But in the spring of 1987, aspirins were no longer doing the trick. And now my vision was slightly blurred, I was misspelling words, and I found myself bumping into things from time to time. Clearly, the stress of my job was getting to me. I decided to see my family doctor for a checkup.
On April 21, I had a routine exam and a battery of blood tests. Neither revealed any problems. On May 7, I underwent an MRI, which revealed the source of my headaches and other symptoms. There was a dark shadow about the size of a golf ball on the left side of my brain.
My family doctor delivered the news as directly and gently as he could. He drew a quick sketch of the brain and indicated where the tumor was located. “You’ll have to have a biopsy next week,” he explained, “so we know what we’re dealing with. In the meantime, I want you to get this prescription filled and take this medicine to avoid seizures.” Too stunned to talk or ask questions, I left his office and returned to my own. There I shared the news with my secretary, then drove home—dazed, numb, virtually paralyzed with shock.
Earlier that day my wife, Pat, and our children had gone to visit relatives living in another city. I knew I had to be with them, but was too emotionally devastated to drive myself. The chairman of the pastoral care department and his wife were kind enough to take me. We arrived at my in-laws’ home late that night, and as Pat met us at the door, she knew the news was not good.
I can hardly recall what happened next. Monday came; it was time to meet the surgeon. During our brief meeting, he spoke frankly. “The tumor appears to be an advanced form of cancer.” He encouraged me to ask questions, but at the time, I had none. I was still too numb to think clearly.
My biopsy was scheduled for the next day, so I was admitted to the hospital that afternoon. Because I’d worked there for seven years, many staff members were friends and provided extra support and attention.
I remember one orderly who took me for a routine chest X ray the evening before the biopsy. We talked as we traveled to the medical imaging department and when we returned to my room, he asked to pray with me. This simple act of love moved me to tears.
After a restless night, I awoke early and prayed, “Dear Lord, please give me the courage and strength to face whatever this day might bring.”
It was a grueling day, and the pain only got worse when my surgeon informed Pat and me that I did indeed have a grade III astrocytoma, which meant my cancer was quite advanced, my condition extremely serious. He sat quietly and waited for my response.
A voice came out of nowhere to break the silence.
“How long?” it whispered.
“Six to nine months,” replied the surgeon. “Maybe a year.”
Another long pause... then the voice again.... “How will it happen?”
“You’ll go to sleep one day,” he said, “and never wake up.”
I closed my eyes and let his words sink in. My death was on the horizon . . . and there was nothing I could do about it.
The surgeon left me alone with Pat, my parents, my sister and brother-in-law. Few words were spoken as we all tried to grasp what we’d just been told.
Following my discharge from the hospital, Pat and I decided to go away together as a couple, to start facing the present and planning for the future. We spent a weekend in seclusion, talking, crying, praying, trying to make sense of it all.
We held each other and talked about our lives together, our children, our shattered dreams. “What will we do?” Pat cried in anguish. “How will we go on? I’m so afraid!”
As I saw my own despair mirrored in Pat’s eyes, I suddenly realized that I had to draw on God’s strength and love to get through this nightmare. It was as if God said to me, “You are an ordained minister; it is your job to comfort people. Call on My strength now, for Pat and for you, as you would for patients and their families.”
I took a deep breath and declared, “I’m going to fight back, Pat. I’m going to have radiation and chemotherapy. I know the doctor has given me no hope for survival, but I can’t just let this thing beat me. I want to go on working as long as possible. Working as a chaplain is my ministry, my life! I can feel that God wants me to do this, that he has a purpose for me.”
When we returned from our getaway, closer to one another and closer to God, we tried stepping back into a somewhat normal life. We held regular family meetings to keep the lines of communication open. I encouraged everyone—even my seven-year-old son—to ask questions, speak honestly and vent their emotions.
At the time, we believed I had virtually no options for cure, but I fought to prolong my life with aggressive chemotherapy and radiation treatments.
During radiation, I used guided imagery techniques to help overcome my fears and anxieties. I imagined a game going on inside my head, and every time the Pac-Man gobbled up another dot, one more piece of my tumor was destroyed.
Just as I was about to wrap up the treatments, my surgeon contacted me about a new procedure being done in San Francisco. He called it “interstitial brachytherapy,” and said it involved implanting highly radioactive seeds directly into the brain tumor. I immediately went to the medical center’s library and read articles in medical journals, learning all I could about this new hope.
Pat and I discussed this new option with the surgeon, and although it sounded frightening, we agreed I had little to lose by pursuing it. I knew I had to continue striking back at the insidious foe within me. My records were sent to California to determine whether or not I was eligible for the procedure. Then we sat back and waited, afraid to hope, yet unable to give up.
It was more than three months before we received word that I was accepted into the program. We rejoiced at the news.
On September 12, Pat and I flew to San Francisco. We were accompanied by my department chairman, who came along to provide moral support. My surgeon, who hoped to learn the new technique, went on another flight.
The surgery on September 15 went smoothly. The radium seeds were placed in catheters and inserted into my tumor. After a few quick stitches, I returned to my room, where I waited in radiation isolation while my tumor was under siege.
The radioactive attack continued for five days. Then the seeds were removed, and we returned home. As we pulled into the driveway on September 23, I cried at the sight of a cardboard sign hanging above the front door. “Welcome home Dad!” it said in a host of Crayola colors. My children were so precious to me. I had so much to live for.
Back in Peoria once more, I was again challenged to resume a normal life. I rested and recuperated, then went back to work as a chaplain. I had a new perspective on the trauma of surgery and the terror of terminal illness, which made me a more effective chaplain. I also had an important new responsibility—counseling patients and families in the neurosurgery unit, especially those with brain tumors.
My health improved, although I still had headaches, so I arranged to have a follow-up exam.
I received devastating news. I’d have to undergo yet another surgery to remove the now encapsulated tumor and associated destroyed tissue.
I prayed for strength: “Dear God, I have endured much, and I face yet another battle. Please give me the strength to do what I must that I may live to continue your work.”
On March 24, 1988, I underwent craniotomy surgery. I was in the hospital for a week.
There were many days when I believed I couldn’t hang on any longer. But deep inside I knew I had to hang on, and God, my family, friends and co-workers carried me through. Now, nearly eight years after my initial diagnosis, I’m still here, a living testimony to the powers of faith and medicine.
My peripheral vision is gone. My speech has been affected. I can’t always put my thoughts together like I used to.
But I am alive. Despite all my limitations, I’ve been given a miraculous gift—eight more years of life with my wife and children, eight more years to serve the Lord in my role as a chaplain. I pray that I have many more.
Since my last surgery, I’ve spent
many hours talking to people with brain tumors and training health-care professionals who deal with them. Based on my experiences as both a patient and a caregiver, I believe there are several keys to coping with this devastating illness.
The first is an attitude...a desire to fight back. It’s difficult to choose to fight, but patients who go on the offensive from day one have a much greater chance of survival than those who retreat in fear.
But fighting back means taking control, and that may seem virtually impossible to some. The only way to gain power over this deadly force is to be smarter than it is... and that requires information. I encourage every patient I see to become an expert on his or her illness. Read and ask questions. Join a support group. Immerse yourself in information. Exhaust every possibility in your search for knowledge. The more you know about the challenges you face, the greater chance you have to surmount them.
Although it’s critical that patients take charge of their illnesses, it’s equally important that they ask for—and accept—help from those around them. There’s no glory in going down this path alone. And there’s incredible strength to be gained by accepting support from family, friends, clergy, doctors, nurses, social workers and, perhaps most important, others who have had similar experiences. Their help literally can save your life.
My last piece of advice is to “take things one day at a time.” When I was in the depths of despair and others shared that time-worn cliché with me, I had to suppress the urge to react with violence. It made me so angry to hear them mouthing that phrase. But the fact is, in order to survive, I had to stay focused on the day at hand. It was far too frightening—and dangerous—to fast-forward to the future. I’ll admit there were times when I thought about dying, and the truth is, I still do today. But I firmly believe you must live in the present to secure your future.
As I reflect on my experiences over the past six years, I’m struck by how many positive memories I actually have. Despite the power drills and popping sounds, the skull screws and seizures, my most vivid memories are of the people—many of whom were complete strangers— who loved and prayed and cared for me and my family during our darkest hours. To them and to the world-class team of health-care professionals who fought on the front lines of this battle, I express my deepest gratitude. I am truly blessed, and I thank God for the opportunity to share my blessings with others.
I still minister to patients with brain tumors and their families. As I walk into each patient’s room I introduce myself by saying, “Hello! I’m Chaplain Craig. I think we have something in common....”
Reverend Robert Craig
Dare to Dream
Life! What a precious gift from God. What a blessing to be alive in a wonderful, vibrant world of unlimited possibilities. Then, adversity strikes, and this “gift” feels more like a curse. “Why? Why me?” we ask. Yet we never get an answer, or do we? After contracting Hodgkin’s disease at age seven and being given six months to live, I triumphed over the odds. Call it luck, hope, faith or courage, there are thousands of survivors! Winners like us know the answer—“Why not us? We can handle it!” I’m not dying of cancer. I’m living with cancer. God doesn’t make junk, regardless of what comes our way, and I don’t have to be afraid anymore.
In my sophomore year of high school, the class was scheduled to run the mile. I will always remember that day because due to the swelling and scars from surgery on my leg, for two solid years I had not worn shorts. I was afraid of the teasing. So, for two years I lived in fear. Yet that day, it didn’t matter. I was ready—shorts, heart and mind. I no sooner got to the starting line before I heard the loud whispers. “Gross!” “How fat!” “How ugly!” I blocked it out.
Then the coach yelled, “Ready. Set. Go!” I jetted out of there like an airplane, faster than anyone for the first 20 feet. I didn’t know much about pacing then, but it was okay because I was determined to finish first. As we came around the first of four laps, there were students all over the track. By the end of the second lap, many of the students had already quit. They had given up and were on the ground gasping for air. As I started the third lap, only a few of my classmates were left on the track, and I began limping. By the time I hit the fourth lap, I was alone. Then it hit me. I realized that nobody had given up. Instead, everyone had already finished. As I ran that last lap, I cried. I realized that every boy and girl in my class had beat me, and 12 minutes, 42 seconds after starting, I crossed the finish line. I fell to the ground and shed oceans. I was so embarrassed.
Suddenly my coach ran up to me and picked me up, yelling, “You did it. Manuel! Manuel, you finished, son. You finished!” He looked me straight in the eye, waving a piece of paper in his hand. It was my goal for the day, which I had forgotten. I had given it to him before class. He read it aloud to everyone. It simply said, “I, Manuel Diotte, will finish the mile run tomorrow, come what may. No pain or frustration will stop me. For I am more than capable of finishing, and with God as my strength, I will finish.” Signed, Manuel Diotte—with a little smiling face inside the D, as I always sign my name. My heart lifted. My tears went away, and I had a smile on my face as if I had eaten a banana sideways. My classmates applauded and gave me my first standing ovation. It was then I realized winning isn’t always finishing first. Sometimes winning is just finishing.
Manuel Diotte
Fulfilling My Dreams
I believe that good is manifested from every experience that comes into our lives. I also believe that there is a purpose for everything, whether we know what it is or not.
A little over a year ago I was diagnosed with breast cancer. At the moment of this disclosure I was devastated. I did my crying for about 24 hours, and then chose to take as much control of my new situation as I could.
This was a disease that happened to other women, but not to me. I see now how ignorant I was. Since that time I have become more knowledgeable about breast cancer, and I am much more aware. I have a new appreciation for life, a common occurrence when cancer strikes.
Maybe it was my wake-up call to smell the roses. Maybe it was what I needed to become more motivated, to go after goals and to accomplish long-thought dreams.
Since I was a child I wanted to be a published author. A desire burned deep inside me to write and to see my words in print. It was my fantasy, one I suppressed because I lacked self-confidence.
As I went through my mastectomy, chemotherapy treatment and later reconstruction surgery, I wrote almost daily letters to my best friend of over 30 years. She is on the other side of the country and writing has been our main means of communication. We often joke that our letters were our therapy as life brought us new and sometimes difficult challenges. My diagnosis was my toughest challenge to date, and she was there with me every step of the way, giving me constant love and support.
Just before I was diagnosed I purchased a home computer. Naturally I used it to write my letters to her. A couple months into the breast cancer experience, I realized that my letters to Rita could be a book. As a self-imposed therapy, while undergoing chemo, I compiled my letters.
Seven months from my diagnosis of breast cancer, my half-completed manuscript was sold. I have since completed it and I am thrilled to say that my first book, Courage and Cancer, A Breast Cancer Diary: A Journey from Cancer to Cure will be published in October 1996.
Yet, there still remained some self-doubt in me regarding my ability to write. I had put together a book of prose almost 16 years ago when I was agoraphobic. It was for my eyes only and I had never dared to let anyone else read it. To prove to myself whether the breast cancer book was a fluke or not, I sent a copy of the prose book to my new publisher. I was amazed when the publisher sent me a contract for that one, too. Love, Fear and Other Things That Cry Out in the Night will be published in 1997.
I was on a roll and I had no intention of stopping. In less than a year I have sold three books for publication. I have two more manuscripts out for review. And, of course, I have started yet another one
.
My breast cancer diagnosis gave me a new life. I would never have consciously asked for this disease, but I am grateful that it has helped me to fulfill my dreams.
Marilyn R. Moody
Chris—One Special Fifth-Grader!
It was Christmas again. The same magic that fills the air every year at Christmastime was in the hearts of most of the fifth-graders on that cold December afternoon—one of the last afternoons before Christmas break. As was the usual custom, the fourth-and fifth-graders were watching a Christmas movie. The magic that was in the air for most was not there for one fifth-grader, who was dealing with a burden much heavier than any 10-year-old should have to deal with.
As the carolers sang, Chris’ heart became heavier and heavier by the moment. He sprang from his seat and ran outside and into his mother’s car. His mother was a teacher, along with me, at the small rural school. Other teachers encouraged me to go and talk to him. How do you talk to a 10-year-old who knows that he has cancer, that he will probably have to have his leg amputated and face months of chemotherapy treatments? I’m sure he had a nagging worry that he might die.
I was not just Chris’ teacher. I shared in the pain and anguish he was going through. It was just last December that magic was certainly not in the air for me, either. That December I had surgery and was given the news that cancer had been found. Mine had been operable, but I had spent the past year going through three surgeries, two of those within a month’s time, and the other six months later. I also had chemotherapy treatments.
How could I talk to him? This was the question in my mind as I slowly, hesitantly, left the building and went out to talk with Chris. About the only thing I could do was hold his hand and cry with him. He asked me questions and I tried to answer in words that he could understand. When I told him that I had to go every three months for checkups, he said that he sure wished that he was to the point of going for checkups. I tried to explain that the things we go through make us stronger people, and that perhaps he would be able to help someone else someday. Finally, we went back into the building that day, two hearts heavy with burdens shared.