Lolly Susi
The Esther Bunny Lives Here
Where there is a woman, there is magic.
Ntozake Shange
For nine years my wife and I managed a small eighteen-unit oceanfront condominium complex on Maui called Hoyochi Nikko. That time often felt like the Hawaiian version of Alex Haley’s Hotel. We lived in one of the units, and most of the other units were in a vacation rental program, which allowed the owners to rent their condos out by the night or the week when they weren’t personally using them. We enjoyed this arrangement. We had grown to like the fact that people on vacation generally arrive in a good mood, don’t stay long and are soon on their way with several rolls of film to help them relive their experience with every neighbor and relative. Often we were greeted with hugs and kisses from new guests sent by previous guests who had long ago faded from our memory. But this story is about the one who didn’t leave—the Esther Bunny.
In 1998, a young man who frequently surfed in front of our place asked if he could see one of the condos that had recently come up for sale. My wife, Micki, politely showed him the unit, wondering how his lifestyle would fit in with the vacationers who normally occupied the complex. After looking, he said, “I think my mother would like living here; I’ll bring her by after she heals from her hip surgery.”
When Micki passed along the story to me, we discussed how we might handle the situation if an older person in need of care became a permanent resident. All the scenarios we came up with sounded like they wouldn’t work. We soon dropped the subject and expected that anyone in that situation would also come to the same conclusion.
A few months went by, and the young man stopped by again and said his mother was ready to look at the property. The original unit had sold, but we knew of another that might be for sale. We made the arrangements, and a few days later he showed up with his mother. To my surprise, she didn’t appear to have recovered from her surgery—her son kept a chair in hand and several times during the showing he gently slid it under his mother. She seemed to quickly recharge her batteries while sitting and would rise for another five minutes, exclaiming, “This is beautiful!” That was our first introduction to Esther.
The rest of the day and most of the next we worried that Esther was going to be a part of our day-to-day routine. As fate would have it, she bought the condo and moved in by herself. I was terrified that this small, fragile lady wouldn’t be able to take care of herself or might get injured and I would be responsible. In truth, I was more worried about me than Esther.
She would never be known as a quick mover, but she healed, and our concerns about her faded. We found that, short of skydiving, she answered, “Count me in,” to anything we suggested.
Within a short time we found that we looked to Esther as a place to get our own emotional batteries charged. She started joining us for frequent movie nights at home, going to the theater, shopping and dining out. Soon she became my Esther Bunny. If anyone was a bother, it was probably me. I found myself stopping by frequently to say “Hi,” not because I was worried, but because I enjoyed her company. Her ability to keep a positive attitude, to smile and laugh easily, caused me to frequently try and analyze her, wanting to add Esther-like qualities to my own life. I noticed that vacationers and part-time residents were quick to include her in their activities, too, not because they felt sorry for her, but because she added so much to their lives.
A few years later, Esther’s other hip went bad. She found it difficult to get up from a chair and extremely painful to walk. She said, “At eighty-seven, I’m too old to go through another surgery.”
Micki told her, “We expect you to be around until you’re at least a hundred, and you might as well be able to walk without pain.” I told her that Hoyochi Nikko was getting a basketball team together and that she wouldn’t be able to be on the team unless she got the hip replaced. I think it was Micki’s logic that prevailed, but I enjoyed kibitzing with her over the other possible reasons she might want to endure the process.
Recovery wasn’t fast, but she made it and kept all of us in good spirits while she once again went through hip replacement.
Recently, Esther was diagnosed with breast cancer. She had her lymph nodes removed and was given the option of doing radiation or not receiving treatment. We asked people who had gone through the process, as well as those in the medical profession, what they recommended. We were told that cancer normally moves slowly in older people, and the radiation can be painful and stressful. With this knowledge in hand, she made the decision to proceed with the treatment.
Hoyochi Nikko isn’t known to have a basketball team, but word has spread of our resident Esther Bunny. I think Esther has decided that she will squeeze everything out of life that comes her way. I don’t see her as an older person, but as someone who has chosen to incorporate positive influences in her life and let the weight of negatives fall by the way side. That little old lady I feared would affect my life did.
Ron Lando-Brown
“I’m done with chemo . . . now I’m ready
for my hug therapy.”
Reprinted with permission of Jonny Hawkins ©2005.
Crooked Wigs and Guinea Pigs
The steamy August afternoon in the summer of 1996 was just about more than I could take. Sitting in my car at a red light, I was nauseated from my recent chemotherapy treatment, in pain from other cancer medications and severely depressed from the whole cancer experience. I was also at the end of my patience with my husband, who had, just that morning, encouraged me yet again to smile and to try to have a more positive attitude and a sense of humor.
Roger knew what he was talking about. You see, he was fighting his own battle with cancer. Unbelievably, at the relatively young age of forty-five, we had both been diagnosed with cancer within six weeks of one another—I with breast cancer with positive lymph nodes, and he with what one doctor described as a “particularly nasty” form of kidney cancer. Roger somehow managed to be upbeat and hopeful through it all. That I could not seem to find my way to the same state of mind only added to my frustration and depression.
And the sticky mid-Atlantic heat and humidity just made everything worse. All I wanted was to finish my errands, go home and crawl into bed.
Noticing that my wig felt lopsided, I took advantage of the red light to look into the rearview mirror. I tugged on the sides and front of the wig to straighten it and saw, to my horror and embarrassment, four teenagers in the car behind me mocking my movements! They were modeling in exaggerated fashion the primping of a vain woman posing before a mirror, and they were laughing themselves silly.
Tears of anguish welled up in my eyes. How could they be so cruel? I wondered. How could they make fun of a sick woman, a woman who might even be dying?
Because they don’t know, I quickly answered myself. And besides, they’re just kids. They don’t know any better.
Then I thought, But they should.
I don’t know where it came from—maybe I was delirious from the heat—but a giggle bubbled up inside me and, without another thought, I placed my right hand on top of my head and yanked off my wig. Still looking in the mirror, I gave a huge shrug of my shoulders and laughed out loud just as the light turned green.
I will never forget the look of total shock on those four teenagers’ faces as I pulled away from the intersection. All four had their hands to their cheeks, and their mouths and eyes were as big and round as dinner plates. I can still hear the horns of other cars blaring at them to move as they sat there, stunned and motionless.
I laughed for three days. And, for the most part, I haven’t stopped laughing since, because what I discovered that day was that the physical act of laughing made me feel physically better.
Now a lot of people—including Roger—had been telling me for a long time that “laughing will make you feel better,” but I thought they meant on some higher, esoteric level, and my head and heart just weren’t in the mood for that.
What
I hadn’t understood was that laughing would make me feel physically better. And that, in fact, laughing would make me physically healthier.
Once I made myself laugh by removing my wig to shock those young people, I realized I could make myself laugh pretty much anytime I wanted to.
And that’s when I started getting well.
Since then, I’ve learned that laughter improves your cardiovascular system in much the same way as aerobic exercise. It oxygenates your entire body, and there is some evidence that it lowers your blood pressure and releases endorphins (the “feel good” chemicals) in your brain. Physical discomforts are minimized almost immediately and—even better—your immune system is strengthened. Not only is your body better able to withstand the rigors of any medical treatment you might be undergoing, but it is also better able to fight disease on its own in the ways God and nature intended. Every single time you laugh, you become physically healthier, and you ensure that you will be even healthier tomorrow!
Do whatever you have to do to make yourself laugh. One tried-and-true method is to watch funny movies (go to www.afi.com, click on “Quick Links” and then “100 Years . . . 100 Laughs” for the American Film Institute’s list of the 100 funniest movies ever made; then start working your way through the list) and television shows like America’s Funniest Home Videos. I have laughed myself stupid over some of those videos, especially the ones of babies trying new foods or ones showing the antics of dogs and cats.
Give a kitten a piece of ribbon. Read a book by Erma Bombeck or Dave Barry or another humorous author. Blow bubbles and watch a toddler try to catch them. Ask a six-year-old what the president’s job is. Listen to comedy tapes and CDs—your local music store has a whole section devoted to humor. There are countless ways to make yourself laugh.
Shortly after my diagnosis, my doctor offered me the opportunity to participate in a clinical trial, and I eagerly accepted. He didn’t use the term “guinea pig,” but that’s how I saw myself. It didn’t matter, though. I wanted every available weapon to fight my battle!
The actual treatments using the trial drug began many months later. The drug was brutal, but by then I had learned the healing power of laughter. While browsing in one of those everything-costs-a-dollar stores, looking for something to amuse myself, I found a small face mask that was just a rubber nose with whiskers. It looked like a mouse’s nose. Or maybe a rat’s. Or maybe, I thought, a guinea pig’s.
At my next appointment, I sat on the table in the examining room sporting my shiny bald head, that oh-so-lovely hospital gown, my new nose and whiskers, and a terribly serious expression. When my doctor walked in, he asked (head down and looking at my chart), “And how are we today?”
I said in the saddest voice I could muster, “I don’t know about this clinical trial. I’m starting to feel like a guinea pig.”
He looked up at me with a puzzled expression. A smile spread slowly across his face. Then he chuckled. Then he started laughing. He laughed so hard he had to sit down. I laughed so much my sides hurt and tears rolled down my face. That rubber nose was the best dollar I ever spent.
Whether you spend a dime or a dollar or nothing at all, find a way to laugh every day. It truly is an investment in your health.
Kathy Cawthon
Sixty Miles
Isuppose if I had to choose just one quality to have, that would be it: vitality.
John F. Kennedy
When I first signed up for a sixty-mile walk to raise money for breast-cancer research, I was most excited about the personal challenge of walking twenty miles a day, sleeping in a tent and surviving three days without the comforts of home. I had been working to get in shape, and the breast-cancer walk gave me the opportunity to reach a demanding fitness goal while doing some good at the same time. It turned out to be so much more.
The first day of the event, 4,800 walkers gathered bright and early at a convention center, ready for the experience of a lifetime. Volunteers collected our luggage and sleeping bags, and told us we could retrieve them at base camp. Opening ceremonies began with walkers forming an enormous, three-layered semicircle. The first layer was open space, symbolizing the spirits of the people lost to breast cancer. The second layer was for cancer survivors. It was packed full of people in pink T-shirts, some still bald from treatment, realizing they were not alone in their fight. The outer layer, where I stood, was for people supporting the cure who had never battled cancer themselves.
We listened as speakers shared statistics and words of encouragement, and we learned, according to the American Cancer Society, that more than 182,000 women in the United States would be diagnosed with breast cancer over the next year and more than 40,000 would die. Early detection is key, as the five-year survival rate for people treated in the early stages of breast cancer is 96 percent.
Determined to save lives, our group raised more than $6,750,000 to be spent on improving access to care for underserved women and advancing cancer research. It was awe-inspiring to realize what the combined efforts of many could accomplish. After the presentations, we held hands and devoted a long moment of silence to remembering loved ones lost to breast cancer.
Motivated that we would be making a difference with every step, it was time to start our sixty-mile journey. A sea of walkers took over the roads. Volunteer motorcycle clubs helped control traffic. I’ll never forget one big, tough rider dressed in black leather, his Harley adorned with pink ribbons in honor of his wife.
I walked and walked, cried and walked. My tears flowed as I read people’s T-shirts. Many listed people in a community or church fighting cancer. Most focused on one special person, like the jerseys worn by three sisters in honor of the sister they had lost. A lot of participants had pictures of the person for whom they walked pinned to the back of their shirt. The pictures hit me the hardest, as I was forced to visualize the actual people behind the statistics. The photo that upset me the most was of a beautiful, vibrant college co-ed with a bright smile. Her picture was ironed onto the shirts of her sorority sisters, who were walking in her memory. She was only twenty-four years old when she died from breast cancer.
We treaded through poverty-stricken neighborhoods, ritzy suburbs, historic towns and city streets. I was privileged to hear so many personal stories over the miles, both tragic and inspirational. The heaviness of the journey was lightened by the huge number of survivors participating and by the great volunteers who gave us food and water at each pit stop while cheering: “2-4-6-8, hydrate! Stretch! Urinate!”
After twenty miles we arrived at our base camp on the athletic fields of a middle school. I will not lie: my feet were swollen and in pain, and I questioned if I could do this for two more days. Limping, I set up my tent and realized I was not alone. People hobbled all around me, some on crutches, some with moleskin all over their feet, some with wrapped-up knees. Then it hit. This was nothing compared to dealing with breast cancer. We all vowed to somehow get up and do it again tomorrow.
The first night was cold, and I wasn’t the most prepared camper in the group. Luckily, exhaustion allowed me to fall asleep easily. I won’t mention the details of having to use a port-a-potty at four A.M. in complete darkness, but trust me . . . I longed for indoor plumbing.
The next two days my feet blistered and my muscles ached, but the harmonious goodwill and group spirit kept me going. I met phenomenal people and was blessed to be among a mass of human kindness for seventy-two hours. By the end, the sixty miles had nothing to do with a fitness goal. It was about the cause, the memory of those who had lost their lives to breast cancer and all the innumerable survivors. Crossing our finish line felt like a triumph for all!
Sherrie Page Najarian
Angels
Angels are pure thoughts from God, winged with Truth and Love.
Mary Baker Eddy
My breast cancer was found during a routine mammogram, and diagnosis and surgery were done all within a two-week time frame. I had a left breast mastectomy, seventeen nodes remov
ed, and chemotherapy to follow later.
My breast cancer journey could be a book in itself. The love and support of my husband, family and friends were overwhelming—cards, letters and gifts started to arrive, with one single theme in common: angels. I have always believed in the presence of angels and asked for their help many times, mostly to watch over my two children, especially when they were teenage drivers. I never failed to ask their guardian angels to please bring them home safely each night.
The angels started coming—angels for my car, angel worry rocks, angel pins and every card had an angel on it, all of which I treasured. But not long after my chemotherapy treatments were over, I had sort of a “let down.” I thought, Everything that can be done has been done . . . so now what? I wanted to truly live.
I decided after this life-altering journey to do something wild and crazy. I had already decided against reconstructive surgery, so I planned to have a tattoo! Before breast cancer, I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing such a thing, but I didn’t know my future and I was going for it!
I felt it was appropriate to get an angel tattoo on my right shoulder—a permanent “angel watching over me.” I had the tattoo artist add a small teardrop falling from her left eye to signify that I would never be the same. Amazingly, the teardrop disappeared after a few months! I know sometimes the ink fades over time, but I choose to believe this was a sign from God and the angels that I was going to be okay. And I just celebrated my anniversary of five years cancer-free!
Pamela Pierce
From Stressed to Blessed
Art washes away from the world the dust of everyday life.
Chicken Soup for the Breast Cancer Survivor's Soul Page 8