[This concerns my Doctor"s fortuitous discovery in January, 2004, of cancer
cells and my
struggle with this shocking, condition. Due to the twin exigencies of
accuracy and recuperation,
there is an editorial delay of several weeks. As of July 5, 2004, I am
alive and resting at home.
If you are missing any of this series, please request them. Phillip
Danzig]
FIGHTING A BIG BATTLE
After surviving my big battle with the poisons of chemo, I returned home to
my bachelor
apartment. It was quiet after the noisy routine of the hospital. A
Registered Nurse visited to take
my "vital signs," and to determine whether I needed a Home Health Aid. I
was not keen on
having a man or woman following me about, making sure I took my medications,
or, showered
properly. However, my middle son, up from Florida, saw the situation more
clearly than I, and
insisted that I agree. So for the next three weeks I was kept to a schedule,
ate a reasonable
breakfast and enjoyed some simple companionship. My son also went through
some historic
collections of typewriters, broken telephone answering machines, papers and
boxes, and we
began to throw out detritus and debris.
Later, my eldest son, resident in Israel, visited for a precious week, and
helped me sort out my
numerous medications [for Crohns's and for the chemo] made pointed
suggestions regarding what
I should eat, how I could amuse myself [with comedy films] and expressed his
deep concern. We
went through piles of books and when I was strong enough, took the refuse to
the Strand Used
Book Store and sold a batch for $43.00. Somehow, clearing out
long-standing stagnant piles in
dusty corners in my apartment felt good, as though I was metaphorically
cleaning out the
malignant cells in my body.
I had recently visited with my youngest son, so we stayed in close touch by
e-mail, and planned a
visit during the summer. Some families are torn apart by stress and danger,
but we were drawing
closer, Thank G-d. On days when I felt too weary to eat, I bestirred myself
on account of my
children and grandchildren.
Unique among the creatures of this world, mankind has free will, a sense of
humor and knowledge
of our mortality. We answer the question: "How would you behave if you
knew you were to
die, or the earth would be destroyed, in two weeks ?" in several different
ways. Aside from
making strenuous efforts to upset that prediction, I think many of us would
simply go on with life
as per usual. After all, we all have always known that we have had a "Life
Clock" somewhere,
ticking away.
The only difference for those of us surviving cancer, or other potentially
deadly diseases, is, we
can HEAR our clocks ticking. This changes everything; and nothing.
One change was the concern, support and sympathy I was now receiving from so
many. Friends
from long ago reappeared. Members of my congregation whom I knew well,
slightly or, not at
all, telephoned or sent me kind e-mails. Two knowledgeable members of my
congregation spoke
with me three or four times each week, and helped explain what my doctor was
saying, or asked
pertinent questions. I thereby learned a lot, and felt I was developing more
understanding and,
thereby, control.
I was amazed to find out just how many people, or their close relatives, had,
happily, survived
some form of cancer. And it seemed that every second person knew somebody
who was being
treated by Dr. Bruckner. There are styles of approaching a cancer patient,
I learned. Some
regaled me with their own tales or horror stories of treatments that worked,
or, failed. Some
simply offered sympathy, and then happily changed the subject to something "
out in the real
world." Others asked probing questions and offered advice. A few
questioned why I was out in
Brooklyn, a tedious trip for me each week, and for them. Each style has
merit, but when one or
another made me uncomfortable, I simply begged off. I realized that I
had to protect my own
psyche.
The first few week home, I remained indoors, depending on my Home Health Aid
for breakfast,
helping with medications and shopping. But as I grew stronger, I began to
resume aspects of my
former life. By one of those quirks, called Fate, Serendipity, Kismet,
Karma or, Bashert, I had
run two workshops in Mosaic Tile Art in Manhattan, for a group called, "The
Creative Center for
Women Living with Cancer." Some of these ladies were totally "cured," were
back out into the
"real world," with powerful, positives attitudes. One or two seemed weak
and distracted. One
elderly woman was continuously weepy. I have directed several workshops, in
New Jersey,
Manhattan, Crown Heights and South Africa, and found these courageous women
among my
most interested "students."
The two Directors of the Center were themselves "survivors," so I now let
them know of my
changed situation: they invited me to visit them as soon as I could make it.
On entering the
studio the next week, both women approached me with opened arms and one said,
"Welcome !
Now you are one of us !"
It is hard to describe my feelings on hearing these words. I felt warmed and
comfortable, on the
one hand, but scared and horrified on the other. These professional
colleagues had only my best
interests at heart, of course, but the cold reality of what they said was
difficult. It removed any
lingering hopes that I was living a night mare, that one day I would awaken
and find all this gone,
my life simple, as before. Inexplicably, I felt like Mia Farrow's character
in "Rosemary's Baby,"
when she is finally, happily, reunited with her strange, Satanic offspring,
but discovers the
enormity of what she is facing.
In fact, the support, encouragement and validation which my friends at the
Center have given is
among the most useful and empowering I have received. I do not feel as alone
as I had previously
and I only marvel at the twist of Fate, Serendipity, Kismet, Karma or,
Bashert that originally
brought me to the Center.