That courage led me to do things I never would have done before—me, the gal who had been afraid to try out for the track team. A few days before my operation, I called my guidance counselor. “Ms. Larson,” I said, “would it be possible for me to get together with a group of students during sixth period tomorrow?”
The next day I sat in a classroom and watched it fill up as more than 40 kids filed in. “I asked you all to come here because I want to tell you exactly what’s wrong with me,” I told them. “In two days, my left leg will be amputated six inches above the knee. After that, I’ll have more chemotherapy. My hair will fall out, and I’ll be very sick for a while, but I will come back to school in the fall. If you have any questions, you can ask. It doesn’t bother me.”
At first it was so quiet I could hear myself breathe. Finally, one girl spoke up. “Will you have an artificial leg?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Will you have your real foot?” piped someone else.
I laughed, and one by one the rest of them laughed, too, as they realized the absurdity of the question.
“Well, I sort of doubt it,” I said. “I’ll just have a bar or something. You probably won’t want to see it.”
“Aww, come on, Adrienne,” said another girl. “We don’t care what you look like. We just want you back.”
Well, that made me feel great, and by now everyone was much more at ease. And somehow I wasn’t at all nervous about speaking anymore.
Time flew after that, and before I knew it, the Thursday of my surgery arrived. By 7:00 A.M. I had a crowd around my bed: June, my youth-group minister from Littleton United Methodist Church; “T,” the hospital social worker; and of course, Mom and Peggy. (My dad came later, when things were calmer.) Then T pulled out a little package and handed it to me. “This is from Janelle’s mom,” she said.
Janelle was a friend of mine who’d also had bone cancer. I tore open the wrapping paper. Inside sat a little brown teddy bear, and across his chest was a message. It read, “Teddy bears are a symbol of love and friendship, and I hope this one reminds you that there are a lot of people who care about you and are hoping that everything will turn out okay for you.” I thought back to Peggy’s first statement about my having friends to help me through this. Peggy was right—and right about my family and the Lord, too.
I was shaking with nervousness as they wheeled me down to surgery, but when I woke up in the recovery room afterward, I was strangely calm. In fact, I felt a huge sense of relief. The worst of it was over; now I could start doing things again. In a sense, I could start my life over.
As soon as I felt well enough to get out of bed, I began talking to other kids in the hospital. I was surprised to find how bored I was by my usual TV shows. Now I made an effort to meet people and make friends. Oddly enough, it came easily now; everyone seemed curious about my condition, and just answering their questions gave me something to talk about. I felt my former shyness slipping away like an old piece of clothing that no longer fit. When Children’s Hospital asked me to be in their telethon, I happily accepted.
I’d been in my church’s youth group since I was little, and as soon as I felt well enough, I began going back. We met every Sunday night, and sometimes we’d play volleyball or other games. When I first came back, the kids seemed uncomfortable; they didn’t want me to feel left out. But I didn’t mind; I’d stand on the side and cheer them on.
Once I started feeling stronger, though, I wanted to play, too. I knew I couldn’t put pressure on my artificial leg, but I developed a fine sense of balance on one leg. One night, before I could reconsider, I took off my prosthesis. “I’m coming in,” I called. The kids stopped the volleyball game and stared at me, but when I got the leg off and hopped out onto the court, they all smiled and cheered. Later that summer, when I went to a special camp for cancer patients called Sky High Hope, I did everything from rock climbing to horseback riding. Soon every new sport became a challenge. Especially skiing.
Rick Rakestraw, an instructor from Children’s Hospital, showed me how I could ski by using one ski and two outriggers— poles with little skis at the ends. The second I went down that first bunny hill, I knew this was the sport for me. I wasn’t afraid at all.
Before long, I joined the school flag squad, I learned to ride a bicycle and I went out for the swim team. I thought back to track team in eighth grade, how I’d quit before I’d even given it a fair try. So now, even though I was slow and it was tough, I stuck with it. By the end of the season, I was winning races.
But through it all, skiing remained my first love, and one day I was lucky enough to meet Paul DiBello, a skier on the U.S. Disabled Ski Team. Before I knew it I was training with Winter Park’s own handicapped competition program, which is coached by Paul. It’s been the ultimate challenge; every minute is a thrill. Next year I go out for the national team. Watch out! I’m coming!
Sometimes when I’m drifting in a ski lift over a snow-covered mountain, I think about how if I hadn’t had cancer, I probably wouldn’t even be skiing—or swimming, or biking, or anything.
Getting sick was no joy, and I certainly wouldn’t want to go through it again, ever. But I did have family and friends and God to help me see that something good can come out of just about anything. Cancer gave me a courage I’d never had before—the courage to conquer with one leg what I once couldn’t even face with two.
Adrienne Rivera
Peanuts ©1996. United Feature Syndicate.
Reprinted by permission.
“Never Give Up!”
Sir Winston Churchill took three years getting through eighth grade because he had trouble learning English. It seems ironic that years later Oxford University asked him to address its commencement exercises. He arrived with his usual props. A cigar, a cane and a top hat accompanied Churchill wherever he went. As Churchill approached the podium, the crowd rose in appreciative applause. With unmatched dignity, he settled the crowd and stood confident before his admirers. Removing the cigar and carefully placing the top hat on the podium, Churchill gazed at his waiting audience. Authority rang in Churchill’s voice as he shouted, “Never give up!” Several seconds passed before he rose to his toes and repeated: “Never give up!” His words thundered in their ears. There was a deafening silence as Churchill reached for his hat and cigar, steadied himself with his cane and left the platform. His commencement address was finished.
Speaker’s Sourcebook II
Don't EVER give up!
Not Without a Fight
Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.
John Lennon
My life until July of 1992 was unusually full. The mother of seven children, I also held a full-time teaching position and was a re-habber of aging houses. I was positive, I was invincible and depended heavily on my Irish luck to remain so. It occurred to me in early spring that I had not had a mammogram in several years. Some weeks later, my eldest daughter received word from Loyola University in Chicago that she was the recipient of a fellowship to pursue her master’s degree. She invited me to accompany her to Chicago to find an apartment. I was excited because with my family size, we seldom have the opportunity to spend long periods of time alone together. Checking my calendar, I realized that I had an appointment at 10 o’clock the same day for my checkup. I was tempted to cancel and reschedule. However, I thought I’d just run in, do my thing and then I’d leave for Chicago right away.
Everything proceeded normally until the technician returned to the room and said, “Mrs. Brindell, I’d like to take another picture of your left side.” Irritated to have to endure another uncomfortable procedure, I hesitantly agreed. Time was passing quickly, and I found myself watching the clock. Didn’t these people know that I had made an important date with my daughter? I didn’t want to disappoint her. I considered dressing and walking out. After all, it wasn’t my fault if the technician couldn’t get a clear picture! For some reason, I remained there and again the technician re
turned saying, “The doctor wants another picture.”
This time he wanted it deeper. “Good grief,” I told her, “if this machine is the latest in technological inventions from Sweden, don’t they have any full-busted women there? This is really beginning to hurt!” We repeated the procedure five more times. My torso ached and finally I said, “Come on, what’s going on here? I’ve really got someplace to be at one o’clock!”
Suddenly, the kind technician who had been so pleasant until then said very seriously, “Wait right here. I will call in the radiologist.” The room became an empty void and time stopped.
The radiologist opened the door slightly to say, “Remember that little lump you had on your left side? Well, it has changed in size and density.”
“What does that mean, Doctor?”
“It means that it could be cancer. I’d like to do a biopsy. We’ll call you on Monday to schedule.” Stunned, I dressed slowly. Not me! No way, not at 48. Life was really just beginning for me. All the really good things were just starting to happen. As I drove home that day, I resolved not to let the morning’s events interfere with my Chicago weekend with my daughter. But try as I might over the next few days to forget, I felt that I had a new companion and I was not sure if it was welcome company.
Upon my return to St. Louis, the pace quickened. The biopsy indicated cancer. My husband of 24 years is a devoted man, but when it comes to being emotionally supportive in times of stress, leave him out. The kids, too, continued doing their own thing. I soon realized that if I were going to get through this “mess,” I would have to call upon all the inner strength for which we Irish women are so famous. And call upon it I did!
On July 8, 1992, the day of my 25th wedding anniversary, I was wheeled into surgery. I remember saying to my husband, “Well, Bob, some people get to go on cruises on their 25th anniversary, I get to have surgery!” The surgeon came into the room the following day to tell me there were two types of cancer cells present; one was an estrogen-based cell and the other was a very aggressive cell. I knew then I had met my match, but I refused to go down without a fight!
My recuperation was very painful. I couldn’t sleep. The pain was incessant. Nor was I able to move my arm. Slowly, very slowly, I began taking charge. I located a physical therapist who gave me exercises to work the arm muscles, I met with a nutritionist to discuss a better diet, and I prepared myself for the radiation therapy that was soon to come.
Crazy as it may sound, the day after I came home, I went to the backyard and began to put in a new sidewalk. Each day, with one arm, I filled buckets with pieces of concrete. I had to test myself. I set goals for myself and worked to achieve them. After all, I had a teaching position to return to in a few weeks and wasn’t going to let cancer stop me.
I took radiation therapy every afternoon following a full day of teaching. I tried hard not to miss any work during that time period. I didn’t want my colleagues to think that because I had cancer, I was no longer a quality teacher. By October of 1992, I felt I had won the battle!
Then, early December found me back at the surgeon’s office for a checkup. We were chatting when he leaned over, touched my neck and said, “How long have you had this lump?” I said, “Oh, about a year. My regular doctor thinks it’s an arthritic nodule.” I noticed his frown as he suggested that it be removed. My family insisted that I take a day off and follow up on the doctor’s suggestion. Another biopsy, what a waste of time! Christmas was right around the corner and I was busy preparing for the holidays.
Once again, I was wheeled into surgery. This time, the diagnosis was thyroid cancer. More stitches, more therapy, more pain. I was down, but not out!
I recall in the solitude of my living room thinking that the first cancer was a fluke, but the second time around told me to get my “house” in order. Then I changed my mind. I decided that it was important to grieve, but if I wallowed in self-pity, any life left to me would be dull.
I set goals again. What did I really want to do with the rest of my life? I have always thought that teaching on the college level would be fascinating. Tomorrow evening, I begin teaching my first class. I feel good about that achievement.
I took positive steps to enjoy the little things. I take the time from doing housework now to go to the kids’ soccer games. I like to feel the autumn breeze while my son plays ball. I take joy in the spring as the trees turn green. Simple pleasures bring great happiness. This summer, while waiting for a baseball game to begin, I walked down to the nearby creek, took off my shoes and walked in the water. As the cool, clear water passed over my feet, I realized how simple God’s plan is, yet how complicated we humans make his earth.
I have learned compassion. I now know that in the spectrum of time, all humans are working toward an ultimate goal. I have an inner sense of peace that was not there before. Nothing really matters but those truths that exist in one’s own heart. You need only look deeply to find them.
I try hard not to be sad. When difficulties arise, I am confident that they last for a brief period, then things get better.
Would I have learned this lesson without cancer? Probably not! What lies ahead for this survivor? Life, learning and love.
Mary Helen Brindell
Nintendo Master
When I first saw you, I thought—Nintendo Master. There was this intensity about you. Your piercing blue eyes and the way your hands moved rapidly along the control buttons were subtle hints of your expert skill.
You didn’t appear too different from all of the other video-crazed 10-year-olds out there, but you were. I guess the fact that it was summer, and we were both stuck in the oncology ward of the hospital cruelly betrayed the normalcy with which you tried to present yourself. Or maybe it was the fact that we were prematurely robbed of the innocence of childhood, and it comforted me to know that there was someone else out there just like me. I can only speculate, but all I know for sure is that I was drawn to your energy and zest for life.
That was the summer of my first post-cancer surgeries. The doctors were trying to fix my left hip joint, which had shattered under the intense bombardments of chemotherapy treatments. It wasn’t the only thing that had shattered. I had misplaced my usual optimistic attitude about life and was surprised at how nasty I could be. This did not help me endear myself to anyone.
My surgery went “well,” the doctors said, but I was in excruciating pain. (The ever-present differing perspective of doctor and patient is an amazing thing.)
I saw you again in physical therapy, realizing only then the extent of what cancer did to you. I wanted to scream, “Let him go back upstairs and play his video games, you idiots!” But I just sat there in stunned silence. I watched you get up and start walking with the aid of the parallel bars. Prior to your entrance into the room, I sat in my wheelchair wallowing in self-pity. I thought, “Wasn’t the cancer enough? Now my hip is screwed up, and I really don’t care anymore. If I get up, it is going to kill me.”
You will never know me, but you are my hero, Nintendo Master. With such courage and poise, you got up on your one remaining leg. Some might have the audacity to call you disabled or even crippled, but you are more complete than many can ever wish to be. After you had your walk for the day, a walk that was perfectly executed on your part, and you were safely tucked into your bed enjoying your video games once again, I decided that it was about time that I got up and took a walk myself. You see, Nintendo Master, it dawned on me then that you had innately known what it takes most of a lifetime to grasp—life is like a game, you can’t win them all and yet the game goes on, forcing all to play it. Nintendo Master, you play it better than most!
Katie Gill
Fighting Back—One Man’s Battle with a Brain Tumor
When you get to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on. And swing!
Leo Buscaglia
He held the drill in his left hand, moved the bit into position, flipped the switch and began working. One hole. Two holes. Then a third. He c
ould have been building shelves or remodeling the basement. But this was no ordinary handyman. He was a brain surgeon, and the holes he was drilling were in my head.
I lay awake on the operating room table, prepped and draped, waiting and listening while the drill bit passed through my skull. There was no pain, only slight discomfort and an audible “pop” each time the drill penetrated the dura (the tough membrane that covers the brain).
The surgeon finished drilling, then inserted a catheter containing five radioactive seeds into each hole. Once the powerful seeds were planted, an X ray was taken to verify that they were in place. When satisfied with their positions, the surgeon stitched up the wounds in my head. His “project” was finished. My malignant brain tumor was officially under attack.
This nightmare had begun about four months earlier. I was 40 years old and working hard at the time, putting in long hours as a surgical chaplain at Methodist Medical Center in Peoria, Illinois. As a surgical chaplain, I ministered to patients and families before, during and after surgery. During the procedure we moved between the operating room and the waiting room, giving the family information about the status of the operation. This was an excellent way to reduce anxiety and make the surgical experience as positive as possible for loved ones.
Although my job was tremendously rewarding, it also was extremely demanding. My colleagues and I were “on call” 24 hours a day, seven days a week, and during some surgeries, particularly open heart, we could be in and out of operating rooms for 20 hours or more at a time. Working under these conditions, it was not surprising that I had more than my share of headaches. Most of the time I ignored the pain, chasing it away with a couple of aspirins.
Chicken Soup for the Cancer Survivor's Soul Page 6