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| Fear of Chemotherapy; Ovarian Cancer |
I sit across from a widow. A new patient. A terrified face. Tears
filling her eyes. Somehow, I think she knows where this conversation will land.
I utter the first word concerning her treatment—chemotherapy. Before I even make
it to the last syllable, her head drops and she shivers. A weighted tear
hits her lap. Her daughter reaches over and offers a hug. The start of a
journey.
I explain the dreaded C-word. But her preconceived fears about that topic cannot be erased. She tunes me out. I now witness a mind heading to
default. I try to soften the blow, but my efforts fail. Paralysis owns her.
She stares into her lap. Her head moves slowly back and
forth—like she’s saying no. I can tell a million confusing questions and
thoughts are streaming through her consciousness. I perceive they are teasing
her mind, flooding her with unanswerable queries. If I am to help, she will have
to translate her private reflections into words. She will need to verbalize
something, anything. What is she
pondering? Her voice remains mute. The word chemotherapy has placed a virtual
vice-grip on her mind.
The daughter asks me to go ahead and explain everything. And
as I do, she jots down every fact, every point, so that she can explain it to
her mother later. I realize this patient is blessed to have such a daughter, willing
to walk the difficult pathway with her. All those years of loving her as a child,
raising her, nurturing her, all coming back in a form of love that transcends
human understanding. Her daughter will be her caregiver, a partner in sickness
and turmoil.
I start off detailing the loss of hair. It doesn't even garner a glance up. Then I talk about the immune system—how it may be weak, how it will
force certain precautions. The patient’s catatonic stare continues, glazed over with a somnolent look. Her thoughts continue wandering. I wish I could encourage her to talk
to me, to ask me questions. But nothing is spoken.
What is she debating?
Her chances of survival? She is too scared to ask me anything. And if she
does, what should I say? I do not want to destroy hope. I will have to think on
that. In the meantime, I tell her there is hope. There is always hope. My life
is blessed by knowing people that beat their cancer, living on a diet of hope. And
yet, I recognize, deep down, she knows people do not always come out so victoriously,
like her husband. But why do some survive and others not? That’s a God
question. He controls the outcome. But knowing that does not negate me, us, as
caregivers from working our hardest, for Him, for her, to do our best.
I feel her struggle. “Can I pray for you?” I say. That’s all
I know to do at this point. She nods yes. I hold her hands, human touch, human
connection. A glorious gift. My hope is that God will heal her—that she will be
the survivor. But until that outcome is known, we will do all that is in our
power.
I finish the dialogue and the daughter scans her copious notes.
She promises to review all of this with her mother over the next few days. When will the patient actually grasp it? Maybe never. Maybe soon… My hope is soon. Time
is important.
The patient shows up for chemo. Day one. Morning has broken.
She shuffles in, slowly, fearfully, a bewildered face. She pauses and examines
the chair, then sits. In time, she prepares for treatment. Her daughter finds
a place next to her. They connect the IV and fluids start. The patient glances
over one last time at her child.
“Can I do it?” She asks.
“You can Mom. I will pray for you,” she says reaching over,
touching her hand.
The patient closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and nods
to the nurse. The button is hit and the chemotherapy begins to flow.
Drip… Drip… Drip…
How do you overcome your fears? How do you help your loved ones overcome theirs?
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