Friday, May 24, 2013

Chemo After Three Days: Light From Sun and Son

For three days after chemotherapy I have to take a tiny pill which is supposed to curtail the nausea involved with taking poison to kill a poison. I was told that it would solve some nausea but the results were spectacular. From Tuesday through Thursday I was able to do my daily activities, write, eat like a big girl, and not have any nausea. However, the pill can only be taken for three days and this is the fourth day. I ate breakfast of fruit and tea and that stayed down. My son later brought me a plate of food. It was soooo good while it lasted. It all came back up. There's a victory in this so hang with me...

How sick would I have been without that three day pill? They time it so that by the time the chemo is out of your system you have the tiny green pill to help you along. Once the chemo come out the nausea isn't so bad. It's a victory in not being over-medicated and getting appropriate treatment. I can, if it gets too bad, ask for something for nausea but that would be one more bottle in the cabinet. Besides, I've got my food list to a point where I know what does me wrong and what does me right. All of this is possible with prayer, wisdom, guidance and dedication to life.

Used the holistic healer's advice today and put on my sports bra, rubbed on the stinky oil along with some sun block and sat outside for an hour to activate my vitamin d and speed up the healing of my skin from the minor surgical procedure. My son Grant sat outside with me. When I threw up in went into the bushes and found enough hay to cover it up. We were afraid that I would be hit with a bout of full nausea and wouldn't be able to keep water down. He watched me like a little mother as I took those first few sips. The water is staying down.  Thank God for this.  You have no idea how much it upsets me when I cannot drink ice water or even eat a few pieces of ice.  I know what's going to happen next.  The dry skin, constipation, medicines not being able to have maximum effectiveness, and a result three or four day stay in the hospital.  All from not being able to keep a handful of ice chips in my belly without an immediate and undeniable need for them to be forced backwards from my mouth.  

While Grant and I sat in the sunshine there was a fleeting scintilae of a second where I thought I was getting sick.  My heart started a falling descent into what has become a known pool of unhappiness.  No need for that today (or any other day when my faith in God is where it should be)!  Turns out my bra was too tight so I switched to that sports bra. When that was also too tight and frankly just didn't do me right I had to break down and settle on a tank top. No foundation garments for me today.  I think my granma, under the circumstances, would excuse me for this titty-related felony.  And to my surprise these hoochie mama tank tops really do keep you held up more than a little bit.  No lifting and separating but I'll take what they gave with gratitude and won't complain.  I wonder.....? How did I come to be in possession of these sinful garments? Think somebody must have put them shirts on me while I was sleeping.

I do not have breast cancer but my breasts, really just one, the right one, have had to come under fire during this journey towards healing.  I am fortunate to be the recipient of technology which no longer requires scarred arms, hands and ankles and collapsed veins.  I didn't ask any questions when my doctors ordered an IV port surgically implanted in my chest.  It's under the skin, on top of the muscle, but not so far under that it is obscured.  Each time I have to take any treatment in my veins a nurse takes what looks like a lance, aims for the spot of rubber in the port, and plunges the needle into the heart of the matter.  Yes.  It hurts.  It is shocking.  It's vital to keep down scarring and infection as well.  And even though the port has taken away some of my physical beauty it has brought me so much more in return.  

I was looking at my breast line today. Four months ago they were bronze, no stretch marks, no nothing. And today the quarter sized port protrudes about half of inch through my brown skin.  It is surgically inserted into the right one so that over the course of my treatment, which could be years.  As a matter of fact it is designed to be housed within my body, without harm to me, for five to yen years.  
I have never in my life had an injury to my breast. The skin is very thin, you can see the lace work of my non-oxygenated blue blood in my veins (or arteries).  I was so very proud of them that I didn't show them. Who deserved that? Not some random walking down the street.  No.  I generally kept them to myself.  I had vanity and pride in them.  They had their own cream and on special occasions I would dust them with gold, or silver, or bronze powder depending on which shiny metallic coordinated with the rest of my outift.  
So, now, at least on one side the pristine state is gone for a very good reason. Combined with what I've already stated this port is state of the art in terms of infection control. In the cancer center last Monday, I received many compliments from nurses regarding the work which was done by the surgeon. At less than a week the line is healing and it was ready for use within four days. It sits snugly in a quarter size pocket of muscle, doesn't move, not nothing. But it makes bruises from the inside out as it "settles."   I also noticed, while sneaking peaks around the room, that mine does not protrude through my clothes as does a few of the men and women.  I'm hoping that the good surgery holds and that the unit does not become more prominent as time goes on.  It it does I will probably give a little sign.  I am fully commited to healing and life and thankfulness to God for giving me this chance.  What I'm saying to you is what is in my heart.  Maybe it's what people think and never say.  But if say it out loud maybe you won't feel so bad if you experience the same thoughts.  At the least, you'll know what to expect and won't be as surprised as I was and still am.  The skin of my breasts was not the only pristine aspect of my life before cancer.  I had lived under the yoke of ignorance to many things.  
My breast is marred. I still have two.  I'm still alive and I'm still human, loving, compassionate and kind.  What did my breasts have to do in the first place with what kind of person I was?  Or my potential?  Not a damn thing.  Nothing has been taken away from me.  I've only been increased in my soul and mind by these experiences.  What can those who have so little pride in their writing take away from me? I have pride in body, mind, and hopefully soul. I can't be worried about folks who are determined to hide.
You want to know if I hide this thing?  This port which sits at the top of my right breast?  The scar?  The every other day bruises which come and go?  No.  I don't hide this thing but I'm not running around acting as if it is a purple heart.  It's just another part of me.  If you ask and I have time I'll tell you the story.  Every tribulation overcome, every mountain climbed is an opportunity to witness the glory of God and the abilities of mankind.  I won't hide it as there is no shame.  That's the story given to me by that two inch scar.  That there is no shame. 



Thursday, May 23, 2013

Healing Outside of the West


Through my recent health crises I have been approached by too many people with too many theories and too much time on their hands to decry and avoid what is loosely termed as “western medicine.”  I am starting to believe that this is the term applied to any kind of pill, treatment or practitioner found in a hospital.  That’s the only thing I can believe as of yet.  Those who are quick to place our healthcare purveyors in the same landfill really do not do their cause any justice. 
I’ve been told that there are people who have “cured cancer and HIV with sea moss” and I’ve been told that I no longer need chemotherapy as I have the power, within, to “shrink your (my) tumours with your (my) mind.”  I’ve also heard from people who were so adamant in their need to decide against western healthcare that they were legally forced, with threats of loss of children and incarceration, to have their child’s cancer treated.  The child, I’m happy to report, is still alive.  The mother, on the other hand, states, “I will never thank western medicine for saving my son.”  I actually saved that email because the woman’s words were so very unbelievable that I had to keep the evidence of an almost-crime. 
I’ve been introduced to healers who have never set foot into any medical academy as well as those who claim to only be able to operate if the gods have been obliged to listen in on the conversation (translation:  pay before you play).  Since my diagnosis of complex cancer I have not been able to make sense of this thing I’m going to call non-western medication.  It isn’t as ancient as Eastern healthcare and has none of its traditions.  What it seems to be, more than anything, is just another hustle playing on the ignorance of desperate people who have had a history of betrayal via events such as the Tuskegee experiment (for over three decades Black American men were allowed to suffer syphilis and had the progression of the disease charted while the men infected loved ones and families) and medical experimentation for profit entities on places such as Parchmon farm in Mississippi (cosmetic , food, and pharmaceutical companies) to the use of deception in the sterilization of Black women in southern states (Fannie Lou Hamer is perhaps one of the most famous cases of a rural Black woman who went to a clinic, was told she needed minor surgery, and did not find out until many years later that she had been sterilized against her will).  The fertility of the ground for disbelief by Blacks of White practitioners is as rich as the soil which surrounds the Mississippi River. 
Yes.  There are indeed vast territories of lies and frankly speaking crimes against the humanity of Black American citizens in the ocean of medical care and concern we have received at the hands of persons known.  And that personage, in most cases, was the White medical community which had to be convinced that the health of Black America was worth the trouble it took to save and secure.  Those battles for healthcare were fought with Black hands firmly placed in learned Black hands in the early days of historically Black colleges and universities such as Howard University and Meharry (naming two of the most prolific).  The Black university became the training grounds for nurses and doctors until state universities would allow entrance of Blacks and city programs would allow young Black women a seat in classrooms where nurses were trained.  A stellar example of this program can be found in the history of nursing education in the city of St. Louis.  Nursing was an option one could select after completion of elementary school.  The program was administered by St. Louis Public Schools.  There was an additional program available through what was then known as Jewish Hospital (later changed to Barnes-Jewish and presently known as Barnes – Jewish – Christian Hospitals or BJC).  In each example given this training was either the result for a need for Black (“coloured”) nurses during and after World War II and the advances brought about by Civil Rights Era legislation during the early years of the decades which spanned the Korean War until the conclusion of the armed conflicts of which comprise Vietnam.  Black Americans became trained in the medical professions as a continuation of family history and status or as the need arose due to international engagement in military conflicts.  In either case, socio-economic strata who received training were never from the lowest classes of Blacks; they were either elite or from the top of blue-collar, working class families. 
With this foundational information firmly in hand one must surmise that those most likely to be effected by the misdeeds of White and Western medicine are those who are now, most likely to be misled by a coterie of entrepreneurs who use racism as their primary basis for leading Black Americans away from faith in established medical avenues such as hospitals and clinics and towards products which do not list ingredients, do not have results of testing, and moreover may not ever address the health concerns or claims which seem to have no shame or cessation.  It’s a “pimper’s paradise (Bob Marley)” for those who can spin a tale with the most flourish and showmanship reminiscent of the country, itinerant Baptist minister.  Please allow me my anger as it cannot be contained when lives are in the balance. 
Over and over I have asked what I felt were cogent questions of the persons who either touted or sold these products or who believed in the people who loosely call themselves doctors.  It seems that asking, “Where did you attend and graduate medical training” somehow translates into rudeness.  It also seems that asking for a product list is proof that I am somehow against a Black man trying to make a living.  And finally, my inability to travel to a clinic in the Honduras signals that I am somehow a discredit to my ‘race.’ 
Finally I was forced to consider the role of religion in the morass of arguments against this mythical evil creature western medicine.  In my diagnosis, cancer, I was told that without treatment I would probably live no more than six months.  With chemotherapy the probability added 30 more precious months to my life span.  Calling the distance of someone’s life is a taboo in Black American Protestantism (Baptist Church).  It is the express power of God and only God to know when a human will be born or die.  It is also the sole property of God to say when an injury or illness has placed a sufferer beyond medical attention.  In this religion paradigm,  God can breathe life into “dry bones,” call the dead back from the grave (Lazarus), and cure those who had diseases which did not immediately end life but nevertheless made life very problematic to say the least (i. e. leprosy).  There is no acceptance of mathematical or scientifically compiled statistics based upon averages of outcomes in certain situations.  My prognosis, does not take into an account anything which cannot be scientifically predicted such as remission or an event that is best couched in the realm of the supernatural, such as a miracle.  Remissions and miracles occur every day but they are not apropos to the scientific method.  Therefore, the numbers are chosen and in the interest of full disclosure and medical transparency they are related to people like me who choose to allow them to be weights or simply just another factotum in the long list of data which eventually becomes part of the background music of a life spent in pursuit of life.  This is not blasphemy, its science.  Nothing more and nothing less.  Thought processes of those who have yet to benefit from either higher education or secondary education which included more than the generic biology class may have a harder time incorporating and delineating what is the property of science and what is the property of God and what are the areas the two entities share. 
At first the diagnosis was a shock.  Then it was a weight.  Then it became a puzzle I would attempt to unravel.  Finally it has become something which I have accepted as part of the disease.  This is what cancer does.  It takes over.  It violates.  It divides.  It schemes without regard to the amount of suffering incurred.  It is not personal and it isn’t even a business.  It just is.  It is not a judgment from God.  It is not a gift.  It is no different from catching a cold but far more detrimental and costly to treat.  This gives rise to the next theory which divides people from medicine.  Cost.  We are told that there is more money in treating cancer than in curing cancer.  From where I sit today and with the conversations I’ve had with others who live with or have survived cancer I do not believe that there are hospitals which gain clear profits from cancer.  Additionally, if you cannot tell how or why something begins how can you become assured that it even has a cure?  There are virtually thousands of types of cancers.  We often say, “cancer cure” as if it is a single battle and that is a huge disservice and lack of respect for an enemy which daily extracts life from young and old, rich and poor, those with the best medical treatment and those who either cannot or do not seek treatment.  I have been told that there is a Dr. Sebi who has “cured cancer and HIV” and that there is an herb called, “sour sop” which also has “cured cancer.”  Yet, I have yet to see any evidence or medical facts which can attest to these claims.  The premise is that poor people do not have access to these cures and that the itinerant health care professional who does not use western medicine to heal is really acting as an equalizer on behalf of poor people.  If the claims made by those who are devoted to Dr. Sebi (as an example) were true wouldn’t he have joined the ranks of the wealthy a very long time ago?  If only in sales of books on how he managed this feat?  If the claims regarding sour sop or any other organic healer were true wouldn’t every household in America with an accessible square foot or two of dirt be the growing place of this tree?  Logic would dictate that the responsible person would take to this specific horticultural cultivation if only to preserve future generations.  The fact is this:  it isn’t true.  And further, in terms of economic gain, a conspiracy to keep “the cure” out of the hands of poor people would have to involve a pact between pharmaceutical companies, hospitals, teaching hospitals, clinics, doctors, nurses, and university research institutions world-wide.  Added to that would be the ever-present rogue scientist whose measure of greatness has only one goal:  earning the Nobel Prize in science.  There is no amount of money in this world which would buy this coveted award.  There is no amount of money in the next world which would arrest the efforts of students, scholars, and universities in the pursuit of this crowning jewel. 
For people who have no idea what any of these institutions are the only measure is that of racism.  People who have a fervent belief that racism is an excuse for everything and cause for everything and a rational for all things which keep them in darkness and ignorance cannot touch base with four Chinese scientists who spend every waking moment trying to untangle the mystery of why a certain gene always denotes an incident of cancer.  Those who are ignorant of where glory lies for a scientist can be easily misled at every turn with stories of how “big pharma” has gained control of markets all over the world and how governments are gaining kickbacks and how hospitals and research institutions are complicit in this effort to keep the poor dying and the rich living are woefully rapt listeners and purchasers of cures from people who look just like them.  These new cures are without the ancient proving grounds of Eastern medicine which can range from 8th century eye surgeries successfully executed by African, Arab and Muslim doctors and scientists to herbology, reflexology, and healing massage and acupuncture carefully protected and studied in China (as well as throughout other eastern nations).  No.  These new “doctors” do not prescribe eastern or western medicine.  All they really sell is a feeling that one is “getting back” at racism, past injustices, and keeping money revolving within the Black community.  As I’ve stated before, these purveyors have had very little success at curing any disease other than those which are cured by the common sense of eating right, sleep, water intake, and stress reduction. 
The pioneer for this type of healthcare is undeniably Dick Gregory.  During the late 1970’s and early 1980’s Mr. Gregory became involved in the health of Black America.  Not once did he ever claim to cure cancer or any other deadly disease.  His work in manufacturing products as well as the establishment of his clinics was two-fold and came in the form of (1) teaching and (2) creation of products which could be used along with but not in place of care given by hospitals.  He did not usurp the place of those who had earned medical degrees and neither did he ever represent himself as a doctor.  He brought doctors of color, Black doctors, to the attention of those seeking relief from conditions but was never divisive in his approach.  It was a lesson in syncretism as opposed to assimilation; natural methods working to make the instances of more stringent pharmaceuticals and surgery less necessary.  Furthermore, Mr. Gregory incorporated tenets of African healing arts such as meditation, diets which eschewed sugar as damaging to the body, mind as well as spirit.  Mr. Gregory’s approach was holistic in a Pan-African sense and gave credence to the fact that African Americans are still very much in possession of an African homeostasis.  Two hundred years in one place does not negate the evolutionary characteristics of an organism which has spent 10,000 years in another place. 
Mr. Gregory’s approaches to health care are also decidedly Pan-African as they preceded colonialism as well as Trans-Atlantic Slave trade.  This is key to the discussion of assimilation within an existing system versus syncretism of cultural healing practices without which do not allow the concurrent application of western medicine.  The new healers’ approaches are divergent from the founder (Gregory) as they urge the sick and ailing to choose one over the other.  After consultation with a houngan or mambo the Haitian sick will still travel to the hospital (when finances permit) and utilize both.  This is the case in Jamaica where Mr. Gregory’s clinics were first established.  He offered an additional route to healing and not an obliteration of established roads.  As has been found in far too many recent instances of independence without an immediately readied transitional phase, the boat is destroyed while the sailors are still stuck at sea.  To wit, the new healers have no connection with Pan-African thought, Caribbean cultural practices, or early pioneers in the field of medicine catering specifically to the needs of Black America.  The apparent goal which comes to mind is capitalism. 
In the goal of creating capital in a free market society, these new practitioners seek profit against all directions of ancient and traditional thought:  Eastern, Western and African as well.  Yet, for some, they remain a relevant form of treatment in order to obtain a semblance of racial independence and self-determination.  And, much to my dismay as I tried to research and decide what was fact and what was fiction, to question the products, methods, or even the level of academic attainment of an individual who sells himself or herself as a doctor or healthcare provider the mere act of positing questions was an indicator of my lack of racial pride. 
Questions for Those Who Do Not Practice Established Eastern Medicine or Western Medicine:  A Guide to Treatment
1. What is the medical background of the manufacturer?
2. What are the ingredients of the formula and in what amounts?
3. How long has it been in existence?
4. Has there been outside (independent) testing?
5. Under what conditions and where is the product manufactured, packaged and shipped?
6. What is the level of academic attainment of the people who manufacture the drug/treatment?
7. What are the governmental departments which oversee the production of pharmaceuticals (i.e. OSHA, DEA, etc.)?
8. During testing, what was the sample size?
9. How large of a group was used to test the medicine and under what controls?
10. Was the product tested on various age groups?
11. Was the product tested on healthy adults?
12. What time period was used to determine the effectiveness of the medication?
13. Where are the testimonials of those who have been helped and or cured?
14. Is there pre-disease testing available for those who give testimonials?
15. Were the persons who gave testimonials examined by physicians who receive no benefit or are not connected to the product(s)?
16. Were there any fatalities during testing?
17. Were there any fatalities of patients using the drug/treatment?
18. Were there any university trials of this medication?
19. Were there any university trials at top tier research institutions or medical/surgical/research teaching hospitals?
20. Is the person prescribing the drug a physician or a research doctor?
As is often the case with questioning, more questions will arise.  I would like to reiterate that my conversation is a niche area without relevance in any place except for the United States and without reference to any other people than Black Americans.  There are many instances throughout the African Diasporas of healers who treat bodies and minds in obeisance to religion, class, and cultural inheritance(s).  To bring an example from a specific source I have to offer the case of Nigerians in medical professions.  Before independence, Nigerians were trained as doctors in universities and hospitals inside of the British Empire.  Post-independence, there were concessions made by the University of London to train Nigerian doctors and also to create clinics and health care facilities which did not require travel to London in order to access.  None of these concessions were ever created in the medical fields for Black Americans during slavery, Reconstruction, or post-Reconstruction.  The closest similarity would be an all-inclusive grant to Howard University from the Freedman’s Bureau.  Other than those instances, which again, were not specifically for medical training, Black health care was funded by Black American individuals and businesses (please see the history of The Knights of Tabor and self-funding of hospitals and clinics in Mound Bayou, MS).  Black healthcare, in Black America, has never been de-mystified and therefore can always be used against those who are most likely to be disenfranchised by the wider, mainstream system(s). 
It is perhaps one more unforeseen occurrence of de Tocqueville’s observation of the peculiarity of American slavery that a body of injustices would begin to accumulate and consequently occlude even the most rational thinkers.  The twin snakes of Aeschylus have multiplied in larger numbers and instead of gracefully twisting around a staff, they are so very entwined that where one begins and the other ends is a conundrum which may only been solvable by artificial intelligence.  And while we all wait for treatments and cures more will die without necessity.  Some, yes, at the hands of western medicine.  And others will die because they listened with their racial hearts and placed their trust in men and women whose only recommendation is an ability to inflame a fatally misguided racial pride. 
Bibliography:  References Used and Selected Texts for Further Reading
Outlaw Culture; Resisting Representations by bell hooks
Golden Age of the Moor by Ivan van Sertima
Medical Apartheid; The Dark History of Medical Experimentation on Black Americans from Colonial Times to the Present by Harriet A. Washington
A Country of Strangers; Blacks and Whites in America by David K. Shipler
Buried in the Bitter Waters; The Hidden History of Racial Cleansing in America by Elliot Jaspin
To Serve My Country, To Serve My Race; The Story of the Only African American WACs Stationed Oversees During World War II by Brenda L. Moore
Slavery by Another Name; The Re-Enslavement of Black Americans from the Civil War to World War II by Douglas A. Blackmon
A History of Nigeria by Toyin Falola and Matthew M. Heaton
The Politics of Knowledge; Area Studies and the Disciplines by David Seanton (Editor).





Wednesday, May 22, 2013

An Open Letter to Orenthal James Simpson


Dear OJ,  

After you were pronounced the luckiest Black man who ever lived (ever) you were allowed to keep your freedom and your 700,000 dollars per year pension.  Then, on one sunny day, you were sitting in your home in Florida and somehow an argument escalated to cursing and threats.  At any given time you could have said, "I'm rich.  I can see my children.  I'm free..." and hung up the phone.  

But that's not what you did.  You threatened another person over a phone.  You told that person what you were going to do to him.  All over some trophies.  Anyway, you called a few friends who would become known as accomplices.  You got on a plane and flew to Las Vegas, NV which gave you about four hours to calm down.  Once you arrived, deplaned, got settled in your hotel room you proceeded to call a few more friends/accomplices.  Your entourage went to another man's hotel room and gained entry.  Many things happened in that hotel room where neither you nor your companions were invited and were told several times to leave.  The results of your actions and not racism placed you in jail.  Not racism.  Not in your case.  

You walked out of a courtroom with tears in your eyes after your selfish acts of two counts of homicide in the first degree - premeditated murder of a White woman and a young White man.  You got away with kiling two innocent people because of your wealth and fame.  You killed the mother of your children and left them without parents.  You stole the future of that young man.  You created a spectacle which transfixed and polarized a nation over more than a few summer months.  You grabbed, for the wrong reasons, the glory you became addicted to as a college and professional football player.  It seems that one way or another you had to see people staring at you, you had to hear people talking about you, and you had to care less who had to suffer in your pursuit of satisfaction.  

You're in jail because you wanted to be in jail.  You seemed to put your feet closer to that institution with every action.  Why couldn't you just take your 700,000 United States Dollars and go live in a friendly stable nation and mind your own business?  That probably would have been too much like right.  You don't like right and it seems to be that your allergic to righteous thinking or you wouldn't continue to labor under the grand delusion that your plight has anything to do with racism.  Or for that matter, being a man.  

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

Cancer: Reflections Before The War Within Begins


Hello.  Please honour my request and apply due diligence to my need for prayers and intercession.  I am starting chemo on this coming Monday.  I will be taking treatment at the Siteman Cancer Center here in St. Louis.  It is located on the campus of Barnes-Jewish Hospital.  We were initially told that they were going to do a program of chemo involving a once every two weeks treatment in a three to four months on, four months off, manner.  The oncologists have settled on a method of treatment which is fairly new, has been used for 1,000+ persons, and is delivered in a time period as follows: three Mondays in a row with one week off.  The treatment itself is not more intensive but the time period in which it is delivered is more exhausting for me.

I have been diagnosed with cancer of the liver and gall bladder.  The tumors are inoperable.  I have been given six months to live if I do not take chemotherapy and 36 months to live if I pursue chemotherapy to reduce or stop the growth of the cancer.  In spite of all of this I am unafraid and I am resolute.  I want to stay here with my children but I accept that if it is the will of God I must leave this place and go on to the next.  I'm only 46 years old and I have so much more to give to this world.  I also have so much living yet to do.  The calculation of 36 months was made without factoring in remission or the hand of God (a miracle).

Sometimes, when I sit and think over the possibility of weddings, grandbabies, and other life events juxtaposed with the timelines of my life given by the doctors I get sad.  Sometimes, I cry.  At all times I remember that these doctors are not the ones who gave me life.  They are not the ones who sustain my life.  They are not the ones who head my life.  I asked the doctor, "if my situation is so grave then why is my liver and my other systems still functioning as if I do not have cancer?"  His answer?  "I don't know."  My doctors are brilliant men and women.  I am so very blessed to have them on my team.  They are not omnipotent and they are not omniscient.  God knows why and my trust is well –placed.  My life is in His hands. 

My doctors have told me, statistically, how longer my life is projected to last.  You can look into the future and give me an expected date of departure but they cannot tell me why I'm living today?  Furthermore, they cannot tell me how I knew that I was sick from a disease which has no symptoms (rather I should say, this form rarely has symptoms until it is almost too late and there are few treatment options).  You cannot tell me why, even though my liver has tumors inside and on its' surface, it is still functioning in the normal range of someone who does not have cancer?  You can use all of this 22nd century equipment to created calculations regarding when my story is going to end but you cannot give me an answer on the moments in which we presently reside?  Therefore, I cannot be sad and sit around and cry because you have yet to give me a complete story. Man may have an answer but in the case man does not have the answer.

This cancer is a test in a cold, barren, lonely valley and I could think that it is the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone if I placed it in a self-centered and selfish paradigm.  I thank God for the words in Ecclesiastes, “There are no new things under the sun.”  I cannot compare myself with Job.  I think the analogy is so inadequate that to do so would be a form of blasphemy.  I'm just sick.  That's all.  I'm really not that much different from someone who has the flu, which has the potential to lead to pneumonia, which has the potential to lead to death.  Now that's a loose comparison but I think it's closer to my present trials than a comparison made with all of the horrendous calamities visited upon our triumphant Biblical brother.

I do not claim defeat.  This, most certainly, is not my dying hour.  I do not believe it.  Not because I'm in denial but because I'm in deliverance!  I have never been so close to God as I am now.  I do not linger close to Him like a child who hides behind his mother or father.  No, I have not drawn close because of fear.  I move closer to Him because He is the only constant of my world.  My universe.  He is the only one for me and my children. I don't know about anything else regarding religion except I do know that there is a Heaven.   I know that Jesus was sacrificed for my sins.  I know that there will be a judgment.  And I know I want to go to Heaven and live with God for eternity.

This experience has given me the seeds of grace.  The genesis of  calm.  And the conception of compassion. I have learned to call God my Master, my Saviour, Divine, and Father.  His yoke is entirely comprised of love.  I have learned to love the feeling of submission; giving the totality of this burden over to Him and trusting that He will see me through to life on this Earth or life after death.

I wasted a few stutter steps on those who believe in a punitive God of retribution on this Earth.  Yes.  There were those who were openly exultant over my diagnosis and there are some who have turned away from me with the synonymous cold and quiet of the grave.  My tears of pain over these folks have been transformed to strength in my resolve.  If that person's God allowed such things then there was no more time to be wasted due to the fact that the evidence is irrefutable we do not serve the same God.

I view my abandonment in two ways and they are (1) Room has been made for those who truly love me and who love the Lord and (2) Divine revelation of the dark truth being brought to light. Everyone who says they follow Jesus…  As they say on the streets, “you can make yo mouf say anythang.” 

Those two tiny bits of fact?  Family, cousins, sisters and brothers in Christ, those two or three lines are the hard lessons of a lifetime.  Those three sentences, once learned, bring peace to a searching and weary soul.  For they are lessons which can be applied by the old and young, man and woman, sick and healthy.  Because we do not have the ability to create more time. Because all of our time, ultimately, belongs to God.  Isn't it incumbent upon me, His servant, to examine how I spend my time and with whom?

I face this obstacle with courage but I do not regret never winning the Pulitzer Prize or anything of that ilk (so far).  I regret time spent away from my children.  I do not hunger for more time to become economically successful.  I hunger and am near ravenous for more time with my children.  Lastly, I am beyond caring what this world sees in me or what the world wants to see when they view me.  My only care is what my children see and my only desire or need is that they view me with love.  Especially when I'm tired, can't eat, throwing up, screaming and crying.  I know within my viscera that they view me, in these difficult days (our worst of times), with love.  That form of vision is what I need during my journey out of this valley.

Pray for my children.  Pray for the doctors and nurses who will provide care.  Please, pray for me.  

Friday, May 3, 2013

Walking With God In Another Woman's Shoes

Thinking about writing. Here's the thought: how many of us can or could walk in our mother's shoes? I'm thinking about my mother. She called me today and her presence filled this house. 38 years as a teacher. 46 years as a mother. 62 years old. What happened to her? What are her pains and her joys? Cannot look at this thing through my own myopic vision. Not when someone you love has put her own feelings aside and shared so much love. Put out that hand when mine was far from strong. I love my mother.

I noticed that the first name I called upon. The first names I said were God and mama. I called out to God to help me get through the pain and for my mama to comfort me. I apologized to her for not seeing her. I hope and I know that we are at a point of no turning back. I feel like I'm falling in love. I want everyone around me and reading me and listening to me to know that I would not have what you like, love, and admire about me if not for her.

While in her womb I was carried aloft by the symphonies, gospel hymns, and the Ree Ree she played on the grand piano in our home. I came to this world having been bathed in music since the moment the egg started to divide and the cells were formed into a "me." How many were given this gift? I was. And I have always been brought to tears by the sound of my mother singing, "Walk Around Heaven." In those times I know that man can't create, the best of music which is lifted by a celestial purpose is a command directive from God. My mother was chosen by God to bring this ministry.

And I? Perhaps more than my four sisters and two brothers was the accidental recipient of this beauty. Although not a musician I have the gift of hearing a note and telling you what it is in a reasonable proximity. My ears were trained when she was being trained.

In all of my writing I have NEVER told you all this. My mother is a classically trained pianist as well as being one of those who still carries out, with excellent execution, the form of true gospel music. When I turn away from a nasal tone or over-run runs it is because of hers. Her alto voice rising above all others in its' precision, resonance, and tone. She can sing blues too. Bonnie Raitt would go home and stay home if she EVER heard my mother sing, "I Can't Make You Love Me."

The same spirit of depression, that hand of darkness, was on my mother. I pray for my life but on this day I have learned to pray for my mother. I hope God allows her to have an appreciation of her beauty. She is most marvelous in my eyes and she MUST BE more so in His. He KNOWS His creations. He can be proud of the time it took to bring those fingers and that mind into being. To pull her exceptional gifts from the clay and form them into something wonderful and unique.

And did I tell she's good at math too? Oh yeah. That gene passed me by. I don't mind telling you I'm arithmetically illiterate. I know my plusses and minuses and my two and threes. I see no purpose for geometry other than the words which populate its vocabulary. But my mother does. She likes it. Yes. She does.

Hear my voice and you hear hers. Hear Sarah's voice and you hear mine. Hear Sarah and hear my mother. Praise for my mother is never too far from Joslyn's lips. Deservedly so, she was mothered by my mother when I was unwilling or unable.

While I am engaged in housewifery I'm walking. I walk fast. I walk slow. I walk up the steps. I walk down. I walk with God and all of the while I walk with Him I'm walking in my mother's shoes.

Saturday, April 27, 2013

Cancer: First Night In The Hospital

First and foremost let me apologize to my children, Grant Worthington Williams and Sarah Vaughn Staples, as I now realize I forced them into my choice without asking their permission.  I asked Sarah's father.  I didn't ask them.  I should have given them the option of saying no.  My actions were of ignorance and not evil.  I've never had cancer before and I thought the wait for a place at the cancer center would involve much less than the reality.

I signed them on for screams, tears, projectile vomiting, sweating, stinking, and watching their once robust mother start to break down on a daily basis.  I don't think parents have the right to take this from their children.  The hospital personnel, in my initial interviews, had open admiration for my children.  At no time did anyone come and relieve these two young people of their burden.  No one came and poured the ice in my cup.  No one came to make sure I didn't abuse my medications.  No one showed any care for them.  We were all on our own.  And since I'm not dead I guess you could say that they did an outstanding job!

I am in a room at a hospital which is on the high end of the top ten in the nation.  I'm sitting now in a little computer room at the end of a very short hall.  I have my big ol' hospital cup full of very nice juices and crushed ice.  I think I left the television in my room on an old movie channel.  I have two very nice nurses and a doctor who told me, thanked me, for being able to cogently discuss my condition and for having brought my medical folder.  My folder consists of my last normal examination, the first presentation of my symptoms, all of my hard copies of my tests, my financial information, as well as a summary of that information.  The only thing I forgot was the actual information disk (CD) of my test results.  I don't know how I left this out as the folder was specifically chosen for its capability holding different types of media.

Yes.  If anyone ever tells you there is no value in education please call them a certified short bus rider.  When you're in the hospital you will get asked the same questions over and over.  I was able to hand them the file and they copied from doctors' notes.  I also included a very succinct and concise and SPECIFIC list of my symptoms and even a brief outline of my caloric intake and weight(loss) chart.  Am I smart?  NO!  I have smart friends who told me to do just that.  I'm from an educated but not wealthy family and my cousin Joi is a medical doctor who gave me commentary on what she would like to have from patients.

My cancer diagnosis is accepted but it will not be formalized until sometime later this week.  On my agenda today is another CT scan with a MRI to follow.  I've been told that they will not ignore the thyroid gland.  There will also be a decision on how to assess my gall bladder.  No one is just going to go in and yank anything out of me.  Someone is going to treat me as if I matter.  That's all I have ever asked from this life.  To be treated as if I'm a human.  To have people assess me with Robert Kennedy's "moral imagination."  How would you feel if you were me and I was doing you the way you're doing me?  That's what Robert thought when he viewed the Black children of the south.  I would, as my life work, hold the mirror to my own self and hope that there is a way to create change by evoking Mr. Kennedy's moral imagination.  Pray that I have time.

Today I cursed someone out.  I have a friend who only thinks of me as some kind of background music to whatever he's doing with his life.  I said some very awful things to him.  I'm sorry I said them but the melody remains the same.  Go away.  I no longer have a wish to be anyone's occasional, temporary or sporadic entertainment.  I'm only interested in those who are "ride or die."  My emphasis, I might hastily add, is on a whole lot of riding with the barest modicum of necessary (after about 50 more years) of dying.  I want to live and I want my life to be a blessing to others.  My life is not the survival of a mostly hairless rodent.  Only touching to gratify base desires.  Only socializing when there's gain.  Only opening orifice to eat, piss or shit.  No.  Like the song says, "I've been changed."

I think of my Sarah and all I want to do is braid her hair in that luxurious braid which scares her little friend, 18 month old Sal.  I don't know why he's scared of that braid.  I think of Grant and all I want to do is watch him instruct a martial arts class, jump over something, climb down from something, and hear him tell one of his ridiculously ribald jokes that he should be so ashamed to relate in front of his mother.  I always tell him to stop but it gets lost with the sound of my own mirth.  I want John II to be released from jail so I can cook him the finest feast ever.  I want Joslyn to come close to me and never leave my side.  I want to maintain enough of my figure that I drive Brian insane with some of my new Colombian lingerie.  Do you know that I happen to own a pair of panties that one needs a manual in order to wear?  Just lace, peekaboo slit up the back topped with a bow, another little bow down the front, and six lines of something which can only be described as thick dental floss adorning both of my round, brown hips?  I want to live with my love and no other.  I want to wear all of my lotions and perfumes at one time.  I want to dance to the music all night long.

But on this night my wants were met.  Actually it's morning here in St. Louis.  I sit here in this little tech room watching the first few cars of weekend traffic start to make their way east and west.  Orange and white lights are on the highway.  A rain, gentle, almost like a whisper of precipitation, is now quickly drying on the pristine hospital grounds.  I'm where I need to be.  I'm comfortable.  Thanks to a shot of something I think is called dilaudid (the hospital people DID NOT appreciate) the various combinations of pills I was taking in order to get through my day.  And even though they've found a new condition (we'll talk about that one later) I am more relaxed than I have been since last December.  The only thing I didn't get was a good night's sleep.  I don't think that would have come anyway with all of the weighing, charting, a walk to the hospital café (didn't get in my room until the kitchen was closed) which left me so very exhausted and reminded me that I am indeed sick.  This will be rectified soon.  I have to stay awake and ask Brian to bring the CD so that the results can be compared with the results from today's tests.

How long will I be here?  I asked that question.  They gave me the diplomatic hospital answer, "it depends on the test results."  I have found out that they now do gall bladder operations on a one day basis.  If there were no masses in my liver this would be over in four days.  But they are there, aren't they?

On the bedside I have Asante's "Afrocentric Idea" and something else I can't remember now.  I wish I owned a laptop because the hospital has wi-fi.  They also have this room.  The only drawback on this room is that I have to wear pants and shoes.  Torture.  Right?

I have to stop this now.  I just found out that I missed the hospital porter to take me to the first test.  Typical La Vonda even now.  I forgot to tell the nurse that I wasn't in my room.  It's YOUR fault.  I was reading all of your prayers and I had to cry, for once, tears from love instead of confusion, exhaustion, betrayal, abandonment, and pain.  You have changed a fatalistic flood to the warm waters of an inviting spring.  You.

Thank you.

Friday, April 26, 2013

Cancer: Too Much Pain

Yesterday was so good that I should have known that it was the sunshine before the rain
I woke at 2 a.m. and then I woke again, at 5:30 to the sound of my own screaming for the second day in a row.  I screamed for the children to bring the pills.  The tramadol?  No.  The oxycodone.
I three 20 mgs down my throat even though I knew it might come back up.  I didn't even wait for an hour to pass I took 5 mgs more.  I screamed.  I cried.  I begged for God.  I begged for Jesus.  I talked to the pills.  I passed out for the first time.  Wasn't I told to check myself in yesterday?  But the sun was shining and I am a daughter of the sun.  How could I leave the source of my strength?  How could I leave my children?  Once I go I'm in someone else's hands.  I'm scared.

I'm going.  I'm ready.  I don't believe it.  I'm going.  I'm ready.  I don't believe it but I'm going because I'm ready.

Eleven a.m. and for the first time, another first, I woke to pain after taking the medication.  I took 15 mgs at one time.  No one was here.  I was alone.  I got the phone and called Katie.  I couldn't breathe.  I was scared.  My limbs were weak.  My torso was under a type of demonic attack.  My mind couldn't focus.

I should have gone to the hospital yesterday.  I still can't believe that I have cancer.

It's 2 p.m. and now it's been nine hours since we started trying to get the pain under control so I can go to the hospital.  I had such grand plans of making a bag and a nice lunch (after the plans of a nice dinner and a nice breakfast and stalling for more time).  It's gone.  The most I will be able to manage is to bathe.  I can't even go and buy my deodorant.  I am so beat down I don't even care if I stink.  But I know that I will so I'll stop on the way to buy deodorant.  I wear a specific kind.  ONLY!  I'm not myself but still enough of me remains to take time for the things which other folks would say don't matter.

The touches which make me me and you you.

The time to follow the plan was yesterday when I was capable of doing so.  When my literary mind was still very much intact.  Now?  I'll arrive as if some type of person who is unkempt and without care from loved ones.  Even though that is not the case.

The only people who have seen me and do not care are those who do not have the ability to care.  You cannot see, face the vision, of one God's creatures so impaired without feeling something.  Can you?  If so.  I  am very happy and it brings joy among my tears that those beasts from the pit no longer darken my day, block my path.  I forgive and I keep moving.  It's no use.  Cancer has taught me the point when there's no use.  At least, can I say, that it's no use for man.  Only God.

No longer stalling.  No longer waiting.  I don't even care if I'm funky under the arms.  I just want to go.  Now!

I've called an ambulance and they told me that they can't take me where I want and need to go.  Hell.  I have to drive myself.  I can't take the last five mgs because that much in my system won't let me drive.

Too much pain to stay.  Too much pain to go.  I wait until the magic dissipates within this body.

I wish....  No sense.  I have cancer.  It's my reality.  I have cancer.  It's my reality.  I have cancer.  It's my reality.  I have cancer.  It's my reality.  I have cancer.  It's my reality.  I have cancer.  It's my reality.

Writing it any more doesn't make it real if the pain hasn't made it real.

I don't know why I haven't accepted it.  You have.  You accepted it and took me to your bosom.  You accepted it and cast me from your side.  I'm a broken toy.  I'm a reason to believe that you've been right in your maltreatment of me.  You believe in my cancer because it's all you've ever wanted:  for me to suffer as you have.

I do not suffer.  I hurt.  There's a difference.

Cancer is the smallest source of pain in a life which has seen too much pain from you.


Thursday, April 25, 2013

Cancer: Leaving and Waiting

I'm leaving home today.  The tumors haven't grown but my liver has.  I've lost 8 pounds so far this week.  I'm unable to keep Vitamin Water in my stomach.  I came home from the doctor this morning determined to use my remaining days (until the pain meds run out on Monday) to get my business in order.  I had a ton of unanswered mail.  I have phone calls.  I have bills which need to be paid and I'm waiting to cash a post dated check on Wednesday.  It's too much!  In the last three days I've had a total of less than 2,000 calories.  My lips are dry.  I'm incredibly lethargic.  There's a new pain on my right side (liver is swelling) and my bile ducts are still functioning but my skin is darker.  It's time.  

I'm waiting for Sarah to get home.  Waiting to act normal for one hour more.  To take her to Bath and Body Works for the new scent (I have coupons) and to try to have dinner with her.  After that I'm driving to the hospital.  It's time.  

Thank you for your help.  Today my student loan payment hit my account.  I had forgotten to cancel electronic payments.  It was for 100 dollars.  A check from someone I've never met came in the mail as well.  Equal amounts and problem solved.  I do have to make a stop at the bank and cancel any payments and get my huge fortune (that's a joke) in line.  But that's just another fifteen minutes before I get on the road to the hospital.  It's about 20 miles from where I live.  

We've talked about it while Grant, Brian and I were engaged in an attempt to corral all of my business.  It's not worth it.  

Last night the sound of my screams woke me up.  When my brain realized what was going on I started to pound the wall like a mad woman.  I begged God and pleaded with him.  I felt another, an additional sword hitting me from the opposite side of my chest.  The rapier was threading through all of my organs from the left side and the right side in a simultaneous torture of one who could say nothing because I know nothing.  Nothing that is except for the horror of a body which has quickly gone from booming and brown to brown and scared, exhausted, and racked from an attack by a spirit unknown.  

Pray for me.  Pray for my children.  Pray for Sarah because her supervision is about to be taken over by the men of the house.  They think that there's trouble behind every busy.  I heard them talking, while I was reading my two month old mail, they've already decided that she will not see daylight, without permisison, until I return.  Poor Baby Sarah!  That's all anyone can do.  If you want to send me a card or a letter or an ugly stuffed animal or whatever (no bombs, marriage proposals, chemicals, stolen merchandise, or flowers) here is my post office box:

La Vonda R. Staples
488 Village Square Drive
Hazelwood MO 63042
314-708-9205

Monday, April 22, 2013

Cancer: Reality and Well Wishes

It wouldn't even let me sleep.  I know it's just a rough night.  Some nights are good and some aren't.  This is just not a good night.  It has blocked out every good memory.  Like Harry Potter's dementors.  I wish I was well.

I'm reading the Harry Potter books.  I talk about when my children were babies.  I pray.  I sing songs out loud and in my mind.  I think I'm getting stronger even though the pain is worse.  I have to keep the vision of myself as a soldier.  I have become a soldier.  Soldiers never quit.  A good soldier is never a coward.  I acknowledge my fear, face reality, but I am channeling the best possible reality.  I want to be well.

It's true that you cannot allow yourself to get upset.  I had issues unrelated to my illness going on in my house this weekend.  You cannot expect everyone to suddenly become angels when you're sick.  I wish we all were well.  Mentally and physically, I beg God for wellness.  Not perfection.

I don't even believe in the existence of perfection.  Not possible when you're speaking in terms of human beings.  I don't even know why we try to cast ourselves in that role.  "The part of perfection will now be played by..."  Doesn't matter if James Earl Jones had a baby with Merryl Streep.  No actor in the world could mount that character with anything approaching credibility.  It will not go well.

I'm hot.  I'm sweating.  I hurt.  My son is next to me.  I'm safe.  I'm trying to be calm.  The cat just walked by.  No.  I don't know which one.  I wish I had some more of that oil my friend brought me back from Ghana.  I would anoint myself and pray for myself and beg God to be well.  I believe in God so my soul, at least, must be well.

Please let the pills work soon.  I'm tired of crying while I type to take my mind off of my crying.  It woke me tonight, the creature, with a force so violent that I screamed and started banging my fist against the wall next to my bed.  My son came running.  We both got the pills.  I took one too many.  I can have four.  I took three.  I usually take two.  That was an hour ago.  I wish it would hurry up and work so I can sleep well.

I ate well tonight.  That's the cause of this.  The food has not yet went through my system.  If I starve myself all is well.  I can sleep.  I can get comfortable.  I'd rather have unanswered hunger than this feeling.  But I cannot go without water.  Big cups of ice water tantalize me, just above my head.  I'm forced to take small sips at a time.  A stomach full of water and all is not well.

My writing used to be a place of laughter, passion, information, questions, searching, seeking, answering, and more questions still.  They tell me that this disease, somehow, has sharpened my ability.  In this hour I say to you that it is not worth it.  I know Miles looked back on the drugs and felt that the music he made during that time was not worth it.  Parker, Coltrane and Hendrix would also concur.  Whether you started the pain in an effort to end a a greater pain or you were an unsuspecting victim?  It's the same.  It's all the same.

You'll wake in the night and cry and scream and pound the walls pleading to be well.


Sunday, April 21, 2013

Cancer: What I Need


A lot of really good folks have asked if there is anything they can do for me.  The only thing I need is for good people to intercede on my behalf with God.  I sat back and thought about this question.  What would I like?  What do I want?  I've decided to tell you about one of my quirks.

I like cards!  I love to receive cards with silly sayings.  I keep them forever.  I can't help it.  I am a helpless and hopeless romantic.  I like stuffed animals.  The sillier the better.  I like stuffed animals which are so very ridiculous that a group has to be called together to figure out just WHAT they are.  Is it a dog?  Is it a cow?  Why such an outrageous color?

Prayers are my need but my wants are very simple and even childish.  Cards and stuffed animals.  When I win this fight, they will be the manifestation of your presence in my house.

This would help my children know that we are not alone.  So, if you want to send me something.  If you want to let me know that we are not alone, our address is as follows (and again, this is a point of sadness.  I set up the post office box for the business of writing.  This was before the diagnosis):

La Vonda R. Staples
Post Office Box 123
Hazelwood MO 63042

Cancer: More Than A Word

I have heard the word so many times and never searched for its meaning.  I never sought out the face, the movement, or presence.  Yet, it found me and made me a member of the army which fights the presence of this aberrant conundrum.

What does it feel like?  It feels like a rapier, a thin sword with all edges useful for cutting, is being threaded through all of the organs in my torso.  The pain never lessens.  You cannot get used to it.  The intensity can only fade when enough percoset, vicodin, or trammadol has been absorbed by my body.  It's enough to drop you to your knees.  To make you scream.  To make you cry automatically.  I cannot, even though I have tried, mentally force the tears to cease.  It's nothing short of a taste of hell.  Yes.  Cancer is a preview of a punitive posthumous experience.

I woke up.  The enemy was the first face I saw and the first presence felt.  I took my medicine.  I am not used to pain pills so I have to take them one at a time.  Five milligrams plus five plus five over a course of two hours.  I have to wait for relief for 120 minutes.  If I take them all at once they're going to come right back up (have learned that the hard way).  This morning it was so intense that I took all fifteen at once.  This only causes my stomach to burn.  So I sat.  Meditated.  I wrote.  Here it is.  The fruit of this morning's resolve to fight and win.  

I wake to pain.  Pain which makes me shake and beg for release.  Not permanent release.  You see, I am very much attracted to this world.  The living world still holds fascination for me.  Through my own eyes and through the eyes of my children and the possibility of grandchildren to come.  Yes.  I want to stay here with all of you.  There is no other choice but to wage war with all of my might.

There are those who soldier beside me but this peculiar war decrees that I am the only one who will feel the pain of wounds.  Not face to face confrontation, but the covert wounding which occurs inside my body while I eat, sleep, and breathe my way through life.  Cancer does not know how to fight fair.

It has attacked everything I have ever believed.  I am a study in reciprocity.  I genuinely believe that niceness calls niceness.  It may not be to the person to whom niceness was applied.  Rather, it can find you when you least expect it or deserve the compassion of fellow humans.  I believe that good deeds are rewarded in this life and although I expect that they are also rewarded in the afterlife, there is strong indication that mankind is not a totally evil force treading upon the earth.  I have met many bad folks.  I have also had the great fortune to meet people for whom there is no equivocation; they are angels in our midst.

People have reached out to me from across thousands of miles.  Tenderness which leap frogs mountains and hopscotches across the oceans help me to hold on for one moment longer thereby creating in me the makings of a heroine.  I can hold on and calm myself with courage of my own soul, faith in my god, and the urging of a celestial chorus which utilizes telephone calls, email, and in the case of those who are very close to me, physical presence.  I don't know what I would do without you.  I, most likely, would have given in to the pain and taken treatment from a place which did not suit my needs and my goal of becoming cancer free.

I do not wait alone for my treatment at the cancer center here in St. Louis.  A few of the old folks have said, "just get some relief child, let the folks take out the gall bladder."  But then, there would still be my liver which one cannot live without.  It deserves the best that technology can offer, does it not?  It's a case of doing something right the first time.  I cannot afford an oopsie.  No one can.  We have time because of the miracle of this body which God has given me and I have taken for granted and abused in so many ways.  Still, in spite of my best efforts to become unhealthy, He took compassion on me and did not punish me for nearly fifty years of excess.  In spite of the tumors on my organs they still work.  Bile ducts doing what they're supposed to do.  Thyroid still on its job (and I'm still unclear just exactly what it does and does not do).  No.  The useless gall bladder has to stay inside of me until an oncologist, and not a general surgeon, takes my case.

But this means I have seven, nine or maybe even ten more mornings to wake to pain.  Ten more days of daily battle in order to wait out the arrival of my cancer cavalry.  I have the strength, inside of me, of those who waited out slavery, Jim Crow, prison terms, and also that of the new generation who have won their own personal wars to become medical doctors, professionals, and other things which they said Black people could not do.  I am Auntie Vonda to them.  Sister.  Mother.  Friend.  Lover.  To these folks, my cousins, children, graduate school peers who have stayed long after the cap and gown have been tucked away, and one little man who has shown more kindness than I ever knew he possessed, I have been entrusted with the going concern of my own life.  I see no intentions of failure in my heart.  I only see the moments when we are talking, years later, and joking about this time.  There will be laughter one day, just not today.

And did I also tell you that my granma hovers near?  She holds my hand when I wake up.  I can smell her!  I can hear her!  I can see her when she moves away from me, no longer showing me the face of a general who musters her troops into a weapon which brings the most cruel designs to ruin.  When she moves away from me I feel hot tears coursing down her brown face.  Scalding her when she is so very far away from all care.  She mourns for me from her grave.  I hear my grandfather praying for me.  With all of the intensity he could channel from his mouth to God's ears.  He crashes into the mercy seat and does not pull himself from his knees until he is sweating in his efforts for God to work His miracle on me.

I know that this disease is much more than a word.  It is a verb.  It is an adjective.  It is not abstract (at least not for me, not anymore).  It is real.  And it has brought me to the precipice of my own reality.  I am real.  I am a force of nature.  I have no intention of giving it any quarters in my mind especially not in the guise of victor.  It can silence me in only two ways:  if I let it or if God wills.  These two mechanisms are not unfamiliar as they are the ideologies under which we all are yoked for every decision of life.  The donut, the drug, the arm of the slot machine can only do what we let them do.  Ne c'est pas?  Yes.  It is so.

I fight against it.  I wait for time to pass until I can have expert help.  I soldier on behalf of my own life and all who love my life because it's all I can do.  I have no other choice except to live.


Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Cancer: My New Thing

I thought by now I'd be deep into PR for my book of essays.  Never thought that I would be busy filling out papers and applications to save my life.  Not meaning the expression but factually to save my life.  I have cancer in my gall bladder and liver.  The jury is still out on my thyroid.  Can't put a name on that until the next biopsy.  For now we'll say that there are nine new little friends who have hitched a ride inside that gland.  Their presence was not requested nor was it appreciated.

Cancer does not run in my family until very late in life.  Really late for us.  We live so long we consider seventy to be young.  We have only had two cousins to die before the age of fifty.  I will do all I can to not become number three.

In July 2012 I went out and got myself a physical.  Healthy as an ox as usual.  I didn't have no kind of nothing that I wasn't supposed to have.  January 2013 I started to get sick and could not get well.  Coughs.  A cold.  The flu.  Congestion in my chest.  I quit my cosmetics job in February and all symptoms went away except one.  A nagging pain in my side.

I took a trip to the local emergency room and received a false diagnosis of UTI and a lecture from a nurse practitioner who didn't have time to put her hands on me and examine me before passing sentence.  She told me that I had to wipe from front to back.  I told her that I wipe sideways.  She didn't appreciate my humor.  She gave me antibiotics even though I protested loudly.  Me and antibiotics really don't get along.  True to form I got sicker during the single week I took this caustic stuff.

For some reason which shall always be unknown to me I didn't go to the free clinic for a follow up.  I borrowed money to go and see a doctor who would take cash payments.  He put his pleasantly warm hands on my belly.  My liver was so swollen he could feel it.  In an instant the first test was ordered.  The ultrasound showed tumors on my liver, thyroid, and an abnormal gall bladder.  The next test was a week later.  Paid for it cash money, too!  It was a CT scan.  This one gave the diagnosis.  Cancer of the gall bladder and liver.  I was told that there was no point in discussing my thyroid because my other two errant organs needed attention as soon as possible.  I wish the state health insurance folks would listen to my doctor.

I'm in a golden window of time where all my systems are still functioning.  This is giving me time to run around like a maniac to all kinds of government office of which I previously was without knowledge.  I'm glad I live in a country where we have these systems but I wish these systems were easier to negotiate.

I plan to seek treatment at a single location.  I'm optimistic but I'm also realistic.  I don't know how long my ability to handle my own affairs will last.  No one can tell me why the bile ducts in my liver are still functioning normally.  No one can tell me why my thyroid is not releasing in thyroid mishaps into my blood.  No one can tell me if I'll wake up tomorrow and have jaundiced eyes in addition to the pain which keeps me from beginning my day until two or three hours after I've ceased to sleep.

I have to assume that each day that I'm able to take care of myself at home is a gift.  I treat it as such.  I complete what I can and plan what is left to be completed.  That's the best I can do.

My life will never be the same after cancer.  Today it's my firm belief that I will have a life after cancer.  I believe I will go on and I will be stronger, more appreciative, and better after this.  I believe that it was time for my lesson in the valley.  I've always been a good student.  I just wish this wasn't such a hard lesson to learn.