Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Enjoy Every Minute
My nextdoor neighbor has lung cancer. She was diagnosed last April after complaining about back pain for a while. She went to her doctor, who prescribed muscle relaxants, as he had done before, and she insisted that she wouldn't leave his office until he gave her an MRI. Well, the doctor took one look at the MRI and put her in an ambulance to the Medical College of Virginia. Turns out she had lung cancer that had eaten into two vertebrae, which had to be immediately removed.
She's been through a lot in the past nine months -- back surgery, radiation, chemo. She lost her hair and lots of weight. After finishing her chemo regimen last month, her outlook was good. Her doctor was optimistic, and we all looked forward to watching her gain some weight and get more energy. That hasn't happened; in fact, she started feeling increasingly worse and noticed some lumps and pain in her ribcage. She went back down to Duke, where she gets her treatment, and got the news we'd all feared: There are more tumors.
She's not talking to us much right now. Each day when I get home from work, I look to see if her door is open (a sign she'd like visitors), but lately the door has stayed closed. I spoke with her on the phone yesterday, and we talked about several things, but she did not mention her condition, aside from the fact that she can't drive now. Her sister-in-law arrived yesterday to help with things around the house, because it's increasingly difficult for her to be home alone.
The worst part of this is that she has an 8-year-old daughter, born two weeks before my own daughter. She loves this child -- and her husband -- fiercely and is doing everything in her power to stay alive to be with them. But she's losing the battle.
It's hard for me not to personalize this. I can't imagine facing the possiblility of having to leave the people I love so much, to not watch my daughter grow up, to know she will lose her mother. It's a true nightmare, and it's taking place right nextdoor.
I'm trying to do the right things. I try to listen, to let her know I'm here for her. I join other neighbors in offering to bring meals. I'm trying to strengthen my relationship with her daughter so that I'll be able to help comfort her when the time comes. My own daughter knows that her friend's mother is sick, but she hasn't asked any questions yet about the future. I've broached the subject with her, but I'm waiting for her to ask the tough questions -- I don't want to force this on her before she's ready.
In the meantime, I'm doing a lot of thinking about life and death and justice and God. I've read (and will re-read) Annie Dillard's For the Time Being, which somehow helps me stop searching for the justice in awful things like this.
Mostly, I'm trying to use as a mantra my father's advice to all five of his children: Enjoy every minute. I know he's right. I know every minute is precious, and I know there is no guarantee we will get another. But it sure doesn't come naturally to me.
She's been through a lot in the past nine months -- back surgery, radiation, chemo. She lost her hair and lots of weight. After finishing her chemo regimen last month, her outlook was good. Her doctor was optimistic, and we all looked forward to watching her gain some weight and get more energy. That hasn't happened; in fact, she started feeling increasingly worse and noticed some lumps and pain in her ribcage. She went back down to Duke, where she gets her treatment, and got the news we'd all feared: There are more tumors.
She's not talking to us much right now. Each day when I get home from work, I look to see if her door is open (a sign she'd like visitors), but lately the door has stayed closed. I spoke with her on the phone yesterday, and we talked about several things, but she did not mention her condition, aside from the fact that she can't drive now. Her sister-in-law arrived yesterday to help with things around the house, because it's increasingly difficult for her to be home alone.
The worst part of this is that she has an 8-year-old daughter, born two weeks before my own daughter. She loves this child -- and her husband -- fiercely and is doing everything in her power to stay alive to be with them. But she's losing the battle.
It's hard for me not to personalize this. I can't imagine facing the possiblility of having to leave the people I love so much, to not watch my daughter grow up, to know she will lose her mother. It's a true nightmare, and it's taking place right nextdoor.
I'm trying to do the right things. I try to listen, to let her know I'm here for her. I join other neighbors in offering to bring meals. I'm trying to strengthen my relationship with her daughter so that I'll be able to help comfort her when the time comes. My own daughter knows that her friend's mother is sick, but she hasn't asked any questions yet about the future. I've broached the subject with her, but I'm waiting for her to ask the tough questions -- I don't want to force this on her before she's ready.
In the meantime, I'm doing a lot of thinking about life and death and justice and God. I've read (and will re-read) Annie Dillard's For the Time Being, which somehow helps me stop searching for the justice in awful things like this.
Mostly, I'm trying to use as a mantra my father's advice to all five of his children: Enjoy every minute. I know he's right. I know every minute is precious, and I know there is no guarantee we will get another. But it sure doesn't come naturally to me.
