“Sugar’s not good for you, Penny,” I said, fighting to keep the tension out of my voice as I settled her in a chair by the phone and started out the door.
It wasn’t fair. Penny’s helplessness threatened to crowd out my simplest daily pleasures. I didn’t even have time to take a break for a cup of tea, to enjoy the springtime. A dozen times a day I found myself wondering, What about me?
I blinked back tears as I parked the car and hurried into the restaurant. There sat my friend Joan. Her husband, Butch, had Alzheimer’s disease and she devoted herself to his care. I couldn’t imagine how she kept going year after year.
“Happy birthday!” I exclaimed as Joan greeted me with a hug. When I sat down, I discovered a package at my place, wrapped in tissue paper and tied with silver ribbon.
“Joan, what’s going on? It’s your birthday.”
“Just open it,” she urged.
Inside was a beautiful oak wall plaque. “Blessed be the God...,” read the gilded inscription, “who comforts us in all our affliction so that we may be able to comfort...”(II Corinthians 1:3-4, New American Standard).
“Joan, it’s a treasure,” I whispered, awed by a friend who gave presents on her own birthday.
“I thought you could hang it where you can read it often,” she said. “I discovered that verse one day, and it changed me as a caregiver.”
“So that we may be able to comfort.” Words quite a bit different, I thought, from “What about me?”
Joan pushed back wisps of gray hair. “When Butch got sick,” she said, “all I could think of was myself. I was so tired, so guilty, so angry. But each day God always found ways to comfort me—in the touch of a friend’s hand, in the beauty of the seasons, in the smallest ways. And in the same ways that God comforted me, I started searching for ways to comfort Butch.”
“Like what?”
She laughed. “Nothing big there, either. It turned out the littlest things made him happiest, too. Like reading the comics to him, even though he doesn’t understand much. Or putting a ribbon on the cat. Or popping corn and watching the news together.”
I thought of Penny back home in her too-quiet room. Had I been so caught up in caring for her body that I forgot her spirit? For the first time, I tried to think of what might bring joy to her day instead of mine.
After Joan and I said good-bye, I drove to the grocery store. Near the entrance were pots of bright spring flowers, and I selected one bursting with tulips. Then I headed for the bakery, then home.
“Mary?” Penny called as I opened the door. Her hands were folded in her lap on the newspaper exactly as they’d been two hours before.
Impulsively I planted a kiss on the top of her head. “I need to take a break, Penny,” I said. “How would you like to have a cup of tea together? And an apple Danish?”
Her eyes lit up. “With cinnamon...and sugar?”
“With cinnamon, and sugar. And fresh tulips!”
“It would be wonderful. Oh, Mary...”
“Yes, Penny?”
“Thank you,” she said.
Mary Vaughn Armstrong
Practical Tips to Help the Seriously III
• Don’t avoid me. Be the friend...the loved one you’ve always been.
• Touch me. A simple squeeze of my hand can tell me you still care.
• Call me to tell me you’re bringing my favorite dish and what time you are coming. Bring food in disposable containers, so I don’t have to worry about returns.
• Take care of my children for me. I need a little time to be alone with my loved one. My children may also need a little vacation from my illness.
• Weep with me when I weep. Laugh with me when I laugh. Don’t be afraid to share this with me.
• Take me out for a pleasure trip, but know my limitations.
• Call for my shopping list and make a special delivery to my home.
• Call me before you visit, but don’t be afraid to visit. I need you. I am lonely.
• Help me celebrate holidays (and life) by decorating my hospital room or home, or bring me tiny gifts of flowers or other natural treasures.
• Help my family. I am sick, but they may be suffering, too. Offer to come stay with me to give my loved ones a break. Invite them out. Take them places.
• Be creative. Bring me a book of thoughts, taped music, a poster for my wall, cookies to share with my family and friends....
• Let’s talk about it. Maybe I need to talk about my illness. Find out by asking me: “Do you feel like talking about it?”
• Don’t always feel we have to talk. We can sit silently together.
• Can you take my children or me somewhere? I may need transportation to a treatment, to the store, to the doctor.
• Help me feel good about my looks. Tell me I look good, considering my illness.
• Please include me in decision-making. I’ve been robbed of so many things. Please don’t deny me a chance to make decisions in my family or in my life.
• Talk to me about the future. Tomorrow, next week, next year. Hope is so important to me.
• Bring me a positive attitude. It’s catching!
• What’s in the news? Magazines, photos, newspapers, verbal reports keep me from feeling the world is passing me by.
• Could you help me with some cleaning? During my illness, my family and I still face dirty clothes, dirty dishes and a dirty house.
• Water my flowers.
• Just send a card to say, “I care.”
• Pray for me and share your faith with me.
• Tell me what you’d like to do for me and, when I agree, please do it!
• Tell me about support groups like Make Today Count (MTC), so I can share with others.
Saint Anthony’s Health Center
Ziggy © Ziggy and Friends. Distributed by Universal Press Syndicate. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.
How to Make a Sick Child Smile
Our 11-year-old daughter, Rebekah, is hospitalized frequently for treatments. Beforehand, we always talk with the doctor and tell Rebekah what to expect, addressing her fears. But then when she is in the hospital, loneliness and boredom often set in. That’s when we’re grateful for all the friends and relatives who ask, “How can I help?” Here are a few suggestions from what we’ve learned.
1. Visit. Visitors are an important part of the healing process. Young visitors, especially, help children in the hospital feel less isolated. Rebekah always perks up when her brother, Bryant, comes by. If you have a young friend in the hospital, check the rules and take your children along. Talk quietly if the patient is asleep. Don’t discuss the negative details of the disease in front of the child. If a doctor is present, wait for the examination to be finished, then visit.
2. Send cards. Mail notes and cards to the child’s home—the parent will check the mail. Let your youngster create a homemade card or draw a picture. Once, Rebekah’s Sunday school class made a banner and a giant card with a special message from each classmate. Rebekah was thrilled and displayed them in her hospital room.
3. Bring gifts. The best kind are ones that can be shared. One friend brought a new game to the hospital, but instead of handing the gift to Rebekah, she played the game with her. Rebekah’s grandmother brought a coloring book and they spent the afternoon coloring together. Don’t bring candy or snacks without checking with the parent first. Gifts that stimulate the mind, such as crayons, books, puzzles or tape cassettes, are always appreciated.
4. Spend the night. If you’re a close relative or friend, consider sharing the responsibility of spending a night at the hospital. It is important for those in constant contact with the child to take a break. My husband, Nolan, and I alternate. Nolan tells funny stories and I read books, but Rebekah often enjoys the comfort of a different familiar face.
One evening when Rebekah was especially tense, my friend Donnette, a first-grade teacher, insisted on spending the night at the hospital. She alw
ays seems to cheer my daughter up. That night the two of them stayed up late, talking and giggling, relieving much of Rebekah’s anxiety.
5. Entertain. Despite hectic routines, hospitalization can be very boring. How grateful I have been for celebrations organized by the hospital staff. When the circus was in town, they arranged a costume party for the children. Rebekah was a princess, and it didn’t seem to bother her that she had an I.V. attached to her arm.
If you know someone in the hospital, think imaginatively. Can a few members of your church choir drop by for some singing (and not just at Christmas time)? Do you have a friend who can perform magic tricks or dress as a clown? How about taking a birthday party to the hospital? Don’t wait for the patient’s birth date—do it now.
6. Pray. “Don’t be weary in prayer; keep at it; watch for God’s answers and remember to be thankful when they come” (Colossians 4:2, The Living Bible). Send a note that simply says, “We are praying for you.” Notify the church when a child is hospitalized. Rebekah has been comforted to know that our pastor and staff prayed specifically for her.
With a little thought and creativity, you can make a sick child’s day brighter. Let the child know that you are aware of the illness, care deeply and are praying daily for a recovery.
Marilyn Phillips
The Way Back
Her medical chart said that she was in her mid-30s, but framed by the four white corners of an overstuffed pillow and the high collar of a lacy pink bedjacket, her small face looked more like that of a lost and frightened little girl.
“Mind if I open the blinds?” I asked.
“Whatever,” she responded listlessly.
I pulled the slender cord and the tiny hospital room was filled with the gray, wet light of a rainy day.
“My name is Doris Knight,” I smiled, pulling up a chair. “Your doctor suggested that I stop by for a visit.”
Still, she stared straight ahead.
“You see,” I continued, “eight years ago, I had breast cancer, too, and the same kind of operation that you just had. Your doctor thought we might talk about it.”
“I’d rather not,” she said in a low voice. And then, slowly, she turned to face me, eyes filled with fear and desperation. For a moment, I became lost in their bleak and empty blueness. Looking beyond her, my mind spun back to a cold and drizzly Sunday morning in October, 1970....
Nestled in an easy chair by our warm and crackling fireplace, I tried to find the strength to tackle an endless list of long-overdue thank-you notes. I’d been home from the hospital for three weeks, but it was the first time I’d been left alone.
My husband, John, was at church. Our 27-year-old son, Steve, was a continent away, stationed at San Diego’s U.S. Naval Air Station. My sister, who flew in from out-of-state to be with me, had returned home to her family yesterday. And two days had passed since I’d heard from any of my friends—loyal neighbors, church members and coworkers. Loneliness, until now held at bay, swiftly enveloped me.
Equally disheartening was my extreme discomfort, weakness and inability to do the simplest chores. Just getting into and out of my clothes was a task of staggering proportions. Back zippers and hooks were impossible. I spent the entire morning getting dressed.
And I was depressed. Gone now were the blessed sedatives and painkillers that had made life bearable for the past few weeks. And gone with them was the spunky trouper, the incredibly cheerful optimist whose postoperative good humor had elicited choruses of “Gosh, isn’t she wonderful” from friends and family. In her place was a 53-year-old scared and hurting woman.
How I longed for someone to talk to. Lurking in the darkest part of my soul were deep-seated fears too painful, too horrifying, for me to even admit. I knew I needed more than the expert medical counsel provided by my doctors. I needed more than the well-intentioned pep talks proffered by my friends. I even needed more than the unspoken love and compassion that showed in the eyes of my husband. What I needed was someone to talk to—a woman, perhaps, who had been through this whole ugly ordeal herself and who could understand firsthand what I was going through.
Reaching for a pen, I brushed against the corner of a slim volume of inspirational verse, a gift from a friend, that had been balanced on the arm of the chair. It clattered to the floor. Without thinking, I bent to pick it up. I moved too quickly. Searing pain, like nothing I’d ever felt before, pierced my chest.
“Why?” I sobbed. “Why?”
All the fears I had been trying to repress were unleashed at once with savage fury. A barrage of words, nightmarish and taunting, swirled behind my closed eyes. Breast can–cer... malignancy... mastectomy... prosthesis...
I shuddered and pulled my robe more tightly around me, trying not to notice my oddly concave right side. I knew the pain was temporary; that the jolt I had just suffered was merely damaged nerve endings in the slow process of mending. I knew that with time and exercise I’d be able to resume near-normal use of my affected side. The doctors had said so. But the ugly scar would be with me forever.
Where, I wondered, was God? How could He have let this happen to me?
Never had I felt so helpless. I was especially worried about my career. After working for the telephone company for nearly half my life, a few months ago I had finally found my niche as staff editor for one of the company’s statewide magazines. It was rewarding, challenging and exciting work. But it was also a job that required strength, stamina—and self-confidence. I felt no longer qualified.
More than anything else, I was worried about my husband. John, who had been a tower of strength, had a severe health problem of his own. A victim of worsening emphysema, he soon faced early retirement and needed me more than ever. In those fast-approaching days, how would I, a crippled half-shell of a woman, ever be able to give him the love and support—emotional and physical— that he deserved?
If only I had someone to talk to. Surely other women who survived breast cancer had suffered similar problems. I wondered how they coped. I wondered what they knew that I didn’t.
Again, I reached down to pick up the fallen book. This time I moved slowly, deliberately, bending from the waist. The book had landed face-up. Picking it up, my eyes were drawn to two short lines of verse.
“This body is my house —it is not I.
Triumphant in this faith, I live and die.”
The author was unknown, but the words seemed to have been written expressly for me. I reread the passage out loud. It had a strangely calming and soothing effect.
With this in mind, I resolved to stop worrying—at least for the moment—and concentrate all my energy on getting better. After all, I reasoned, I should be thankful. I had survived.
Settling back in the deep, soft chair, I closed my eyes. Listening to the falling rain, the crackle and pop of burning embers, the steady, rhythmic ticking of the old clock in the hall, I slept.
Two months later, I was strong enough to return to my job. I worked hard. Most evenings I came home too exhausted to worry about anything more complicated than slipping into something loose and comfortable, fixing a simple supper for John and myself, and going to bed.
As time went on, the ragged scar healed, leveled out, and all but disappeared. I was fitted with a standard prosthesis and, to the casual observer, my appearance was absolutely normal. Still, a part of me died inside whenever I saw the curious eyes of those who knew about my operation travel to my chest. It was even worse when encountering someone who was obviously doing everything humanly possible not to look. It wasn’t until some time later that I realized what a wide variety of highly sophisticated, natural-looking breast forms were available. I splurged on one of the more expensive ones. It was worth it. Before long, I was comfortable and confident wearing it all day long, and my self-image improved considerably.
It would be misleading to imply that every day thereafter was sunshine and roses. There were bad moments— undressing before a mirror with a too-critical eye, or waking in terror in the middl
e of the night when dark panic threatened like a storm cloud and unreasonable fears swept through me like a cold wind. John, however, was always there to hold me close and whisper words of reassurance and encouragement.
One spring day, I received a letter from the American Cancer Society. “Mrs. Knight,” it read, “your name is on our list as having recently undergone a mastectomy. Would you be interested in helping to organize a local Reach to Recovery* chapter in your community for women who have undergone similar surgery?”
Through enclosed brochures, I learned that the Reach to Recovery program was founded in 1953 by Mrs. Terese Lasser, herself a mastectomy patient, and today has active chapters nationwide. The program depends on trained volunteers, all former mastectomy patients, who call new patients and help them adjust to their various psychological, physical and cosmetic needs.
The planning meeting was scheduled to take place at Valdosta’s Mental Health Office, 7:00 P.M., on a Wednesday night. Aching and tired from a full day at the office, I almost didn’t attend.
It was a good thing I did. It was an evening of discoveries— most notably that my struggle with cancer had left me not handicapped, not less of a person, but uniquely qualified for a highly specialized service.
My gaze returned from the hospital window to the despondent young woman lying on the bed. Her breakfast tray, I noticed, was untouched.
“I understand how you feel,” I said softly. “Would it be all right if I just sat with you for a while?”
“If you like.” She looked away and busied herself folding and refolding a green cloth napkin.
“I’m just so darn weak,” she murmured. “I can’t find the strength to do anything.”