Awakened from sleep on the day of his discharge
By shuffling feet going all around his bed,
Manuel opened his eyes and thought he was still dreaming—
His wife, and four friends with no hair on their heads.
He blinked and he looked again, not quite believing
The four shiny heads all lined up side by side.
And still to that point not a word had been spoken,
But soon they were laughing so hard that they cried.
And the hospital hallways were ringing with voices.
“Patron, we did this for you,” said his friends.
And they wheeled him out to the car they had borrowed
“Amigo, estamos contigo, ves...”
So Manuel Garcia returned to his neighborhood
Dropped off in front of his two-bedroom flat.
And the block seemed unusually deserted for Sunday;
He drew a deep breath and adjusted his hat.
But before he could enter the front door flew open.
Manuel was surrounded with faces he knew—
Fifty-odd loved ones and friends of the family
With clean-shaven heads and the words “We love you!”
And so Manuel Garcia, a person with cancer,
A father, a husband, a neighbor, a friend,
With a lump in his throat said, “I’m not one for speeches,
But here I have something that needs to be said.
“I felt so alone with my baldness and cancer.
Now you stand beside me, thank Heaven above.
For giving me strength that I need may God Bless you,
And long may we live with the meaning of love.
“For giving me strength that I need may God Bless you,
And long may we live with the meaning of love.”
David Roth
Hairs
Everybody in our family has different hair. My papa’s hair is short. He doesn’t have much, but it suits him. And me, my hair is long and straight. Not a curl if I try. Just straight down past my shoulders. Jeff’s hair is great. It is thick and soft. It has body and can be shaped. Very different from my dad’s hair now, but it was once the same.
But my mother’s hair, my mother’s, well it’s not really hair. She has cancer so she lost it all. It’s growing back, though, and so soft. Like fur. Fuzzy. Soft to touch and soft to the face when she’s holding you and you feel safe, it is the warm smell of a baby, it is the smell of comfort when you cuddle up next to her, and she tickles your back letting you know she loves you. All your worries and troubles disappear when she holds you. When I rub her head it is like rubbing a magic lamp. I wish for her to be happy and healthy, and for all her beautiful hair to come back to protect and keep her head warm the way she protects and keeps me warm. That’s Mama’s hair, like a baby. Soft and warm like her heart.
Jaime Rosenthal
Dear Mommy
Saint Christopher’s Protection
Dear Jacqueline:
When you read this letter, it will be Father’s Day. I want to tell you a wonderful story about your dad. He is a pretty private person and I’m afraid he might never tell you himself. It is a story that you should know—and perhaps one day pass on to your children.
Your father and I had been friends for years. On a hot August day in 1992 in Boise, Idaho, I met him for lunch. You see, I had cancer and was leaving to begin the long process of a bone marrow transplant at Stanford University Hospital. I was optimistic, but bone marrow transplants are dangerous procedures. It was possible that I would never see your father again and I wanted to tell him good-bye. I was only 39 when I was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, an unusual cancer for someone so young. Worse yet, the only course of treatment at the time of the original diagnosis was chemotherapy for the rest of my life, which at best would have been only 10 years longer.
The doctors at Stanford determined that I had potential as a bone marrow transplant candidate. It was a possible cure, but my cancer didn’t fit the standard treatment regimen. After hours of uncomfortable tests, difficult discussions and refusal of coverage by my insurance company, I was still determined that I would have that transplant! With my whole heart and soul I tried to convince the Stanford doctors that I could be an exceptional patient. They finally agreed, but they had to write a new protocol, just for me. Yes, I was going to have a bone marrow transplant!
Your dad was pretty shocked to see me when I arrived for our lunch. A brunette with naturally curly hair, I showed up that day with a blond page-boy. It was a wig to replace the hair I had lost after seven months of chemotherapy. Instead of trying to find a wig that matched my natural hair, I had the page-boy style that I had always wanted in high school. Facing cancer taught me to take risks and try new things. I had learned that life is short and that I should follow my dreams. “Later” might be too late.
Over our meal, the two of us laughed about stories from the past and talked about my terrifying present and unknown future. As you can imagine, it was saying goodbye that I dreaded. As we stood on the sidewalk in front of my car, your dad reached into his pocket and handed me an envelope. Immediately, the words “Saint Christopher medal” flashed into my mind, and I don’t know why because neither he nor I am Catholic. He said, “This is for you, but don’t open it until you are on the airplane bound for California.” He kissed me on the cheek and was gone.
Two days later, shortly after take-off, I opened that envelope. It was, indeed, a Saint Christopher medal—a very special one. On one side of the silver pendant was the U.S. Army’s emblem and on the other, Saint Christopher. Your father’s enclosed note to me read:
Dear Cindy,
Although I am not famous for my willingness to open up and express my feelings, I want you to know that you are a very special friend. My mom gave me this Saint Christopher medal when I went to Vietnam. She assured me it would keep me safe, and it did. Someday I would like to passit onto my daughter, Jacqueline, but right now it has a more important use. Please take it, and I give you the same assurance: it will keep you safe. Believe that everything you are going through will be worth it for the long term.
All the best,
Jim
I cried. I was afraid, very afraid, as your dad must also have been when he went off to war, but now I knew I had another reason to believe I would survive. I wore the Saint Christopher medal from that moment on.
My transplant was exceptionally difficult. I suffered severe side effects. The radiation I endured was said to be the equivalent of having been a mile from a nuclear explosion; a dangerous fungus lingered on my lung. High-dose chemotherapy caused second-degree burns on my hands and feet. My body was so affected that you would never have recognized me: I looked like a monster.
Early signs of transplant success were shattered the day after I left the hospital. My transplant had failed. The combined reasons for the transplant’s failure put me in a unique category—what happened to me happens to only 1 percent of transplant patients. There were no options but a stem-cell rescue, an uncertain procedure that might re-infuse my own cancer cells. I faced death square in the face in the weeks I waited for the second transplant to engraft. I was in the hospital for 54 days. I had left Boise on August 14, 1992, and returned home three months later, on December 5. In February, a blood clot, a residual from transplant, passed through my heart but did not harm me. I had experienced miracles. I was lucky to be alive.
As I write this letter, nearly four years have gone by and I am still cancer-free. Your father was right: Saint Christopher protected me.
I remember now that your father had seen a lot of action as a platoon leader and first lieutenant in the infantry. Although he never considered himself a hero, he distinguished himself by earning a bronze star for valor and a purple heart—he was wounded in action on the day two of his good friends died.
Your father wore his medal with faith, Jacqueline—and so did I. When it becomes yours one da
y, I hope you and your children will remember its history and the stories of courage and friendship that it has to tell.
All my love,
Cindy
Cynthia Bonney Mannering
Our Hero Brian
What is it like for an 18-year-old high school senior to find out that he has two inoperable pineal brain tumors? Am I going to die? Why me? Why now? These were just some of the questions that ran through our son Brian’s mind.
For two months we didn’t know what was happening to our son—he lost weight, wasn’t eating and was not himself. He withered away right before our eyes from 140 pounds to 120 pounds in a month, for no apparent reason.
After complaining of double vision, an MRI of the brain was taken and the tumors discovered. We were all shocked, but it answered our question as to why he had the anorectic symptoms.
After the initial shock, Brian had a few days of ups and downs accepting and understanding what really happened as well as the treatment that lay ahead.
Radiation treatments began right after Christmas and with a positive attitude, he surprised us all and sailed through them. Despite being a little tired, he continued going to school every day. His classmates and teachers were amazed.
After the treatments ended he started practicing with the varsity basketball team. He was able to play a few minutes in a few games just before the season ended, and they were momentous occasions. Just seeing him on the court brought tears and cheers from everyone in the stands who knew what he had been through. Thanks to a very understanding coach (whose wife had breast cancer), he was able to stay on the team throughout the season. At the end-of-season banquet, he was presented the Coaches Award because of the inspiration he showed his teammates, whether at practice or supporting them at their games. Though times were tough, he never gave up. He gave 110 percent of his time and energy.
Then chemotherapy started for five consecutive days, then on days nine and 16 again, for four months. Hair loss, fatigue, poor appetite and constipation were some of the “minor” complications he suffered. These he took in stride and tried to work around them.
During this time an older family friend was diagnosed with lung cancer. Because of Brian’s great outlook he was able to talk to our friend, sharing encouragement through rough times.
He attended school for three out of four weeks a month during this time. Amazingly, he kept up with his studies with the help of understanding teachers, friends and the school psychologist. Though he missed some important senior events because of chemotherapy, he graduated with his class with distinguished honors! He was surprised when he was selected the Most Inspirational Male Athlete of the year.
Summer vacation was a welcomed change for Brian as well as the whole family. It was a time for kicking back, having fun and feeling good. We spent a month in Hawaii relaxing and visiting friends and relatives. Now Brian is looking forward to a fresh start this fall at UCLA!
Our family has been through a lot together, but Brian showed us that with perseverance, no matter how devastating the situation is, it can be conquered. His positive attitude and constant smile, day after day despite enduring painful, frightening situations, made us all very proud of him. I know he has grown a lot through this experience and is ready to face the world.
Brian, we wish you happiness and success in everything you do. Remember: Mom, Dad and sister Amy will always be here for you. We love you!
Norma Yamamoto
Happy Anniversary
Seven days without laughter makes one weak.
Joel Goodman
My father-in-law, who was suffering from brain cancer, came home from a hospital stay. It was his and my mother-in-law’s anniversary, so I suggested that they invite a few friends over for dinner.
Jimmy managed to get out of bed to join us. The strain of feeding himself and the presence of guests were obviously tiring him. Knowing that he could not hear very well, my mother-in-law passed a note to me to give to him. I read it and laughed hysterically. She remembered what she wrote and laughed, too.
The note said, “Happy Anniversary, dear. Do you want to go to bed?”
Jimmy read his wife’s note, looked across the table, and with a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face said, “I would love to, dear, but we have company.”
Allen Klein
from The Healing Power of Humor
Love and Support
On October 1, 1994, I met the man who became the most important person in my life. On Thursday, October 20, 1994, I was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.
Terry, my husband, and I met through the personal ads of our local paper. We talked for a week prior to meeting. We could not immediately meet because I was feeling so ill. So on Saturday, October 1, we met at a nearby park and hiked while talking for hours. We were instant friends. Throughout the next couple of weeks, I saw an ear, nose and throat specialist for what doctors thought was a sinus infection. On Thursday, October 13, I was referred to a cancer specialist, who immediately checked me into a hospital. I was terrified; I was only 30, had only been teaching first grade for three years, and had never been married. I felt as though this could not possibly be happening to me. I was too young and always healthy. I called my new friend and in tears told him that I would be in the hospital for a couple of days. I begged Terry to consider keeping our friendship, but I would have understood if he simply stopped calling. Terry said he would be at the hospital that evening; I had my doubts. True to his word, Terry came to the hospital at 7:00 P.M., with a stuffed koala bear in hand.
Terry came to the hospital every night that week. On Thursday, October 20, I received my diagnosis and was told I could not return to school for four months. That evening I asked my new friend whatever would I do for four months and he responded. “Plan a wedding?” Thus began the most terrifying, painful and exciting period of my life.
Throughout the chemotherapy, which left me nauseous and weak, Terry sat with me, discussing the wedding plans and helping me to focus on the happy and hopefully cancer-free future.
On January 21, 1995, Terry and I were married. Three days later, I went into the hospital for high-dose chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant.
For three weeks (10 days of which I was in an isolation room), Terry came to the hospital and slept over when he could. When the pain and depression got the best of me, I concentrated on my new husband and all of the different things we would do together. I planned a family dinner for a month after release from the hospital and I thought about the menu and how my relatives would be around me and I would feel surrounded by their support and love.
Each day throughout my hospital stay, my mother sat with me. She asked the doctors questions I was too drugged or too sick to ask for myself. Mom talked when I felt up to it and cross-stitched when I was sleeping. For a large portion of each day, either my mother or my husband sat with me and helped me through the toughest times.
I have now been in remission for six months. I credit my recovery to a wonderful man who saw beyond those ugly cancer cells and to a family whose love and support kept me going on even the most tenuous days.
Christine M. Creley
Love Cures People
We began by imagining that we are giving to them; we end by realizing that they have enriched us.
Pope John Paul II
In August 1992, a beautiful baby girl was born to a very special couple. For the first six months of Paige’s life, she cried with colic. Her parents lovingly called her their “baby from hell.”
She was a beautiful child, with big brown eyes, and you couldn’t help but fall in love with her. On her first birthday, Paige climbed up on my lap and my heart was hers forever.
In March 1995, I received a frantic phone call from Paige’s mom, telling me that Paige was diagnosed with cancer and that they were on their way to Children’s Hospital in Los Angeles.
As the days went by, the news grew more and more grim. I called everyone I knew and asked them to start a praye
r chain.
Paige battled that monster first with chemotherapy, then radiation, and finally a bone marrow transplant that took place in early October 1995.
Through it all, this amazing three-year-old remained cheerful and gentle as ever. She won the hearts of doctors and nurses alike. Paige’s mom never left her side and believed that if she just loved Paige enough, Paige would be okay.
October 31, 1995, Halloween, our Paige came home for good. We had the miracle for which we all prayed. The doctors were amazed at her quick response to her treatments, but her positive attitude amazed them even more.
They weren’t alone in this amazement. I had been collecting surprises for Paige over the months she was hospitalized, waiting for the day I could watch her open the bag full of gifts.
As she opened the magical bag of surprises, Paige discovered that several of the toys were ones she already had. I suggested to her mom that she could take them back and exchange them for something she didn’t have. I heard Paige’s soft little voice ask her mom if they could put these toys in the Christmas bin in front of one of the local stores so that other children could enjoy them. The pride on her mom’s face said it all.
At that moment, I realized the power that love has. Love cures people, both the giver and the receiver.
Janine Crawford
Out in the Open
I had two brain operations before I came to a meeting at The Wellness Community* on the topic of “The Family and Cancer.” There were about 25 other cancer patients and their families. I was 29, and my mother, father and sister came with me. We all lived together. During that meeting, I started talking about the second operation and how terribly frightened I was that the cancer would reappear, and I started to cry. I hadn’t talked about my fear with my family because I didn’t want them to be frightened, too. When my mother saw my tears, she took me in her arms as she did when I was a very little girl, and we sat there crying together. My father and sister moved closer and we all held hands. They told me later they didn’t want to intrude. My mother, still holding me tight, said she had always known about my fear because the entire family was worried about the same thing, but that they didn’t want me to worry about them. So now it was out in the open. We loved each other and we were all too frightened to talk to each other and now we could talk about anything.