November 7, 2010 – Gratitude on the Radiation Table

Paul Bresnahan is an Episcopal priest who served with me on the writing team for the internet sermon resource, The Immediate Word, back when I was working as the team’s convener. Recently I came across a blog post of his, reflecting on his own cancer experience. Here's an excerpt:

“Prostate cancer struck me well over a year ago, and I have been living with Jesus as I always have and then journeyed through surgery and now radiation. God has given me the privilege of sharing my journey with others who gather with me in the waiting room at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston. We share our joys and sorrows, our hopes and our fears, our aches and our pains.

We cheer one another along. Last week when I was called for a radiation treatment, I quipped: ‘My turn to shine.’ My companion for the day told me that the entire waiting room erupted in laughter as I left the room. ‘Who is that man?’ several asked. ‘He is my parish priest,’ was the proud answer. And thus the witness to Jesus' love and healing touch tickled those within the Cox Center for Cancer Treatment at one of the world's great hospitals.

Inside the treatment facility, as I lay on the table with a giant metal fork rotating around me and beaming its rays within my body, I saw the hand of God and sensed a healing touch within me. I saw no vision other than the hand of science and medicine ministering to me out of the gifts God so generously bestows upon the care giving community in my home city. The beaming rays of radiation give me the gift of healing and of life, and I am brim full of gratitude.”

It’s so true that the eye of faith can sometimes glimpse the hand of God in all kinds of things. Even a piece of radiation therapy equipment.

September 3, 2009 - Help a Bald Brother Out

I don’t know why I’m on such a video kick lately. People send these things to me (often on Facebook), and I pass ‘em on.

Here’s Larry David, of Seinfeld fame:

Larry David: Help A Bald Brother Out - watch more funny videos

August 22, 2009 - Laughter Yoga

This little video is endearing – and not just because it features the always-amusing John Cleese as narrator. I’ve heard of India’s “laughter yoga,” but have never actually seen it before, in action.

I figure this stuff has got to be therapeutic – but, if nothing else, it looks like great fun:



I’m especially intrigued by the observation that it doesn’t seem to matter whether the laughter is forced or natural: the therapeutic benefit is the same.

Of course, as the doctor points out in the video, even if participants are forcing their laughter at first, after a few moments of looking at all those goofy faces, only a rock could keep from laughing in response.

Maybe laughter really is the best medicine.

February 7, 2009 - Dumbth

Yesterday I slit open an envelope mailed to me by Care Allies (formerly Intracorp), the agency that pre-approves medical tests for my insurer, Highmark Blue Cross-Blue Shield. I guessed what it was before I opened it: a routine pre-approval for the PET/CT scan I’m having this coming Wednesday.

I usually take only the briefest of glances at these letters and put them aside. As long as I see the blessed words, “we have determined that the requested services are medically necessary,” I figure I have nothing to worry about.

This time, though, I saw something in the description of the test that concerned me. The letter reads:

“APPR: PET IMAGE W/CT, SKULL-TH 78815”

“They’ve made a mistake,” I thought to myself. “Care Allies has approved me for a CT scan of the head – not the scan of the neck, chest, abdomen and pelvis I typically have. This could be trouble, if they’ve approved me for the wrong procedure.”

I went right off and dug up the paper script Dr. Lerner had given me. That made me even more concerned, because I didn’t see anything there about neck, chest, abdomen and pelvis. The handwritten script reads:

“JSUMC, PET/CT Scan, DX: Lymphoma for restaging.”

“JSUMC,” I know, means “Jersey Shore University Medical Center.” “DX” means “diagnosis.” But it sure looked to me like Dr. Lerner had left off the list of body parts that are essential to a CT scan prescription. (Previously, I’d had problems with a Care Allies CT scan pre-certification that mentioned some body parts, but omitted the others.)

I called Dr. Lerner’s office and was put through first to someone in the billing department, then to one of the nurses. She said she’d do a little checking, and called me back a few minutes later. There’s nothing to worry about, she assured me. Everything was submitted correctly. Because this is a PET/CT scan and not just a CT scan, it’s automatically a scan of the whole body, so individual sections of the body don’t need to be specified.

“Then why does the letter I received from Care Allies mention the skull?” I asked.

“The ‘TH’ probably stands for ‘thorax,’" she replied. "It’s a PET/CT scan, skull-to-thorax.”

Mystery solved. But why, I’m led to wonder, can’t the people at Care Allies who compose these letters to patients avoid using arcane jargon and abbreviations? It seems to defeat the purpose of such a letter, which is communicating with non-medical professionals. I’m not sure, actually, that even for medical professionals “TH” would scream out, “thorax.” Clearly, this letter serves the needs of the insurance bureaucrats rather than the patients.

The late comedian Steve Allen once wrote a book called Dumbth, in which he catalogues a whole lot of misuses of the English language that are, for lack of a better word, just dumb. Its title is a word of Allen’s own invention, that describes writers’ thick-headed refusal to recognize that words they’re using just aren’t communicating. His definition:

Dumbth (pron. dumth) adj: a tendency toward muddleheadedness, or willful stupidity appearing in all segments of American life

Thank you, Care Allies, for thoughtfully seeking to communicate the details of the medical procedure for which you’ve pre-approved me. I’m afraid I have to nominate you, though, for the Dumbth Award, for your clumsy way of communicating that makes life needlessly difficult for patients like me.

February 1, 2009 - Authority

My, but I’ve been busy. With my seasonal teaching gig at New Brunswick Theological Seminary still under way, I’m now working three jobs. Besides serving as pastor of the church, I’m also working part-time as Stated Clerk of the Presbytery of Monmouth (a Presbytery is a regional governing body in the Presbyterian Church, sort of like a diocese in the Roman Catholic Church). A Stated Clerk is like corporate secretary, archivist and parliamentarian rolled into one. In early January, there are all kinds of end-of-the-year reports to complete, and as a newbie Clerk, I’m learning how to do them for the first time. Bottom line is, I’ve scarcely been able to think about a blog entry, let alone write one. Until this afternoon.

Today in worship, I preached about authority. My text was Mark 1:22, “They were astounded at his teaching, for he taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes.”

During the second service, I learned about one of the pitfalls that go along with authority – at least, authority of the pastoral kind. Robin, our church’s associate pastor, had called in sick today, so I was up there all by myself, except for one of the junior-high youth who did a fine job reading the Old Testament Lesson. When it came time for the New Testament Lesson, I guess my mind was wandering, because I skipped it. Just blew it off. There was a long silence, as I just sat there. I was sure Sara, our organist – filling in for our absent choir director today – had lost her place in the service. Finally, she just moved on, launching into the choir anthem, while I continued to sit there, blissfully unaware of my blunder. When I arose to give my sermon after the anthem, it was – still unbeknownst to me – sans New Testament lesson.

The curious thing about it is – nobody told me about it. Not, that is, until I was shaking hands at the church door much later, when about the twentieth person in line gently asked, “Did you mean to skip the New Testament lesson?” Most of them knew all along that I’d goofed, but nobody felt bold enough to correct me on it.

Pastoral authority is a funny thing. When you stand up there and speak for God Sunday after Sunday, sometimes folks get a mite confused. They can be hesitant to point out errors they wouldn’t think twice about correcting, had a lesser mortal committed them.

The icing on the cake came after I walked back up the aisle, and was making ready to leave the Sanctuary by the exit nearest the church office. Little Sara, the three-year-old granddaughter of our organist, was standing there. When she saw me, she gave me a wave, then a big grin that would light up the darkest of days. “Hi, God!” said she.

I’ve been addressed as “God” before, by kids her age. “Jesus,” too, on occasion. (Never “Holy Spirit,” but I suppose the third person of the Trinity is a harder concept to grasp.) This just goes with the territory of ministry. It’s an understandable error for little minds to make, as they try to puzzle out what church is all about. Their parents tell them they’re going to “God’s house,” and after looking at the same guy standing up front in that funny-looking costume week after week, they make the logical connection.

I corrected her, of course. Her grandfather, who was standing nearby, thought it uproariously funny. The story was already making the rounds at the Communion Breakfast in our fellowship hall, by the time I made it over there a few minutes later.

“Doctors playing God” is a stereotype in the medical world. There’s even a corny old joke about that. A famous surgeon dies and goes to heaven, but finds quite a crowd of fellow new residents lined up in front of St. Peter’s imposing desk. The minutes tick by. The line’s moving very slowly indeed. The doctor, who’s been something of a V.I.P. in his earthly life, is starting to get impatient.

Finally, a man with a long, white beard, clad in a lab coat with a stethoscope around his neck, goes barreling up to the desk, passing right by the long line of applicants. Giving St.Peter only the briefest of nods, he strides right through the pearly gates.

The distinguished physician has had enough. He walks up to St. Peter and says, “I’d like to lodge a complaint. Some of us are doctors, too, and we’ve been waiting a very long time.”

“You don’t understand,” replies St. Pete. “That wasn’t a doctor. That was God playing doctor!”

(Sorry, I couldn’t resist.)

I imagine most docs hate that line about playing God. I figure most of it comes not from the doctors, though, but from the patients. All of us wish, in our heart of hearts, our medical caregivers had godlike qualities of omniscience, omnipotence and benevolence.

They don’t, of course. They’re only human. It’s a good thing for us patients to pay attention to what our medical caregivers are doing, and to ask questions when it appears something important has been omitted. Authority doesn’t carry with it infallibility.

We’re partners in this healing thing, after all.

July 6, 2008 - Cancer on $5 a Day

Cancer on $5 a Day* (*chemo not included) is the title of a book by comedian Robert Schimmel (Perseus Books, 2008). So, who makes jokes about cancer? Only someone who has it.

Sometimes you’ve just got to laugh. Especially if you’re a comedian.

The day he was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin lymphoma, Schimmel made a joke about it. To his doctor. At the Mayo Clinic.

There’s the doctor, probably feeling all nervous about having to deliver such devastating news to yet another patient. He puts on his medical game face. There are two kinds of lymphoma, he tells Schimmel: Hodgkin’s Disease and Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. He writes the words on a pad of paper, for extra effect. “You have Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma,” he intones.

“Just my luck,” deadpans Schimmel. “I get the one not named after the guy.”

The doctor is quick on the uptake. “Well, if you can find something funny the moment you get the diagnosis, you’re going to be okay.”

Let’s let Schimmel tell his own story from here:

“Poof. The joke brings a moment of relief. Of hope. The tension in the room escapes. It’s as if we're encased inside a giant balloon, and, pop, I’ve stuck a pin in it and let the air out. All that’s left now are the five of us and Mr. C, the rampaging rhinoceros in the room.

Amazing when you hear that word.

Cancer.

Cancer.

I know that for some people just hearing ‘You’ve got cancer” means they’re dead. Bam. Might as well stop at the mortuary on the way home and pick out the casket. Life over. And the buzzer sounds. Ball game.

And I know that there are other people, loved ones, sitting bedside, who immediately say, ‘Don’t worry, you're not going through this alone.’

Yeah? When they lower me into the ground, are you jumping in, too? I don’t think so. I’m taking this death cruise all by myself. I know that much.

What’s strange, but not surprising, is that when I hear the word, my first reaction, my initial instinct, is to go for the laugh.

It really is. I don’t plan it, don’t think about it. I just go for it. I realize instinctively that even though I’ve just been told I have cancer, I haven’t been told that I’m going to die. And to prove it, I’m going to do the one and only thing that shows that I am very much alive:

I am going to make the audience laugh.

It’s a small house tonight – my mom, my dad, the lump doctor, and my oncologist – but they’ve paid for their tickets (well, it’s co-pay). They’re here for the show and I’m not going to let them down. I’ve still got my sense of humor, my edge. And that means I’m alive!” (Pp. 14-15)

Schimmel’s first reaction is to go for the laugh. It’s what he does.

So, what was my first reaction to my own NHL diagnosis? I started a blog. A place to reflect on the theological and spiritual meaning of what I’m going through, and bounce it off a biblical text now and again.

That’s because I’m a preacher. It’s what I do.

Schimmel’s doing better now, by the way. His chemo treatments put him in remission. He’s come up with these “simple, yet profound life lessons” as a result of the experience:

“Keep your sense of humor, no matter what.

Create a purpose, a focus, and never take your eyes off it.

Figure out what’s important to you. What’s really important.

Be open. Try anything. You never know.

Love. You need love. Tons of it. A s***load of love.

Sometimes you need to be selfish.

You need support. You’re in this alone, but you can’t fight it alone.

The most precious thing you have is time. Don’t waste it.

You’re only human.

And, finally, once again –
Laugh.” (pp. 185-186)

I suppose each of us cancer survivors reacts to the News (that’s News with a capital “N”) in our own unique way. Our reactions are true to who we are, and to what we spend most of our non-cancer time doing.

There’s no right or wrong way to be a cancer survivor. We are who we are. We choose the path that works for us.

November 14, 2006 - A Little Cancer Humor

I try to keep up with a few other blogs written by cancer survivors. One of them, My Private Casbah, by a New Orleans woman named Bint Alshamsa, is quirky, but amusing - sometimes even profound.

Here’s a bit of cancer survivor’s humor, from her November 2, 2006 entry. I realize it may not be for everyone.

You’ve gotta be able to laugh to get through an experience like this...

Thirteen Fun Things To Do When You Have Incurable Cancer
by Bint Alshamsa

1. If you're planning on getting married before you croak, you can always ask the florist for a discount by promising her repeat business in the form of exclusive rights to your up-coming funeral display.

2. Telling a mechanic that you need to get your car repaired so that you can drive to MD Anderson for a last ditch experimental treatment attempt for your incurable cancer is a good way to get him to finish with yours before he even starts on the dozen cars that were there before you.

3. If no one knows that the oncologist says you're in remission, you can get really good presents from your friends by telling them that this might be the last birthday/Eid/Christmas that you'll ever get the opportunity to celebrate and they'll want to make it a really good one for you.

4. You can eat whatever the hell you want. I mean it's not like you have to worry about having clogged arteries fifty years from now.

5. You can get your partner to "secretly" tell everyone at the family reunion that all of the medications you're taking are making you a bit delerious. After that you can go around throughout the day telling everyone who has ever pissed you off exactly what you've thought of them all these years. (Be sure to include a few jibberish statements every now and then to make it more believable.)

6. During chemotherapy, you can sleep for an extra thirty minutes every morning because you don't have to worry about fixing your hair before work.

7. You can surprise all of the radiation technicians by coming to your treatment wearing a bikini and telling them that you're ready for your tanning appointment.

8. When you're in the hospital hooked up to a bunch of tubes and machines, you can have a good laugh at your sibling's expense by telling all of your young neices and nephews that you got like that from eating too many vegetables as a child.

9. You can sleep in on election day. After all, who cares what candidate wins? It's not like you're going to have to live with them for the next couple of years. Or better yet, do go out and vote and tell everyone in line that you've been a life long(name of whatever political party you hate the most) voter but you're using the final election day of your life to vote for the other party because you've finally seen the light and decided to do the right thing for the first time before you die.

10. Having a few cancerous ribs removed from your chest will make it a lot easier to fit into those too-small clothes you've been saving in your closet.

11. You can tell people who don't know about your cancer that you got all of those scars from saving a small child from being mauled by mountain lions because everybody loves a hero.

12. When you go to the grocery store, always wear something that shows your radiation burns and leave your wig at home. Then when you get in the long line, you can ask people if they'd be so kind as to let you go ahead of them because you have to hurry up and get back home to your wife/husband/partner who is even more contagious than you are. I have it on very good authority that this one works great.

13. Make random strangers angry in crowded parking lot by parking in the handicapped spot and then using your cane as your partner as you do the Merengue all the way to the entrance of the building.