CANCER

"Cancer, the disease we all fear", says TV's Dr Oz, before launching into a colourful display on antioxidants

.
"Is there any history of cancer in your family", asks the GP, squinting at the X-ray, CT scan, ultrasound result.

"Don't eat those, they are carcinogenic",  says everyone about something ... rice cakes, processed meat, red food colouring ... whatever, we are all an expert on what we've heard.

The women in my mother's family, most of them nurses, considered medical problems the most interesting topic of conversation - their own problems and those of their family members, neighbours, neighbour's friends, the local shop keeper's auntie's next door neighbour's former teacher, as well as the royal family and movie stars. This gave them an endless variety of subject matter and, as they were knowledgeable in medical terms and treatments, some authority.  Conversations took place over cups of tea, back fences, in letters and on the telephone and were repeated over cups of tea, back fences, in letters and on the telephone to others. I was privy to descriptions of hysterectomies, appendectomies, tonsillectomies, complications in childbirth and heart attacks.  Often the agenda included treatment of abscesses, boils, seizures, arthritis, osteomyelitis and hernias.  Before antibiotics sulphur was prescribed for infection, big square pink tablets that had to be crushed in honey, or the site was painted with mercurochrome, so pink it was magenta- but banned now because of the mercury content. But, I don't remember any talk of cancer, not in the 1950's or the early 1960's. 

By the time my mother was diagnosed in 1972 we were a little more familiar with the subject.  Of course a diagnosis will kick you out of the comfort zone and bring you up to date very quickly, so 

"Yes, Dr Oz", we do know that fear.  

"Yes, Doctor, three generations of my family have been affected by cancer, starting with both my parents."
"Yes, everyone, we have run around like mad things trying to avoid the carcinogens, eat the anti-oxidants, try to latest fad food or scrub or supplement. 

When my mother died of cancer at 54, that was considered a young age to go.  When I was told I had less than three years, probably only one year, to live at age 43, that was too young and now we hear it's younger people - in their 30's. I have no answers, I only have my story.

       You never know how strong you are until being strong is the only option you have left. Anon

My cancer journey.  In April 1991 my doctor sent me for my first mammogram, which showed nothing, followed by an ultrasound, which found a patch of thickened tissue and then a biopsy. On my way out of the specialist's room another specialist said to me, "Well, at least we know it isn't cancer".
And, suddenly they had found an extremely aggressive cancer that was wide spread. I was rushed into surgery and had the whole breast removed and the underarm lymph nodes. They couldn't find the edge of the cancer; it was in the skin down my arm, in the tissue of the shoulder etc. I was stapled together and the surgeon gave me the bad news. He said I had less than 3 years, probably less than 2 years and I should make plans. Later on he told me he felt it was less than one year but he didn't have the heart to tell me. I felt sorry for him but I wasn't worried. I'd had an amazing encounter with God the night before which kept me on a high for several years.

I was a divorced mother of three - two natural children and a long term foster child. I had moved to Queensland four years before, away from old friends and relatives. However, after 8 years on my own I had a lovely male friend and we were talking about marriage.  Looking back I wonder what we were thinking! R was 10 years younger, never married before, still saw his parents daily, was 'taking a year off work',  while I had a ton of baggage, a gaggle of kids and a house full of 'stuff'.

We married ten days after I left hospital, in July 1991. The wedding took place in the paddock by the dam. It was very hot for mid winter and our guests huddled together in the small patch of shade offered by an acacia tree in the centre of the paddock. I still had some of the staples in my chest.

When I was well enough they hit me with strong treatments to extend my life beyond the expected one year. I had three months of sickening chemotherapy - fortnightly infusions that took five hours and led to 24 hours of vomiting, then a month of radium treatment and another three months of chemo.  One day a nurse punctured the bag while hanging it up and a few drops of one drug was spilled.  It soaked through my dress and burnt the skin on my stomach. I stopped treatment.

Me: I don't want any more chemo.

Prof of Oncology:  But you've only had 5 and a half months.

Me:   I feel I'm being poisoned.

Prof of Oncology:  But you need 6 months of chemo.

Me:  Why.

Prof of Oncology: That is the dose. We always gave everyone 12 months treatment and now we give everyone 6 months.

Me:    Maybe 5 and a half months will be enough.

Treatment left me with a shrivelled lung and shoulder, damaged thyroid, dead ovaries, damaged stomach lining, damaged immune system and damaged nerves in the right arm. My body went into fear-of-starvation mode and I put on  weight. I had two years of natural remedies to help with recovery and continue to take supplements. In the first eight years after the big surgery doctors also removed both ovaries, the gallbladder and several benign lumps from the other breast.  And I survived.

So, coming up to 22 years on, I still struggle with treatment damage but my kids, including a grandaughter, thrived, grew to adulthood and have their own lives and adventures. R and I live in a house we are building ourselves. We work a small farm and both have part time jobs and many interests.  Life is so full we run out of daylight and lamplight.  I sometimes feel in awe and sometimes I am mystified.  

But there will never be a sad ending for me.  I've already lived past my use by date and I consider that 22 years to be well worth the trouble. Whatever I have left is a big bonus.  Thank you God.

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THE BABY ONE

one rainy day, after a walk in the wet grass,  I was fluffing the dog with a towel and calming him with the silly baby talk we often use with pets. 

"There's a good boy, roll over and let me do your tummy, now tickles for the baby one and kisses for the mummy one!" 

My goodness - where did that come from? 

Zoooommm back almost 40 years and I'm sitting on the 'night n day' couch (it unfolded into what was almost a double bed and we slept on it for a year) breast feeding my first born and crooning, "You're the little baby one and I'm the big mummy one!" 

Another zooooommmmm back to see myself, half way between my first and second birthdays, standing in the cream painted wooden cot, in a pale green room. I can reach the window and see into the neighbour's backyard but I'm not looking outside, I'm checking my toys, lined up on the window sill. The collection of plastic bunny rabbit money boxes that grew each pay day when my very young father, a bank teller then, brought home a new one.  They came in a variety of colours, mine were mostly shades of green but also  pink, yellow and blue. Standing on my toes in the cot I could almost look them in the eye. I'd touch each one with my index finger and announce it's place in the family.  "This is the daddy one, this is the mummy one and this is the baby one, and the aunty one, the grandpa one". and so on.

The neighbours could see in the window from their veranda. They said hello to me, and the bunnies, every morning and if the window was open I entertained them with my bunny news,  "The baby one didn't eat his peas." 

The year I was born, Lines Bros in England were mass producing toys from plastic and not far away, in Denmark - where both my great-grandfathers were born - the LEGO company bought a plastic injection-molding machine to produce plastic toys. Two years later that machine was producing 200 different toys, including plastic stacking bricks. It was the age of plastic. I wonder where my plastic bunnies were made.

Dolphins are so smart that within a few weeks of captivity, 

they can train people to stand on the very edge of a pool and throw them fish.

RESPECT

Kids, teens, young adults - those of the age of a very little person looking up with wide eyed attention, or the age of body language that says, whatever! right up to the age of self importance, seem to have trouble with respect.

After twenty six years working in a P-12 school the biggest change I've seen, is this progression from girls standing back shyly while boys hold the door open, to being physically pushed out of the way so a young person, or even an adult male, can go through the door first. They push from behind, the side or the front. It can be boys and girls and at school, even ..... teachers!  This has nothing to do with the fact that I am no longer 30 something because I see it happening to younger adults -  who don't notice, because they think it's normal! In the car park, in the supermarket, in a lift, someone will assume they are entitled to go before everyone else.

The last person to do this to me was a man of about 40 who - walked toward me from the outside of an automatic door, while I was inside, closer to the door and on my way out - did not slow his pace at all but pushed through the doorway first, knocking me into the side frame.  He kept walking at the same pace, as did his two teenage children who were following. No sign of good manners, no humility, no grace and no respect for others. What happened?

Sister Mary Benedita would be turning in her grave.  When I was at school we never gave cheeky responses to adults, never answered back, never pushed them aside, we gave up our seat on the crowded bus or train for women of our mother's age and older men and we didn't feel repressed ... we felt respectful.

Yes, I know ... boring story. I had those from my father too - how he rode a horse to school and lived on bread and dripping ....  that was his life BUT if he was here now he'd agree with what I'm saying because he was a gentleman.  When I was young I was aware that men opened doors for women, pulled back and held their chair in a restaurant, helped them on with their coats, all as a sign of respect.  Yes, there were a lot of things wrong in those days and all this attention and respect was not always genuine but it gave us a sense of security, of safety, we felt we knew where we were on the ladder of life and could clearly see where we would be as we got older. 

But the plan changed and now I feel cheated - and I'm not alone - even Clint Eastwood said, 'When I was young there was no respect for the young and now that I am old there is no respect for the old'.

Have we taught them to value power and control more than anything else? Have we let them down so horribly that they don't value us?  It would be nice if kids today had examples to follow .. from sports stars, politicians, celebrities but the daily news is full of disappointing examples.  Just ask someone under the age of 25 who they respect. The answers are interesting. 

Adults are no longer respected for being older, for having lived longer, they are not respected for years of study and experience, for war service, for doing dangerous jobs, for having positions of authority, they are not protected or revered by younger adults and children. We don't get respect from our own children, grandchildren, friends children - their sense of entitlement over rides anything we do. Who gets the respect?  In today's culture respect is not deserved or earned ... it is bestowed AND it is bestowed on people like David Beckham, Madonna or Bear Grylls, or whoever is in fashion at the time.

There is always false respect, don't fall for that. Not actually bowing and scraping, but polite nodding and agreement can mean they want something and they think you can help them get it - favour with their parents, the job they want or maybe to sign you up with a new telephone service or sell you a car.   There can be exceptions - kids who are naturally agreeable, but then you worry about that. Some adults receive a type of respect for being 'one of the group' but usually you get little or no respect from teens - they are too busy complaining that their parents don't respect them!!! What?  Is this a generation XYZ thing?

"You disrespected me" said the thug on TV, holding a knife to the throat of a terrified gang member.  

Do they even know what respect means - or has the meaning of the word changed? They need to understand the words that go with respect - regard, esteem, reverence, deference, consideration, honour, veneration.

Definition of respect -  To admire someone or something deeply, as a result of their abilities, qualities or achievements - well yes, that could refer to David Beckham but also to Albert Einstein and also to hard working teachers and parents.  I would add authorities such as policemen and solicitors and doctors but I hesitate. That's interesting.

Speaking of  Albert Einstein (1879-1955), he once said, 'Let every man be respected as an individual and no man idolised." Whoops.

This is a huge subject and I'm not attempting to go into it in a broad sense, just offering my personal experience and conclusions - there have been times when I've remembered Kathy Bates in the movie Fried Green Tomatoes, rear ending the car of the young girls who had taken her parking spot, "Face it, girls, I'm older and I have more insurance". But that is demanding respect, really disguised fear, and it can't come that way.

Sadly, we can't change the world.  Some things we just have to get used to and until today's kids grow up and discover that something is missing we need to work around their lack of respect.  They will look back one day and discover new feelings for that teacher or friend from their childhood and respect could be reborn.

Choose your battles. It's good advice. The next time you are cut off in a doorway by a 14 year old, or the 18 year old brings friends home and does not introduce them to his parents, or the sweet 16 snaps answers back at her boss, or the kid in the back of the room mutters 'whatever' when the teacher asks him to open his book (or ipad or laptop) - just take a deep breath. Maybe we have to ignore the ignorance, because that's what it is, and find another way to get through to the young people.  Lets be gentle with the little ones and hope they follow the example.

What is it we all crave? Love. We want to be loved and appreciated and listened to. We want successful relationships, we want to be liked, to work together and laugh together and feel respect flowing from us and toward us.  Respect takes time to grow, time and common experience. It's just a little harder than it used to be. When the right situations come along, don't miss out.

1/ A sudden storm, a man and his son rush outside with shovels to dig a drain and divert water rushing toward the house. They come back changed men, a bond formed, respect growing.

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2/ Exams in two days, a girl in tears. Big sister puts her work aside to show her how to study and is delighted when little sister passes the exam. The relationship is now stronger than just sisters, it includes respect.

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3/ A woman falls when getting off the bus. An acquaintance rushes to her side, calms her, calls for help, rides in the ambulance and sits by the bed until family arrive. She appears the next day with flowers and is greeted  as a friend. A friendship grows from respect.

Back in 1971 someone heard Bruce Willis sing ... (yes, sing!) 

          

Respect yourself 
Respect yourself 
If you don't respect yourself 
ain't nobody gonna give a good 
Ca-hoot na na na oh oh 
Respect yourself 

                                                          *********************

Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion stars, 

but always check when you say the paint is wet?

a short story - THIS SUMMER AFTERNOON

The afternoon breeze whips up from the bay. It rattles through palm fronds by the house and brings an air of seaweed to the garden.  Standing at the veranda rail for a moment I enjoy the wind in my hair and the call of gulls flying over the beach below. This outdoor room has seen many happy times, family gatherings for watching whales, boat races and sunsets.

Grasping both arms of a deck chair I lower myself into the seat,  groaning slightly, more from habit than discomfort, I tell myself.  The wickerwork creaks as it takes my weight, it’s become a snug fit lately and I know chairs don’t shrink. I think about buying a larger seat. I am thirsty, but comfortable here for the moment, in the breeze with the birds. The sun begins its downward path and I welcome the shade growing out from the house.

The whine of an old gearbox tells me the school bus is crawling up the hill. It stops at our gate, vibrating noisily and I wave one arm in greeting  just in case the driver is looking. The lid on the letter box slams and my princess is on her way up the path,  joggers crunching over gravel. Her backpack, slung over one shoulder, jingles against her hip. The solitary part of my day is over. 

Thump, thump on the steps. Scuff, scuff over the decking. “Arrhhh, isn’t it hot?” she

says.  Her book filled pack thuds to the floor by my feet.

“No, this isn’t hot, it was hot at midday. This is cool.” I laugh at my joke and she kisses me on the cheek, her long silky hair falling across my face.

“You'd be cooler if you tie your hair back,” I say.

“It was tied back, but the clip broke on the bus.”

The screen door slams. I hear her walking through the house. Water pipes hiss and bang in the wall, drowning the song of magpies in the camphor laurels. I rest and wait.

“You want a drink Nan?” she finally calls from the kitchen.

“Yes please. There’s coke in the fridge.”

“Got it,’ she calls.

The screen door bangs again. She trails a scent of pink soap and washing powder. I feel her touch on my shoulder and a cold can is pressed into my hand.

We open our drinks together. Pssstt.

“I hope you left your uniform in the laundry.”

“Yes fuss pot, I did.”

“And you found your clean clothes in the laundry basket under a pile of folded linen?"

She laughs. “It’s so good to be home, Nannie.”

Humming softly she taps her fingers on the veranda rail and turns her face toward the ocean. “Will Mum be late tonight?”

The words blow back to me on the breeze.

“I don’t think so.”

Her voice is louder as she turns toward me. “That’s good. I’ve got to ask her about the school camp and she won’t feel like talking if she’s tired.”

“Was there any mail Princess?”

“Yes. Three for Mum, I left them inside.”

“Good. Now tell me about the camp.”

“OK. I’ll find the note.”  Pouncing on her backpack she rips open the zipper.

"It’s called Late Summer Camp."

The paper crackles in her hands as it unfolds. She is crouching on the floor by my feet.  “March 20th to 30th. That’s ten days, much better than a week.”

“Yes, especially if you’re having fun.” I put my drink on the deck. She leans back, against my legs and I stroke her hair, twisting strands into brushes to tickle her dainty ears.

“We take our own sheets and things. It’s not in tents, they have little cabins, AND they have a dining hall.” She slaps at my hand, like swatting a fly and I wonder if the note mentions washing dishes.

“Sounds very different to last year's camp,” I say.

“Yes, it doesn't rain in March!” We laugh together, remembering.

My finger finds the tiny scar below her ear.

“It all sounds good. What is it you have to ask Mum?”

“To pay for it of course.”  Her slim little hand strokes mine.  “Can you talk to her Nan? I really, really want to go. I just have to go.”

“Of course.” I sigh. It always comes down to the price tag. 

“She might phone your Dad for this one. It could be an early birthday present, he never knows what to send, and fourteen deserves something special.”

“Good idea. If you suggest it she might go for it.” Her head lies on my knee and she plays with my fingers. “I love you Nan.”

“I’m glad princess.”

Her fingernails are strong and neat. Mine were chewed stumps at her age.

She springs to her feet and stretches. I remember doing that, once upon a time. 
I climb from the chair and lean on her shoulder. She is so tall today - this child of my child, full of energy and eager for life.

“Homework?” I ask.

“I want a swim first.”

“Go then, but don’t forget to shout once in a while, just so I know you’re still there.”

“Come down with me, you can sit on the sand.”

“No baby, not today. I have to refold those clean clothes.”

“Whatever you want, Nannie,” she says and laughs. Taking my hand, she presses it onto the back of the chair. Her joggers slap the steps as she jumps two at a time and I hear her on the zigzag path, skipping down to the beach.

The afternoon is moving around me, warm air stirring, tree sap rising, remembering other summer afternoons. Walking around the chair I feel with my feet for the backpack. She’s left it open, of course. I step over the pile of books and clothing. My outstretched hand finds the door and I go inside, letting it bang behind me.  I can still do that, all by myself.

by Janine Camm  (C)2006

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