You’ve Got a Friend
When you’re down and troubled
And you need some loving care
And nothing, nothing is going right
Close your eyes and think of me
And soon I will be there
To brighten up even your darkest nights
You just call out my name
And you know wherever I am
I’ll come running to see you again
Winter, Spring, Summer or Fall
All you have to do is call
And I’ll be there
You’ve got a friend
If the sky above you
Grows dark and full of clouds
And the old north wind begins to blow
Keep your head together
And call my name out loud
Soon you’ll hear me knocking at your door
You just call out my name
Winter, Spring, Summer or Fall
All you have to do is call
And I’ll be there
You’ve got a friend
Ain’t it good to know
You’ve got a friend
When people can be so cold
They’ll hurt you, and desert you
And take your soul if you let them
O, but don’t you let them
You just call out my name
Winter, Spring, Summer or Fall
All you have to do is call
And I’ll be there
You’ve got a friend
Words and Music by Carole King
© 1971 COLGEMS-EMI MUSIC INC.
All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured
Used by Permission.
Carole King
Dear Dr. Terebelo
It is this intangible thing, love, love in many forms, which enters into every therapeutic relationship. It is an element of which the physician may be the carrier, the vessel. And it is an element which binds and heals, which comforts and restores, which works what we have to call—for now—miracles.
Dr. Karl Menninger
May 28, 1992
Dear Dr. Terebelo,
I’m tempted to say I want to thank you now that it’s over, but I know it’s not. I know that for the next year, while most of me is laughing and enjoying, a part of me will hold back and watch from the shadows and pray. But enough!
I chose you as my physician because I heard you were good and that’s what I was looking for. I wanted someone who really knew his stuff, would give me the facts, be a clinician and leave me alone. I was tough. I could handle anything. Thank you for knowing your stuff, being a clinician— and not leaving me alone.
Thank you for trying to educate me. When I was told I had cancer, I felt as though I had suddenly lost control over my own life. (Perhaps because I had?) The only way I could even begin to cope was to learn. Thank you for letting me have access to everything, for being honest and for teaching me—or at least trying!
Thank you for saying I wasn’t a wimp, for helping me realize that there is a difference between resting and quitting.
I’d like to say thanks for the medicine, but I’m not quite that masochistic. What I will say is thanks for all the time you spent helping me deal with the medicine. I was always amazed that every time I was in your office, you never seemed rushed. Even when I behaved like a brat, you sat patiently and listened. Thank you for giving so freely of your time.
Thank you for understanding the tears. I tried to tell myself it was okay to cry, but I hated the tears. I was just
Ziggy ©Ziggy and Friends. Distributed by Universal Press Syndicate. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.
To the Nurses of the World
You evangelists of encouragement, you are so much
more than you know.
You have never let what you couldn’t do stop you from doing all you could do.
You are sales people, your briefcases are filled with a product called hope.
You are explorers, knowing that once you have gone as far as you can see, you will see farther.
You are singers spreading the melody of consideration.
You are lawyers making a case for life.
You are authors helping others add more pages to their books of memory.
You are comedians dispensing the medicine of laughter.
You are artists who paint pictures of health on the canvas of imagination.
You are magicians creating real miracles that inspire patients and families.
Like King Arthur and Joan of Arc, you are warriors battling against the villains of negativity.
Dorothy would have reached Oz much faster
In the company of one nurse—for no one can
Practice your profession unless they already possess
A brain brimming with wisdom, boundless courage, and a heart filled with love.
You are living proof that humanity is created in the image and likeness of God, and the name of that God is Love.
John Wayne Schlatter
The Healing
The moment hung suspended. Dr. Nathan hesitated, looking down at some papers in front of him. I waited, my senses almost painfully heightened, intensely aware of the blue-and-white pattern of his tie, the hissing radiator in the corner and the muffled sound of New York traffic outside. He looked up, and before he could speak, I read the bad news in his eyes. Oh, no, don’t say it, don’t say it, begged an inner voice. But he did.
It was very hard for him, I could tell. His kindly face couldn’t hide his distress. Three years earlier he had fought and stemmed the cancer in my body, removing my left breast and then rejoicing in every year of health that followed. Now he told me that the new tumor, swelling out like an evil egg between my ribs, just below the collarbone, was “inoperable.”
“We’ll start cobalt right away,” he said quietly. “The most important thing is not to give up.”
But I already had. I knew what inoperable meant. It meant death. The trip home to our house on Manhattan’s 19th Street was a numb blur. As I prepared dinner, watching my husband, Scott, and my little daughter, Erika, playing a game at the kitchen table, a terrible anguish separated me from them like a great invisible wall. I turned toward the stove to hide my tears.
We sat down to our meal together. The lamplight shone warmly on Erika’s face, outlining the wisps of blonde hair that escaped from her braids. She raised a forkful of peas to her lips, took a sip of milk, a bite of bread. Very soon, I thought, these things that I’ve always taken for granted will be lost. Erika eating, drinking, smiling, moving her hand—all will be lost, all lost to me forever. She lifted the fork again, and suddenly I found myself gazing at her in astonishment.
Something had changed. I saw Erika and the world around us differently. My daughter’s simple acts of eating glowed like precious jewels, her every movement filled with magic and beauty. My inner eye opened to the radiance of every movement. To the mystery of a Presence— creative in everything—in the slightest gesture of her hand, in the little green peas on her fork and in my joy at witnessing them.
Surely, I almost said out loud, this was the work of God, for I felt myself alive forever in the heart of the present, alive in the very heart of Him Who caused my own to beat.
I reached for the balm of that moment, that special awareness of being alive that God gave me, again and again during the weeks following. But I found it increasingly difficult to recall the experience and to get in touch with its meaning. The cobalt treatment induced deep fatigue and nausea. Fighting the disease sapped me completely of energy. I’m tall, five-feet nine inches, and my healthy weight is 140 pounds. By the end of the treatment the cancer had eaten me down to 95 pounds. Now we would have to wait and see if the treatment had an effect.
Scott, too, looked more and more drawn as he tried to cope with household chores, his demanding job in public relations and the fear he kept inside. One Saturday, while I napped, he dialed the Boston phone number of our
dear friend Sheila. She had a deep knowledge of many subjects and read widely, keeping up with all the latest advances in the world of medicine.
Scott poured out his despair to our old friend. “I can’t bear just to stand by and watch while Sybil wastes away,” he told her. “I feel so helpless. Can you think of something else we could do now that she’s completed the medical treatment? Something that might build Sybil up?”
Sheila understood. “There’s someone I think you should call,” she said.
When I awoke, Scott was sitting by my bed. I could tell that he was excited.
“I’ve just been talking on the phone to Sheila,” he said. “She told me about a woman who helped her cousin recover from cancer. She’s a scientist and professor of medicine named June Goodfield. She’s British, but she lives in Michigan part of the time and she’s there now. Sheila gave me her number. She’s a Fellow of the Royal Society of Medicine and she’s devoted years of her life to the study of cancer. Sheila says she’s been all over the world doing research and interviewing patients and scientists. She knows every approach that’s been tried.”
Scott’s excitement was contagious. “Let’s call her right now,” I said.
“I already did, I couldn’t wait,” Scott answered. “Let me tell you about it and then if you want to, we can call her again.” He took my hand. “You’re going to think some of this is strange, but listen for a minute, okay?”
I nodded.
“I talked with her about your case, and she asked a lot of very good questions. We were on the phone for nearly an hour. She said what you need—immediately—is a total change of scene. She told me to take you and Erika out of New York right away and go out West. To someplace quiet and beautiful.”
“What?” I was astonished. “Why?”
“Because in her experience, a drastic change in environment can trigger a change for the better. That’s what happened to Sheila’s cousin. Dr. Goodfield said to call the cousin and talk to her about it.”
Scott seemed to have already made up his mind, but I was full of doubts. It all seemed too weird. Too quick. What if this woman was some kind of a quack? But no, she was, after all, a member of the Royal Society of Medicine, with an international reputation.
“What about your job?” I said, voicing another doubt. “And what about Erika’s school? We can’t leave just like that.”
“Darling, that’s what I thought too, at first. But Dr. Goodfield says the quick change to a totally different environment is an important first step.”
“Do you believe it?” I asked.
“Somehow it makes sense to me.” Scott said. “It worked for someone we know and can talk to. And besides,” he squeezed my hand, “I want us to try everything that has even the smallest chance of turning you around. We have everything to lose by not trying. And we have everything to gain by going—we’ve tried everything else.”
Three days later Erika, Scott and I got off a plane at Santa Barbara Municipal Airport and stood in the warm California wind. “We’re going to put some weight on you so you won’t blow out to sea,” Scott said, smiling. I leaned against his arm and fought back tears. I still found it hard to believe the depth of support I was receiving. Scott’s boss assured him his job would be waiting; friends and family rallied with financial help to add to our meager savings.
“I feel like a horse everyone is betting on,” I said to Scott, trying to lighten the moment.
In the tranquillity of a cabin on the beach, with the clean sound of the waves and a loving atmosphere of hope and trust, I gave myself body and soul to the task of reinforcing the cobalt treatment by opening myself up to serenity in my life. In New York I’d been reading material by authors like Lawrence LeShan, Carl Simonton and Erik Peper, who described using classic techniques of relaxation, self-awareness and meditation to overcome illness. Now I used these techniques in an effort to draw as close to God as humanly possible.
Six times a day I lay down on my bed for 15-minute sessions of deep meditation and prayer. On my back, breathing deeply and regularly, I brought all of my attention to focus on the inhalation and exhalation of my lungs, on the life-giving oxygen that united me to all of God’s nature on this earth. When I felt very calm, I went on to an even deeper relaxation, telling my toes to give up their tension, then my ankles, calves and so on, up my body. By the time I reached the crown of my head, I was vividly aware of my body as a living being, conscious of the blood streaming through my veins, of the warmth of my hands, feeling God’s will in the beating of my heart.
Now I was ready to begin visualizing my tumor’s destruction. Already I had carefully studied photos of malignant tumors, had looked long and hard at magnified portraits of the killer cancer cells and their enemies, the white blood cells. I wanted to see my target accurately.
With closed eyes, I focused my mind on the tumor like a laser beam. I “watched” as my white blood cells, wave after wave of mighty warriors, attacked and destroyed the tumor, holding the image clearly and strongly.
Finally I called up a picture of myself glowing from head to foot with vitality and health.
Day after day in our peaceful retreat, with the blue Pacific to rest my eyes on and its lulling sound constantly in my ears, I waged my campaign. Prayer. Deep relaxation. Meditation. Seeking special moments when I could see God and feel His presence in the most commonplace events, as I had seen Erika at the dinner table that night in New York.
A week went by. Two. No change. One day I sat with Erika at the table while she worked at writing the alphabet in cursive script, something she found difficult. Suddenly she threw down her pencil and burst into tears. “I’ll never be able to do this, I just can’t.” Frustrated, she laid her head down on the writing tablet.
I stroked her hair. “I know how discouraged you feel. Sometimes things need a lot of practice and patience to work. Then all at once—bang—you’ve got what you’ve been working so hard for. Have faith and you’ll see. You’ll do it.”
The words rang in my ears. I realized I needed to hear them myself.
On the morning of the 20th day, after 120 meditation sessions, I woke up and stretched. The cabin was still. The curtains stirred at the window and tawny California sunshine streamed in. As usual, my hand crept to my shoulder to touch the familiar, evil lump bulging out from between my ribs. My fingers stopped and spread out. Where is it? My palm rested on smooth, flat skin. I sat up and swung my legs out of bed. Slowly, almost tiptoeing, I walked to the mirror. I took my hand away. It’s gone! The horror was truly gone. The tumor was completely absorbed. There was no evidence it had ever existed.
“Scott, wake up! Erika, come quick!”
Weeping, laughing and thanking God, the three of us burst out onto the early-morning beach, hugging each other and dancing with joy. Then Erika knelt and picked up a smooth white stone. “Here, Mommy, this is for you,” she said as she slipped it into my hand, “so you can remember this day forever.”
Twelve healthy years later, I still can’t say whether the cobalt alone would have healed my tumor. I have kept the little stone that Erika gave me. Its very ordinariness reminds me that, though human problems are as plentiful as pebbles on the beach, faith in God gives us a singular power to overcome them.
Sybil Taylor
Kindest Cut
It was a bold and bald-faced—or rather, bald-headed— act of friendship: On March 11, 13 fifth-grade boys lined up to have their pates shaved at the Men’s Room, a San Marcos, Calif., hair salon. Valuing substance over style, the boys embraced the full-sheared look because their classmate Ian O’Gorman, 11, about to undergo chemotherapy for cancer, would soon lose his hair. Says Ian’s pal Erik Holzhauer, also 11: “You know, Ian’s a really nice kid. We shaved our heads because we didn’t want him to feel left out.”
If compassion were a subject, the Bald Eagles, as the boys now call themselves, would clearly get A’s. They took notice in early February that Ian was starting to lose weight. Then on February 18,
doctors removed a tumor the size of an orange from Ian’s small intestine. The diagnosis was non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, which has a 68 percent survival rate after five years for children under the age of 15. Two days later, Ian’s best friend, Taylor Herber, came to the hospital. “At first I said I would shave my head as a joke, but then I decided to really do it,” says Taylor. “I thought it would be less traumatizing for Ian.” At school he told the other boys what he was planning, and they jumped on the baldwagon.
“Soon,” says Erik, “just about everyone wanted to shave their heads.” That included a few girls, who never went through with it, much to Erik’s relief—”I don’t think Ian wanted to be followed around by a bunch of bald girls,” he observes—and Jim Alter, 50, their teacher, who did. “They did all this by themselves,” he says. “They’re just really good kids. It was their own idea. The parents have been very supportive.”
Ian, who completes his chemo in May, is already well enough to be playing first base on his Little League baseball team. “What my friends did really made me feel stronger. It helped me get through all of this,” he says gratefully. “I was really amazed that they would do something like this for me.”
And they won’t stop until it’s over. “When Ian gets his next CAT scan,” vows Erik, “if they decide to do more chemotherapy, we’ll shave our heads for another nine weeks.”
People Magazine
Taking Time for Tenderness
I jerked on my seat belt and backed the car out of the garage, oblivious to the signs of early spring that usually gladdened my heart. I was on my way to my friend Joan’s birthday breakfast, but I felt tight as a coiled spring. My mother-in-law, Penny, had come to live with us after a series of heart problems and small strokes. And since her arrival it seemed I’d done nothing but care for her.
This morning I’d maneuvered Penny to the edge of her bed, sponged soapy water over her body, rubbed lotion into her wrinkled skin, and brushed and braided her long hair. And as I did it, I wondered: How could she just sit there and say nothing, with me working so hard? If only she’d give me one word of thanks for the total, daily care I gave her. All she said as I put scrambled eggs and whole-wheat toast in front of her was, “I wish I could have something sweet. With cinnamon and sugar.”