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On February 13th, Peggy’s gallbladder, lower pancreas, and two lymph nodes were removed in the hope that she could return to a nearly normal life. She has been moaning in pain since the surgery but refuses to take narcotics.
When we saw Marc, Peggy’s oncologist, on Thursday, February 26th, we knew from the moment he walked into the room that the news was bad.
Marc said that Peggy’s post-surgical blood tests indicated that her cancer had spread, but that he didn’t know to where. I am writing this on Monday, March 2, and she is to have a CAT-Scan with contrast later today. If nothing shows-up, he will order both a PET-Scan and a blood test for micro cancers. He also wants to start her on a new chemo, one that might extend her life by two months but is likely to cause illness or unbearable side-effects. Peggy has thus far expressed opposition to this chemo.
Coming as it did right when we were confident that the surgery would prolong her life, Marc’s bad news—and the unrelievedly grim way he presented it—knocked our legs from under us.
Peggy and I are ever grateful for the generosity of those who have called, phoned, texted, sent cards, and ordered gifts. During the past week alone, she received six cards and a bouquet. Also, one friend cooked us a meal; another friend ordered a meal delivered; and still another gave her what Peggy identified as a hundred dollar clothing button. In terms of numbers, the majority of our support has come from Peggy’s friends in the button collecting community, but we’re also well-supported by members of her family and by Lynn and Christi, a married couple that we met in college. Then there are my two Episcopal priests and other members of the Episcopal Church I attend. I must also give credit to my blog buddies, my two siblings (a third sibling died in February) and the members of my online support group. Our most distant supporters are Michelle in England and Kylie in Australia, and our nearest ones are Kevin and Sarah who live next door.
People have offered to sit with Peggy, take her to appointments, do our shopping, and travel from a distance to help us in our home. My church friend, Tom, has often expressed frustration that I won't allow him to “do things” for us, but there could be no more precious gift than his willingness to listen to my feelings and to, on one occasion, hold me when I cried. Ironically, my only bad experience in turning to others for support came within days of Peggy's May diagnosis when two members of her family accused me of being a weakling when I asked them to be there for me while I developed the strength to be there for Peggy. Of all the people in the world, they were the ones whose support I felt the surest of, yet one of the two accused me of throwing a “pity party,” while the other said, “Get over yourself.” Peggy told me today that their attack has been the hardest thing to bear of all the hard things that she has had been through, and I could say the same.
I think it likely that many people feel as they did. I also believe that, to such people, manly strength is well-represented by the false Stoicism of Peggy’s father who, when asked if he’s okay, will say, “I’m fine” through teeth clenched with back pain. Such a man stays hidden behind a drawbridge, and when he dies, it will be without anyone having known him. Perhaps, I go too far in the other direction, but what I speak is the truth as I see it; I speak it unashamedly, and I am okay with people rejecting me for it unless I trusted them awfully, awfully much.
I try to hold to the thought that the two of whom I speak are but two people out of the more than a hundred who have showered us with abundant goodness.
As I was finishing this, Peggy returned home from her CAT-Scan faint, nauseated, and trembling. As bad as that sounds, it was an improvement over how she felt the last time she drank contrast. Until today, I had accompanied her to every chemo, every procedure, and every doctors’ appointment that she has had (out of an estimated two per week), but because I had an online doctor’s appointment today, Shirley, the first friend we made when we moved to Eugene in 1986, took her. Thank you Shirley. Thank you all.
