“Oh death, where is thy sting?”
Written by Rick Huffman
The woman cried out in agony, “Stop! Stop! Why are you doing this to me?”
Janie’s eyes filled with tears as she said, “I’m sorry Margie, we’re almost done.”
Debbie, the hospice worker helping Janie with her younger sister, carefully cleaned Margie of the black clotted blood that had gushed from her bowels.
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The birds sang, white clouds floated overhead and children ran, laughing and screaming in their yards: another beautiful June day in 2007. Margaret, or Margie as everyone called her, had left her house with her husband three hours before. She had gone to her family doctor due to her right breast being inflamed: this was the follow up visit. The test results had returned indicating she had Inflammatory breast cancer. Of the many types of breast cancer this had the fewest number of survivors. Margie no longer heard the birds singing, the children were now faceless shadows and the clouds had turned to gray. Oh, her doctor told her he planned an aggressive regime of treatment: removal of the breast, radiation and chemotherapy.
Depressed but hopeful, Margie kept the secret from her family; only her husband knew. It wasn’t until a later visit her doctor discovered the cancer had not been stopped with the removal of her right breast, that it had gone to the lymph-nodes under her right arm. It wasn’t until the lymph-nodes were removed that Margie decided to tell her sister, Janie. Janie, having learned of her sister’s medical condition and how serious it was, made it a point to be with Margie, as many times as possible, when she went to see the doctor.
Janie watched as Margie sat on the edge of the examining table, stoically listening to the doctor as he explained the next phase of treatment, handing her even more prescriptions to fill. Janie remembered when her and Margie were kids, how they’d run home from school and Margie would sit patiently at the kitchen table while she prepared a simple lunch: their mother was working, as was her dad. In the following weeks Margie went through radiation that left second-degree burns on her chest and chemotherapy that made her violently sick: all of her hair fell out. After weeks of treatment the cancer went into remission and Margie started to bounce back: even her hair grew several inches.
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Janie, her husband Rick and several other family members sat in the waiting room of the Bronson hospital. Margie had been taken into surgery a few hours ago because of test results showing cancer on her diaphragm, ribs and lung. When the surgery was over the family was allowed to see Margie: she was, at first, oblivious to anyone in the room.
A week later Margie was back home and, except for pain from the surgery, was again active in those things she enjoyed, being with the grandchildren, visiting with friends, watching her favorite TV shows and talking on the phone. A few weeks after surgery Margie’s doctor told her he wanted her to start another session of chemotherapy to prevent, or at least slow, any further spread of the cancer. Reluctantly, but with a positive outlook on results, Margie again withstood the energy draining effects of the poison introduced into her system to kill off the cancer cells. At first, the treatment seemed to keep the insidious and insatiable enemy at bay: until some test results showed the cancer had now spread to her spine. Margie sank into a depressed state and Janie, after visits with her, cried herself to sleep worrying about the distinct possibility her sister would not get through this. It was just a year ago this dreadful medical condition was found. Margie was now on high doses of extremely potent pain medication.
In October Janie met with family members and arranged for an early Thanksgiving day celebration. Janie had learned Margie tried to keep the truth from her about the prognosis. Margie had told her the doctor gave her six months to a year: the doctor had said six to eight weeks. The dinner was held but Margie was too sick to get out of bed.
Somehow Margie not only survived but even managed to get out of bed the following week. An early Christmas was planned and during the meal Margie found the strength to get out of bed and eat a few bites. A week later she was again bedridden. Janie made it a point to be by her sister’s bedside as much as possible, taking a week of vacation to sit with Margie. She would hold her hand, kiss her forehead and try to do what she could to make her comfortable: Hospice workers were in constant contact, giving medications and giving baths. Margie would go through days and nights of delirium, but she always knew when Janie was there; she would smile and squeeze Janie’s hand.
On one of her visits Janie learned that Margie had developed an opening near her buttocks the size of a golf ball. The tissue turned black and had to be cleaned often. Then her body bloated and blisters formed on her feet because of the excess water. The blisters eventually burst and were replaced by oozing sores. Margie’s eyes matted shut and either Janie, Margie’s husband or the Hospice workers would have to carefully wash them out. The pain that racked Margie’s body now was at a stage where even the heavy pain medication she was given did not stop her from crying out by simply being touched in the wrong spots. Christmas came and went and still Margie clung to life. Janie slept with her cell phone close by in case ‘the call’ was made.
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January 3, 2009: Janie returned home to tell her husband about how Margie screamed in pain as she and the Hospice worker lifted her to clean the blood from her body. How each time she went to see her sister she saw her slipping away. Would ‘the call’ come tonight? How much more pain must this woman go through? How many others are going through the same thing now?
Cancer is a cruel and indiscriminate taker of life.
Rick Huffman Author of, Kelly’s Way
