It's Not About the Hair: And Other Certainties of Life & Cancer

by Debra Jarvis

  One day I was at an Earth Day fair out on Bainbridge Island. A man was standing in front of a table with dozens of wooden flutes on it. I picked up a small cedar one. The guy behind the counter said, “Just keep your ring finger down and you can play anything.” I played a few notes on it, and I loved it. It was nothing like my recorder. It had a soft, haunting sound.

  “I’ll take it,” I said.

  “Oh, wonderful. Then you’ll want to know it’s a pentatonic scale and—”

  I cut him off. “No. I don’t want to know anything about it.”

  He paused, looked at me and said, “Oh, I see—you want to play from your heart.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” And that is what I did. I never worried about hitting the wrong notes because there were no wrong notes. I was perfectly relaxed, because I made it up as I went along. Mindful of the use of cedar in prayer, before I played I always took a good long sniff of my flute—to remind me my music was a prayer.

  A Bride in Me

  On Wes and my tenth anniversary we had a huge party and invited all our guests to come dressed in their wedding clothes. That’s right, they wore the clothes in which they were married. (Well, okay, there were ten women in their actual wedding gowns. About half the women didn’t own them anymore, and everybody else couldn’t fit into them. The men got off easy since tuxedo trousers have those expandable waistbands.)

  We moved all of the furniture out of the living room and hired a little three-piece combo. I made fabulous finger food and a three-tiered wedding cake with our original ornament. Even though she had never married, I made a wedding gown with a tulle train for our dog, Cokey. It featured a silk poinsettia, beading, and two-inch lace. She also wore pearls.

  I was definitely channeling Martha Stewart. I made tiny bouquets for the brides to throw, and tiny garters for the men to fling. We gave small “wedding” gifts to all our guests, since they were, after all, brides and grooms.

  To say it was hilarious is an understatement.When would you ever see so many brides at one reception? There were wedding gowns there from the 1960s to the 1990s. In short, we ate, we drank, we danced. It had been the best party we’d ever given, and people called the next day begging us to do it again.We had promised we’d do it in ten years.

  So here it was ten years later, our twentieth anniversary—and the day before my last chemo.There was no way we were having a big party. I could barely stay up until 8 p.m. every night. So I said to Wes, “Well, let’s just you and I go out for dinner and wear our wedding clothes.” He agreed because he is a really good sport about stuff like this.

  Our anniversary was on a weeknight, so I brought my gown to the clinic. The nurses were enthusiastic about this. At 5 p.m. two of them helped me get dressed while another took pictures. It was just like having bridesmaids, except they were all wearing lab coats and stethoscopes. Then they made me walk down the hall past all the patient rooms because there is something really fun and exciting and slightly crazy about seeing a bride in a cancer center.

  My dress was not a simple, modern column dress. It had an enormous skirt, big puffy lace sleeves, and a train; all of which add up to miles of fabric. It made a lot of noise when I walked because I was wearing a big stiff crinoline slip underneath. The patients started popping out of their rooms like prairie dogs.

  “Are you getting married?” one man asked me.

  “No, just going out to dinner,” I answered.

  My promenade down the hall delighted everyone. Patients and staff alike were smiling like crazy. What’s not to like about a bride? It’s the same way when someone brings a baby into the clinic. I don’t know how it is for an infant, but I was thrilled to provide enjoyment just by walking around. Today was my anniversary, tomorrow was my last chemo. I was bursting with joy.

  Wes and I agree to meet at this fancy little French restaurant called Rover’s. It’s the kind of place you go to celebrate and the owner comes out wearing his famous hat and schmoozes with you. Most importantly, we heard the food was excellent.

  The nurses help me bustle up the train, but when I got into my car, it came unhooked. I stuffed the train onto the passenger seat. It looked like the air bag had gone off. The train kept falling off the seat onto my filthy floor mat. I reached over, grabbed the seatbelt, brought it across the train and belted it in. Now I had a stiff white mummy leaning against the window.

  The parking lot was up the street, a block from the restaurant. Even though it was only 5:30 p.m., it was already pitch dark and cold. But I wasn’t cold, because I was conveniently having a hot flash. Besides, what kind of coat could I wear over this enormous dress? So I walked down Madison Street, carrying my train over one arm, car keys in hand. The same thing that happened in the clinic happened on the street. People came out of stores smiling like crazy. Other people on the street stopped dead in their tracks.

  “Hey, hello there—bride!”

  “Merry Christmas!”

  “Oh, my goodness, look at that dress!”

  Two people were smiling but speechless, and came up to shake my hand. It was as if I were giving off some kind of fumes that made everyone euphoric. I suddenly realized I could bring joy to the world by simply walking down the street at night in my wedding dress. I felt high myself, as high as I felt twenty years ago walking down the aisle and out of the church with my new husband.

  I arrived at the restaurant about ten minutes before they opened, so I stood out on their little porch. I could see someone looking out at me, and then the door opened and the mâitre d’ said, “Madam, would you like to come in?”

  “Yes! We have reservations.”

  “I thought so.”

  He found our names and then asked, “Is there anything I can do for you while you wait?”

  “Well, yes. Do you know how to bustle a train?”

  “No—but it’s always a good time to learn.”

  We picked through the mountain of fabric and lace and found the two hooks on the train that fastened to my dress.Then I stood happily waiting in the lobby.

  In the meantime, Wes was getting dressed at Harborview, the county hospital. He came out of the men’s room in his tux. The janitor, pushing his cart down the hall, stopped and looked at him.

  “Nice duds, dude.”

  He snagged a ride with another physician who lived in the area and arrived about five minutes after me.They sat us at a table that was smack in the middle of the room and gave us two glasses of champagne. I loved it even though it tasted like gasoline to me.

  We ordered, and then Wes got up. I couldn’t help thinking, “Holy Cow, we just got here and you have to pee already? Maybe you should get your prostate checked.” But he didn’t leave; he got down on one knee.

  Before I tell you what happened next, you should know that when Wes proposed to me, I was sitting on the living room couch in his San Francisco condo reading the morning paper. He was in the kitchen making coffee and yelled out, “Hey, you know what?”

  “What?” I yelled back.

  “Well, I was thinking—I’ve analyzed things and what you want to do with your life is compatible with what I want to do with my life. So I think getting married would work.”

  “Okay. That would be a blast!” Then he finished making coffee. We weren’t even in the same room.

  So there we were at Rover’s and he was down on one knee and said, “I think I didn’t do it properly before. I love you, Debra, will you marry me?”

  Then he reached into his pocket and snapped open this ring box that had a gorgeous diamond ring in it. He put it on my finger, and of course I start weeping. Wes tried to get up gracefully, but he’s got a bad knee and lost his balance and grabbed the table to steady himself. The table started to fall, but I took hold of it with both hands so tears were streaming unchecked down my face when the waiter arrived with little complimentary hors d’oeuvres and said, “Oh, my.”

  Wes made it back into his seat, and by then I was outright crying, I stuck out my hand and said to th
e waiter, “Ooh, heja gayma dimoning.”

  He set the plates down, smiled, and said, “Stunning.” I realized we were going to have to leave him a big tip.

  I sat there looking at this dazzling ring and staring at my husband who was the most beautiful man I knew. What if I hadn’t met Wes? I was astonished I could be falling in love with my husband all over again. I was overwhelmed by gratitude and my whole body tingled as if a current was running through it. I felt the Presence vibrating in every cell of my body. We sat there holding hands across the table, very still, not needing to speak. Then the waiter brought my bottle of water and broke the spell.

  One of the wonderful things about this restaurant is that the dining is leisurely, say, three hours for a five-course meal. This is terrific if you don’t go to bed at 8:00 p.m. I felt my energy draining away, like sand in an hourglass. The chef came out and schmoozed with us. We told him we loved the food, although at that point I could have gone facedown into the pâté. We declined dessert. Wes would have had to feed it to me after strapping me into the chair.

  Rover’s was the kind of place where no one was crass enough to just walk up to your table and say,“So did you two just get married or something?” No, no, they were very discreet—they asked the waiter.

  So when we got up to leave, everyone clapped and said, “Congratulations!”

  I cried all the way out to the car.

  Sighed Effects

  The list of side effects from chemo is long and includes common ones such as nausea, headache, fatigue, hair thinning, hot flashes, insomnia, constipation—well, let’s just stop there. They told me about most of them, but there were some side effects no one mentioned. These included: a new appreciation for my friends, a deep tenderness between Wes and me, and finding numerous wavelengths through which I was hearing the Spirit.

  My friends were fabulous about bringing food and cards and flowers. But what astonished me was how I felt their prayers. Sometimes in the middle of the night I would lie there, wide-awake, and a warm sparkly feeling of being held, of being loved, would come over me.The next day someone would say to me, “I was praying for you last night when I got up to pee.”

  The Powerful Pee Prayer. Why isn’t this in any books on spirituality or mysticism? That middle-of-the-night appeal whispered between getting out of, and getting back into bed. A prayer said while performing a humble bodily function; the opposite end of the spectrum from having an entire High Mass said for you.

  Don’t you think Jesus just loves this? That is so totally up his alley, right up there with the manger and the lowing cattle. Ordinary. Simple. Powerful.

  I knew cancer could bring a couple closer, but I had also seen it tear a couple apart.

  Wes and I became closer in a way that comes from being utterly vulnerable with one another. It wasn’t that we hadn’t talked about dying before. Wes had always been convinced he would die first, and he would go on about how I should date and where the life insurance policy was. But now he wasn’t so sure who was going to die first, and that was a good thing.

  We became intensely aware of life’s unpredictability, which made us say, “God willing,” after, “I’ll be home around seven.” We never left without kissing one another, even if one of us was leaving the house at 5 a.m.We never hung up without saying,“I love you.”

  I’m sure it made people just want to throw up when we kissed in a restaurant before one of us got up to use the bathroom. But you never know what can happen on the way to the toilet! Sudden stroke. Drive-by shooting. Alien abduction.

  We felt a deep tenderness for one another that caused us to be even kinder to each other. Both of us let things go, didn’t have to be right, and didn’t insist on our way. The kinder he was to me, the kinder I was to him, and it simply grew.

  Well, all right—I was still a Nazi in the kitchen, a bossy, snippy know-it-all. A kitchen bully.

  Then again, in spite of my having cancer, Wes still doesn’t squeeze out the kitchen sponge. Or fill the pepper shakers—which I never use. But I let the clothes wrinkle in the dryer. So we haven’t exactly perfected things.

  Besides the cedar tree in the fence, I heard the Spirit speak to me in lots of new ways. The most amazing was out of my own mouth. Athletes talk about being in “the zone,” a place where every action seems perfect and effortless. Chaplains, too, can get in the zone. I would be talking to a patient and thoughts and ideas I didn’t even know I had started coming out of my mouth. The patient would be nodding and saying something like, “Yes, exactly. So true. I see what you mean.”

  On the surface it sounded as if I was offering some spiritual insight. But here’s the irony: the words were meant for me!

  So I’m listening to a patient tell me how she has such guilt about not doing enough, there’s housework and exercise and a book club and gardening. There’s always so much to do and so much guilt about not being productive.Where did that guilt come from and how could she find time to meditate?

  I said, “Yeah, I’m curious where it comes from, but I guess what’s important is to get off the Activity Train. You go whooshing through life, never stopping and enjoying where you are, because you are nowhere really—just racing. Maybe that’s what meditation is about: stepping off the train and exploring your inner space.”

  The whole time I was speaking this woman was nodding her head and saying, “Absolutely. Yes, you’re right.”

  There wasn’t even a nanosecond for me to be pleased with myself, because I knew instantly the words were meant for me. I couldn’t stand being such a fraud, so I said,“Of course, I am speaking to myself, as well.”

  The Peanut Is Brittle

  I couldn’t wait for my DEXA bone density scan.This was one area where I knew I’d be strong. Thirty years of running and all those damn calcium pills on which I nearly choked to death every day. Well, it was worth it because it would serve me now.

  I absolutely swaggered into radiology feeling this was a test for which I had been studying.This was an exam I would ace.

  So, of course, I just about fell over when my report came back telling me not only did I have osteopenia, a decrease in bone density, but significant osteoporosis, which is considered a disease.

  “High risk for hip fracture,” the report said. Impossible! I actually called radiology and asked if they mixed up my report with someone else’s—with some elderly person who didn’t exercise and take her calcium.

  I said before that cancer messes with your self-image. Mine required some adjustment as I chose to see my white cells as “sensitive,” as opposed to “wimpy.” This diagnosis of osteoporosis was more shocking to me than my cancer diagnosis. I had always thought of myself as having strong bones like a mighty Alaskan bear. Now they were telling me I had the bones of a hummingbird.

  It reminded me once again how little control I really had. So this scan was in fact a test, a test of how flexible I could be, of how quickly I could accept this news and get on with life. Would I be able to keep my equanimity?

  I didn’t have time to dwell on any of this because I was to meet Beth and her husband Charlie in the clinic sanctuary. She had completed treatment, was moving back to Montana, and she wanted me to teach them how to pray—together.

  The first time I ever got a request to give prayer instruction, I stuttered and said something about having an ongoing commentary with the Divine and how maybe I wasn’t the best person to instruct them in prayer. I felt both Mr. Martha Miyagi and Jesus just rolling their divine eyes.

  You’re a minister for Christ’s sake. It’s part of your job description.

  Yeah, for my sake!

  Jesus always likes to chime in.

  Beth and Charlie had both been raised in conservative Christian churches, but their spiritual beliefs were now far from conservative. What could I teach them that they could do together and was slightly familiar and yet different?

  I asked them to sit with their feet flat on the floor, with their hands resting upon one another in their laps
“like the Buddha.” They had explored enough religions to know what that meant.

  “So for five minutes just sit and watch your breath,” I said. “No need to change it in any way. Simply focus on your breath and if your attention wanders, which it will, gently bring it back to your breath.”

  “What should I be saying?” Charlie asked.

  “Nothing,” I answered.“Just watch your breath. After five minutes I’ll say ‘palms down’ and you can place your hands on your thighs palms down, because you will be releasing anything you want: fears, thoughts, desires, thanks, whatever. After three minutes I’ll say, ‘palms up’ so you are in a posture of receiving from God. Maybe you’ll receive an insight now, or maybe it will come later.”