Tag: cancer

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I’m on Assignment

by Donna Poole

Stan, the hostler, held out a carrot and rubbed my head.

“Sorry, Bella, but the vet says you’ll probably need to stay penned up a bit longer so your leg can keep healing. He’ll know more after he does X-rays tomorrow.

 X-ray time again. I’m nervous—hopeful but afraid to hope.

I tossed my chestnut-colored mane, whinnied, and nuzzled his shoulder.

Stan laughed. “I believe you understand every word I say to you, girl. I hope you get good news tomorrow.”

Stan left and padlocked the door to the small stable where they were keeping me isolated from the other horses so I could rest and heal. The cozy stable hadn’t been so bad during the winter, but spring was coming. I could smell it in the air when Stan opened the door, and today I’d heard the red wing blackbirds. I looked out the stable window and saw only a few piles of snow remained between the oozing patches of mud. Tiny snowdrop flowers were blooming, and in the field winter wheat was growing green.

Spring called to me. I wanted to go outside, kick up my heels, and feel the warm breeze blow through my chestnut mane. I wanted to challenge the wind to a race around the pasture.

I especially missed training and show time. I remembered the feel of my owner on my back when I’d trotted, head high around the ring, and the pride she and I’d both felt every time someone had pinned another ribbon to my halter. More than once my owner and I’d had our picture in “The Morgan Horse Magazine.”

But now I was stuck here, sidelined by my injury. The stable had been a comfortable place for healing, but I was starting to dislike the very word. Stable. Well, tomorrow’s X-ray might show a change. Either I’d be heading back to training and the show ring or off to the glue factory.

Some of the other Morgan horses scoffed, said the glue factory was just a ghost tale the elders told colts to scare them. But Wise One, the oldest of us all, said the glue factory had once been a cruel end for useless horses. He said now they dispose of our bodies by burying, cremation, or taking us to a landfill.

I told him I didn’t much like the idea of the landfill.

“It doesn’t matter what they do with your body, Bella,” Wise One said. “Your body is just the house you live in. It’s not you. The real you isn’t your beautiful mane; it’s the part that feels joy when you toss it back and run with the wind.”

“When I die, what happens to the part of me that feels joy, Wise One?”

He whinnied. “I don’t know, but don’t be afraid. I’m sure the One who made us will know what to do with us when the time comes.”

I didn’t need to ask about the One who made us. All horses instinctively know him. Though we can’t put our feelings into words, we bow our heads low and feel glad when we think of him.

 Tomorrow will come, and with it the X-ray and the vet’s verdict. I’ve been through this before.  Just as I once was on assignment to do my best in the show ring, I’m on an assignment now. It’s to wait. I lie on the straw and sleep.

***

Like Bella, I’ll be on assignment tomorrow, and I hope to hear a better word than “stable” when I finish it. This assignment isn’t one I particularly relish, even though they serve drinks at the location. I know this because I’ve been there many times.

I usually pick the berry flavor drink and manage to gag it down. We aren’t talking milkshakes here, people. The drink is barium, a contrast solution to help the radiologist visualize the PET and CT scans better.

My son-in-law Drew knows there are many assignments I’d rather be on than this one, so he offered an alternative, one involving a cat that belongs to him and Kimmee, our daughter.

“The nice thing about cats is you can use them for both a cat scan and a pet scan,” Drew said.

I laughed. I wish his idea would work.

The scans really aren’t that bad. I got my first cancer related CT and PET scans in June 2020. I continued to have one PET and two CTs every three months during chemotherapy and radiation until May 4, 2021, when I entered a clinical trial for Epcoritamab, a drug not yet on the market. Then the scan assignments came more often, every six weeks for the first four months of the drug trial, then every three months, and now every six months.

When I got my last dose of Epcoritamab a few days ago they told me I’d completed cycle twenty-four. So now it’s time for more scans.

The techs who do the scans are great. They smile when I ask them to try to find my long-lost friend, NED, though I’m sure they hear the joke more often than they wish. NED is an acronym for no evidence of disease. It means remission—glorious word. I love the way that word rolls around on my tongue. I think I’d like to hear someone with a Scottish brogue say it; come to think of it, I’d love to hear anyone say it to me!

The best word I’ve heard so far after my many scans is “stable.”

Just because I haven’t yet found NED hiding under the table in one of the scan rooms doesn’t mean I won’t find him tomorrow.

My assignment isn’t so bad; many assignments are tougher, like the one Shelly Hamilton has. Shelly was sitting beside the bed of her dying father. Her husband Ron, in the last stages of Alzheimer’s, lay in his bed in another room. Ron Hamilton is the well-known author of many beautiful hymns, and Shelly is his wife.

As Shelly waited for God to take her father to heaven, she wrote about her motto, the one she’d learned from her husband’s caregiver: “I’m on assignment.”

Shelly wrote, “I’ve come to understand that assignments never end. As soon as this one is done, another comes along. You’d better be content with being on one.”

I hope to be content with whatever the results are of tomorrow’s scans.

But, like Bella, my fictional horse, I hear spring calling. I’d love to get well enough to challenge the wind to a race.  

I’d like to hear a better word than “stable.”  But Bella and I will be content with stable if that’s our assignments. She’s heard glue factory before; I’ve heard “disease progression.”  I don’t expect to hear disease progression again tomorrow, but someday my life will end. It won’t matter then what happens to my body, though if people follow my instructions, it will go to the University of Michigan for medical research.

My body isn’t the real me; it’s just my house. The part of me that feels joy and wants to challenge the wind to a race around the pasture belongs to the Lord, and I know exactly what he’s going to do when the time comes. He’ll take me where joy never fades, and life never ends. I have his word on it.

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” –John 3:16

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
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The Roads Less Traveled

by Donna Poole

The Road Less Traveled

by Donna Poole

Life is usually crazy busy for us. I imagine the same is true for many of you.

The past few weeks have been especially over the top with ministry and writing obligations, home repairs, and a health crisis. I’ll spare you the nitty gritty. On top of it all we’re supposed to be getting ready to host twenty-two of us here for Thanksgiving dinner, something we’re really looking forward to even as we hope the paint on the room will be dry.

As I watched my husband, John, and daughter, Kimmee, hard at work painting quite late one night, I reminded them of an old favorite joke of mine. A family had invited a large group to eat dinner with them, and the dad asked his little boy to say grace.

The little boy was feeling shy. “I don’t know how.”

His dad encouraged him. “Sure, you do. Just say what you’ve heard Mommy say.”

The little boy shrugged. “Okay, Daddy.” He took a deep breath. “Dear Lord, why in the world did I invite all these people?”

We’re glad we’ve invited all our people and can’t wait to see them, but we aren’t ready for them yet, so we’ve been working pretty much non-stop, especially Kimmee who’s doing most of the peeling, scraping, and painting. That’s why I was a little surprised when we left church on Sunday, and she asked me if I wanted to take the long way home.

We both had work to do at home, writing, painting…so much work. But did I want to take the long way home? It had just snowed, and our backroads were beautiful. Oh, yes, I did want to take the roads less traveled!

We’ve taken those backroads home often after church, Kimmee and I, since my cancer diagnosis. I used to stand at the door with John, shake hands, hug, and talk to each one of our church family as they left. My heart misses that, but my oncologist team won’t allow it yet because of my practically non-existent immune system. I’m supposed to avoid contact, so Kimmee and I slip in late, sit in the entryway because I’m not allowed in the auditorium, and leave during the last prayer. But in my heart, I’m still there, laughing, talking, crying, and praying with people I love. Taking the backroads home with my sweet daughter eases the ache for me between what was and what is.

And you know? The “what is” must be pretty good, because it’s God’s choice for me right now. Without the cancer and the enforced isolation, I would have been too busy to write these blogs or my books that hopefully mean something to somebody.

Without cancer I’d never have taken the roads less traveled home from church and seen at slow pace the changes in every season. We’ve marveled, in spring, over every sign of vibrant new life. Then came summer wearing its riot of wildflowers and next fall styling her coat of many colors. Sunday our backroads wore mink coats and looked lovely and elegant in white. And peaceful. They looked so peaceful. In a few places, on those backroads, ours were the only tire tracks.

We needed peace. We ignored, for a few minutes, the demands calling us to hurry home, enjoyed God’s beauty, and felt thankful.

There is a time, the Scriptures say, for everything under the sun. Whether I kick Morticia out of my lung, relearn my adult manners, and rejoin my church family in the auditorium, or whether I leave this world, as we all will someday, Kimmee and I know we won’t have forever to meander home down the backroads. Perhaps that’s what makes us all the more thankful for today.

Happy Thanksgiving, dear readers, to you and yours, and I hope you make time now and then to get off the interstate and take a backroad with someone you love.

***

These blogs are now available in eBook and paperback on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

photo credit: Kimmee Kiefer

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An Unexpected Trio

by Donna Poole

We were an unlikely trio, two women and a man, separated by many miles. One lived in Iowa, one in Michigan, and one in South Carolina. We began our song in May/June of 2020, a melody of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, sung in three-part harmony. When I prayed for one of us, I prayed for three of us.

Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma has a mind of its own and goes where it will go. Irv’s settled in his brain; Debbie’s went to her pancreas, and mine made itself at home in my abdomen and lung.

We went to college with Irv and hadn’t seen him since, but we followed him on Facebook. Irv earned degrees from Clarks Summit University, Bob Jones University, and the University of Cincinnati Conservatory of Music—and he had incredible, God-given musical talent. He became college professor at three different colleges and was a Minister of Music at four churches. His passion in life was Soli Deo Gloria—Glory to God alone. When he found out the NHL cancer had invaded his brain, he commented to loved ones, “Now is the time to practice our theology.”

Irv didn’t whimper or whine or ask, “Why me?” His life sang praise to God alone for all the short but brutal days of his cancer journey.

Irv’s daughter wrote, “June 2020 was the beginning. November 2020 was the end. 143 days fell in between.”

Now our trio was a duet. Debbie, a pastor’s wife beloved by her family and her church family, was still fighting. Her battle was hard; the side effects of the treatments were almost unbearable. But Debbie didn’t whimper or whine or ask why me, though I’m sure she sometimes sobbed in pain.

For all the days of her treatment Debbie wanted the same thing Irv wanted, Soli Deo Gloria.

In May of 2020 Debbie received her cancer diagnosis in the emergency room. She wrote, “God was in control—I knew that. I determined there in the ER that I would be a grateful, thankful patient, and trust God with everything.”

Finally, Debbie heard the wonderful news that she was cancer free. Through all the difficult days of chemotherapy and still today, Debbie’s life sings praise to God alone.

In May of 2020 I started wheezing, a funny noise that made me laugh. I thought it was just my Myasthenia Gravis. Kimmee, our daughter, wasn’t laughing. Concerned that I might have pneumonia, she insisted I see our family doctor. Within days I had my cancer diagnosis. At first the doctors thought it was small cell lung cancer, but a biopsy showed it was NHL, a cancer that usually responds well to treatment.

The key word is usually. If you’ve been walking these curving backroads with me long, you know that Morticia, my lung tumor, is stubborn and resistant to treatment. So far, she has survived six treatments of R-Chop chemotherapy, eight of GemOx, and eleven of radiation. I’m continuing with a drug trial of Epcoritamab, a new medication not yet on the market, but showing great promise for resistant cancers like mine.

I’m the last member of the trio still singing the melody of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Will I be like Irv, promoted to the heavenly choir? Or will I be like Debbie, restored to health and using every ounce of energy for God, her family, and her ministry? Only God knows.

All I know is I hope to practice my theology. Either God is all-loving and all- powerful, or He is not. He is, and He is my Father, and I don’t plan to live or die like an orphan!

Sometimes I’ve whimpered and whined. Then I remember whose child I am. And I recall wise words from Oswald Chambers, “Some moods don’t go by praying; they go by kicking!”

Like Irv and Debbie, the other two members of our unexpected trio, I want the song of my life to echo the joyful theme, Soli Deo Gloria—Glory to God alone.

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There’s Gold in Them Thar Hills

by Donna Poole

You travel a quiet backroad; it’s not your backroad, but its familiar feel says it could be. You see a group of friends laughing uproariously. One of them glances at you and sends a smile. They aren’t your friends, but you know they could be. You enter a small country church. It isn’t your church, but the warm welcome lets you know it could be. There’s healing in those brief connections, more precious than gold in the hills.

People have found gold in the hills of Brown County, Indiana. I’m sure not everyone was so quick to tell the tale, but the first recorded person to say he’d found gold was John Richards who discovered it in 1830 in Bear Creek. Commercial attempts at mining gold in 1875, 1898, 1901, and 1934 didn’t produce much, because apparently there just isn’t that much gold to be found.

There’s gold of another kind to be found in the hills though, the healing gold of connections. I wish I could remember how many years we’ve been traveling down the backroads to come home to Brown County, Indiana. We love the hills and the connections we’ve made here.

John and I grew up in the hills of New York State.

I was in fifth grade when Mom and Dad decided because we moved so much for Dad’s job as a mechanic with Mohawk Airlines, we’d just start taking our home with us. They bought a new trailer home, ten feet wide by fifty feet long, five-hundred square feet for six of us, make that seven when my sister was home on visits. Let’s just say that lack of space contributed to my early, long lasting love of being outside, especially in the hills.

I’ve always found a healing connection in what God made untouched by human hands. Even as a child I loved solitude, especially at twilight. As much as I love people, I sometimes need God’s quietness to heal.

We pulled into the campground at Brown County. The woman who handed me the map looked at my hat and smiled. It wasn’t the, “I’m so sorry” smile I often get these days. It wasn’t a quick averted “I don’t know what to say to you” glance. She looked right into my eyes. Somehow, I knew it was a “you go girl!” grin.

I told her, “On the worst of days I can’t imagine going anywhere. On my good days I keep thinking, ‘if I can just get to Brown County! I think I can heal there.’”

She laughed. “And here you are. I get it! I’m a five-year cancer survivor. I’m so glad you’re out doing this! Good for you!” She looked at John. “And good for you too! Thank you for bringing her!”

She’s not my friend, but I know she could be.

Over the years we’ve visited several small churches here in Brown County, and they’ve all felt like home. Our favorite church meets right in the park. We’ve come to love the pastor and his wife. They are friends. We couldn’t see them this time, not even at a distance, doctor’s orders.

We can’t hike our strenuous trails in these hills and laugh at each other afterward for even trying. Now John congratulates me when I go with him to carry the garbage to the bin several yards down the road.

We have a favorite little shop down in Nashville. The owner has told us snippets of stories over the years that found a home in my book. John is going to take him a signed copy of my book while I stay here at the camper. I will miss seeing him this year, but it’s okay.

I don’t mind what I can’t do. The healing human connections can wait for next time.

I’ve slept all night the last three nights, and so has John. I think the camping trip is doing more to heal my cancer than chemotherapy ever could. John and I have time here to talk about things other than cancer. We have time to live in the now.   

It’s totally still outside and in my heart as I sit in my lawn chair talking to you through my blog. The sun smiles down between tall, ancient trees. God is in His heaven, and if all is not right with the world, it will be someday.

I’ve come home to the hills.