Not What I Was Expecting

1. Unwelcome News

   Three days before Thanksgiving, as I sat in a tiny room awaiting my turn to be examined, the entire situation seemed surreal. The padded chairs had upholstered seats with cameo backs in a matching floral print. The gilt-framed prints on the pastel colored walls were pink florals and there were artificial pink flowers in vases on the side table. The magazines on the table had a feminine bent; even the cover of Redbook was pink. It was as if I had entered a world turned genteel, soft and pink. There were no signs of virility; this was not a space designed for men. An uneasy feeling crept into my bones and a keen sense of awkwardness overwhelmed me. The sign on the wall said, “Please Remove Bra.” I tried not to let my mind go there. Why was I here, so obviously out of my element and out of synch with this environment? 

   After ten minutes, the technician came to fetch me. She led me through a labyrinth of halls adorned with more floral prints and after multiple turns we reached the testing room. “Step in here please”, she said as she stepped aside. I walked into the room and stared at the unfamiliar piece of equipment. I didn’t know whether to walk up beside it, stand in front of it or sit on it. “Take off your shirt please” she asked, with a little hesitancy. I did, and she looked at me as awkwardly as I was feeling at the moment. I’m over 65 years old, and my body bears the results of multiple surgeries. With my three-week old beard and hairy chest, I don’t think I fit the mold of her normal clientele.

  She quickly recovered and instructed me to step forward and face the odd looking device. She had me lean forward and then squeezed the sides of the device around my breast. When she had the precise angle captured, she stepped behind a screen and said, “Don’t breath”. I heard the machine wheeze and click and then she advised, “Breath”. After a couple of additional poses and clicks, she said, “O.K. that’s it, I’ll take you back to your room now.” I suppose that was so I could put my bra back on. I had completed my first mammogram.

   After another 10 minutes a nurse’s aide came and led me to the Radiologist’s office for a review of the mammogram and for an ultrasound of the surrounding area. As the nurse prepared me for the ultrasound, I said, “I bet you don’t get many patients with hair on their chest”. A wry grin appeared on her lips as she softly replied, “You’d be surprised”.  Lord help me, I wasn’t prepared for that answer, “TMI”, I said and quickly changed the subject. The doctor soon appeared and after scanning me with the ultrasound, she told me that the tumor was not large and it was smooth shaped. “With men” she explained, “that doesn’t mean a lot. Men don’t follow the normal patterns, we’ll have to do a biopsy and send it to pathology to determine if it is malignant”. She performed the biopsy with a needle extraction process and pronounced that the outcome would not be available until the next day. I arranged to return the following day at 11:00am so my wife could join me for the results.

   Four days earlier I had accidently bumped my chest with my hand and discovered the lump just under the skin on my left breast. It caused me concern because I have a family history of breast cancer in the females on my mother’s side. My general physician referred me for the imaging and it took a couple of days to set up the test. Now, I would find out the results on the following day. No need to alert the kids and grand kids until I knew something definite. As I left the clinic, I noticed that even the Christmas tree in the lobby had a pink bow topping the strands of white pearl and pink ribbon. I felt as if I had just walked out of a bad dream, because men don’t get breast cancer.

   At 11:00 the next morning, Cheryl and I sat in the doctor’s consultation room, expecting the worst but hoping for the best. The radiologist calmly sat in front of us, looked me straight in the eyes, and matter-of-factly declared, “It is malignant.”  It was a ductal carcinoma that may or may not have metastasized to other organs in my body. The bad dream had transitioned into a nightmare.  She then described the most likely scenario that would lead to the removal of the tumor, the breast tissue and the sentinel lymph nodes. I was light-headed as I realized that the word ‘benign’ had simply not been uttered. As I floated back to reality, she was saying, “I’ll set up an appointment with a surgeon and he will determine what the best course of action will be.” She was a consummate professional and I thought how she must hate her job at times like these. Surely she has to deliver that message several times a day. God bless her. This was Tuesday before Thanksgiving and the surgeon was not available until the following week. We thanked her for her candor and I drifted out to spend an anxious holiday.

   I struggled to determine what I had to be thankful for. I called all my children and my brothers to pass on the dismal projections and I held back the tears and despair that threatened to overwhelm me. I looked on the web and I was astonished to discover that one out of every thousand breast cancers are discovered in men. How unfortunate that I managed to be one of them. As the week progressed, I prayed that God would give me the grace and dignity to accept whatever the new day brought. Somewhere in the midst of the self pity and fear, the realization came to me that God, in His providence, has always watched over me and I had much to be thankful for. My family and all those I love are something to be cherished, even if everything else is wrong.

   On my Facebook page on Thanksgiving Day, I wrote:

 Psalm 118:24 "This is the day which the Lord has made, Let us rejoice and be glad in it"
There are times when I forget to be thankful for the real things in my life. I am thankful for life itself and the wonderful people that God has put in my life. These are the real things, that mean more than anything else. Thank you Lord and bless all those I love on this day of thanksgiving. I am grateful for each one of them.

     On Thanksgiving day, my brother sent me the following Email:

“You have been on my mind most of the day so when Kim asked me in the "family gathering" around me what I had to be thankful of, you are the first thing I thought of.  While pondering the question, I wondered how I could be thankful of the draconian news you delivered.  All I could think of was "if you have to have cancer, it's good to have the kind you have."  I've spent some time on the internet trying to understand what you have and only have a small sense of what you must be thinking and not looking forward to.  But then, I guess you are looking forward to getting rid of what you have and go on about your life.

And that's what I'm thankful of this year, that you are going to have many more years with your family and friends and doing the things you like to do.  It does bring the subject of trying to get together more often to the forefront of my mind though.  That's my goal for the rest of my life, to spend as much time as I can with you and Ted and the other members of my family.

I love you Brother and always will,

Mike”

   On Sunday after Thanksgiving, as we sat in church, I tried to concentrate, but my mind kept wandering to the uncertainties of the future. I carried a large black Bible with me that day; one that I rarely take to worship service. When the pastor asked for all with a special need to come to the front, Cheryl and I held hands, walked to the front and prayed together at the altar. During the sermon that followed, my mind wandered again. While holding the Bible in my lap, it just popped open to where I had placed a copy of a card that I had sent to a friend about a year earlier. It was a self-created card that I had written the verse and inserted my own pictures. When I read my own words of comfort that I had written for my friend, the message came back at me like a golden boom-a-rang.

   The surgeon was young, hopefully older than he looked, but he spoke with clear authority on the subject and he obviously had a wealth of experience in performing these types of procedures. He confirmed what the radiologist had predicted the week before and he described in great detail what the process would be. We talked about heredity testing for the genes that my mother’s family could have passed down to me, and he recommended having my DNA tested to determine if I had inherited the mutated genes that could cause cancer. My daughter, Mendy, listened with rapt attention as he described the testing process. It was Monday after Thanksgiving and he advised that a team of doctors including himself, medical oncologists and radiology oncologists would counsel on Wednesday to determine my plan of treatment.

                                2. Hope

   My wife, my daughter and I left the room with apprehension and yet, full of hope. I thought of Mendy’s email address, “faith.hope.love”, and as always, I felt the assurance that the grace of God would surely calm my fears. We all must face our own dragons and slay them with the power that only comes from our deep and unwavering faith. There is no other fountain to drink from, hope eternal springs from trusting in a power greater than ourselves. Again I prayed that God would give me the grace and dignity to accept whatever the new day might bring.

   The surgeon’s office called Wednesday afternoon, “Your procedure is scheduled for next Tuesday, December 6^th. The hospital will be calling you with instructions later today.” And they did. The genetic counseling clinic called and I made an appointment for the Friday before the surgery.

   I was thinking that I could probably blame my mother and my grandmother. Not really; they didn’t intentionally do anything to me. They must have innocently passed on a gene that traveled through the succeeding generations until I inherited it. A gene that bears a great burden to all who receive it. My grandmother, mother and all three of her sisters died from breast cancer. I explained all of these facts as the genetic counselor drew out my family tree with squares for the males and circles for the females. As she filled in the circles to indicate cancer, it became apparent that it was all on my mothers side of the family. She arranged for me to leave a blood sample in the clinic next door and then advised that the results would take a week or two for the DNA test to come back from the lab in Salt Lake City. By then, the surgical procedure would be over and I would know if the cancer had spread in my body.

   Over the weekend I tried to stay busy; both my brothers were flying in, so I helped my wife with chores around the house. On Monday, Ted arrived as I was finishing up with the pre-check-in routine at the hospital. We spent an afternoon nostalgically talking of childhood memories and when Mike arrived late in the evening, we all three sat around talking into the wee hours of the morning. I wasn’t sleepy, and we all talked of good times from the past, as only brothers can do. At 3:00am I retired for a night of troubled restlessness. I dreamed of Mother, I could see her and hear her, but I had to speak to her through a strange hand held device. No doubt, my anxieties manifested themselves in the form of one closely related to my circumstances. I had a calmness as she said things which I do not remember, and yet, their effect was soothing to my troubled spirit. When I awoke, I slowly began the process of preparation for my surgery. No food or drink since midnight and now a pre-surgery antiseptic shower. This is always the worst time, but it passes quickly. We made a quick ride to the hospital and I then changed into the infamous hospital gown. I can’t think of anything more undignified than an open backed hospital gown.

   Friends and family filtered in and soon I was surrounded by those who love me; not a bad feeling when you are about to drop off the face of the earth for a few hours, and you don’t know if you are coming back. You don’t overtly think about it, but that ‘hope’ thing is always there, always standing tall in the shadows, saying to you “It’s going to be OK, I’ve got you covered, don’t worry”.

God’s spirit moves in mysterious ways. The nurse advised all the visitors that the show was about to start and they needed to say their goodbyes. My associate pastor from my church said a prayer and then my brother-in-law who is a hospice chaplin worded a special prayer for me and my family. “John”, I said, “I don’t mind you praying for me, just remember that I’m not one of your clients today”.

   I kissed my bride goodbye and told her I love her, and I would see her soon.

Mr. ‘Hope’ was there, quietly bolstering my spirits, making sure that I knew that whatever happens, “It’s going to be OK”. They wheeled me into the pre-op and pulled the shower curtains around my gurney. Every nurse and doctor who spoke to me asked for my birth date. I began to feel as if it were a sanity test to insure that I knew who I was. I met the anesthesiologist, just before he knocked me out. Time flys in these circumstances. An hour passed in an instant. A nurse appeared with some strange devices and told the head nurse that she was ready to inject the radioactive dye into my nipple. “Don’t worry”, she said, “I’ll apply some topical anesthesia before I inject it, now what is your birth date?” The surgeon appeared and asked the head nurse if I had been injected yet. I thought, “She’s standing right there, why don’t you ask her”.  As I turned in her direction, there was no one there and I heard the head nurse tell my surgeon, “Yes, she finished several minutes ago.” Time flys; you’d think I would have remembered that one. That was my last memory in pre-op, I don’t even know when they inserted the anesthesia into my IV.

   I awoke in the same room but on an opposite wall. The smiling face said, “Hey, welcome back”. In the back of my head, Mr ‘Hope’ said, “I told you so”. I so admire these folk who care for you when you check in on your return flight, they don’t get enough credit for the good job they do. The female patient in the next stall, whose flight had returned shortly after me, loudly proclaimed, “Where am I, what have they done to me? Did they operate on my knee? I didn’t give him permission to do that. Why am I here? Oh my God, I didn’t give him permission to do this. Somebody is going to get sued!” Soothing voices of professionals calmly reassured her that everything was OK, and she finally came back to reality. In a whimpering voice she apologized profusely. I thought, “You need to meet my friend, Mr ‘Hope’”.

   After correctly identifying my age to two additional nurses, I was pronounced fit for travel and wheeled out to a private hospital room. The duty nurse was satisfied that I knew my birth date correctly, so she wrote her name on the whiteboard on my wall. Give me that whiteboard, I thought, and I’ll write my birthday down for everybody else to see. Why couldn’t they just look at my wristband; it had my name and my birth date on it. That would save me a lot of trouble.

3. More Hope

   My immediate thoughts were in one place. What did the pathology reveal in my lymph nodes that were removed? My future lay in the answer to that question. Was the cancer spread to other organs in my body; if so, what treatment would be required? How long could I expect to live? It’s the ‘not knowing’ that is most troublesome. It is better to know bad news than to wait in anticipation of news that could be bad or good. It’s a long road, I told myself, wherever it leads, I have those who love me, right beside me. “Don’t despair” came the soft whisper of hope.

   A beautiful, angelic redhead leaned over the bed and said, “Hey sweetie, they didn’t find any more cancer”. I tried not to, but my eyes filled with tears from a deep and satisfying well within my soul.

  Phillipians 4:6-7 GWT

⁶Never worry about anything. But in every situation let God know what you need in prayers and requests while giving thanks.⁷Then God’s peace, which goes beyond anything we can imagine, will guard your thoughts and emotions through Christ Jesus.

   It would be wonderful if we could leap from one mountain top to the next without going through the connecting valley. Upon hearing that my cancer had not spread into my sentinel lymph nodes, I was filled with joy and awe that the immediate threat to my life was checked. The treatments I would need were still undetermined and would remain so for another ten days. I was resolved to endure whatever the oncologist recommended, in beginning this new lifelong struggle to survive. Whatever! And I needed to know if this dread disease had been genetically passed on from my mother, so my children and grandchildren could take precautions. We would know soon enough.

   My family left the hospital so that I could attempt to rest and perhaps, be released the next afternoon. As I lay in my hospital bed, I felt no pain from the mastectomy; only a discomfort from the drainage tube hanging at my side. Since the initial morphine in the post-ops area, I had not asked for any pain medication because I was not in pain.

   My indignity continued as the hospital gown beneath me became uncontrollable. I lay with a partial sheet over me, but I occasionally exposed my privates as I tried to adjust my position. My feet were tethered by pressure devices attached to my calves to insure blood circulation. The urinal stared at me with a silent smirk that said “before this is over, we were going to be good friends.” It was not to be. After the anesthesia, I had an insatiable thirst. At the same time I had something akin to zero bladder pressure on my kidneys. I never was able to use the urinal without standing, and I could not stand unless my feet were unshackled from the pressure devices. Needless to say, the nurses and technicians were in frequent demand for a few hours. At nine that evening I was urged to walk if I could, and I did. I walked with my IV stand up and down the hall for ten minutes. I could not believe that I was feeling so well.

Flirting with my nurse seven hours after surgery

After I gave her my birth date

 

   At ten-thirty, the night nurse introduced herself, and after I correctly guessed my birth date, she asked if I needed anything. My usual arthritic joint pains were hurting so I asked for a couple of extra strength Tylenol. She said she would order some and bring it to me. At midnight, I rang and asked if she had the pain medication yet. “No, but I’ll bring it to you as soon as it gets here from the pharmacy.” At one in the morning I called again and she finally brought them to me. I rested uneasily for a couple of hours and then at 3:45 in the morning I felt an intense urgency to urinate. I wrestled with the pressure devices on my legs and with great difficulty managed to unwrap them. I could feel a coolness at my side, but I had an urgent call to answer. I grabbed the IV stand and headed for the toilet, yanking the electrical plug out of the wall just as I entered the bathroom. A scene not unlike Tom Hanks relieving himself in  “A League of their Own” insued. As I flushed the toilet, I looked in the mirror and saw the blood running down from the bandage where the tube was inserted in my side. I waddled back to the bed and rang the nurse to staunch the bleeding and replace the bandage. I slept soundly for the next three hours.

   At seven, my surgeon came by to check on me. He looked strangely older than my first impression and he confirmed what my ‘angel of light’ had informed me the afternoon before. “The initial pathology during the procedure revealed nothing under the microscope, but they will continue to study it for the next few days.” I had guessed his age as early thirties, but my brother said that he had practiced in the Army for 11 years, so he had to be in his early forties. He yanked off my side bandage and then ripped off my bandage covering the mastectomy. Ouch! He said that they looked good and he would have the nurse replace the bandages.

   At eight in the morning, Johnny Horton wrote his name on my whiteboard, and after I took a wild guess and correctly identified my birth date, he replaced my bandages. I had a compulsion to ask if he would sing a few bars of “The Battle of New Orleans”, but he openly confessed that he couldn’t sing and the only thing he could play was the radio. The suction pump on my side wasn’t operating properly after my excursion during the night, so the doctor said he needed to add another stitch to seal it. After that I could check out and go home. After a few minutes, he told me to check out and then come by his office across the street. I bade Johnny Horton goodbye and took the wheel chair to the front door where my family awaited. The gentleman who volunteered to wheel me out looked significantly older than me. I was tempted to ask him if he would like to flip for who pushed and who rode.

   At 11:30 my wife and two brothers joined me for brunch at Mimi’s restaurant. Only twenty-four hours earlier, I had checked into the hospital for my surgery. I had been filled with anxieties; all those questions that hung over me like heavy dark clouds. Though not completely lifted yet, I could see rays of sun streaming through and filling me with genuine hope. The pathology was still being studied, the genetic testing was not yet back. But, there was hope, blessed hope, and I was surrounded by family who love me.

The day after my surgery with Mike & Ted

   My brothers returned home the next day and then on Friday morning the surgeon called and said, “David, there is no need for you to come by today, the final results of the pathology came back negative and there is no need for me to see you until things have healed up a bit.” He said that I should see him in another week and he would have his staff set up my initial appointment with an oncologist.

    At last, something definitive about the presence of cancer in my body. “Negative”, how odd that such an uncongenial word could convey such unequivocal joy. A few more rays of sun were blasting through those storm clouds. Hope returned in a full suit of body armor.

   Cheryl went back to work on Monday and my thoughts remained cautiously optimistic. It was my birthday and I still hungered for resolution of all the unanswered questions. While at my desk to look for the genetic counselor’s phone number, my phone rang and it was the genetic counselor, Nancy. “Í was just about to call you.” I said “I was hoping that you might have the analysis back on my DNA.” “As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m calling you, it came back early.” Our last conversation had been one of almost certainty that I had mutant genes passed down on my mother’s side. It was really only a question of which gene, the BRCA1 or BRCA2, or both. “Well which is it I asked, 1 or 2 or both?. “Neither,” came the reply, “Both came back as ‘No mutation detected’, with your history, I would have said with certainty that you were positive, but you are not.” “Wow, I can’t believe it, but that is wonderful news. I know some kids and grandkids who are going to be happy, I can’t wait to tell them.” She sent me a copy of the report via email and I sent it to all the family that was waiting to hear. I silently apologized to Mother for assuming that she had cursed me with some mutated genes. The only thing Mother ever passed on to me was courage and love.

      My email was succinct:

Dear Loved ones- The genetic testing of my DNA came back NEGATIVE! No mutations discovered that other family members may have passed down to me. Open the attachment and read the report and please pass this on to any other family member who may have questions. Praise God!

   There it was again, a negative that gloriously mushroomed into a giant positive. ‘No mutation detected’; a large number of dark clouds yielded to brilliant beams of warm and comforting sunshine. I felt as if I were wrapped up in a blanket in my mother’s arms. My kids were overjoyed. Life was getting better, but yet there were still unknowns; what treatments would be required, would I have to endure chemo or radiation or both. Surely the radiation, but hopefully not the chemo. My friend Sharon, who recently had similar surgery told me, “As far as treatment goes, they usually ‘ere on the side of caution.” “No matter”,  that frail silhouette of hope, like the shadowy cowboy images propped up against a tree in someone’s yard, quietly repeated, sotto voce, “Don’t worry”.

  The tube came out of my side after eight days and I now waited for the initial visit with the oncologist. My friend Mike stopped by the house and visited for over an hour, and it was good to reminisce about familiar things. While talking with him, I reflected, “I always wondered how I would feel if told that I had cancer. It’s like a sentence that you are branded with for the rest of your life.”

   “Like a death sentence,” he said; “not something we want to hear.”

   “My mother died from cancer when she was forty-six years old, so I have always wondered how she carried the burden so well and I wondered how I would measure up. I started reading in my bible and the Lord just kept showing me verses that said, ‘Be anxious for nothing.’” Mike and I have a similar faith and it was comfortable to share my inner thoughts with him. I have honestly put my trust in God’s providence and He has given me great peace within. I know that it is far from over, just beginning, really. I look around and I see and talk with so many survivors; I have come to accept that I am not a victim, but rather a fellow sojourner on a difficult road. Many have not survived, but I suspect that none ever gave up yearning for a cure along the way.

  

 Isaiah 41:9-10 (The Message)
‘You’re my servant, serving on my side. I’ve picked you. I haven’t dropped you.’ 
Don’t panic. I’m with you. There’s no need to fear for I’m your God. I’ll give you strength. I’ll help you. I’ll hold you steady, keep a firm grip on you.

4. The Gift

   “Are you a praying man?” I asked my surgeon. He had just reviewed my genetic test results and the lengthy report of surgical pathology. He had looked at me in amazement and asked me if I had seen the cancer risk assessment from the genetic clinic. I told him that I had, and as he shook his head, he added, “I’m astonished that you didn’t have one of the mutant genes; with your history, it’s highly unusual, that the results came back negative.” The pleasant smile on his face and the sincerity of his words were compelling. He had then reviewed the pathology report:

1. Lymph node, sentinel, biopsy, left,#1 –ONE BENIGN LYMPH NODE

2. Lymph node, sentinel, biopsy, left, #2 –ONE BENIGN LYMPH NODE

3. Lymph node, sentinel, biopsy, left, #3 –ONE BENIGN LYMPH NODE

4. INVASIVE DUCTAL CARCINOMA IN SITU WITH PAPILLARY FEATURES, 1.5 CM

5.Breast, excision, left, - BENIGN FIBROADIPOSE TISSUE. NO EVIDENCCE OF MALIGNANCY

Estrogen receptor: 98% positive

Progesterone receptor: 99% positive

Ki 67 (Mib-1): 16%

Her2 neu by CISH: No amplification ratio

   “If we could have asked for specific results, in the major categories that are measured, we would have asked for the results you got back. We could not have better results. It has not spread, it was slow growing, your estrogen and progesterone levels are good, your Her2 level is good. It is a stage one cancer and you were fortunate to detect it so early.”

   It was then that I asked about prayer and he answered my question, “Yes”. I suggested that these outcomes were related to a lot of prayers and I silently thanked God for this man whom He had placed in my life. Mr ‘Hope’ opened up the curtain and allowed a gymnasium full of sunshine to burst all around me. It was good to be alive, I couldn’t hold back a contented smile.

   As he checked my incision, he said, “All the stitches are under the skin, these little tabs will come off in the shower.”

   “With my scars from the heart surgery on my chest, the harvested veins in the arm and leg, hiatal hernia on my side, spinal fusion on the back and now the mastectomy, I look like a poor sword fighter who lost a lot of fights.” I remarked.

   “If you are the loser, I’d hate to see the other guys,” he said, “at least you are still surviving.” It’s funny, but my son told me the same thing when I used that analogy. They had a point. As I shook his hand goodbye, I asked him how old he was.

   “How old do you think I am?” he asked.

   “Older than you look.” I replied.

   “39” he said.

   He told me that the team would be discussing my future on Wednesday morning before my appointment with the oncologist. As I drove away, I turned on the radio and listened to the glorious sounds of the greatest hope the world has ever known. It was a week before Christmas and I already had one of my presents. From 270 years ago, Handel’s Messiah richly bathed me with sounds of glorious praise. Hallelujah!

   Two days later I was in the lobby of the cancer treatment clinic. I had heartfelt compassion for every other human being in the room, and there were many. Mostly older people, but cancer knows no age, gender, race or color. I smiled at everyone and they smiled back; some feebly and others with great hope in their eyes. Ladies with scarves and hats to cover their heads and men with shaved heads, sitting in small groups with friends or family; all hoping and fighting to retain their dignity. All awaiting their next treatment, their next opportunity to extend this battle and come back to fight another day. I sat with great hope that I might not have to join them in this pilgrimage to recovery, but resigned to accept whatever consequences would be required. I had won numerous recent victories, but now, if it was time to pay up. So be it.

   The oncologist was not what I expected. A large man, he wore glasses which he was constantly pushing up his nose toward his straight pulled-back hair. When he spoke to me, he didn’t look straight at me; his eyes darted from side to side or remained closed. He was somewhat dishelved in general appearance, eccentric, but he had an air of complete authority, which he indeed did possess. When he began speaking, there was no smile or emotion in his demeanor. “We talked about your case this morning” he said. Then we discussed my family history, the results of the genetic DNA testing and the pathology reports following my surgery.

   “After reviewing you history, if I was a betting man, I would have bet it all on your results being positive. Your children still need to be regularly tested, but we don’t recommend any kind of radical preventative treatment.”

He asked me a series of general health questions; awkwardly pausing, as if expecting me to say more when nothing more need be said. He seemed uncomfortable and almost disassociated with the process. Then he said “O.K. take off your shirt and I’ll be right back.” At this point, he had given me no clue as to what his recommendation would be for treatment.

   When he returned, he had me sit on the examining table as he checked my heart and lungs. He now bombarded me with specific questions. “Are you allergic to any medications? Do you have a history of blood clots? Have you ever had a stroke? Did you have a heart attack? What meds are you on right now? He warmed up a little and smiled as he said, “Put your shirt back on and I’ll be back in a few minutes.” As he left, I realized that I still had no inkling as to what my treatment would be. I listened, but I could not hear the faintest whimper coming from Mr “Hope”. I pride myself in reading people on first impressions, but he had not given anything away up to this moment. I hoped to get it directly from him on his return, and I did.

   “With the good results from the pathology, chemo will not be necessary and the fact that all of your potentially harmful tissues have been surgically removed from your breast, radiation would be of no value to you either. I recommend that we give you an oral medication to kill or retard any estrogen growth and then we watch you periodically to insure that nothing is going on. I’m also going to have a bone scan done and an ultrasound on your abdomen to make sure nothing is going on there. After that you will be in a maintenance mode for the rest of your life.”

   He was smiling, and so was I. “Only a pill”, I managed to eke out.

   “Yes,” he replied. It required a lot of discipline to keep the emotion out of my voice. If we had lost power, I think my smile would have lit up the entire room.

   As I walked back through the waiting room, I felt like a member of a winning Super Bowl team, but I was in the other guy’s locker room after the game. I smiled at my fellow sojourners, but I couldn’t express the unmitigated joy that was rising in my soul. God Bless them all I thought; I would that they could feel what I was feeling at that moment. Something akin to what Beethoven must have felt when he composed his Ninth symphony, “Ode to Joy” The strains of delight rising in tempo to a crescendo of hope, manifested in pure jubilation to share with the rest of the world. From somewhere in the fathomless depths of my soul, Mr “Hope” just smiled.

Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee, God of glory, Lord of love;
Hearts unfold like flowers before Thee, opening to the sun above.
Melt the clouds of sin and sadness; drive the dark of doubt away;
Giver of immortal gladness, fill us with the light of day!

Words by Henry J. Van Dyke set to Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’

My rolled up pathology report lies under my Christmas tree,

the present that was not what I was expecting.

FOOTNOTE:

This story was written as it happened. When I expressed concerns and anxieties, they were real and current. When I ended a phase and said that I didn’t know what the next phase would bring; I didn’t. As I read through my thoughts at the end, I was amazed at the peace God gave me throughout the process. It is my heart’s desire that you would know Mr Hope as I grew to know him, and understand that faith through God’s Spirit is the source of all hope.

Written expressly for the family and friends of David Warbritton; not for publication without permission from David Warbritton.