to
my "normal," hectic life in Alaska soon to rejoin the living. So I must thank
you one last time for your thoughts and prayers.
I have really appreciated all the support you have given me throughout
this ordeal. My parents have been "blown away" by the number of cards and
packages that have arrived at their home for me. I am truly fortunate to
have such wonderful friends and relatives. It was especially exciting to
open the Valentine's box that Juliana Armstrong organized and sent. I've
never seen so many hearts and mementos of love. Bill was here to help me
open and unwrap everything, so in the confusion, he separated some names
from gifts, and I'm at a loss to thank each of you individually for the
offerings you included in the box. You really made me feel special though,
and I loved being your Valentine. Thank you Juliana & Glenn, Wayne, Sheila,
Ceal, Donna, Lou Ann & Tom, Dorena, Pat & Peggy, Carolyn, Kathryn,
Alexander & Sophia, Dawn, Marge, Julie, Jay & David, Judy Forshee, Holly,
Pat & Mark, Liz and Bob, DeEtte, and Gretchen. You will always have a
piece of my heart.
Then while I was in the hospital, isolated from the world for
three weeks, a phenomenal "Care Package" for my England trip arrived
from Ellen McKelvey and Becky Schaeffer, complete with travel umbrella,
shortbread biscuits, shamrock socks, a book, soap, creme, tea, a beautiful
tea cup, and more. Talk about getting into the spirit of things.
I wish those two ladies were coming along. Now that would be a trip!
About the hospital, let me share my last adventure with you.
I entered the hospital for three weeks. During the first week I was
given massive doses of a chemotherapy medley called ICE. Each letter
stands for a different chemical, but I can't tell you what each is,
and you probably don't care anyway. I was also given Mesna to protect
my bladder and kidneys from the effects of the chemo.
While under the effects of the chemo, my hearing became fuzzy.
(It still is to some degree.) I also was treated to fantastic light
shows in my mind, bizarre dreams, and sounds and music that weren't there.
I still recall a very lively black lady wearing a bumble bee suit and
donning wild chartreuse, ball-like earrings that lit up. She stayed in
my head for an entire day. I must say, the company was welcome, if a
little strange.
A week after I arrived in the hospital, I was "reborn;" they
transplanted my stem cells into my bone marrow. The nurse rolled
in a cart that looked like a buffet table, complete with a pressure
cooker, in which four bags of my colonized cells were defrosted and
reinjected into my body. They were in a solution of DMSO, so for
several days I smelled like garlic, but I didn't notice it.
After the infusion I lay around weak and disoriented for
another week, unable to concentrate on anything and unable to read.
The only books I could follow at all were Mary Higgins Clark mystery
stories. They take absolutely no brain power, but they're "page turners."
The worst thing about my hospital stay was not being able to order
from the menu the things I'd like to have had because they had "write ins"
like pizza and hot dogs and other wonderful junk food. My
gastrointestinal tract went into major revolt, and I was fed from a
bag of white liquid through my catheter for over a week. During that
time all I could think of was frosty orange juice in slivered ice.
I longed for a tall glass, and I begged the doctor for something to
drink. Even on my birthday he did not relent, but a couple of days
later, I was allowed to order scrambled eggs and mashed potatoes,
which I considered a delicacy after not having eaten real food for
so long.
I did not get strong quickly, although the doctor said I made
phenomenal progress, and even after a week out of the hospital, I'm
still stiff, and I walk like an eighty-year-old. Mom and I walk at
the Marina everyday to strengthen my muscles and to get me into
shape for England. I hope I'll be up to it. Now I'm only good
for about a 35 minute walk, then I must rest. I also take a nap
each day for at least an hour. Bill said something about getting
me a wheel chair and pushing me around England. I don't think I
trust his pushing anymore than I trust his driving.
During my last week in the hospital I was treated to a visit
from three Alaskans on Spring break; Wendy & Phil Baker came by for
awhile, and Janice Strickland shared some of her vast supply of
sunshine with me. It was great to see people from home; to
realize life is continuing outside of the illness into which
I've been immersed for so long. I also had visits my family
and two childhood friends, Helen and Bernadette, as well as Don,
her husband, and Greg, their son who is my godson. It's been
nine months, and I still have five to seven weeks of radiation
therapy left. Who would have "thunk" it? I always seemed so
healthy and full of vim and vinegar. One never knows.
Now I've been given a clean bill of health. Dr. Barth said
I was a "superstar" the way I've come through the treatment, but
there are no guarantees, and I have seen a wonderful woman in her
thirties, who only had cancer in her breast, go through surgery
and chemotherapy, only to have the cancer come back into her bones
and her brain. She really has a fight on her hands. I know I must
keep a positive outlook and think it won't happen to me. The trouble
is there is no simple way to detect its return. It's not like my
dad's prostate cancer where they give him a blood test every six
months, and they can tell if there's any cancer present. I know
I will have to join a support group as soon as I get home because
I must stay positive. Negative thoughts attract negative things,
and I don't think I could go through this again. Besides, my
Blue Cross wouldn't pay it; they were bad enough this time.
Each day I look longingly for any sign of hair , but so
far my head is shiny and bald. I've even lost my eyebrows and
eyelashes, and let me tell you, it is really difficult to get
eyebrow pencil to stick to bare skin. I draw the strangest
looking lines that I hope pass for brows, but every so often
I catch people looking at me with peculiar expressions on their faces.
Now it's time for me to begin packing up all the "stuff"
I've accumulated since last August. I'm leaving for Alaska April 2nd.
I'm afraid I'll have to pay for excess baggage because there's no
way this will all fit into two suitcases. Just the books alone will
take up one, but that's what I get for being such a pack rat.
And so my story ends and my journey completes itself. I long
to be home to watch the crocus push through the snow. This spring's
planting of pansies will be especially poignant for me, and everything
will seem a little more intense and precious, I'm sure. I hope I will
learn to enjoy life more and to treasure what is truly important - my
grandchildren's laughter and the warmth of friends. I fully intend
not to take myself so seriously, and to take time "to smell the roses."
If I begin to dig myself into my previous rut of all work and no play,
I hope one of you will notice and kick me right in the pants.
" May the road rise to meet you. May the wind be ever at your
back, and until we meet again, may God keep you in the palm of his hand."
Love,
Denna Rae Bryant
RETURN HOME
November 26, 1995
Dear Sue,
Thanks for the card filled with the "latest." It came at a
time when I was really feeling frustrated and sorry for myself
because I had caught bronchitis for the 3rd time since school started,
and I'm on antibiotics again! But after reading your card, I felt
blessed once again and realized how well I really am doing. I feel
so ashamed for being impatient to be perfectly well and for resenting
any set-back.
Especially when I think of Cathy Mansfield. She touched my
heart so. The first time I met her was at a Hoag support group.
She had finished chemotherapy a few months before; her hair had just
grown back, and she had had her first haircut. She was there to
share that the cancer had come back; this time to her bones and
to other parts of her body. That was the first time I was made
aware of the fact that cancer returns. Up to that point I thought
you got it, fought it, defeated it, and went along your merry way.
Like mumps or measles - I thought one was immune after having had it.
God, what a shock when Cathy told her story. But when I found out
she was Dr. Barth's patient, I still thought she would be fine.
He can fix anything - right? And we were scheduled to have the
stem cell transplant at about the same time. We even thought
we'd be together and could commiserate.
And then when she was hospitalized shortly after because
the chemo was making her so sick, I made it a priority to visit
her. After that we would see each other while getting Cat Scans
and MRI's, as well as at the office, and I learned the cancer
had gone to her brain. Her father was always with her - always
there supporting her. And I recall how wonderful my Mom and Dad
were throughout this whole affair.
Oh, Sue, Cathy is just a young woman. She has children at
home and a husband. I feel so selfish for feeling sorry for myself.
And then when you tell me how difficult it has been for you and
for your friend, it makes me want to shake myself and thank
everyone who helped me.
I haven't joined any groups either. I went to one meeting
up here, but I don't want to linger on my illness. I want to pick
up the pieces of my life and get on with it to the best of my ability.
Some of those women wear cancer like a badge of courage - which I
guess it is in a way - but I do not want to wallow in it. Nor do
I want it taking up any more of my life than is absolutely unavoidable.
I'd be happy to share my experiences with anyone it would help, but it
doesn't feel therapeutic to me to go over and over something just to
air it, unless it needs airing for relief. Maybe I'm in "denial" as
they say, but I don't think so. I believe we're all different, and
what's good for the goose isn't necessarily good for the gander.
Gee, I feel left out. I don't get "gamma globulin" or regularly
scheduled antibiotics (Although it sure seems as though I'm regularly sick).
And my face is round because I'm a "pudge," not because of steroids.
But my daughter brought her treadmill up for me, and I have been walking
almost every day for 20 minutes or so. When I went to the internist,
he said my heart was "irregular" and not to do anything strenuous
until he checked it. Well, it seems that my heart is normal while
exercising, but abnormal while at rest. So I figure that means
I'm supposed to be exercising. And since I can't go walking outside
because it's like an ice skating rink out there, I'd better get my
exercise inside.
I'll be down December 10th until December 25th to see my parents
and Dr. Barth. Mom is taking me to Hong Kong on the 12th since
I couldn't go last year because of the "Big C" which stood for CAN'T
Do Anything Fun! We'll be back the 19th, then I'll sleep, see
Dr. Barth, and return to Alaska on Christmas Day to be with my
daughter and grandchildren. I hope we can see each other during
that time - maybe "do lunch" as they say. Those are the same
people who say "Ciao" aren't they? But I love any excuse to have
a luxurious lunch along the beach somewhere.
Yes, my hair is coming in - not as thick as it used to be,
but wavy. Black with lots of grey in it, which is shocking since
I used to color it red. Some of my colleagues say, "Oh, it came
in a completely different color." I just laugh and say, "No kiddin'."
As for styling it, it does what it darn well pleases. I still "comb"
it with my washcloth after I wash my face in the morning, trying to
get it to lie down and behave, but it's a lot like the rest of me -
incorrigible!
It's beautiful here. Very cold and clear. One night the sky
was a deep royal blue, there was a full moon, and the tops of the
mountains surrounding our house were outlined in black against the
sky. Clouds curled around the base of the mountains, blanketing the
river that cuts through them, just allowing the peaks of the crags to
show through. I stood outside at the top of my driveway and just
breathed deeply and soaked in the beauty of it all.
Last night as Dana Elise (my granddaughter) and I drove home
through the subdivision, we turned to drive behind our house, and
it was so cold the headlights caught the ice crystals covering
everything and made them shimmer like paved diamonds. The trees
are white skeletons, encrusted with glittering ice crystals. We
haven't had a decent snowfall yet, which is really unusual. I'm
really worried about the rose bush I planted. Without the snow
to insulate it, it may not make it through the harsh winter.
And I had toyed with the idea of going skiing over the Thanksgiving
Holidays, but there's only man-made stuff on the ski areas, so that
took care of that. If I have enough energy, I may bring my skis and
boots down and try to convince my big brother to take me to Mammoth.
He and his wife are always off skiing somewhere. And I do love Mammoth.
How many daughters do you have? I have only the one child -
DeniTaree, but she's a gem. I baked apple pies for Thanksgiving,
and Deni did the rest of the dinner, which was excellent. I wouldn't
have had the energy either.
I think it's a wonderful idea for you and Don "to go a wandering."
I sure hope you wander up here during the summer. It's glorious!
And you would have a "base camp" at my house to use as you explore
other areas of Alaska. You guys are more than welcome. I'll be home
all summer except for about 3 weeks in June when I plan to go to Greece
with the group that waited a year for me to get well, so we could all go
together.
So much for now. I have to shower, wash my hair, and get ready
for school tomorrow, watch "60 Minutes," and take my evening walk.
Please give my love to everyone at Dr. Barth's. Send Cathy my
love and prayers. Would it do any good to get her address? Is she
aware? We are all in my prayers every night before I go to sleep,
and we are all in Fate's/God's hands in the end. Joy to you.
Keep good thoughts.
Love,
Denna Rae
Cathy died.
RETURN HOME
Christmas 1995
Blessed Holidays Dear Friends and Family,
"...I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all,
I shall tell you all..."
(from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock)
And what shall I tell you all at this special season? For I certainly feel
like Lazarus reborn. The answer to the "overwhelming question" of what is important
in life has been changed by my flirtation with death. The "glittering things"
hold little allure now. I won't be able to take Grandmother's china with me
into another world.
I have found that love is the reason for living. When I was finally
given my Dad at 18 years old, I learned that "Love is thicker than blood."
There is no bond as strong as that of love freely given and received. Now I
see that the bond of love must extend beyond just those who give and receive.
There is also the problem of loving each of our fellow men.
Christmas 1995
Dear Friends and Family,
Blessed Holidays from "The Great White North." It's glorious and glittery here -
clear and cold. The ice frost clings to skeletal trees and fences and sides of houses
like paved diamonds when headlights flash across their facets. One night the sky was
a deep royal blue - there was a full moon, and the tops of the mountains surrounding
our house were outlined in black against the sky. White mist and clouds curled around
the base of the mountains, blanketing the river that carves through them, just allowing
the peaks of the crags to show through. It was such an achingly beautiful sight that
I stood at the top of our driveway in the freezing night air, just breathing in deeply
and soaking in the raw beauty of it all.
If only I could paint or do night photography! I'll never forget that same
vista two years ago with a finger-nail-like crescent moon hanging above the black
mountain peaks and a blue-green Aurora Borealis splashed and shimmering behind it
all like a cellophane curtain rippling in static electric rhythms. There just isn't
anyplace on Earth like Alaska. And my senses, just like my immune system, seem reborn.
The line from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" keeps going through my head:
"...I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all..."
That's how I feel - in a way - back from the dead, and what "overwhelming question"
occupies me now that I should share? The same old thing that has been said over
and over, but it just hasn't sunk in yet with most of the world - LOVE.
Love that is thicker than blood. Love that overcomes all obstacles and overlooks
all folly. Love that sees the Creator even in the most miserable of men. I know
that these things are really important, and I want to somehow hold onto them even
when I climb back onto the hamster-wheel and start whirring around again. But
how does one hold a rainbow?
I find - after the surgery, after the chemotherapy, after the stem cell
transplant, after the radiation therapy and the lymphodema exercises and the elastic
arm bandages and the "Tomoxifin for Life" sentence - I feel so damaged and tired
and rebellious. I feel as though I deserve to eat what I want and to do what I want
(which is not very much). And I feel angry!
Then I get a letter from a "fellow cancer survivor" who tells me how sick she
is and how her friend couldn't even finish the treatment and how a wonderful woman
who has had a relapse is now in a "care facility" because the cancer is in her brain
and bones and will never leave her free again. And I feel like I need a good shaking
for feeling sorry for myself when I have obviously been blessed by Fate and God.
That's how I've been spending my time - swinging between the sublime and the
ridiculous.
When I went back to my job at Bartlett High School teaching English, I knew
I wanted to give something more to my students, but I have been frustrated by a low
energy level, overcrowded classes, and the usual rigmarole of "institutionalization."
I somehow thought that my epiphany would translate into a general transformation of
the school system - that all administrators would finally see that our kids are the
most important things in our lives, and that we are there to serve them. Oh,
Foolish Quixotic One!
But there must be some way for even one person to make some difference.
"It only takes a little leaven" to raise a loaf of bread and all that stuff.
Jim Taylor, a vice-principal and a fellow survivor, said it all when I asked him
what to do. He answered, "Say good and do good." So simple yet so immense in
implication. I would only add "to think good" is also important. ("Words, thoughts,
and deeds" - the same old stuff I learned in Catechism class was true after all.)
Everyone is well here. Deni Taree will be finishing college in June and
student teaching the following semester. She's on the Honor Roll, the Dean's List,
in the Golden Key Society, and was just inducted into a professional honor society.
Dana Elise is still a "whirling Dervish." She runs everywhere and has only two
speeds: high and stop. David Sean has only one speed: "slowzy" (That's slow and
lazy). Both our men, William and Kelly are working and well. And finally, the
"new kid," Kaitlin Alexis, will be making her debut about January 4, but we've
already begun talking to her, and Dana reads to her regularly. Dana thinks it's
her baby, after all.
Love and Joy,
Denna Rae
RETURN HOME
April 21, 1996
Dearest Sue,
Thank you for asking your daughter to call me to say "Goodbye"
for you. I feel at a loss, but also blessed to have a chance to tell
you that you carry a piece of my heart with you. I will miss the
opportunities to call you and to write to you. The memories I hold
of you become like precious images of sunshine: The light in your
laughing eyes - Your perky little wig banded with a ribbon or scarf
that made you look like a mischievous pixie - Your unflagging
determination and courage to face what had to be faced.
I love you, Sue. You are quite a woman.
You and I have gone into the "Heart of Darkness" to gaze upon
the face of our deepest fears, and you are taking the path now ahead of me.
When I follow - after fighting and beating this, as we vowed -
I will look for you and your light to guide me to our new destination,
for there is always Springtime after Winter. Please watch for me,
Dear Friend, and go with God and in peace and love.
Yours in Thought,
Denna Rae
Sue died.
(These beautiful women so touched my heart with their courage and pride and dignity,
but most of all, with their love.)
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