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Peggy is sick in bed following her fifth chemo yesterday (the photo predates her hair loss). Despite never feeling normal and being dogged by the shooting stomach pains that accompany pancreatic cancer, her prescribed ten minute walks have grown into an hour-long affair, and she is back to working out with weights.
I had a friend named Mina who stopped chemo because she believed Jesus had cured her of breast cancer. A popular Methodist lay minister, she convinced enough people that she was cured that she was interviewed on the evening news. Then the cancer killed her, and the evening news remained silent. I also have a Christian friend who is cancer free five years after being told that she would die within the year. As did Mina, she credits Jesus. Then there was the wife of my father-in-law’s preacher who refused medical care for skin cancer because she believed God when he said: “The prayer of the faithful will heal the sick.” When her pain became unbearable and she could no longer eat, surgeons removed her lower jaw and other parts of her face, after which followed a lingering death. Except for Peggy and me, almost everyone who knows of Peggy’s illness has promised to pray for her, and no doubt some of them will interpret her good news as proof that prayer works.
Every other Monday, Peggy has blood tests followed by a consultation with Marc, her oncologist. On Thursday of the same week, she returns for chemo. This Monday, Marc announced that she is tolerating chemo so well that he plans to keep her on the same high dose. He also said that her CA-19 (pancreatic tumor marker) has dropped from +5,000 to 760, and hinted that she might be among the 3% of patients who survive for five years. As good as all this sounds, Peggy later wondered how she can bear taking chemo for the rest of her life. Despite her fear, she, like Jiminy Cricket, has long vowed to live to 103 to see what such an advanced age feels like, and she rejoiced that the possibility of her keeping her word is once more within the realm of believability
Following her second treatment, Peggy’s hair started falling out, so rather than have it look ever more mangy, she had me cut it. This didn’t do either of us any good, her for obvious reasons, and me because, no matter how gentle I tried to be, she kept lunging forward and yelling, “Ouch!” By the time we were done, I was a trembling wreck, although I felt some better after she admitted that her scalp had been hurting all day. When the clippers finally fell silent, she contemplated herself in the bathroom mirror for a long moment before announcing, “At least, I have a nicely shaped head.” In terms of resiliency, she’s surely stronger than I, and I doubt that the very few people who beat pancreatic cancer have anything going for them that she lacks.
I’ve since told her scores of times that she’s as lovely as ever and that she doesn’t need to cover her head for my sake (I enjoy kissing it) either at home or abroad. She initially found this hard to believe, but even if I could pull off lying a few times, I couldn’t get away with lying everyday, which is what it would take due to my habit of frequently complimenting her appearance.
I just heard the clanking of umbbells, marking this as the first time Peggy was able to lift weights the day after chemo. Meanwhile, Sage, our sole tabby since Brewsky died, is beside me asking for a belly rub. If he ever needs chemo, I doubt that he’ll look good without hair.
