Tag: non-Hodgkin's lymphoma

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Too Much Interference

by Donna Poole

I thought I’d probably be dead by now.

I imagined any self-respecting woman with refractory cancer, one who’d flunked chemotherapy twice and radiation once, would give a resigned nod, gather her flowing robes regally about her cancerous self, and make a dignified exit. Off I’d go, gently, into that good night. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

See, right there, that’s my first problem. I wear comfy sweatpants these days and have no flowing robes. And I’ve never managed a dignified anything in my life. If someone told me to do a stately exit stage right, I’d trip, fall, laugh, and exit stage left.

Here’s my second problem. Even though at the time I looked like a half-starved Sphynx cat, hairless, bony, and needing to double knot my suddenly too large sweatpants, I wasn’t ready to quit fighting, and neither was my oncology team. They let me becone a guinea pig for a drug trial. The manufacturers of said drug pay for my many tests hoping they’ll show I’m the miracle patient who will propel their medication to market. Thanks to them, I think I’ve had a baker’s dozen PET scans and twice that many CTs all with contrast.

Think of the radiation! You know how they say some people light up a room? I really do! You may hear a buzzing noise like a high-powered wire if you sit too close to me, but God is using Epcoritamab. It’s keeping me alive.

There are other reasons I’m still on this side of the dirt. It’s true that laughter is good medicine. Very. Good. Medicine.

My crazy, funny family makes me laugh. My husband, John, is the worst of the bunch. The other day a receptionist was trying to set up an infusion for me for something unrelated to cancer and struggling to find a time to work me in.

“We’re short on nurses that day,” she explained.

“That’s okay,” John said. “We’ll take a tall one.”

That receptionist is well acquainted with John, so it wasn’t the first time she’d heard his puns. She asked me if he takes his stand-up comedy routine on the road.

John is a pastor, and yes, puns sometimes accompany his preaching. But he’s in good company.

Charles Spurgeon was a famous English preacher and author in the 1800s. A woman once rebuked him for too much levity from the pulpit; humorous preaching wasn’t all that common in the Victorian era.

“Ma’am,” he replied, “if you only knew how much I keep in, you would commend me!”

Our church family helps keep me cheerful. I wish you could meet them. They are the best people anywhere. They love me and show it in every way. And they make me laugh. I can’t go inside church because my oncology team keeps me isolated, so I listen from the parking lot. John brings me home verbal messages, cards, notes, and jokes.

Sunday John said, “This is to Donna from Dave.

“Eve got upset because Adam kept coming home late.

“‘Adam, is there another woman?’

“Eve! You know you’re the only woman!’

“That night Adam was almost asleep when he felt Eve poking him.

“Eve, what are you doing?’

“‘I’m counting your ribs!’”

And my church family, those dear people who travel down the gravel roads to meet at the white frame church on the corner—they pray for me. The ones who’ve moved away and only drive down the dirt roads now in their memories—they still pray for me.

And let me tell you more about our family! There are twenty-four of us now. Most of them will perform super-human exploits to rearrange schedules to get together whenever possible, and that does me more good than chemo ever could. A daughter has opened her large home for family gatherings.

A son and daughter-in-law have hosted family fun more times than I can count. I sit outside listening to a crackling bonfire as the first stars decorate the night sky and look around at the sweet faces of the family I love. How can I not hope, try, and pray to get well?

Then there’s the daughter who lives with us cooks delicious meals and coaxes me to eat. I hate to think what this house would look like if she hadn’t been cleaning it for the last two years. She does it all because she loves me.

Do you believe love can help keep someone alive? I do. Like laughter, it’s another medicine God uses until it’s His time to call someone Home. Love, and prayer.

All our grandchildren old enough to talk pray for me; it would be ungrateful of me to give up on life without a fight.

I know I owe much to the prayers of family, church family, and friends. We have one friend I haven’t seen for over two years, but I remember well how he prays. He begins with a long pause. After he says one quiet word, “Father,” he usually pauses again. I’m always tempted to open my eyes at that point, because I can feel God’s presence with us, and I want to see Him. But I don’t look.   

People I’ve never met from all over the world pray for me, including some of you. I’m grateful. And I’m glad I’m still here to pray for people who need me.

Whenever I’m tempted to give up, and yes, sometimes I feel like it, I think of all the people loving and praying. How can I die with so much interference?

My day will come though; it does for all of us, and I’m okay with that. It’s been a good life; if I could go back and start over, I’d choose the same one. I know where I’m going, and I like to think about heaven and everyone waiting for me there.  

“How are you, Donna?”

I get that question a lot. The answer is long and complicated.

Let’s just say I’m still on this side of the dirt. And I’m glad to be here.  

John laughing
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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.