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PART ONE

"All the evidence we come across in real life is faulty to a greater or lesser extent; and the only question of importance is how good the evidence is; not whether it is perfect or imperfect. Evidence is a matter of degree."  G.N.M. Tyrrell

Chapter One - In the beginning . . .

            . . . things were not quite the way they should have been. In August of 1962, one month after my fifth birthday, I was diagnosed with cancer.  My parents were told that I had a "Wilms' tumor," which is a malignant tumor of the kidney.  At the time, the survival rate for children with this disease was less than ten percent -- no exceptions. 
          As fate would have it, I was referred to Columbus Children's Hospital, one of several hospitals participating in a revolutionary new study for treating these types of cancers.  Although still early in the experimental stages, my parents felt it was worth a chance and agreed to the new treatment, which consisted of surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy.  I was only the thirteenth person at the hospital to receive the new combined therapy.
          The treatments and their side effects proved grueling.  If ever there was a torture for a young child this had to be it.  In 1962, the way doctors and medical professionals treated patients and their families was still quite archaic.  Instead of today's open and therapeutic communication, signs hanging in the cancer patients' waiting rooms read, "Do not talk with the person sitting next to you, they may not know what they have." 
          Patients were not informed of their disease, the treatments they would have to endure, or their prognosis.  There were no support groups for parents, siblings, or patients. Even basic comfort measures, such as anti-nausea medication to help relieve the nausea and vomiting associated with chemotherapy, did not exist.
          In addition, parents were not allowed to spend the night in the hospital with their child as they are today.  Visiting hours were from 11:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m.  Although I could not tell time, I had memorized those hours.  I knew that the time between the hours of 8:00 p.m. and 11:00 a.m. would be a living hell.            
          It was hospital policy to reserve patient procedures for times when parents were not around.  The prevailing logic was to keep parents from witnessing their child's agony, thus expediting the procedure with no parental involvement or interference. Therefore, most of my chemotherapy medication was administered when I was alone.  This might not have been so traumatic if there had been comforting support from the hospital staff; however, this too did not exist.
          I remember many nights watching my parents walk out of my room, then lying awake waiting for the doctors to come in with my "shot."  The injection of the poison (which is a good description of chemotherapy) was often painful, especially when some of the fluid would leak from the vein into the surrounding tissue causing severe "chemo burns."  My hands, arms, and feet where the injections were given were covered with burnt flesh from the medication.  The scars still exist today. 
          Even worse than the shots themselves was the overpowering nausea and vomiting that would ensue shortly after the drug was injected.  I recall nights of sleeping on my pillow because my bed was completely soiled with vomit.  My nurse's light sometimes went unanswered until the following day just before my mother arrived. 
          Although the injections I received were often very painful, I never protested or cried.  The nurses and doctors told me that if I were not a "good" girl, then it would hurt all the more.  For two years I laid stoically quiet and still throughout the numerous procedures.  When the treatments were completed the staff awarded me with a ribbon that said "Best Shot Taker."  I learned early how the World rewards those who are "good", with superficial things like ribbons and trophies.
          Two weeks following my first surgery, which removed my left kidney and adrenal gland, I developed an intestinal bowel obstruction.  Still extremely weak from the surgery and chemotherapy I had to undergo yet another operation.  My parents were informed that the doctors would be "fighting for my life."  I was weak and emaciated, weighing a mere 32 pounds.
          I vividly remember one particular day following this surgery when I was in the Intensive Care Unit (ICU).  As you might expect, in 1962, the ICU was off limits to parents.  I remember thinking that ICU meant, "I see you" because there was a large glass window where, at certain times, the curtains would be drawn back and parents could look through to see their children. 
          One time I recall looking through the glass at my very depressed mother and feeling sad that she was so unhappy that I could not make her happy.  One tiny tear rolled down my cheek.  It was the last time I would ever cry in the hospital or in front of my mother.  I had to be strong because she was so weak. She had told me that she could not endure the trauma of my illness if I was not "strong and brave" -- an overwhelming responsibility for a five year old.  I knew that from then on I could not risk revealing any painful emotions. 
          The first act of my young life's drama was complete.  I knew my role very well, do whatever it takes to "save" my loved ones' and make them happy even at the expense of my own self.  Be the good girl because if you're not all would be lost. It was like putting on a pair of tight shoes.  They hurt at first but soon your feet are numb and you cannot feel anything.  That was me.  With both of my parents caught up in quests to slay their own demons there was little energy or will left to help slay mine.  I was a co-addict in the making, oblivious to the many times I would repeat this ill-fated pattern until I finally awakened to the lesson I was meant to learn.  


Chapter Two - Early Scars

          It was clear that my physical and emotional self would have an uphill climb in life.  Although I survived the major battle of the cancer I was left with many devastating side effects.  The radiation used to kill the cancer does not discriminate between cancer cells and healthy, rapidly dividing, growing cells. Both are equally affected.  In a young child this means that bones, muscles, and other tissues are stunted or destroyed. 
          The left side of my torso was radiated from the middle part of my ribcage down to and including my iliac crest (hipbone region). The left side of my spine was radiated including all of the surrounding muscles in the area.  The bones and muscles in this area would never grow beyond the size of my tiny five-year-old body. 
          Emotionally I was scarred as well.  Unconsciously I had buried any real feelings of love and replaced them with whatever would make other people happy.  But even by being good I was not successful in making my mother a happy person. 
          One of the most traumatic days of my young life occurred when I was only seven years old.  I had struggled through two years of chemotherapy, radiation, and surgeries and was on the road to recovery.  My hair had just started to grow back and, during second grade, I was finally able to forego my wig for the first time in two years. Things were starting to look up until one especially dreary winter day. 
          I remember vividly how different things seemed after school that day.  Like always, I rode the school bus to and from school.  Only, on this particular day, when I got off the bus and looked over at my house I sensed something ominous.  My house had transformed from its usual cheery green color into a death-like gray -- almost as if I were seeing it in black and white instead of color.             
A cold chill ran down my spine that was beyond the impact of the weather.  I froze in my tiny tracks, unable to move.  I saw one of our neighbors standing on the street corner.  She motioned to my brother and I to come over to her, which somehow I found the strength to do.  She said that we would be staying with her for a while.  I asked her why but she refused to say. 
          Intuitively, I knew the answer -- an answer I did not want to think about.  In her sadness and desperation. my mother had, only hours before attempted to kill herself.  Her pupils had been fixed and dilated and she was thought to be dead by the emergency squad workers who found her.
          I stayed with this neighbor for what seemed to be an eternity.  She was a devout Catholic who attended church daily to worship and assist the parish priest in the administrative office.  She had a daughter my age who attended a school operated by the church.  For some unknown reason, she never seemed to like me.
          I remember one Sunday being taken along with them to church.  I had passed their church many times but had never been inside.  I was excited to finally see what the inside of St. Michael's church looked like.  As we walked up the impressive concrete stairs leading into the church building, we suddenly stopped.   My neighbor turned to me and said that I could not go in because I did not have anything to wear on my head and had barely enough hair to show respect.  I would have to remain outside on the front steps until they returned.
          My mother survived the suicide attempt but was hospitalized for weeks.  I thought I had in some way failed.  Had I not been good enough or strong enough to save her?  I would have to try harder. 
          My experience demonstrated that if I loved someone I would only get hurt.  For most of my life I was doomed to seek out alcoholics and emotionally unavailable partners to "love" into recovery and happiness.  Something deep inside told me that I had to save them, both body and soul. 
          My early spiritual life was practically nonexistent.  Our family did not attend church nor do I recall seeing a Bible in our house.  Occasionally my mother would mention something about Jesus or God but the communication in this area was minimal.  We were taught prayers for dinnertime and bedtime but I never paid attention to what I was saying.            
          Oddly enough my parents had a picture of Jesus hanging on the wall in their bedroom.  I was scared of it because it seemed out of place and foreboding.  I tried to avoid looking at it whenever I could because it appeared as if his eyes were watching me no matter where I went.
          The only time I can remember praying to God on my own accord was when I was seven years old.  I had just lost another one of my little hospital friends who was also seven at the time.  It seemed as if many of the children I was getting to know from having been around the hospital for two years were now dead or dying.  Even our baby-sitter who had suffered from leukemia was now dead.         I asked God if He was taking all the seven-year-olds and would it soon be my turn?  And if I was not going to die then why was I going to live?  And, finally, I wondered silently, what kind of a God was He to allow little children to suffer and die?  I did not get answers to my questions until much, much later.
          In high school I hung out with the good girls.  One of the activities the good girls participated in was a youth group fellowship at the local Protestant church.  In typical peer pressure fashion I decided to join the group.  For the most part it was a social function for me.  I viewed the religious aspects as a necessary evil.  To be confirmed as members of the church we had to take classes but I never paid much attention since I had a crush on one of our pastor's sons.  He was perfect for me -- a budding alcoholic! 
          I was busy being a good girl in other ways as well.  I started volunteering my services at a local Convalescent Center when I was twelve years old.  The program was offered through the Red Cross and I earned more hours over the four years I worked there than anyone else at our facility.  I was happy in dedicating myself to serving the needs of others -- pouring myself in to their misery to avoid my own. 
          I met many precious souls in those early years but none could penetrate my veiled heart, which had been sealed and rusted over like an old steel door.  Following the Convalescent Home experience I volunteered at a local hospital until close to my high school graduation.  I then entered nursing school, still intent on providing tireless service to others.  As I would later learn, God gave me many opportunities to remove the veil I held ever so tightly across my heart but over and over again I refused.
          One such opportunity arose upon graduating from nursing school.  I was asked to work on the same cancer unit where I had suffered so much as a child.  Although I did not originally plan to return to this particular unit in the hospital, it was the only opening available at the time I was looking for work.  Medical care and nursing services had improved dramatically since I was a patient on the unit. 
          Chemotherapy was a routine practice, parents were staying in the rooms with children, support groups flourished, and honest, open disclosure was the rule instead of the exception.  Children were treated with kindness and respect.  It was all very refreshing and a perfect setting for me to make a difference in people's lives!  After all, I was living proof that children could survive cancer.  But, heartbreakingly, many more still did not.
          The old questions I had asked God began to resurface, only now I was angry.  In the three years I worked on this pediatric cancer unit, I knew and cared for over 250 children who ultimately died.  For the most part, my emotional veil stayed strong and intact.  I was the perfect person to work in this emotionally charged environment.  When people would ask me how I could handle the stress I would honestly reply that it takes a certain unique attitude to deal with dying children.  They thought I meant a belief in God and the afterlife but I actually meant the total blockage of all emotions.  Everything was working as planned until I met Nikki.
          Nikki was two years old when I met her and the brightest child I had ever encountered.  She could recite the "Pledge of Allegiance" and, amazingly, could name each one of her chemotherapeutic medications.  We clicked immediately and formed a strong bond.  We did publicity related things together including a television commercial for the American Cancer Society, or as she said, American Cancer "Ascites."  I even spent some time away from the hospital with her family.  My nickname for her was Nicodemus. 
          Nikki hated intravenous transfusions (IV's) more than anything, so I bought her a little stuffed monkey that she immediately named "Baby Nicodemus."  Baby Nicodemus would stand guard, propped under her wrist, while I started her IV's so she would not have to watch.  Emotionally I felt secure in letting my veil down a little and loving this little girl.  After all, she had the same type of cancer I had overcome and now the survival rate was nearing 90%.  I was sure that she would not leave me.  I was dead wrong.
          One of the darkest days of my life was the day I got the phone call that Nikki had died suddenly of an overwhelming brain infection.  She was four years old and cancer free.  The day before her sudden death, she asked her mother out of the blue, "Does Jesus love me?"  Rather surprised, because Nikki had not ever been to church and the family was not religious, her mother responded, "Of course he loves you."  Nikki just said, "Good, 'cause I love him too!"  She went into a coma and died less than twelve hours later. 
          I had never attended a funeral for one of my patients before Nikki's.  It was a two-hour drive to her small town and my two colleagues and I were a half-hour late and were afraid we had missed the service.  When we reached the large hall, we saw her petite white casket far up in front of hundreds of people sitting in metal folding chairs.  They were waiting for us to arrive. 
          My chest tightened and I could not breathe while we searched for empty seats in the back of the room.  As we surveyed the room her parents came to greet us and lead us to seats in the front row.  Before we sat down they insisted I come, alone, with them to view her body in the casket.  I saw my precious little friend lying "asleep" in the child-sized casket with a blue bandanna covering her bald head.  Under her right wrist was Baby Nicodemus standing at attention watching out for any harm.  Her parents said that they knew she would want it that way.  She would want to take a part of me with her.  And she did. 
          Soon after Nikki died I left the hospital for a safer, less emotion filled position.  The veil had been dislodged, briefly, but effectively.  I decided that I would not risk another emotional involvement.  Little did I realize that God had other plans.  I would continue to lose those I loved until I had learned the lessons I needed to learn.  What I would find out later was that, in order to wake us up, God will first whisper in our ear.  If we do not listen he will shake us on the shoulder.  If we still do not listen he will roll us completely out of bed.  It would be a long time and I had a lot of losses ahead of me before I finally woke up.
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