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Weetabix, Bread and Gravy

Saturday July 26, 2003 01:29 PM

“Double-dead” is a word Andrew and I have for leftovers that clutter up the fridge for far too long. Between 1984 and 1987, Andrew was a health care worker at “Smoky Mountain”, a garbage dump settlement in Manila, Philippines. There, “double-dead” was a term for food scavenged by squatters whenever the garbage trucks deposited their payload.

Today, with abandon, I toss the crusts of dry bread and moldy cheese. Out go containers of unrecognizable foodstuffs and any condiment which has 2002 in its use by date. Suspect smells waft from the vegetable crisper, or what Bill Richardson, of CBC’s ‘Richardson’s Roundup’, refers to as the ‘vegetable slimer’. Out they all go.

Cleaning the fridge is something I usually save for days when I procrastinate other tasks. Today perhaps, it is more an act of catharsis - fulfilling something inside me that needs to cleanse, to purge, to start again.

I am pleased to report that although Andrew finds the act of eating to be ‘so tedious’, he has begun to eat again, more from necessity than enjoyment. He has lost ten pounds in the last two weeks. This is new ground we’re crossing here... as we have always regarded the act of eating to be more aligned with fellowship, communion and conversation.

The visit to the dietitian at the Cancer Clinic this morning yielded a few suggestions. She says to schedule small, frequent meals. Hopefully, with routine and regularity the body and mind will re-align the appetite. She also says that appetite loss is not unusual for cancer patients. There is such internal upheaval just fighting the cancer and bouncing off the strong medications that these reactions are normal.

Each day Andrew sets one manageable task before him. Three days ago, after many days of fasting, he woke up, ate some weetabix cereal and said, “I’m going out to mow the lawn. If I wait any longer, the neighbours will think I’ve died.” And so he mowed, ate a small lunch and then crashed. Yesterday afternoon, after resting the morning, Andrew, David and the dog trudged up Nose Hill Park, just to see the Rocky Mountains. As I write, he is outside once again, slowly building his garden wall.

Friends have written encouraging letters which remind me that to be fully human we must allow ourselves to embrace sorrow as well as strength. Thank you, for allowing me to pen my humanity.

David had a grand time at skateboard camp. Grace revels in making clay tooth holders and paper maché zebras. I picked her up from art camp today and she was happily singing a little song she made up about glazing her pottery. I gave Michael a telephone card for the pay phone, should he want to call us from church camp this week. He hasn’t called which is actually a good sign that he is doing fine and not worrying about anything. He comes home tomorrow.

This week my Aunt Ruth came from Toronto to visit. She and her husband, Mike, are also writers, journalists and fellow world travelers. Over the years we have enjoyed their company whenever they passed through Belize and Hong Kong. They are kindred spirits.

When friends have dropped by, I’ve seen how Andrew’s spirit would spark when conversation would turn to events and projects he was involved in at the university. As much as he knows that he cannot make the contribution right now, I can tell he misses the comraderie and challenge of being at work. For now, thou, attaining wellness is enough of a task.

Andrew’s mum phoned the other day, saying that whenever her appetite failed, the one thing that did the trick was a good gravy mopped up with bread. So there I was in the 32 degree summer heat, roasting a beef and fixing the gravy. I must say that the mother knows the son, because although the roast didn’t sit with Andrew, the bread and gravy sure did.

Thanks to all with dietary suggestions. We shall keep trying with trial and error and I am certain, with all the love and prayer sent this way, that Andrew, thou momentarily knocked down, shall rise and keep on fighting.

Under the mercy,

Judy



 


 

Crash Test Mummy

Sunday July 20, 2003 12:48 PM

(warning: this entry is rather sad but it does get better.)

I was sitting in the dentist’s chair on Thursday, waiting for my dentist to dismantle a couple of my back molars for a double crown. He had the misfortune to ask how I was. “Don’t ask,” I replied. But that was enough to start the waterworks. There is a pain which Novocain cannot numb. For the next two hours, silent tears ran from my closed eyes and down my cheeks into puddles around my neck. I told him to just ignore me and to keep doing what he does best. But by the time I left, with my frozen jaw and puffy eyes, I felt like I had been beaten up.

I’ve been worried about Andrew. His appetite still hasn’t sparked. I have an inherent maternal need to feed the people I love. There is a Chinese greeting, “Have you eaten?” This need of mine goes beyond my cultural heritage. Every mother wants to make sure her people are nourished. Women will know what I mean. When Andrew’s stomach turns at the mere mention of some foods, let alone the smell of my cooking, I feel so bad. I can’t make him feel better.

The homecare nurse suspects that the steroids gave Andrew a false sense of well-being. Now he is off them, the true nature of his condition is being reflected in his lack of energy and appetite. The doctor hopes we can kick start the appetite again through routine and getting back into the habit of eating. He doesn’t want to put Andrew on the steroids again. In the meantime, Andrew bravely tries to stomach, yet another soy smoothie. There must be something he can take.

I’m edgy. I grouch at the kids and everyone is off kilter. Grace tells me she is sad, too. Michael confesses to having nightmares. Has my sorrow opened the floodgates for the kids to fall apart? That’s not fair. Just for a day, can somebody else hold us all together?

Andrew still sleeps a lot. Is this the beginning of the end? Have we begun the last dance? Dear God, may it not be so.

Andrew goes for his MRI late Thursday afternoon. Later on, he wearily manages to attend a family barbecue for Michael’s skateboard camp. We come home and start re-reading the C.S. Lewis Narnia books to the kids. It’s too hot. Grace can’t get to sleep. Michael tries but finally falls drifts off after midnight. The night is long and lonely. Thankfully, David is at camp and having the time of his life.

Friday is better. The doctor calls and says, “It looks encouraging. You’re not out of the woods, but this is a good report.” Apparently of the four remaining brain tumours, two have disappeared and cannot be seen. The other two have shrunk significantly and show no signs of edema. There is a new one though, small and behind the right eye. Yes, this is a very good news. Our spirits are lifted and we are deeply encouraged.

Physically, nothing has changed. He is still sleeping a lot during the day. Progress on the landscaping has stopped. It’s late afternoon as I write and he still hasn’t found the muster to eat anything today. And yet I feel our spirits are charged with hope.

Pray for that appetite to kick in. I think his lack of energy is directly related to his lack of sustenance. Pray that we keep holding on, grasping the bigger picture. Pray that my sorrow does not become contagious.

Under the mercy,

Judy
 

 

A Grateful Heart

Monday July 14, 2003 11:29 PM

Lately I’ve been considering what I have to be thankful for. I know in the game of life, some would say we’ve been dealt a lousy hand, and I can think of many reasons to be ferociously angry and terribly sad. Having said that, I’ve been pondering what possible good has come out of this journey thus far. Instead of focusing on what is being taken away from us, I want to reflect for a moment on what we have.

For one thing, here we are six and a half months down the track from Andrew’s first horrific headache in January. Remarkably, he is still here.

As much as the final outcome will probably be devastating, Andrew has, thus far, managed his cancer with aplomb. The radiation treatment took his hair and the effects of the steroids knocked him sideways with fluid retention, achy joints, and the inability to sleep. In a very short period of time, his appearance changed so dramatically that people from work and children down the street did not recognize him. Yet these treatments and medications have, so far, kept the tumours at bay and Andrew has only had a few isolated incidents when the pain was really nasty.

We often consider the other events that were happening around the same time that Andrew was diagnosed. Seven students from a Calgary high school perished in an avalanche. Then, on February 1, the space shuttle Columbia exploded causing the further deaths of seven astronauts. None of these folk had a chance to say good-bye. They were taken in an instant. Their families were left with only the unspoken whispers of love and forgiveness.

On the other hand, in the few short months since we’ve known about Andrew’s incurable cancer, we have relished in the gift of time that we’ve been given. As a wise man, Syd Birrell, once said, “Having cancer has taught us how to live.”

And such a lot of living we have done. Aside from the splendid trips to Australia and Europe, Andrew and I have had the rare opportunity to re-connect with friends and family from many different chapters of his life. Through visits, telephone and e-mail we have been able to renew these relationships and engage in conversations of great depth and meaning.

I think it is a very rare thing for a person to be able to hold his life before him like a glass for all to see. But I think it is rarer still for friends and family, such as we have, to pour out the richness of their own lives into the chalice set before us. Thank you so much.

The bitterly cold winter’s afternoon when we sat the children down and told them their Dad had a disease that would likely kill him was the worst possible day of the journey. At that time, I did not know how we would ever get through this and not see the children suffer horribly. I have to tell you now, it is as if they have been carried by angels.

Somehow, each of our children has found resilience and strength way beyond their tender years. They can still laugh and cry and make us smile. Andrew and I are so thankful for the treasures we have in Michael, David and Grace. We know they will not be broken by this tragedy.

Yes, it is still a tragedy but in the midst of it, we have discovered the love of God more real and resident than ever before.

To fill you in on what has been happening the last little while, we enjoyed the company of Andrew’s sister Rebecca and her partner Patricia even though Andrew wasn’t feeling very well. A day or so ago, the constant nausea, that has plagued Andrew for the past two weeks, lifted. His limited energy has also returned and he has been outside everyday building the walls of those raised garden beds. Michael has been working alongside him, loading wheelbarrows of gravel and sand. The only couple of things that haven’t bounced back are his appetite and his ability to sleep through the night.

The ache behind his right eye occasionally rears up to remind us that the cancer is still there. Andrew has been able to control these sporadic incidents with painkillers. A few days ago, he had a chest x-ray and an ultrasound of his liver and the reports are that these organs are not currently presenting any problems. Thank God for that!

This Thursday, Andrew goes for his first MRI since one tumour was surgically removed for biopsy last January. His oncologist wants to get a sounding of where things are at inside Andrew’s head. Have they grown or shrunk? The results will give us a better indication of where Andrew is on the time-line of this journey.

In the meantime, I try to always hold before me the many things I am thankful for. In so doing, no matter what happens, my hope may flicker but it will not fade.

Good night from the warm, sun-drenched northern skies of Calgary.

Judy
 

 

"Time in a Bottle"

Thursday July 03, 2003 11:18 PM


Time In A Bottle

”If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I'd like to do
Is to save every day
Till Eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you”

I suppose I date myself when I say that the sappy lyrics of a pop song written by Jim Croce in 1975 float through my head this morning. Lately however, I do wish that time would stop and I could capture these fleeting days that Andrew, the kids and I have together.

Summer is upon us in Calgary. The lawns are lush and green. The kids finished school last week and for a few brief months, there is no morning rush hour in the Wark household. My body clock is still set on early, and like Andrew, I love this time of the day when all is still.

After we came home from Europe, Andrew officially took ‘sick leave’ from his work at the university. He realized how limited his stamina really is. When he was working, he would come home at the end of the day and his energy was almost totally depleted. He was too tired to hang out with the kids or spend any time doing what he wanted to.

So, for the summer, at least, he is home and discovering the joy of being a full time gardener. The one perk of his new job description is that he can come inside anytime for a little nap.

Our home has become more of an inn with a revolving door, as the steady stream of Australian family started trekking this way. Now that Kim and her family have winged back to Australia, Andrew’s younger sister, Rebecca, and her partner, Patricia, are here with us during Stampede. Becc was outside today with Andrew digging a trench as they work on the landscaping.

After they leave, we shall have a couple of weeks for the boys go to church camp at Pine Lake, and so Grace can enjoy an art and craft day camp nearby. Andrew’s parents will then join us for the first half of August. After they go, we shall have one week to prepare for the arrival of all my family who are coming to town to celebrate my Dad's 80th birthday. Over the Labour Day weekend, Andrew’s older brother, Malcolm, is also planning on dropping by from New Zealand.

I know it all sounds crazy but these are important times to be together, perhaps for the last time. We try not to dwell on all the good-byes that will be said this summer, but we focus on the hellos and what lies in between.

Andrew is now completely off of the steroid medication that he has been taking since he was diagnosed with metastatic melanoma in early January. This week he has been experiencing withdrawal symptoms. His joints are particularly achy and his appetite is waning. Today he said he was feeling ‘particularly miserable’ but I can report that the headaches haven’t returned and he is sleeping through the night. Even his hair has started to re-grow, albeit more like peach fuzz than what he is accustomed to.

There are times when I really wish that I could wake up and find that the last six months were all just a very bad dream. But I open my eyes every morning, rest my head on Andrew’s shoulder and sigh with relief knowing that he is still breathing. I sink into the reality that this is all frighteningly real.

Some have asked how I make it through. Well... it is as if I am in a strange, surreal place that is surrounded by pools of water, all of different sizes and depths. In one such pool, Andrew and I are working together outside, planting a new garden. In another sun dappled pool we are back at that romantic Villa San Michele in Florence. And then there is the recent Father’s Day pool, when David and Grace chose to make a public confession of their own faith and were baptized.

Other pools around me bubble forth with laughter such as the times of celebration around the dining room table. The children beg Andrew to demonstrate his ‘tea-bag rocket science’ for any unsuspecting guests. These pools are the ones I gladly leap into with abandon.

Then there are the cold, deep pools of water into which I occasionally must gaze, but I choose to not linger long in. Like a glacier-fed lake, one of these pools contains the discussions Andrew and I have had about his funeral arrangements. There are pools that hold future glimpses of life without Andrew... shadows of deep sadness and pineful aching for what is lost. I choose not to leap into these. I turn my back from dwelling on them.

I also realize that I am being held together by a love without which I would probably be destroyed. There is a force so strong and so real that holds me back from leaping into those pools of despair and unknowing. And that force is the power of amazing love… the love of my husband and family… the love of God. I can’t explain it but it is there all the time.

No one can capture time in a bottle. We do not live in freeze frames. But I will take what time Andrew and I do have together with the children and remember that whatever we have is a rare gift. Andrew is not sitting around waiting to die. He is clinging tenaciously to life. We all are.

Yesterday while Michael and David were playing a game of chess, Grace turned to me and said, “If life were a game of chess, Dad would be in check.” She then made me realize that she had definitely not said, “check-mate”. I said, “If life were a game of chess, what do you think we should do? “Well, you’re the queen, so you better stay close to Dad. Michael and David are knights and I’m the bishop. We could watch out for Dad and help him.” She is only seven years old!

I’m glad that life is not a game but I do think Grace has the right idea.

That’s about it for now. I think it’s time to pour the morning coffee and head back to bed. Thank you for listening to my ramblings. To those who keep writing, we so enjoy your encouragements and news. Everyday, someone reminds us that they haven’t stopped praying for Andrew and that means the world to us. I regret that we can’t answer every e-mail, but do know that we read every one and your letters mean much to us.



Judy
 

 
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