As dusk slowly settled on Des Moines on a sun-dappled Wednesday evening it was hard not to drink in the beauty and promise of spring. Daughter Zoey was graduating from Brownies to Junior Girl Scouts and I had walked to our church, which sponsors her troop, to watch a little ceremony and then help with a service project.

It was one of those perfect evenings: dozens of little ones were scurrying about trying to stay on a task they didn’t quite understand, digging holes and spreading dirt around and having a blast. I’m not sure who decided that elementary school children and garden tools are a winning combination but by the end of the evening, the Girl Scouts were covered in dirt.

As the event unfolded, troop leaders reminded the girls on several occasions that they needed to try to keep the noise at a minimum because a wake was being held in the church. I drop by the church daily: taking my kids to the parish school, attending mass on random mornings or dropping in for various neighborhood meetings. And there always seems to be a funeral going on, so I wasn’t all that surprised – or curious – about the services being held on Wednesday night.

But as I watched the girls work, I realized that I recognized many of the people entering the church for the prayer service. And then I realized that I knew exactly who had died and felt drawn inside.

Gina was a few years older than me and had been diagnosed with cancer a half-dozen years ago. From afar, it never seemed like she was getting any better, but it also never seemed like she was close to losing her fight, either. When I was diagnosed with melanoma, friends in the parish, after expressing their support for me, would almost always mention Gina’s battle and suggest that maybe I’d like to get to know her.

To be frank, it struck me as a tiny bit odd that people would think I might find some sort of benefit during my treatment in networking with other cancer patients. It happened often, and not just in regards to Gina. I tried to picture a kaffeeklatsch of cancer patients, sitting around in the neighborhood coffee shop comparing notes about our favorite anti-nausea remedies or sharing stories about gruesome side-effects that accompany aggressive treatment. It seemed silly to me and I never pursued these proposed friendships.

But I quickly learned that many of the same people who were volunteering their time to drive me to doctors appointments or calling me with invitations to have lunch or go shopping were also providing Gina with the same sort of assistance. In fact, her sister-in-law was one of my most reliable angels, always eager to drive to one appointment or another while filling me in on what prayer list she had added my name to.

So I tried to remember Gina and her family in my own prayers, although I never met her. And I kept track of her battle with cancer through reports at church. Because of this, I couldn’t help but be drawn to the wake. The church was packed with parishoners, family members, and her many friends from throughout the city.

It’s hard not to feel a little bit sheepish, when you have battled cancer and are still a survivor, showing up to memorialize another person whose story turned out tragically different than your own. The first person I saw there was her brother, who I worked with briefly. His face was painted with that sort of confused grief that I have seen at dozens of funerals in my life.

I spent a few moments with the family and we said all the things you say when trying to explain away a tragic death: her pain is gone; she was a fighter, she’s in a better place. I never said what I was tempted to say, “Sorry it was her and not me.”

When I was maybe eight years old one of my best friends was a girl who lived a few blocks from me. One day, she heard a well-worn, and probably overly dramatic, story about an episode of appendicitis that I suffered as a toddler. The legend was that I was lucky to survive the episode and that my parents spent some nervous hours waiting for my condition to improve at a hospital waiting room in Sioux Falls.

During the days after she heard the story, my young friend did her best to avoid me. Then, one day, she asked me why I thought it was OK that I survived a health emergency when her older sister had died from a diabetic shock. I was eight years old; I didn’t have an answer and I still don’t.

I thought about that on Wednesday night. Heck, I’ve thought about it often during the last 35 years.

It did my soul good to hear stories about Gina from the many people who were at the wake and knew her well. She never complained, loved her children unselfishly, and remained firmly faithful and committed to God until the end. But mostly, she apparently had a way to raise people’s spirits and make them wonder how she could always seem so happy even during such uncertain times.

One of my favorite moments last spring occurred during Pope Benedict’s recent visit to the United States. You have to be a C-Span freak to have caught this episode, but if you did, you were no doubt moved by it, too.

On the day before he returned to Rome, Benedict traveled to St. Joseph’s Seminary just outside Manhattan, where he was introduced to 50 developmentally challenged children.  The kids had been waiting patiently in the chapel for hours, some of them in wheelchairs.  Two of these children – 11-year-old Lauren Kurtz, and 7-year-old Caitlin Manno – had been selected to walk up to the Holy Father to present him with a painting on behalf of the school.

Lauren suffers from Down’s, and Caitlin from cerebral palsy.  Yet as these two girls approached the Holy Father in their Sunday dresses, the television cameras offered a glimmer of how Our Lord must see them:  innocent, trusting, beautiful.

Lauren gave the Holy Father a big hug and then notice that Caitlin had somehow been left behind at the bottom edge of the altar.  So she stepped back and steadied her friend as they walked up and to Benedict together.

I think about that often, about the beauty of witnessing one human being simply reaching a hand out and helping another and expecting nothing in return, despite their own circumstances. I think Gina might scoff at the comparison, but that’s the kind of person she was and the kind of person we should all aspire to be.

On Thursday morning I got a phone call from my best friend, the kind of phone call I’ve been receiving from all sorts of people lately with damning frequency. He hoped to talk face to face, had some bad news to share. He was a bit cagey about what it was, but he told me enough to make it clear that some medical tests had been completed and he was now an official member of the cancer club, the worst fraternity on campus.

This round of chemo, in comparison to other treatments I’ve endured, wasn’t so bad. The pill I took usually put me to sleep fairly quickly, a blessing because another prescription, the steroid therapy, makes sleep practically impossible. The chemotherapy was the third step doctors have suggested to rid my brain of six tumors that were discovered last summer. First was old-fashioned surgery where they fished out the biggest growth. Then came radiation, where we spent a week using lasers to blast smaller tumors that were impossible to reach with a scalpel. A month ago I underwent round one of the chemotherapy; round two was completed a month ago. Round three was ordered last week and is going on right now..

This was significant because it means for the first time in months my active treatment is almost done. The chemo, and even the radiation, will keep working on the cancer. In a month or so we’ll go back in for an alphabet soup of x-rays and body scans: CT scans and PET scans and MRIs. That will tell us if we’ve killed any more tumors, whether the remaining growths have multiplied, and whether the cancer has spread to other parts of my body. We’ll see.

Predictably, I am so ready to say so long to cancer forever. I have no reason to believe that I’ll be doing that after the x-rays in a few weeks. My oncologist has warned me that even if I got a clean bill of health, my two bouts so far means he and his gracious staff are always going to be a part of my life. I’ll still need to go in for regular blood work, mole checks, and CT scans and MRIs. I know, too, that I will always be part of that odd little fraternity of cancer survivors who hold this odd bond that is probably impossible for outsiders to understand.

I also know that as I get older, and because I am more attuned to the disease itself, I will be made aware of more people who are afflicted with some form of the disease. A woman who I know mostly as someone who has been praying for me got the word after Christmas that her tests had come back positive. It seems like I hungrily e-mail people I hear about with the disease, letting them know that I am praying for them and forwarding their names to all the prayer chains I’m already on. There have been enough days when I have been able to feel God’s grace rain down on me during the early morning hours – the time when people are praying for the first time – that I know the incessant pleas work.

But I also know that the journey is multi-dimensional and things happen that you don’t expect, not just from a medical standpoint but also on so many emotional levels.

So that’s what I guess I wanted to tell my buddy on Thursday: that the battle is a tough one but with faith in a loving God, the support of a network of family and friends, a huge dose of humor, and trust in yourself that you can beat this thing, it isn’t so bad. Like so many technology-obsessed Americans, I carry a mega-cell phone with me at all times that, among other things, lets me keep running lists of tasks that need to get done. One of the tiny electronic files that I keep is a list of all the startling realizations I’ve had about cancer. Startling to me, anyway.

Here’s that list:

• Eventually the novelty of having a friend with cancer wears off: Early on, if you are lucky and your doctors are confident and your faith is strong, there’s something special about all the attention people heap on you. Casseroles and fried chicken and big platters of State Fair–worthy baked goods find their way to your house on a regular basis. But eventually most of the people in your support group get busy or figure that things are getting better or that someone else is there to lift your emotions or take you to the movie or light a candle for you at the end of Mass. Prepare yourself for that day.
• The treatment is the worst part. Harder than the disease itself.
• Everyone thinks that they know what’s best for you: We call it cancer but it comes in so many forms that it’s like saying two people are feeling under the weather when one person might have a cold and the other an in-grown toenail. Still, anyone whose been touched by the disease – and practically everyone has been – feels like their own experiences qualifies them as an expert. “Get exercise,” one person might says. “Take it easy. This is no time to overdo it,” someone else will says. “Lots of protein.” “Cut down on meat.” “Concentrate on getting better.” “Don’t think about it.” “Listen to your body.” “Listen to your doctor.” No one’s advice will be right and, for me at least, I get a little tired getting bossed around. Part of that is because, as I noted on item number three on my list:
• One of the biggest frustrations is losing your independence: This is a corollary to number one. There will be days when, due to the treatment, you don’t feel like you can get out of bed. My tumors, and the seizure I suffered that started this whole adventure, means that I can’t drive a car until the Department of Transportation has some assurances that it won’t happen again. Makes sense to me; I don’t want to kill anyone and there would be some bitter irony if after all the hard work I’ve done in the wonderful world of pharmaceuticals I died in a car crash. But some days there is nothing I would enjoy more than getting in the car and driving to the newsstand to look at the tabloids and read all the theories about why Jessica Simpson gained 12 or 20 or 35 pounds. And that’s not always possible.
• Waiting is the hardest part: The day I met with my team of physicians, I was ready to begin round one. My doctors, wisely, wanted to figure out how to proceed before sending me into the ring. I wondered why the tests took so long to schedule. I wondered why we waited so long for surgery and radiation and chemo. Let’s get this started, I said. But now I understand that because the treatment can be so invasive, they were doing me a favor by being so deliberate in their actions. “Hello,” I thought to myself. “Let’s get going on saving my life.” I realize now that that’s exactly what they were doing.
• Some days your faith in God will be unshakable: I’ve said it in this space so many times, but there are days when I can feel the prayers of my friends raining down on me and it is a point of grace and a blessing that brings me to tears and grounds me in a way that I only experienced on the day my daughter was born and on the night when my wife and I were remarried after being divorced for a year. It is that profound and every time I feel it I am grateful.
• Some days you’ll wonder if there is a God or at least why he is doing this to you: On the hard days, my mind flashes to the Garden of Gethsemane, where Christ went with his Disciples to pray before his arrest. I think about his words and offer them up not so much as a prayer, but as a way of challenge Him to an argument. “Father, if you are willing, take this cup away from me.” If I’m lucky, I remember the second part of Christ’s prayer that night, “… still, not my will but yours be done.” And I remember that God never tasks us with more than we can handle, but only on those rare days when I am smart.
• You’re going to get a lot of LiveStrong bracelets: People reach out by spending a buck, and you’ll be amazed and amused by the variety of gifts offered to you. Cyclist Lance Armstrong, perhaps the world’s most famous cancer survivor, raises money for research by selling little yellow bracelets made of rubber with the words hybrid word, “Live Strong” printed on it. For days after making my diagnosis public I received them in the mail. You’ll get candles and t-shirts and all sorts of books. Everyone will recommend a book called “The Last Lecture,” about a professor with cancer. He doesn’t survive. Someone tried to give me a t-shirt that said, “#$%@ Cancer” but I’ve never worn it. Just warning you because you’ll need a place to store all this stuff.
• The people who work with cancer patients will never tell you to buck it up: I’ve only met a few who are not angels: Lots of people who know about your cancer will ask about your condition. “How you doing?” will be a common refrain. Most everyone really wants to know, but if you have a penchant for honesty, some people will stop asking. I’ve found that the staff at your oncologist’s office consistently understand what you are going through. I’ve never sensed that they regretted the question or wished they understood. They are the best people to vent to, because they’ve seen it all. They are angels.
• Someone who is close to you will tell you to buck it up and it will surprise you: There are people who don’t understand. And someone close to you will eventually let you know with the subtlety of a sledgehammer that you should stop complaining and get on with your life. They may be right but I doubt it. Prepare yourself for it. It’s painful.
• There are people who are integral parts of your life who will rarely, or never, acknowledge that you’re sick: That will hurt, too. There are a million reasons why they don’t want to get into it, and most of them aren’t as sinister or selfish as they might seem.
• Oncologists hate making prognosis. But they will: Your doctor probably thinks he’s doing you a favor by refusing to talk about your prognosis: You might not need to know what your chances are, but I think it’s your right. It took me a few attempts before my doctor finally talked about my chances of survival. She told me she’d never cured a patient with six tumors. But she said that she had patients with six tumors survive for 40 years. I told her I could live with six tumors for 40 years, not that I would feel bad about being the first time she actually got it right. We like each other a lot now because of our newfound understanding that I want to know. Ask all the questions you want.

The day you were diagnosed, you became not only a patient but a survivor. If you are on a set schedule with your doctor, you are going to see the same patients from a far-flung geographical area who visit the oncology center on the same days that you do. Some will inspire you with their courage. If you are lucky, you’ll be able to do the same thing for them. Seek them out while you’re sitting in the waiting room trying to concentrate on the days installment of “The Young and the Restless.” (Trust me, for some reason “The Young and the Restless” seems to play on a loop in oncology waiting rooms.) Let your monthly friends inspire you and comfort you. They will always embolden you.

And remember that simple words of our Protector, maybe the most comforting assurance He gave us: Be Not Afraid.

So, yes, the chemo is almost done. I may have edged out cancer this time. Or it could just be one more paragraph in a very long list of things to expect.

]]> http://jaypwagner.wordpress.com/2009/02/15/what-i%e2%80%99ve-learned-about-cancer-what-i-still-don%e2%80%99t-know/feed/ 10 iowablogwatch http://jaypwagner.wordpress.com/2009/02/12/all-i-want-for-valentines-day-red-velvet-cake-truffles/ http://jaypwagner.wordpress.com/2009/02/12/all-i-want-for-valentines-day-red-velvet-cake-truffles/#comments Thu, 12 Feb 2009 00:33:18 +0000 Jay Wagner http://jaypwagner.wordpress.com/?p=95 ]]> I’m a sucker for Red Velvet Cake and can’t believe I missed it for so many years. For all the talented bakers and terrific bakeries in N’West Iowa, we have suffered from a depressing shortage of Red Velvet over the years.

With that in mind, I offer to you the following recipe, which my wife is hinting that she will make for me on Feb. 14. Want some? Make you own. Recipe is after the jump:

RECIPE

Red Velvet Cake Truffles

1 box red velvet cake mix (cook as directed on box for 13 X 9 cake)

1 can cream cheese frosting (16 oz.)

1 package chocolate bark (regular or white chocolate)

wax paper

1. After cake is cooked and cooled completely, crumble into large bowl.

2. Mix thoroughly with 1 can cream cheese frosting. (It may be easier to use fingers to mix together, but  it will get messy.)

3. Roll mixture into quarter size balls and lay on cookie sheet. (Should make 45-50.)

4. Chill for several hours. (You can speed this up by putting in the freezer.)

5. Melt chocolate in microwave per directions on package.

6. Roll balls in chocolate and lay on wax paper until firm. (Use a spoon to dip and roll in chocolate and then tap off extra.)

Frankly, my family and I are a bit worn out when it comes to the Iowa Newspaper Association awards, I think. Used to be fun to work hard all year putting together the best newspaper possible and then see how you compared with other newspapers in the state. The bottom line of the contest is that it is suppose to provide motivation to improve your newspaper, but instead it has led to a lot of envy from newspapers that don’t want to commit the resources but still want to win awards.

You can imagine how discomforting it was on Friday night when The REVIEW won first place in the first nine categories that were announced. It was almost a relief to take second place in coverage of business. The rules, too, have been twisted and turned so many times that the contest hardly just honors straight-forward journalism anymore. And with the emergence of the Internet as a tool to deliver information, that will continue to change.

None of that should take away from the solid work that Jeff Grant, Scott Byers, Derek Vander Waal, Myrna and Jeff Wagner and the rest of the staff did this year. I had a small role in the production of the newspaper writing my weekly column and the lede editorial. (The newspaper won first place for best editorial page and I won third place in the Master Columnist category.) But I don’t think I’d even wonder about how the newspaper stacks up if The REVIEW didn’t want to compete anymore.

Maybe the Crystal Cathedral rings a bell. Unfortunate news: economic problems have resulted in layoffs and the sale of land, according to a spokesman for the Reform Church of America.

The beautiful cake made by Iowa Radio Guy and Garlic Girl

So on Thursday, the Gainesville, Ga., couple accepted a winning $20,000 eBay bid for all their belongings minus their house.

It came with one catch. The winning bidders, Donnia and Keith Blair of Texas, want the family to have the money, but keep their stuff.

– New York Times

Minneapolis Star-Tribune

– New York Times