I picked up an old edition of Reader's Digest - September 2009, page 79. The article is entitled "Perils of a Good Thing"
   To summarize: "Almost 60 percent of women reach for antioxidants, such as vitamins C or E, when notified of breast cancer .  . they may be doing themselves more harm than good.
  "Antioxidants sop up free radicals in the body, but that may interfere with . .  radiation and some forms of chemotherapy, which generate free radicals to damage cancer cells.
  "We don't know the effects at this point."  So, we are now warned.

Yet Another Month of Grieving for Wife, and of Survival after Death

   I have survived another month without Wife, though I am NOT relieved by that fact. I still "enjoy" my minutes - well, hours - actually, of overwhelming waves of grief. Songs on the radio continue to swamp the windshield as I drive.  Bobby Goldsboro's "Honey"; the Chi-lites' "Have You Seen Her?"; and strangely enough, Kenny Rogers' "The Gambler", as well as MANY others.
   Along the way, however, I seem to have developed a few coping skills. I have her side of the bed piled high and heavy so that when I climb into bed, or awake in the night, I can slide my arm or foot - or whole leg - under the heavy-ness of her surrogate, and gain some comfort in that.
   I still greet Her each time I walk into the house with, "Honey, I"m home" - hoping-against-hope that she will answer - just ONE more time. (Yes, I am, on occasion, STILL in denial).  I visit her grave at every opportunity, and talk to her there, though she does not respond. I still hope. (See, there again, I am in  . .  you know.) I have resolved to, on each visit, remove a bouquet and place it in the trash. I have kicked not a few rocks, and broken up innumerable clay clods. I have ordered her tombstone, and await its arrival. I leave the cemetery somewhat assuaged.  (Okay, THEN I move onto another stage of grieving - for the moment.)
      In the final analysis of each evening, I eventually conclude that while NOTHING will take Wife's place - in our house, my heart, our bed, our vehicle, or at the dinner table, I am improving. Each night when I begin to hear the music of a self-pity party tuning up, I reach for the switch-to-another-channel button which will  substitute one of my favorite memories of her.  (Yes, I stay- for a moment - in the final stage of mourning - acceptance.) Then, somewhere in the night, I wander once more onto the now-well-worn and familiar mourning path which, once more escorts me into and through another day's somehow-soothing sorrow swamp.

"Down Off the Cross" October 2016, Reader's Digest

Wife and I were constantly aware that cancer was walking with us, but she never seemed to address it as a threat or enemy. I don't recall her ever attending a 'cancer survivor' walk, nor an "I survived cancer" workshop, or joining a survivor group. We moved through each phase, living as normally as possible, and expecting others to treat us as normally as possible. To the bitter end.
  That leads into the Reader's Digest article. A series of quotes: ". .  I found that only a small part of the cancer experience is about medicine. Most of it is about feelings, faith, losing and finding your identy, and discovering strength and flexibility you never knew you had.
   "The other thing I learned is that I didn't have to take on "cancer survivor" as my identity, even though there were forces pushing me to do that.
   "I felt like being a cancer survivor was taking over my life. . . . We know that the way to cope with . .  (a) life changing experience(s) is to find meaning, (which) we have to decide. . . Perhaps we make one small decision that makes a big difference in our lives.
   "What if we lived in a world without survivors? What if people decided to claim their trauma as an experience, rather than taking it on as their identity? It could mean the end of being trapped by our wounds and the start of defining ourselves by what we are becoming."

The Rocky Sex Life of Cancer Patients

Sex,  intercourse, whoopee;  whatever pet name or signal couples agree to convey the message of the need to quell the urge, somehow, goes awry during sickness, and hospital, rehabilitation centers, or nursing home stays. Nerves become frayed, energy abates, and opportunities for guaranteed intimacy are rare and fleeting. Then (s)he DIES. And the REAL battle begins.

As Wife’s cancer battle "progressed", any sort of ‘normal’ life became increasingly impossible. Illness sapped her energy; routines were disrupted. Oxygen masks and tubes protruding from the chest became the norm. But, while were still at home, we at least enjoyed sleeping in the same bed, and somewhat-snuggling. 

 Intimacy became next-to-impossible, though, when we entered the realm of hospitals and rehab centers.  These institutions seem to have no incentive to accommodate, or even to acknowledge the existence of such a primal need.  Their rooms have no locks. I can understand that, to a degree, but not really. Couples can never, ever, EVER, enjoy quiet – or romping - guaranteed privacy. The “knock, before entering” policy is, in reality, a “knock as you open-the-door -WIDE” practice – for CNAs, nurses, and, yes, even doctors. More like tap, tap, swing open door, and announce the parade. One nurse recounted opening a door, only to find a couple locked in hot embrace. She reported fleeing the room screaming. 

I’d been under the impression that this primal urge would recede after the partner died. Wrong, wrong, WRONG. That urge still drives, MONTHS after Wife died.  If anything, during the first few weeks, the urge to relieve the pressure on the prostate gland overwhelmed me, as if the dammed river refused any more to be constrained.  In my younger days, I’d heard stories of wives pulling husbands out of the path of the recently-widowed, and of men hauling their women to the curb when newly-turned widowers were roving the streets. Now, I understand that urge, and sympathize – with both parties.

Now that the caring-for-the-patient mode had waned, and  the loneliness tsunami has somewhat abated, all remains is emptiness of heart, strung-out emotions, loss of purpose, and THAT urge -  Still. Plain. Simple. Strong. Primal. 

Still Grieving for Mate

When asked by others what I'm doing these days, I reply, "Chasing Wife."   Now, I realise that after a few weeks, the chase is futile. Yes, I know.  But, how futile is washing dishes, sweeping floors, changing linens on beds and cleaning the body?  Futility is in the eye of the beholder, and, for now, I prefer futility to reality.

Grieving for Wife

      I started this whole writing exercise because of the difficulties Wife and I encountered as we wearied through our several-year journey through breast cancer. Now, I share because I realize that while process is stressful, physically, mentally, and financially, it holds NO comparison to the stress and shock effected by a mate dying -  all of a sudden, and after years of warning - as if without warning. Thus, I needed to address the grieving process.
    Before we address the subject of grieving, though, I want to re-visit the battle grounds. While hoping and praying for a quick resolution, we trooped through the first steps of the cancer process; the inital shock of cancer diagnosis, the first devastating chemotherapy, then killer radiation; on to scarring surgery, then finally (or semi-finally) to the several-year wait to hear the settling word,  'remission.'
     We heard that word, enjoyed the brief respite, then found ourselves being launched onto an almost-out-of-control cycle of  yet another burst of chemo, followed by another, though briefer remission, ad nauseum. Somewhere during one of those difficult eons, through some paperwork clarifying a study Wife was asked to join, we learned that our cancer had "advanced" to Stage-FOUR, WAY-y-y-y past the uh-oh stage, and on to the Never Come Out-Alive Stage.
     Then, a few years later, Wife died - all of a sudden, without warning. Though we had spent the last few months in and out of hospitals; though she had multiple tubes spilling life from her chest; though she was so weak she could not even walk to the bathroom, she DIED all of a sudden, without warning  . . me.
     The months in the hospital were so much more stressful because we had no opportunity to cuddle, to share a bed - not for frog-snorting intimacy (yes, of course I missed that) - but more for the skin-to-skin touch; the soft on-the-shoulder or arm touch; the "I love you" whisper as we rested, lulling ourselves to sleep. THAT, I miss, and crave, the most.
     Then, she DIED -all of a sudden, without warning . . me. Now, I'm alone, though children and grands are wandering alongside me on their own grieving journey. So, now, I can no longer lie beside her, nor touch her, nor hear her whisper to me, "I love you."
      Some days, I manage - not always nobly, but I manage to survive. Daytime is easier than night-time because, for years, I was out and about then. I always tried to get home in time to eat supper with Wife and kids (when they were home or visiting), then go my way once more until bedtime. Ah, bedtime - the magic moments when I felt connected to Wife on many and varied levels - physical touch and intimacy, soft words, summarizing the day, and such. The first words I tried to always say to her was,"This is my favorite time of day. I have you to myself. And I am all yours - for this short time between lights out and sleep. Let's savor these moments."  And I did. And I hope she did (she said she did.)
      Yes, I was, and am still, in denial. Grieving was an unfamiliar term to me, though my parents and Wife's parents had died, as well as an older sibling of mine.
      So, now, we need to get back to the grieving process. A week or so after Wife died, Pastor gifted me a book, written by Kenneth C. Haugk, part one of a series named "Journeying Through Grief." I devoured it. I can't say I agree, nor appreciate all that the man wrote, but I devoured it, nevertheless.
      Then, recently, Pastor gifted me the second book in the series. A quote from the beginning of Chapter three is sufficient for now: "At a conference, a woman told me, 'Half the battle is just accepting the grief and letting yourself grieve.'
       ". . Grieving . . isn't easy. We . .  end up trying to hold in our emotions. . .  It doesn't work. Eventually, our grief will break through, so letting it come out now is half the battle."
      Yes, I'll get better. Yes, I'll live on, for sake of our children, their children, relatives and friends. But for now, I continue to grieve for my soul, my life mate, my very-other, my very-me.

Notifying Others of Death in Family

O-o-o-kay. When Wife died, my children or I called everyone on our lists SOON, and made sure those who were called AND those on scene knew to WAIT until  MUCH later, until all vital persons were notified personally before posting the death on Social Media.
      Then, within  a few weeks, I heard through others that a family member had died. I asked how notified. "Facebook," was the answer. Some "helpful" individual had posted information almost immediately, EVEN before family had been called. I finally received a text late in the evening. Others expressing sympathy was NOT the way I wanted to hear such information.
So, Rules I suggest we follow:
1. Call  children of the deceased FIRST
2. Call his/her parents, then in-laws
2. Call both sets of brothers and sisters, asking recipient of call to pass the word on to his/her family.
3. Call close uncles, aunts, cousins who are not on others' list, again reminding person to pass on information.
4. LAST of ALL, put information on Social Media, AFTER everyone on above list has been properly NOTIFIED.

PLEASE, let decorum remain supreme.

Sleep? What is Sleep? Stage Four Breast Cancer; Consequences of Cancer

             Consequences of Stage-Four Breast Cancer
Wife died a few weeks ago, the final results of stage-four breast cancer.
What I have learned so far:
   Stage-Four Breast Cancer sucks bitter lemons. BIG TIME.
   Survival rate of stage-four cancer is low, to non-existent.

   Other things often tend to cause death before the actual cancer gets there.
         Breathing difficulties; diminished lung capacity:
             Liquids building up around the heart and lungs compress both, and can trigger life-threatening
                        situations.
             Pneumonia, caused by areas of a lung not exchanging air at an adequate rate to manage moisture
                       and the warm atmosphere that becomes a prime breeding ground for bacteria, is a constant
                       threat.
    
        Heart damage from chemotherapy:
               The heart, while a strong muscle, can be affected by so much caustic stuff flowing through the
                blood. Frequent follow-up tests are needed to monitor such. (More on that in another entry.)

  Hospital stays are tiring and stressful, at best; terminal at worst.
                Sleeping side-by-side in two single beds is NOT the most intimate situation.
                 Food is at best institutional, bland-ish, and hash-ish; at worst, non-existent for the "other,"
                 the care-giver who insists on staying all or most of the time.
            
                In many facilities, the communication among lung specialists, heart specialists, oncologists, and                            so forth, seem limited, perhaps strained, and territorial.
                    The personal care-giver, be it family or friend, or hired-hand needs to keep careful notes of
                     who is in charge of what area, and what is being scheduled, and what results these procedures
                     are seeking.
                             Someone walking in, ready to transport the patient for an unexpected procedure,
                             especially when waiting for another appointment for that time, causes a scramble.
                             Done there; been that.  I was NOT slow at insisting a clarification before moving.
                                I pressed call buttons, and scampered to the nurse's station in a hurry.

               The longer the stay, the more likely mistakes are made.
                   Sleepiness and exhaustion can cause carelessness in administering medicine. (again, careful
                            observation by care-giver, and notes of medicines and schedule of administration is
                            suggested)
                   Most hospitals are not designed for long-term stays.
                         Medical personnel seem to get impatient with those who don't seem to recover.
                         Medical facilities tend to rush patients toward the exit.

          Being released, when the patient recovers, moves to a less-intense atmosphere, or dies
                   can bring relief, though that relief may trigger its own load of guilt.

           When all is done, Stage-Four Cancer Still sucks Big, bitter lemons.




   
                        
        

Dealing with Families of those who died; dealing with those who console families who survive death

  Most of us feel awkward when we attempt to console a family or person who are, or has recently dealt with a death. Here, I offer a compilation of some advice I have accumulated over the last few months.

A close friend's father had shifted careers in his early 40s from coaching/teaching in public schools to ministering in small, rural churches for a main-line denomination.

From this teacher/coach/minister came this advice to those who want to console family, yet treat them with respect:
1. Offer a firm handshake, and, if needed, place the second hand over the clasped hands - not tight, but firm.
Or, place a soft hand on the shoulder for a moment.
2. THEN, ask how things are going. and LISTEN; actively. Respond to show the person that (s)he is being understood.  Most people just want to be heard.

From another source to those who are in the throes of agony over a death:
   Be quite selective with whom you share your agony. Most people just want to offer condolences, and don't know how to do so. So (s)he is awkward, stumbly, and just wants to get it over with. Let them; be gracious, and don't feel obligated to continue the conversation. A simple 'thank you,' and, if offered a hug, maybe stick out a hand for a quick hand-shake. Look at watch, and say a simple, 'Well, I gotta move on."


Advice from an old family in the community:
"Though someone has died, the cows still have to be milked, and the chickens have to be fed."
 That statement does NOT reflect a crass attitude; it mirrors reality. We survive, and eventually move on.

Death Seems Inevitable; Stage Four Cancer Consequences: Surviving Spouse Counsel; Visit Spouse's grave often

Advice to a surviving spouse: visit the grave often.
These visits seem to help me contain my anticipation that Wife is coming home, or will be at the next stop, or in bed when I arrive.
The grave is REAL; That pile of dirt and flowers tell me that she AIN'T. COMING. BACK.  My crying fits and feeling sorry for myself (which still happen often) WON'T. BRING. HER. BACK.

Not all Emergency Rooms are Created Equal. And Similar Concerns with Hospitals.

In the last year or so, most  hospitals have initiated a triage system that routes a patient to either the emergency room, or to hospital admission.

Before deciding which hospital to enter, one should consider two things: 1. Hospital services are NOT equal, and 2. while transferring from one emergency room to another hospital is routine, transferring from hospital to hospital almost requires an 'act of congress.'

Our experience: This spring we drove to a local hospital during one of Wife's episodes of respiratory distress. Triage sent her to their emergency room, where they demanded an up-front payment of $250, then determined she needed a procedure performed only at a critical care unit, which meant we were in for a lot of “hurry up and wait.” However, no bed was available in our preferred hospital, nor, for that matter in any central Arkansas unit. I asked about transferring her to the local hospital in order for her to be more comfortable, with a bathroom and a place for me to stay.  THAT was when I heard about the 'act of Congress.'

So, she stayed in emergency, and I went back home for a few hours, AFTER being assured that the staff would attend to her dutifully. When I returned the next morning, I learned that her bladder had become so uncomfortable that she spent almost an hour trying to gain someone's attention, a mere ten feet or so from her. With the wires, she could not climb down from the gurney, and with her loss of voice, she couldn't holler. AND no one checked on her for over two hours. Finally, someone came by and delivered a bedside commode, and helped her off the table and through the wires.

Anyway, twenty three hours after being admitted to Emergency, Wife was loaded onto an ambulance and transported at top speed to the only acute care hospital with an open room. Unfortunately, this hospital was not the one dealing with her cancer issues.

From the beginning, that hospital treated Wife as a heart patient, instead of the cancer patient that she was. And, once more, because of the ‘act of Congress’ clause, that hospital had difficulty sharing records with the primary-care unit. Once the heart issue was addressed and a stop-gap procedure for the real issue was completed, the facility released her to go home, with a new burden - twenty-four-hour oxygen. THAT issue deserves its own article.

The next time Wife needed to visit the emergency room, we cut out the middle-man, and drove on our own directly to the primary care hospital’s emergency room, making the transfer to the hospital far smoother.

Medical decisions create more angst than most anticipate. Gaining knowledge of available health care centers, and considering all options beforehand can help alleviate some of that anxiety.

Our Initiation into, and a smattering of our experiences in Cancer Land

    Almost ten years we started our adventure into cancer land. My mate learned that she was blessed with breast cancer. We waded through a complete mastectomy, with lymph nodes, chemotherapy, and then radiation. From there, we have cried, laughed, whimpered and whined, prayed, laughed some more, and sat - lots of sats.
    Sharing our adventure has long niggled at the corners of my consciousness. I believe I'm ready. So, let's hop aboard the train as we swing and sway through ten years of hospitals, doctors, miles of travel, treatments, success, and failures.