Chapter 4

Conehead consumes mass quantities of chemo.

That August I’d healed enough from the surgeries to begin chemotherapy. My first chemo experience was on August 5, 1999. I sat in the treatment room with five to ten other patients. Like the other poor slugs in attendance, I was scared. I was the youngest lab rat participating. We were each hooked up to an IV with our "drug of choice" dripping into our blood.

They kept the IV solutions and drugs in the refrigerator, just to make the experience more appealing. I was scheduled for doses of A&C, or Adriamycin and Cytoxan (note the"toxan," AKA "toxin" in the drug’s name). The first drug was red. A nurse took a syringe and slowly pushed the red liquid into my IV. What goes in red comes out red for days. The other cocktail was in a bag attached to my IV. For two to three hours that ice-cold concoction was dumped into my veins. I was freezing. I brought a jacket and still asked for one blanket and then another.

As a sat shivering, I observed my fellow honorees. They were depressed to have what is essentially poison pumped into their veins. The doctors call it chemotherapy, but don’t let them fool you. Those of us who have had chemo know exactly what it is. Poison. Why do you think our hair falls out? It’s because chemo kills lots of cells. Like the other contestants, I was painfully aware I was taking home a booby (no pun intended) prize: a six-day, seven-night trip to the bathroom of my choice.

Bellied up to the chemo bar.

OK, so fun-filled adventures do not start at the oncologist’s office. The room reeked of hopelessness. I wanted to remain upbeat. I figured why ruin this moment in my life for a lousy moment in the future? I would have plenty of time to be miserable. For weeks I had been reminding myself not to worry about my post-chemo reactions. Prepare, yes; worry, no, because worry accomplishes nothing.

How did I prepare? With humor and prayer. Cancer treatments and other medical maladies are not fun. Neither is being jobless, losing a loved one, a car breaking down, money problems, and the many other stresses we face.

When I have a problem, I first look for solutions, but for many calamities, no solution exists. We simply have to accept them. I can’t bring a person back from the dead. (If you can, give me a call. I could use your services.) Logically, if we can’t change a situation and there are no answers, then our only options for peace and joy are to alter our attitudes and reactions.

The first attitude adjustment I needed was in trusting God and His love for me. God had been working on this issue with me for a while. When people violate our trust and don’t keep their promises, we tend to project that untrustworthiness onto God. I made that mistake and still have to fight that tendency.

When we feel we’re being treated as if we have no value and our needs don’t matter, Satan whispers that we are unlovable and God doesn’t care. Too many faithful Christians have no sense of God’s love for them and therefore can’t trust Him completely. I know because I was one of them. I spent hours reading Scripture, doing Bible studies, attending church, serving others, and praying, yet I frequently cried myself to sleep because I felt so unloved. I was a Christian without ever knowing Christ’s love: completely saved without the here-and-now benefits of abiding peace and ongoing joy.

At the start of the divorce process, I was an emotional mess. I went on a five-day retreat. I browsed the retreat center’s bookstore and felt drawn to purchase a booklet on meditation. Later, I met with a priest. I prayed about the meeting before hand. I begged God to speak to me though the priest, to show me that He loved me and cared about me. Not in a general Christ-loves-everyone sort of way, but me specifically, right then as I was.

I spoke and prayed with the priest. He had no idea I’d purchased the mediation booklet. At the end, he paused. He appeared perplexed and hesitantly asked, "Have you ever heard of meditation?" It was obviously not something he regularly suggested.

The priest instructed me to read 1 John 4:16, about God’s love before meditating. "God loves me" became my mantra. The priest told me to repeat that during meditation and throughout the day until it became as natural as breathing. Until I felt it and believed it. That process took over a year.

I had told God I needed a neon sign in the sky with a clear message. He gave me one. The sign said, "Meditation. You will learn of My love through meditation."

Christ individualizes our walk with Him. Our faith journey is tailor made to account for our personalities, our strengths and weaknesses, our current needs, our past hurts, and dozens of other factors we’re not aware of. In the temporal world, words and deeds don’t always match, and promises and commitments are broken. Meditation was part of my answer because I needed to be healed beyond words and actions.

The purpose of meditation or centering prayer is simply to be in God’s presence. It is not about speaking to the Lord or listening to His voice. The mantra or key words are used to shut out other thoughts and keep focused. What meditation does for me is best expressed in Psalm 16:1, "You have let me experience the joys of life and the exquisite pleasures of your own eternal presence."

"In life, pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional." —Hedy Schleifer

A mother who sits and rocks her baby can communicate love as much or more than the mother who is talking. Hospitalized people often have loved ones stay with them or hold their hands. People who are dying do not want to be alone. It is often other’s presence, not their words, which bring us comfort.

The meditation booklet I purchased said to imagine sitting on God’s lap or being held in the palm of His hand. Then quietly stay there. I had to learn to relish being with the Lord with no expectations on either side. I didn’t have to earn Christ’s love, and I had to accept that He loved me regardless of my circumstances.

The way I meditate is individualized to meet my needs. It was vital for me to feel Christ’s physical presence, to feel safe while He held me. I don’t know how I got started meditating the way I do. My system certainly isn’t the way the booklet suggested.

I turn my electric blanket on high, get in bed under another blanket and a comforter, and surround myself with pillows. The weight and the warmth simulate being held. I ask the Holy Spirit to go to the places I need to be healed. The places I can’t identify or don’t know about. Cocooned in bed, I close my eyes and revel in God’s presence. Do I fall asleep? No. It defies logic, but God’s solutions often do.

I’d been meditating over a year when I had my first chemo treatment. Our image of God should constantly be growing and evolving. By August of 1999, I had a sense of God’s love and was in my infancy of trusting Him. I was very ill after chemo and spent lots of time in bed. My mind was disjointed and I was in the bathroom constantly. I meditated some, but spent more time in traditional prayer.

I told God I was worried about my boys. It seemed we were all hurting so much. I kept asking how we were supposed to get through all this. As I said earlier, my answer was, "Conehead." I was being told to stir things up, to add fun in the midst of my suffering, not change my situation, only the way I went through it.

And stir things up I did. It took me a while to find a conehead. The "rooster," as Mom calls the wig to the above, was my original outfit. I sported this classic look to my second chemo treatment.

At the beginning, I had a hard time trusting God’s answer. His solution seemed downright stupid. Scripture has numerous examples of "stupid" answers to complex problems: "David, see that big giant, Goliath, you can take him buddy;" "Gideon a hundred against one, go for it;" "Joshua, blow your trumpets while walking your army around Jericho, and you’ll conquer the city." Dumb, dumb, and dumber, and yet they all worked. Why? Because God wants us to give Him the credit. Conehead was my answer because then there would be no question whose idea it was. Wearing costumes to treatment would not have been in my first five million solutions.

I wasn’t initially comfortable with the whole conehead idea. Just telling family members and friends what I planned to do was embarrassing. I was certain everyone would stare and make fun of me. I was self-conscious wearing multicolored eyelashes and a spiked wig through the parking lot, in the elevator, and in the waiting room.

At the first treatment Dr. Drug ‘Em Up told me I would lose my hair and recommended I get a wig. The next time I saw him I was bald and wearing the rooster. He gave me a rather strange look and questioned my attire.

Mom and Second Born join in the fun.

"Momentary fits of insanity help prevent brain damage."

I reminded him, "Doc, you told me to buy a wig, but you weren’t very specific." I batted my eyes at him. "I even added matching eyelashes just for you."

He laughed, but dressing up wasn’t really fun until I got to the treatment room. Once everyone started laughing and talking, it was a blast. The other patients’ enthusiastic responses hooked me. People were giggling and joking instead of being depressed.

My outfits didn’t change anybody’s future. The silly diversions just made their present condition more bearable. And that’s what Christ does for us: He makes the unbearable, bearable. He’s in the midst of our pain, to help us through it. We can experience His love, peace, and joy while the world is crumbling around us. The catch is we have to do our part. We have to focus on Christ and not our troubles. We have to accept situations and solutions we don’t like or think will work.

By my next treatment, I’d found and wore the conehead. Dr. Drug ‘Em Up heard my voice and called out, "Is that patient having another bad hair day?"

His nurse replied, "You’ve gotta see this."

He peeked around the corner, saw the conehead, and shook his head. He asked if I’d purchased a normal" wig.

I told him I had no idea what he meant.

His response, "Brown, something that looks like hair."

Some people have no imagination. Throughout my treatments, he teased me. He also told me that he and the other patients were counting on me to continue my antics. The fact is, if life knocks you flat on your back, you only have two choices: you can take it lying down, or you can look straight up. Talk to your good buddy, God. He will offer you solutions you’ve never dreamed of, based on who you are and what you need.

Don’t worry; most people aren’t called to be a public idiot. That was special just for me. It addressed my situation and my needs. Finding costumes and writing vignettes gave me a creative outlet with a purpose. The silly distractions refocused my thoughts. Instead of thinking about how I was feeling, or more accurately not feeling, I spent time conjuring up outfits. I invested hours in writing goofy comments. I also had to find, buy, or make the items. When I was awake and coherent — coherent being a relative term — I spent lots of time preparing to dress up. That left very little time to mope.

I’m in the Lord’s army and I salute my Commander and Chief

It was miraculous to see the transformation in myself, my family, the doctors and staff, and the other patients. Once I started acting goofy, those deeply "religious" thoughts kept me going. When I stopped being frightened and paranoid, so did my boys. When I was in those treatment rooms, no one was downcast or bored. I got the place hopping. People became lively and animated. I had little old ladies in the conehead, giggling as they dragged their IV poles around. I can honestly say I had fun with cancer, not from cancer, but with it.

Cancer and other life challenges aren’t jokes. I’m not suggesting you make fun of suffering. You don’t need to minimize pain to maximize joy. You too can learn to consume mass quantities of fun, and you don’t have to wear a conehead to do it. Pray for the help to stay positive and find laugher. Both distress and joy can be contagious. Be sure you’re spreading the right one.

Long after I started spreading the giggles, I understood it was a ministry: a way for me to give even when I was sick. It also addressed an underlying issue that had been gnawing at me: I hated being needy. I’d always been a giver and a doer for others. Now it was my turn, and I didn’t like feeling helpless and weak. Remaining positive and projecting that image gave me a focus, a goal, and a purpose.

Upon reflection, I’m dangnified by my vocation. When other people are called to serve God, they get things like feed the poor, house the homeless, or care for orphans. Me, what do I get? "Conehead." What God-given talent was I called upon to share? I have the ability to make a complete idiot out of myself in public. "Gee, thanks, Lord."