The Benches

by Donna Poole

Sometimes, it’s simpler to text.

On June 1, 2020, I texted family members, “I had an X-ray today and it showed an atypical mass peri-hilar region. I need a CT and a pulmonary consult. It could be pneumonia, but they need to be sure ‘it’s not something worse.’ The doctor said whatever it is, it’s the reason why I’m wheezing, short of breath, have chest pain, and am tired. Let’s keep this in the family until we find out what it is. I don’t see any sense in terrifying everyone at this point…. Love you all. Don’t worry. I’m not going to die. I have too many books to write and jokes to tell.”

It was the “something worse.”

George Matheson said, “Show me that my tears have made a rainbow.”

Yes, I found many rainbows on my cancer journey, each uniquely beautiful, some even double. Yes, God has been good, and there have been blessings, love, and laughter. But there’s no denying the tears.

 I’ve prayed; I’ve laughed whenever I could, and I’ve enjoyed every possible minute of life, but only God and another cancer patient knows how tough non-stop cancer treatment is and what three years of it does to a person’s body and mind.

Still, in August of 2023, I thought I looked pretty good for my age, just another average camper at Lake Michigan Channel Campground. I was walking from the channel back up to our campsite with my two faithful companions, my cane, and my husband, John, when a couple headed the other way met us.

She looked straight at me.

“Good for you!” Her voice was loud. “You’re walking! That’s the best thing for you!”

What? Do I look that bad? I’m just an ordinary looking older camper, aren’t I?

I looked down at myself. It was a super-hot day, according to John. Most people, even the few in wheelchairs, wore swimsuits or shorts, tank tops, and flip flops. I still shivered in my jeans, long sleeved shirt, sweater, warm socks, and loafers—I’d forgotten my tennis shoes. And my balance was so tipsy I needed both my companions to remain upright.

I guess I do look that bad.

But I smiled at the woman and kept walking. She’d meant to encourage me. And I was encouraged. It was the first time in the three hard years John and I had gone camping, and there’d been times we doubted we’d ever go again. Now that we were holding our dream in our hands, we didn’t want to waste a minute of lake breezes, sand dunes, gorgeous sunsets, and crackling campfires. We begrudged even having to leave to get a few groceries and a can opener.

Knowing I had to go for more scans when we got home made our time together even more precious. The four days came gift wrapped from heaven, and God didn’t add any sorrow with them.

Our favorite activity was walking down to the channel that connects Muskegon Lake and Lake Michigan. The walkway is lined with benches where you can sit and watch everything from little kayaks to huge ships carrying cranes and other machinery.

Sometimes you can hear the conversations of the people on the water. Two guys on jet skis were talking as they flew by us going way too fast; the channel has a strictly enforced speed limit.

“Once I got too close to the ferry.” one young man said to the other. “They called the coast guard on me.”

They looked up, saw us sitting on a bench, and grinned at us. I couldn’t help it. So much life and laughter—I smiled back, even though I knew what our son, a marine patrol officer would say, and he did say it when I told him.

“I would have given them a ticket.”

Yes, you would have, Danny, and rightly so. Too much youthful enthusiasm can cause destruction and even death, and you’ve seen that in your other job as a fireman. But I recall two brothers who drag raced each other down a road not far from their home and didn’t tell their mom about it until many years later. I’m sure one of them wasn’t you.

Well, I suppose more than a few of us have given our guardian angels a run for their money. We didn’t keep ours too busy though, just sitting on the benches. We weren’t just watching life go by from those benches though, we were living it. I loved reading the inscriptions on them. Here are a few, just as inscribed:

“In memory of Jeff Januska

Dedicated with great love from family and friends

So guess what…. have a seat, tell a story, catch a fish, give a hug.”

“Don & Carol Herrgord

Faith and Family

To God be the Gory”

“In memory of Herm & Alice Stafford

Of all the paths you take in life,

Make some lead to the channel.”

“In memory of ‘Peachie” Witham

Memories made while camping are in our hearts forever

Your loving friends

Rosemary ‘Peach” Witham

You still live on in the hearts and minds of your loving family

We’ll meet again”

“Always in our hearts

John and Dini Viveen

Devoted Parents-Devoted Opa and Oma

‘The most important thing in the world is family and love’”

The time came to leave our dream come true and head home, but we have a good life at home, a wonderful life. We returned home and got more scans for me, a PET and two CTs. They’d tell me the status of the cancer. What would they say? We’d followed closely the news of the drug trial I’m on; we knew I’d already far passed the statistical time of a good response on it. Still, “hope” is our word. We hoped and prayed it would be the same as what we’d been hearing since I’d flunked chemo and radiation and entered the clinical drug trial: Stable. Stable means the cancer is still active but isn’t spreading.

After each scan, my oncology team assures me “stable” is a good word, and the best word I can hope for at this stage of the game. “Complete response” is too much to expect at this point, but anything except disease progression is wonderful news.

I’ve gotten pretty good at deciphering PETs and CTs; I’ve had lots of practice. John estimates I’ve had over a dozen PETs and almost two dozen CTs, but when these results arrived in my patient portal I looked and looked again. I read them to John.

“Does it mean…?” he asked.

“I don’t know. This time I have to ask.”

Sometimes, it’s simpler to text.

 On August 17, 2023, at 2:55 PM I got a message from an oncologist at my cancer center. It read in part, “Hi Donna. You are in complete response. Meaning we can not see any active disease on PET.

In the trial you are on, epco continues until disease progression. So as long as you are responding, no plan to stop therapy.”

Complete response!

John and I thanked God together for this rainbow, one more beautiful than we’d ever hoped to see this side of heaven.  

I texted family, “Who’s ready for some incredibly good news?”

Then in my imagination I took a path back to the channel and sat on a bench, the one that says, “To God be the Glory.” I pulled my sweater close around me, watched the yachts sail by, and put some thoughts in order.

On June 1, 2020, I’d texted my family, “Love you all. Don’t worry. I’m not going to die. I have too many books to write and jokes to tell.”

How silly of me. Of course, I’m going to die; everyone does, but it seems I’m not going to heaven as soon as I expected. And as much as I love the benches at the channel, when my time comes to say, “See you later,” a bench isn’t what I want to leave behind.   

When I die, I hope to leave a heart-memory that says this: “She loved God. She loved her family. She loved her friends. And she thought of everyone as a friend.”

Even strangers who holler encouragement in voices a bit too loud.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

I have four other books on Amazon as well.

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