Yesterday was again a Red Letter Day in my journey with cancer. After my labs were drawn, Avis and I waited to hear the results.
I have always thought the more protein you have, the better. In the case of myeloma, too much protein in the blood is a bad thing. After twelve rounds of chemotherapy in October and November, the results yesterday show that the protein has dropped. I will know the results of the myeloma protein soon. My oncologist's assistant gave us some encouragement with yesterday's findings. If all goes well, I will be placed on a maintenance drug or have another round of chemotherapy this month, as an outpatient. In January 2011, I will most likely have another stem cell transplantation.
This news has given me some hope that I will be able to continue drawing. During all these uncertain days, I have been able to draw as much as ten hours a day. Although I have developed a slight tremor in both hands, it has not stopped me from drawing. Fortunately, I had changed my drawing style to pointillism (a series of dots) several years ago. I guess it's true that God had a plan for my life and this style of drawing has not been interrupted.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Luck?
Jeopardy and the last five minutes of Wheel of Fortune are the only television game shows that Avis and I watch. We are still surprised when one of our doctors' appointments in Indianapolis takes most of the day. Many times we have been driving up I65 and one of us will say, “At least we’ll be back home for Final Jeopardy.” We drive into the garage and rush into our Maine Room just in time to hear Alex Trebeck read the final answer and tell the contestants, “Good Luck.”
Luck is a word that has bothered me lately. Avis and I were eating with Barry and Jan Callen last Monday night. I was a little down because of the chemo I had taken last week and had been thinking about “luck.” I said: “I don’t think I can believe in luck.” We began talking about luck and predestination and if God really knows the future. When we were born did God know that both Avis and I would be diagnosed with cancer in 2007? Do we really have choices in life and is it just luck if one never has an incurable disease? Barry helped to clear up part of my question when he said to us “God gave humans free choice. God took a risk that creation might choose against him and love—but it was a risk God chose to take for the sake of love. Therefore, God knows everything that exists to be known; but what free humans have not decided cannot be known by God because the decision does not yet exist.”
I have prayed the prayer that “God loves me and has a plan for my life.” The really hard question is this: If God’s plan for my life is not to heal me, will all the people who are praying for me have an impact on His plan? This scripture in Jeremiah (29:11-12 The Message) gives me some hope: I’ll show up and take care of you as I promised and bring you back home. I know what I’m doing. I have it all planned out—plans to take care of you, not abandon you, plans to give you the future you hope for. When you call on me, when you come and pray to me, I’ll listen.
I’m still working on some of these hard questions but they are not based on luck.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Foot Washing
The aftermath of 14 rounds of chemo in a month's time, has taken its toll on my sixty-seven year old body. Besides the neuropathy in my feet, the loss of smell, most of my taste buds, and part of my memory, I have started experiencing a tremor in both hands. When holding any object, the shaking is more prominent. Recently I have noticed that the tremor is more acute before mealtimes. So far, because of the style of art that I have developed, I have been able to continue drawing every day. One may tell the difference in the quality of my illustrations but I will continue drawing as long as God gives me my sight, function of my right hand, and a sound brain, I will persevere.
I had labs last week and with no surprise, my white blood count had dropped to 0.6. This is part of the plan that my oncologist has put in motion to kill the myeloma. I will have labs tomorrow (11/15) and also Wednesday. Hopefully the white count will be increasing. My oncologist's assistant told me that after next week, the protein in my blood would be checked. Seven more rounds of chemo may be needed.
One of the first questions I am asked from a stranger who sees me drawing is: How long have you been drawing? If I have time to answer a nurse or person in the waiting room, I tell them that I don't remember how young I was but I recall drawing my left hand while sitting in church as a child. For me, drawing hands and feet has always been difficult.
About six years ago, the staff at Park Place Church of God asked about ten of us artists to capture a scene of Passion Week. The last time I had painted with oil was over forty years ago. By the time I had enrolled at Anderson College in 1964, acrylic paint was the norm. I don't recall anyone of the art majors painting with oil. Most of us painted on canvas board instead of stretched canvas. Fast forward to 2004, I had decided to stretch myself. I told the staff that I would take the scene of foot washing. I decided to paint with oil on stretched canvas and the size would be three feet by four feet. Most who know me as an artist/illustrator, know that my drawings are eight and half by eleven inches and in black and white. I did complete the painting and it hangs in a stairway of our church.
There are times when I pass the painting that I recall the first time I was included in the foot washing service at my home church. It was the Austinville Church of God and I was about twelve years old. I remember I happened to be seated in a circle next to Brother Hickman Smith. This man always seemed bigger than life. I considered him a kind of saint singing in the church choir with his booming bass voice. There he was singing from the old red hymnal, page 255, D.O. Teasley's song “A Song of Joy” -- There's joy, glad joy, there's joy, glad joy, Now flowing from above; There's joy, glad joy, there's joy, glad joy, In the fullness of his love. -- I can still hear him singing “glad joy” with conviction. There I was sitting next to Brother Smith and the next thing I know he was washing my feet! In my development in my formative years, this was an important milestone.
Hickman Smith was the grandfather of Christie Smith Stephens. Christie and I have been friends since before the second grade. We first recall each other as we were standing at the entrance of the Austinville church. We are holding on to the screened door and watching the Dockery house on fire. Later, we were in Miss Collier's second grade class and hence the book “Oh, to be in Miss Collier's class again!”
I had labs last week and with no surprise, my white blood count had dropped to 0.6. This is part of the plan that my oncologist has put in motion to kill the myeloma. I will have labs tomorrow (11/15) and also Wednesday. Hopefully the white count will be increasing. My oncologist's assistant told me that after next week, the protein in my blood would be checked. Seven more rounds of chemo may be needed.
One of the first questions I am asked from a stranger who sees me drawing is: How long have you been drawing? If I have time to answer a nurse or person in the waiting room, I tell them that I don't remember how young I was but I recall drawing my left hand while sitting in church as a child. For me, drawing hands and feet has always been difficult.
About six years ago, the staff at Park Place Church of God asked about ten of us artists to capture a scene of Passion Week. The last time I had painted with oil was over forty years ago. By the time I had enrolled at Anderson College in 1964, acrylic paint was the norm. I don't recall anyone of the art majors painting with oil. Most of us painted on canvas board instead of stretched canvas. Fast forward to 2004, I had decided to stretch myself. I told the staff that I would take the scene of foot washing. I decided to paint with oil on stretched canvas and the size would be three feet by four feet. Most who know me as an artist/illustrator, know that my drawings are eight and half by eleven inches and in black and white. I did complete the painting and it hangs in a stairway of our church.
There are times when I pass the painting that I recall the first time I was included in the foot washing service at my home church. It was the Austinville Church of God and I was about twelve years old. I remember I happened to be seated in a circle next to Brother Hickman Smith. This man always seemed bigger than life. I considered him a kind of saint singing in the church choir with his booming bass voice. There he was singing from the old red hymnal, page 255, D.O. Teasley's song “A Song of Joy” -- There's joy, glad joy, there's joy, glad joy, Now flowing from above; There's joy, glad joy, there's joy, glad joy, In the fullness of his love. -- I can still hear him singing “glad joy” with conviction. There I was sitting next to Brother Smith and the next thing I know he was washing my feet! In my development in my formative years, this was an important milestone.
Hickman Smith was the grandfather of Christie Smith Stephens. Christie and I have been friends since before the second grade. We first recall each other as we were standing at the entrance of the Austinville church. We are holding on to the screened door and watching the Dockery house on fire. Later, we were in Miss Collier's second grade class and hence the book “Oh, to be in Miss Collier's class again!”
Sunday, November 7, 2010
The Unknown
For me, most of the time, the unknown is scary.
We arrived home last night (11/6/10) from the hospital in Indianapolis after I had completed six more rounds of chemo. This was a follow-up from three weeks ago with the same procedure.
My sister called this afternoon to see how I was doing. She always wants to know the next step with my journey. My oncologist needs to keep checking the protein in my blood. This indicates the progress of the cancer. Last summer I was receiving reports that the cancer was winning. But a letter arrived while I was in the hospital that indicated that my condition was improving. When Avis called to tell me of the news, I couldn’t respond. She said “David, are you still there?”
They tell me that this type of cancer is incurable but treatable and news of this nature tells me that God still has a plan for my life. Although the unknown is still the unknown, I still live with the hope that some of the projects I’m working on will be finished.
I know that there are “unknown friends” and longtime friends who are praying for me from all over the world thanks to David Coolidge’s email ministry. The one prayer that really touched me happened this summer. Our Sunday school class meets at a local Mexican restaurant once or twice a month. I felt well enough on one occasion to join the crowd in the small room with fifty other members. Our waiter knew of my illness and he asked to pray on my behalf. He prayed in Spanish and a class member interpreted. It was a moving experience.
Days like that, I can know that whatever happens, I can receive some peace and know that God will take care of the unknown.
David Liverett
We arrived home last night (11/6/10) from the hospital in Indianapolis after I had completed six more rounds of chemo. This was a follow-up from three weeks ago with the same procedure.
My sister called this afternoon to see how I was doing. She always wants to know the next step with my journey. My oncologist needs to keep checking the protein in my blood. This indicates the progress of the cancer. Last summer I was receiving reports that the cancer was winning. But a letter arrived while I was in the hospital that indicated that my condition was improving. When Avis called to tell me of the news, I couldn’t respond. She said “David, are you still there?”
They tell me that this type of cancer is incurable but treatable and news of this nature tells me that God still has a plan for my life. Although the unknown is still the unknown, I still live with the hope that some of the projects I’m working on will be finished.
I know that there are “unknown friends” and longtime friends who are praying for me from all over the world thanks to David Coolidge’s email ministry. The one prayer that really touched me happened this summer. Our Sunday school class meets at a local Mexican restaurant once or twice a month. I felt well enough on one occasion to join the crowd in the small room with fifty other members. Our waiter knew of my illness and he asked to pray on my behalf. He prayed in Spanish and a class member interpreted. It was a moving experience.
Days like that, I can know that whatever happens, I can receive some peace and know that God will take care of the unknown.
David Liverett
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Cellar Door
Years ago, I read that “cellardoor” was the most pleasing word in the English language. It actually is two words.
Earlier this month I entered Indiana University Hospital for six rounds of chemo. As we left, I told Joe that I still can’t fully comprehend that I have cancer. It has been almost four years since Dr. Bush leaned over his desk, holding a sheet of paper, and said “David, it looks like you have cancer.”
My oncologist told me once that there are many treatments for myeloma but he failed to tell me of all the side-affects. With the loss of smell and much of my taste, numbness of toes, fatigue, and loss of all body hair, I am trying accept that the doctors know a plan for getting me back into remission. Early next month, I will again enter the hospital for six more rounds of chemo. The following week after this treatment, I will experience fatigue and will not be able to draw for several days.
The sound of the word “cancer” brings so much pain. I can think of other words but will not waste the effort to list any. The other day, I was thinking about words and how just the sound of certain words changes my energy level. Words like: hope, assurance, and love are pleasing to hear. Maybe I should change what I have and call it “Cellar door.” I feel better already.
Thanks for your words of encouragement and be assured that I read every letter (email) and card. I probably will not be able to answer your kind words but thank you. Some days I have questions about my situation but without fail I stop my self pity and recognize that there is hope for a better day. I do know that I am serving a living God who loves me. Maybe some day, I can look back on these days and just be thankful for the support and love that was given to our family.
David Liverett
dliverett@comcast
Earlier this month I entered Indiana University Hospital for six rounds of chemo. As we left, I told Joe that I still can’t fully comprehend that I have cancer. It has been almost four years since Dr. Bush leaned over his desk, holding a sheet of paper, and said “David, it looks like you have cancer.”
My oncologist told me once that there are many treatments for myeloma but he failed to tell me of all the side-affects. With the loss of smell and much of my taste, numbness of toes, fatigue, and loss of all body hair, I am trying accept that the doctors know a plan for getting me back into remission. Early next month, I will again enter the hospital for six more rounds of chemo. The following week after this treatment, I will experience fatigue and will not be able to draw for several days.
The sound of the word “cancer” brings so much pain. I can think of other words but will not waste the effort to list any. The other day, I was thinking about words and how just the sound of certain words changes my energy level. Words like: hope, assurance, and love are pleasing to hear. Maybe I should change what I have and call it “Cellar door.” I feel better already.
Thanks for your words of encouragement and be assured that I read every letter (email) and card. I probably will not be able to answer your kind words but thank you. Some days I have questions about my situation but without fail I stop my self pity and recognize that there is hope for a better day. I do know that I am serving a living God who loves me. Maybe some day, I can look back on these days and just be thankful for the support and love that was given to our family.
David Liverett
dliverett@comcast
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Remembering Charles W. Naylor
The t-shirt read: “I Have Chemo Brain, What’s Your Excuse?” The nurse was telling that as she pushed me in a wheelchair to see my primary oncologist, Dr. Abonour. I was trying to tell her about the last I was in this part of the hospital. Her comment regarding the t-shirt was her way of telling me that chemo will take away part of my memory.
Dr. Abonour said that I was on schedule with the treatment plan for myeloma. Early next month I will once again have six more rounds of chemo and be hospitalized for four days. After that, he will determine the next steps.
As for the chemo brain and the loss of memory, I can say with assurance that memory loss has occurred. I have been struggling with writing down my thoughts on divine healing. The simple old question keeps coming up. Why are some evil people healed and other “saints” suffer and die?
Recently Jeanie Harbron was telling me about her visits to see C. W. Naylor. When she was only six years old, Jeanie would bring flowers to this bedridden songwriter. Naylor penned some of the best known songs for the Church. “I Am the Lord’s,” “I Will Follow with Rejoicing,” and “More Like Jesus” are just a handful of his songs. Naylor prayed for complete healing several times but this miracle never happened. In 1908, while removing timber from a camp meeting tent, he was injured. A year later, a bus accident confined Naylor to bed for the rest of his forty-one years of life. Could it be that his suffering gave him the ability to focus on his music which helped others struggling with tough answers?
Jeanie reminded me of an event that took place at the 2003 camp meeting. I think it must have been in the fall of 2002 that Robert Reardon and I met at our local Taco Bell. He sketched out a possible plan on the back of a placemat to recreate a monument at Naylor’s grave site. When I called Jeanie about remembering her connection with Naylor, she told me of the unveiling of the monument in Maplewood Cemetery. She and Tom brought over the VCR version last night for Avis and me to see. Oddly, I remember only part of the event. Reardon talked to the crowd that gathered around for the unveiling of the seven-foot monument and told them I was the designer. The memory I still have was the meeting at Taco Bell and seeing the design that Reardon had drawn. I hope I kept his drawing.
Dr. Abonour said that I was on schedule with the treatment plan for myeloma. Early next month I will once again have six more rounds of chemo and be hospitalized for four days. After that, he will determine the next steps.
As for the chemo brain and the loss of memory, I can say with assurance that memory loss has occurred. I have been struggling with writing down my thoughts on divine healing. The simple old question keeps coming up. Why are some evil people healed and other “saints” suffer and die?
Recently Jeanie Harbron was telling me about her visits to see C. W. Naylor. When she was only six years old, Jeanie would bring flowers to this bedridden songwriter. Naylor penned some of the best known songs for the Church. “I Am the Lord’s,” “I Will Follow with Rejoicing,” and “More Like Jesus” are just a handful of his songs. Naylor prayed for complete healing several times but this miracle never happened. In 1908, while removing timber from a camp meeting tent, he was injured. A year later, a bus accident confined Naylor to bed for the rest of his forty-one years of life. Could it be that his suffering gave him the ability to focus on his music which helped others struggling with tough answers?
Jeanie reminded me of an event that took place at the 2003 camp meeting. I think it must have been in the fall of 2002 that Robert Reardon and I met at our local Taco Bell. He sketched out a possible plan on the back of a placemat to recreate a monument at Naylor’s grave site. When I called Jeanie about remembering her connection with Naylor, she told me of the unveiling of the monument in Maplewood Cemetery. She and Tom brought over the VCR version last night for Avis and me to see. Oddly, I remember only part of the event. Reardon talked to the crowd that gathered around for the unveiling of the seven-foot monument and told them I was the designer. The memory I still have was the meeting at Taco Bell and seeing the design that Reardon had drawn. I hope I kept his drawing.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
The Bull and Ladder
October 20, 2010
My Brother Edwin tells of a most stressful evening when he owned several head of Black Angus cows, including a bull named “Papa.”
“One of the menial tasks every fall was to fill the barn with bales of hay to feed the cattle through the winter. This particular year the hay farmer parked the trailer of hay inside the pasture area where the cattle were grazing, instead of outside the fence where he normally parked it. Since it was late in the afternoon, I could not unload the hay. After fastening six-foot boards around the trailer, I gathered any available heavy metal hardware to cover the steel angle at the trailer hitch. Included in this protection hardware was an aluminum extension ladder that had been folded to twelve feet in length. About bedtime I thought I would check the hay trailer. As I approached it, I heard a crashing sound on the backside of the pasture. I shined my flashlight and saw the bull we called “Papa” walking in my direction with his head through the middle section of the twelve-foot ladder. As I walked toward him, I could tell he was not a happy trooper. I reached down to see if I could hold the ladder and maybe he could slip his head from the ladder rungs. As I touched the end of the ladder, he swung his head causing the ladder to go whizzing in an arc, just barely missing me. I was beginning to wonder if it was possible to ever get the ladder off his head. I thought of calling the vet to see if he could shoot a dart of medication to temporarily subdue him so we could pull off the ladder. Suddenly, I remembered that I had a light at the barn. I filled the manger with hay and I started calling for Papa to come for the hay. At first there was silence, then I could hear the crashing sound, and then I could hear him picking up speed heading straight for the barn. I had a sinking feeling. Papa and the twelve-foot ladder were heading full speed toward a ten-foot opening. The 1,500-pound bull came through the opening with so much force that the ladder bowed as if it had been a paper clip.”
The message of the story for me could be:
When I’m faced with a surprise barrier that attempts to stop me from achieving the best choice for my life, God will help me reach the goal.
Today, Avis and I will meet with my oncologist and hopefully get some answers to his plan for me to get back into remission. I am trusting his plan but know God is planning the best route for me. I just need to break any negative barrier that tries to stop me from achieving the goal.
My Brother Edwin tells of a most stressful evening when he owned several head of Black Angus cows, including a bull named “Papa.”
“One of the menial tasks every fall was to fill the barn with bales of hay to feed the cattle through the winter. This particular year the hay farmer parked the trailer of hay inside the pasture area where the cattle were grazing, instead of outside the fence where he normally parked it. Since it was late in the afternoon, I could not unload the hay. After fastening six-foot boards around the trailer, I gathered any available heavy metal hardware to cover the steel angle at the trailer hitch. Included in this protection hardware was an aluminum extension ladder that had been folded to twelve feet in length. About bedtime I thought I would check the hay trailer. As I approached it, I heard a crashing sound on the backside of the pasture. I shined my flashlight and saw the bull we called “Papa” walking in my direction with his head through the middle section of the twelve-foot ladder. As I walked toward him, I could tell he was not a happy trooper. I reached down to see if I could hold the ladder and maybe he could slip his head from the ladder rungs. As I touched the end of the ladder, he swung his head causing the ladder to go whizzing in an arc, just barely missing me. I was beginning to wonder if it was possible to ever get the ladder off his head. I thought of calling the vet to see if he could shoot a dart of medication to temporarily subdue him so we could pull off the ladder. Suddenly, I remembered that I had a light at the barn. I filled the manger with hay and I started calling for Papa to come for the hay. At first there was silence, then I could hear the crashing sound, and then I could hear him picking up speed heading straight for the barn. I had a sinking feeling. Papa and the twelve-foot ladder were heading full speed toward a ten-foot opening. The 1,500-pound bull came through the opening with so much force that the ladder bowed as if it had been a paper clip.”
The message of the story for me could be:
When I’m faced with a surprise barrier that attempts to stop me from achieving the best choice for my life, God will help me reach the goal.
Today, Avis and I will meet with my oncologist and hopefully get some answers to his plan for me to get back into remission. I am trusting his plan but know God is planning the best route for me. I just need to break any negative barrier that tries to stop me from achieving the goal.
Monday, October 18, 2010
The Pressure
“Wait a moment until I get to my happy place!” The nurse, holding the armband to get my blood pressure, was taken aback. This special place is at Two Lights, Maine. I remember sitting at the base of the famous Cape Elizabeth lighthouse while the east sun illumined my face with its warmth. The sight and sounds also include the surf crashing on the rocky shore and the clattering noise of gulls following the lobstermen out of Casco Bay. It only takes me about five seconds to recreate the image before the sound of Velcro breaks into my concentration.
I think of the life-changing pressure when other victims of myeloma are told that this is a cancer that is not curable but treatable. Most of the time the treatment is very hard on the patient and the caregivers. I do know that I would be in some assisted living facility if I didn't have Avis keeping track of my medicines and doctors' appointments. Thank goodness for those five words, “in sickness and in health.”
I remember being in the hospital earlier this year when a psychologist came to my room and after some light conversation, she asked if I was depressed. After that conversation, I have thought about that but try not to dwell on it. Avis tells me that my personality has changed over the last three years. I know I don't have the patience I used to have. At other times I start crying at the slightest provocation. It may start with a thought or just a certain word I hear.
This morning (October 18, 2010), I will have labs drawn to determine if the medicine has been working. Last Thursday my white count was 0.2, so I must be careful not to come in contact with common germs or I will need to be taken back to the ER. I will be spending four more days in the hospital as part of my oncologist's plan, starting November 3. I would like to make a trip to South Bend on October 28 to help celebrate my grandson Connor's eleventh birthday. Staying away from crowds and wearing a mask will be necessary but my doctor will make the final decision.
So the pressure is on everyday for all fighting this disease. Some have people praying for them and I know so many who are encouraging me. I am overwhelmed by the love expressed to me and to Avis. I still hold on to the realization that God loves me and has a plan for my life.
I think of the life-changing pressure when other victims of myeloma are told that this is a cancer that is not curable but treatable. Most of the time the treatment is very hard on the patient and the caregivers. I do know that I would be in some assisted living facility if I didn't have Avis keeping track of my medicines and doctors' appointments. Thank goodness for those five words, “in sickness and in health.”
I remember being in the hospital earlier this year when a psychologist came to my room and after some light conversation, she asked if I was depressed. After that conversation, I have thought about that but try not to dwell on it. Avis tells me that my personality has changed over the last three years. I know I don't have the patience I used to have. At other times I start crying at the slightest provocation. It may start with a thought or just a certain word I hear.
This morning (October 18, 2010), I will have labs drawn to determine if the medicine has been working. Last Thursday my white count was 0.2, so I must be careful not to come in contact with common germs or I will need to be taken back to the ER. I will be spending four more days in the hospital as part of my oncologist's plan, starting November 3. I would like to make a trip to South Bend on October 28 to help celebrate my grandson Connor's eleventh birthday. Staying away from crowds and wearing a mask will be necessary but my doctor will make the final decision.
So the pressure is on everyday for all fighting this disease. Some have people praying for them and I know so many who are encouraging me. I am overwhelmed by the love expressed to me and to Avis. I still hold on to the realization that God loves me and has a plan for my life.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
No Pearly Gates or Golden Streets for Me
Last night (September 29, 2010) Avis and I returned from two reunions in Alabama. Five years ago my brother and I were in route to one of the family reunions and out of the blue Edwin started talking about heaven. This was about a month before he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He believed that heaven was a certain place. I have given his ideas much thought and although it isn’t an original idea, my thinking has take a different direction. I really don’t believe that there will be golden streets. I believe God will have a different way of communication. A kind of super-spiritual awareness that is way beyond my imagination. I do believe that I wll have the knowledge to recognize family, friends, and the Almighty.
An “Angel” at My Door
An “angel” appeared at my hospital door today (October 8, 2010). I was having a four day stay with six rounds of chemo at the Indiana University Hospital in Indianapolis. I was trying to keep my spirits up while poison was pumping into my body. The sound of a small knock came from my door and a face appeared and asked if I liked music. “Oh yes!” I said. At first I didn’t see that she was carrying an instrument. I was thinking that she was bringing me CDs. She made her way to the guest chair with a Casio keyboard. She asked what type of music I prefered. After hearing some titles, we settled on Simon & Garfunkel’s, “Bridge Over Trouble Water.” Also music from Chicago, and others. When she started singing, all my troubles seem to drift away. She ended with “How Great Thou Art.” For those thirty minutes, my spirit was lifted to a new level.
Thank you Shu-ting Yang.
PS On November 3, I will begin the same treatment. I sure hope Shu-ting will show up again.
Thank you Shu-ting Yang.
PS On November 3, I will begin the same treatment. I sure hope Shu-ting will show up again.
Monday, September 20, 2010
About Edwin
Written on September 18, 2010
The report of my cancer sounds as if I need of another stem cell transplant. It could happen as early as next month. This will be three years since my previous transplant procedure. The difference in the three years is that I was in good shape. I had been playing racquetball three days a week for twenty years. Now I can hardly walk and as my brother, Edwin would say, that scares the “flitter out of me”
Let me tell you about my brother. When people say “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out”... Edwin was a rocket scientist with NASA in Huntsville, Alabama. He was featured in Popular Mechanics (August 1960) when he was twenty-one. He worked on Skylab, designing the control panel. Later he was responsible for the crew that would retrieve the booster rockets after they fell into the Atlantic.
Edwin and I slept in the same double bed until the night before his marriage to Marguerite. Just days before his death, I spoke with Edwin and reminded him of the days when the temperature in north Alabama had dropped below freezing. We would heat our pillows on the coal stove and run to the bed and stick our feet inside. In the hot August days, we would push our bed in front of the window and try to catch a breeze. I can still remember waking up with a screen design on my forehead. Edwin would say to each memory, “I remember.”
We always thought we could count to a million. We counted to ourselves and when we would reach 100, we would raise a hand. He would say, “I remember.” Actually I got tired of this game and I would raise my hand even though I wasn’t counting.
Our folks took resting on the Sabbath seriously. Edwin and I would bring our little Philco to bed and listen to Fibber McGee and Molly, Amos and Andy, and The Shadow. When it was time for Jack Benny to come on, it was time to get ready for Sunday evening church.
On April 2, 2006, my brother died. He was 67 years plus 18 days. If I have calculated it correctly, that is how long I have lived on this Earth.
The report of my cancer sounds as if I need of another stem cell transplant. It could happen as early as next month. This will be three years since my previous transplant procedure. The difference in the three years is that I was in good shape. I had been playing racquetball three days a week for twenty years. Now I can hardly walk and as my brother, Edwin would say, that scares the “flitter out of me”
Let me tell you about my brother. When people say “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out”... Edwin was a rocket scientist with NASA in Huntsville, Alabama. He was featured in Popular Mechanics (August 1960) when he was twenty-one. He worked on Skylab, designing the control panel. Later he was responsible for the crew that would retrieve the booster rockets after they fell into the Atlantic.
Edwin and I slept in the same double bed until the night before his marriage to Marguerite. Just days before his death, I spoke with Edwin and reminded him of the days when the temperature in north Alabama had dropped below freezing. We would heat our pillows on the coal stove and run to the bed and stick our feet inside. In the hot August days, we would push our bed in front of the window and try to catch a breeze. I can still remember waking up with a screen design on my forehead. Edwin would say to each memory, “I remember.”
We always thought we could count to a million. We counted to ourselves and when we would reach 100, we would raise a hand. He would say, “I remember.” Actually I got tired of this game and I would raise my hand even though I wasn’t counting.
Our folks took resting on the Sabbath seriously. Edwin and I would bring our little Philco to bed and listen to Fibber McGee and Molly, Amos and Andy, and The Shadow. When it was time for Jack Benny to come on, it was time to get ready for Sunday evening church.
On April 2, 2006, my brother died. He was 67 years plus 18 days. If I have calculated it correctly, that is how long I have lived on this Earth.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Questions for God Book
When I was having my stem cell transplantation in 2007, the idea for this book came to me. As you might imagine, I had lots of questions for God. The odd thing is, I never felt the need to pray for healing of cancer. I did pray an affirming prayer that “God loves me and has a plan for my life.” God tells Jeremiah: I know what I am doing. I have it all planned out—plans to take care of you, not abandon you, plans to give you the future you hope for. When you call on me, when you come and pray to me, I’ll listen. When you come looking for me, you’ll find me. I did pray a thanksgiving prayer for all the medical research that was being done for this “incurable” disease. I was also including my family and friends who were praying for my strength to get me through this fifteen day ordeal.
This is probably the most rewarding book that I have had the pleasure working on with writer friends. They have beared their souls in their own journeys. As it has turned out, this book may become a potential tool for small groups.
After finishing this tenth book, I have realized that I have completed over a thousand drawings and I am running out of storage space. The plan was to have the book available in December 2009 but with cancer reoccurring in my leg, radiation, a fall and a break, and a hip replacement, the publishing date was pushed back to this September.
My oncologist has suggested that I should have another stem transplantation soon as the myeloma is on the rise. My prayer is that the neuropathy that I am feeling in my left hand doesn’t effect my right hand. But I must remember that as a follower of Christ, God has a plan for my life.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
This was not a good day. Before heading north to South Bend, Indiana, I had an appointment with my oncologist in Indianapolis. The powerful drug that I have been taking is not helping the rise of myeloma protein in my blood. There are also many side-effects with this drug. One major change in my daily life is I am experiencing some neuropathy in my hands.
When Avis and I arrived at our son’s home, I was very tired and at night, I had difficulty sleeping. This was not unusual. Lying in bed at 3:10 am, I was wide awake and feeling a bit of self pity. With moist eyes and looking through vertical binds I saw the most beautiful sight: A star that seemed to radiate in a twinking mass. It gave me such comfort recognizing that God was watching over me. Later I found out that the “star” was the planet Jupiter but as we know, God can send a messenger ahead for a greater event.
When Avis and I arrived at our son’s home, I was very tired and at night, I had difficulty sleeping. This was not unusual. Lying in bed at 3:10 am, I was wide awake and feeling a bit of self pity. With moist eyes and looking through vertical binds I saw the most beautiful sight: A star that seemed to radiate in a twinking mass. It gave me such comfort recognizing that God was watching over me. Later I found out that the “star” was the planet Jupiter but as we know, God can send a messenger ahead for a greater event.
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