CoCo's Journey, Chapters 1-10

(Introduction)

Chapter 1

Personal Reflections Before My Cancer Surgery

Unsympathetically, the alarm clock blares. I wake, perplexed. How early is it? Studying the face of the clock, nothing registers. I rub my eyes... Three fifteen am. Then unexpectedly, fear sweeps in and pervades me. Reasons for the early morning hour come flooding into my head. Surgery is only five hours away.

Stubbing a toe on my way downstairs, I catch myself before falling. My legs wax unsteady. Rounding the corner to the kitchen, I turn on the lights and see my note. There is no coffee in the maker and I cannot have a cup today. Grrr. My shoulders shrug. I have nowhere else to go but to the kitchen table, where I sit. There in the window is a reflection of a woman who doesn’t really look like me—and yet I know that it is. How did I get here, in this place, in this predicament? I arrive at no answers.

Thinking back to two months ago, it started with a dull ache, maybe a fullness. My mind is uncertain. Then it grew, maybe even transformed. The dull ache became a painful discomfort, and the discomfort became consuming. At least that’s how I remember it. Imagine that, not wanting to eat. It didn’t make sense then, but it makes a lot more sense now.

A visit to my doctor. A CT scan and blood testing. Now I’m getting ready for surgery. They haven’t even figured out what’s wrong yet, except that there is a mass. I try to recall what my surgeon said about the mass. Why didn’t he just tell me what it was? Or did he? I suddenly think I am going insane from the lack of answers.

My head lowers and then I reach down and touch my abdomen. It feels hard. My head shakes and I am overwhelmed. Fear overtakes me. A tear falls from my eye. I am scared my mind will wander to bad places if I don’t get up and do something else, so I stand. 

My husband suddenly strolls in. He should be asleep, but at times, he doesn't listen to me. I love him anyway. I cannot hide my emotions from this dear man as he knows me too well. No words are exchanged. Without asking, he walks up and his strong arms encircle me. Though he doesn’t know it, that is just what I was hoping for, and what I needed. Or maybe he did know. His loving hug reminds me of my situation, of what I am trying to forget, that I am actually in need of help. After two minutes and twenty tears, he lets go, raises his hand up and wipes away the moisture from my eyes. His head now bends down and kisses me on the forehead. Those blue eyes of his look bloodshot. Still no words are exchanged.

I head up to the bathroom for a shower, where I drop my robe. There in the mirror is the belly that at one time was flat, but now reveals whatever is mysteriously growing inside of me. I want it out of there so badly. What is that mass? Why won’t they tell me exactly what it is? Are they hiding something or do they really not know what it is? Those same questions keep haunting me. I cannot figure it all out right now.

After getting dressed, we climb into the car and ride with a few token words. Fear is mounting in me as we close in on the hospital. Yes, I want whatever is in there out. And yet strangely, I don’t really want to know what it is. But if they take it out, I will know. And then I wonder if I will be able to handle the diagnosis. Can I face the realities? There is so much confusion swirling about. Going to the hospital is harder than I thought it would be.

Arriving, I change into the gown and the anesthetist walks in and starts my IV. My best friend and my pastor both show up to pray with me. But for some odd reason I cannot hear the words they are uttering. My mind is singularly focused on what will happen in the next hour, not on the prayer. What did they pray? And maybe more importantly, how will God answer those prayers?

Eventually I end up in the operating room, that place that I have longed for, and yet that place I have feared. The moment is upon me. They ask me my name for the thousandth time, before placing something over my nose that smells of plastic. My head is not clear from the cocktail they injected into my veins. Yet, I am actually thankful for that, so I don't get sick. Finally, they ask me if I have any other questions and I shake my head no. One final tear makes its way down my cheek. The anesthetist wants me to count.

One. Two. Three. Four… Fiveeee….. Sixxxxxx……… Seve   

Chapter 2

I hear my name called, but I don’t recognize the voice. There it is again. I open my eyes and before me is a face. Unfamiliar. Everything seems blurry. There is a mask. Why are they saying my name?  

Suddenly, my belly twinges. And then a whisper is heard. Saying what? The fog surrounding must be blocking my hearing. I think I am lost. But miraculously, my surroundings slowly but certainly clear a touch. A small sense of familiarity arises. I know this place. Wasn't I just here?

Minutes pass. Unexpectedly, more pain in my stomach. My head starts spinning this time. I close my eyes. But then the bells and whistles start and more unfamiliar voices. I hear my name again. My eyes spring open. Someone is looking down at me.

What’s that? A hand shaking me. Why? They are telling me to breathe. Am I not breathing? Suddenly like cold water on my face, my memory stirs and a sense of deja vu awakens. Aren't I having surgery? Maybe I'm getting getting ready for that and this will all be over soon. 

I hear something familiar. Is that my husband? I will ask him when are they going to operate. No one else will talk to me. On asking him, he tells me the surgery is over too. Is that possible? His calm words say yes, though I remain the eternal skeptic.

Arriving in some new room, the world evolves into a space that makes more sense. There are IV poles, family I know, and some nurse—though for the life of me I cannot remember her name. The pain in my belly ramps up. I am definitely more awake--and alive. I guess I should be thankful for that. Looking out the window, I see the sun has gone down now. Perhaps it is night. Maybe I should just go to sleep. 

The supposed night remains a mystery. I only remember someone coming in and placing something on my arm and squeezing. And they keep insisting I take deep breaths. I wish they would stop that. I look over and there is Mike soundly asleep. How can my husband close his eyes right now?

Before I know it, the sun is bursting into my window. It is certainly the next day. My mind is emerging from the fog. I recognize where I am when an important thought pops into my mind. What did they find at surgery? Or do I want to know that? Maybe I don't really want to know all the answers right now. Let's let surgery remain a mystery. 

Ten minutes later, the door opens and in walks a group of doctors. I guess surgery can't remain a mystery forever. There, in the middle of the entourage is a man I know--my surgeon. A cold shiver passes through me.

And after a minute he utters the word—cancer. Confusion and fear sweep through me. Nothing else registers. I can only look over at my Mike, hoping that he can make all of this just go away.

Chapter 3

Coco gazed blindly out the window while the drops of rain clouded her view. The trees passed by in a blur and a thousand thoughts swirled around in her head. It was difficult to concentrate on any one thought. Confusion stifled that concentration. The rabbit trails abounded, leaping across her mind, forcing every facet of her life to be visible in just seconds. Her eyes shifted down towards her lap when it all became too overwhelming. Her head shook. Reflections of her conversation with her physician now barged in and consumed her. It seemed unavoidable. But then she convinced herself she couldn't go there--at least not now. So, she opted to shift her focus to a happier subject--her daughter.   

Kate, her oldest, was only four months from her wedding date. The young man she had chosen was a delight—a true virtuous man. Then like an interruption, her mother-of-the bride dress flashed into her mind. Maybe it will need to be refitted… Maybe it won’t. She couldn’t resist a silent laugh. And then all the wedding plans and dates streamed through her organizing mind like a ticker tape. Every hope she clung to about the pending wedding day festivities said she had to remain engaged with her daughter while the planning process was still ongoing—even it was tainted by whatever was coming on the horizon. A feeling of resolve now welled up and pervaded her. Determination grew. What would it be like to walk down to the front of the church wearing a wig? I will not let that ruin my daughter's day! Maybe I will be a redhead, smirking. She made the decision right then and there, that this cancer would not destroy this precious time where she could walk side by side with her only daughter. It would not control her life—at least not all of it.

And then the idea of grandchildren popped into her mind. I want to see them. She was hoping for some—or maybe a lot. She wanted them—and the sooner the better. But then questions appeared inside. Would she get to know them? Would she get to wrap her arms around them or converse with them? The hope for these yet unformed, unnamed, unconceived grandchildren had been growing ever since her Kate had made the announcement of her engagement—and the cancer made that hope grow even faster. She would step into this foray with all the fortitude she could muster.

“Is everything ok?” she heard with a quiet tone. 

Turning her head, she saw Mike. A smile spread across her face. Something about that man brought a calmness to her. He always had—like he could fix anything. Could he fix this? Maybe, maybe not. But even if he can’t, she was certain he would walk with her through everything—good and bad. She was happy about that—and happy how he had stayed with her during the last three trying days in the hospital.  

“I’m fine,” thinking back on the day they met so many years ago. Almost thirty years had come and gone since they walked down the aisle. A vivid remembrance of the day her father walked her down the center of that church back in Georgia. It had been a cool fall day—a day that changed her life forever—in a glorious way. This man had been by her side through all the good days and all the testy days. But then, as she pondered the cancer, he had never been by her with something as large as what she was facing now. Health had been so easy up to this point. But the words percolated up, when he had said: “In sickness and in health.” She believed those words. A peace washed over her.

“I love you Mike.”

“Sometimes I'm not sure why,” chuckling.

“Sometimes I'm not sure either,” smiling at him. “But I want to thank you for staying with me.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Chapter 4

Scooting off the elevator, Coco sensed the fear mounting up inside, as if she were stepping onto a scary ride at the fairgrounds. This office represented something of significance, a beginning of a new world, a reality check, a reminder of how fragile her life really was. She took a deep breath, worked to shrug off her thin emotions, and hid the trepidation--at least in front of all these people.

Standing at the check in, feeling the metal staples on her belly, she thought of the metal bumps as something like icing over the top of a trying event. And the resulting scar would not be a post-it note of fear, but a beautiful tattoo, and a tool for teaching. So she asked, what will it teach me? That seemed unclear for now--though it was getting clearer by the day. Even in the two weeks since her surgery, strength had grown inside her soul. There had been tangible positive leaps. More inner determination, perhaps. Her prayer life had taken on a whole new meaning—it rolled non-stop—her war room was fully activated. The threat of losing her life, of not seeing future grandkids, had forced her to reorganize her priorities and made her emphasize pieces of her life that had up until now been allowed to atrophy.

“Mom,” she turned.

“Kate! What are you doing here?”  

“I wanted to be with you and Dad when you talked with the doctor. And an extra pair of ears can't hurt. So, Dad told me what time to be here. I hope that's ok,” her daughter said before hugging her.

"I'm glad you're here."

Going in to see the doctor, they removed all the staples first before the real conversations began. As they settled in, the doctor went one by one through all of the aspects of the coming chemotherapy, including how they would pour the chemo drugs directly into her belly. None of it sounded good, but none of it would get her down either. All these temporary sufferings would be fairly short-lived—and they would actually be investments to find a future. Her shoulder length hair would grow back, and she would simply wiser about the crowds she wandered through.

But as she sat there in the room that day with her family and the medical team, it struck her how fortunate she was to be here right now, with these people. Her husband had a firm grip of her right hand and her daughter, on the left. She could be alone. Yet she wasn’t. She could be a widow or divorced, or her daughter could live half a world away—and she had chosen to live here. Her daughter’s future husband was also employed here in the community which would give even more support. She had a physician that she had confidence in and a medical system that offered her all the options she might need going forward. And she had her faith. It was all good.

Considering everything facing her, she realized that she could use this cancer to become bitter and sad and introverted, or she could use it as a conduit to grow and serve those around her. And at that moment, she decided to do the later, to serve and grow. She would not waste this cancer. It would not own her, though it would inevitably influence her—but hopefully for good and not for bad.

Walking out to her car, her husband offered to take the three of them to lunch—in the middle of the week. How scandalous! And yet how sweet! To be loved is an amazing gift. In the midst of her turmoil, her mind shifted and she saw this life-threatening diagnosis as a gift and not a curse. How would she use it? She asked herself that as she climbed into the car. The cancer may seem like evil, but in some sense it was good—no matter what was thrown her way. In the meantime, savoring a meal and time and conversation with the ones she loved the most would be the plan for the day. Everything else would become known in due time.  

Chapter 5

Coco spotted her out of the car window, wishing in some ways that it was dark outside. Her best friend Jennifer drove up from the traffic-laced street to offer some needed advice. And she needed some advice--and maybe courage as well. She knew it would take her friend to find that courage.

A kaleidoscope of thoughts were flooding her mind. This trip to the store was just kind of surreal in some ways. A wig. Really? And yet this trip was important--and she knew it. The cancer was not her fault. Some things in life couldn't be overcome. It was simply time to purchase a wig--and she knew she needed to get over it.

What kind of wig would she get? She wondered about that. I could be a blonde. But then she laughed and realized that was not who she was. She was a brunette. Always was. Always would be. And that is what her husband married. 

Looking around the parking lot, no other familiar faces were around. With sunglasses and her wide brim hat, she climbed from the driver’s side and headed towards Jennifer’s car.

Her hair had always been her pride. From the time she was little, she had always had very full head of hair. Naturally curly. A darker shade of brown with just a hint of amber, and very little gray mixed in--up to this point. When she pondered it, she realized she loved her hair--a lot--maybe too much. Her hair was her persona, her identity, and she feared what the loss of it would do to her, to her confidence, to her marriage. Will it affect him? She knew the answer to that. It would never affect him. He was the steady rock--and she knew he loved her--and always would.

“How are you Jennifer?”

“I'm great. And you?”

She hesitated. "Truthfully?"

"Yes. Truthfully," turning her head at an angle.

"It's a struggle being here today. But thank you my dear friend for coming," before she hugged her.

As the two of them talked, her fears calmed over what was about to happen. The store became less foreboding the longer they remained inside. It somehow felt right. And she knew she needed to get this done. Because in just three short weeks, her hair would be tumbling onto the ground—whether she wanted it to or not. It would fill the drain in the shower, coat her clothes, and adorn her sofa. It would theoretically be everywhere. But the reality check in her told her it would be alright. Vanity never brought her anything in life but arrogance. Vanity of vanities—that verse suddenly popped into her head. Humble pie could be yet another opportunity to grow.

I will try not to shed a tear. But Lord, you have to help me. I cannot do this on my own.

The store lady brought out multiple wigs of similar color and various cuts. For just a brief second, she looked over at the blonde ones and smirked. Brunette it was. Same length as hers. No one would be the wiser. It would take a week to be ready and then she would come back. Over that ensuing week the medicine that would mow down and cut the roots would have flowed in. Her head shook.

Driving home alone , she pulled up into her garage and her husband was not home from work. Coming in from outside, she strolled into the bathroom and ran her hands through her brown locks. Part of her wanted to be brave, and part of her could not hold back the emotion. Weakness welled up inside. A tear beaded up on her eyelash and hung heavy. Fighting it with all the willpower she had, there was no preventing it from plunging down into the sink. 

Unexpectedly, she heard the garage door go up. Her husband was home. She wiped her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and walked outside to meet him. But what she really wanted at that second, was an opportunity to be alone, to reflect, and to cry.  

Chapter 6

The cavernous room was intimidating. She wanted to run away, but couldn't realistically escape. This was that place and that day she had been dreading. And her confidence was unquestionably wavering from her vivid imagination. 

Coco stood there considering the day—and the room in front of her—the chemotherapy suite. She wished she was anywhere but here. Inhaling deeply, she thought, you can do this. Panning the room, she forced enough resolve to tiptoe back towards her designated spot for the day. As she trekked across the room, she wondered about what the next eight hours would hold—and about what her chemotherapy experience would be like. There was that word again—chemotherapy. What would it be like? She couldn’t recall many of the side effects that her doctor had mentioned—except one. Abdominal pain. How bad will it be?

“My name is Claire, I will be your chemotherapy nurse.”

Startled from the voice, she looked up. Before she spoke to this stranger, she studied the woman in front of her. Fear coursed through her veins. Who is this woman? I hope a friend. She didn’t know. Part of her knew that she would eventually get to know this woman with the smile—and trust her—hopefully. But could she? Trust might be hard—particularly since this stranger was going to be pouring strange poisons into her belly. Should I let you do that? She shrugged her shoulders.

“Nice to meet you Claire.” But she was fighting her fears.

After switching into her gown, she laid down on the bed and her best friend Jennifer walked up. This was her most precious friend—save her husband--and she knew it. A once in a lifetime find. Jennifer had asked, and even begged, if she could stay with her for the day. And Coco had secretly hoped she might offer—though she could never have asked. But her friend extended the offer. And she wanted the companionship, and in reality, craved it. So she reached over and held Jennifer’s hand and thanked her for coming. 

Over the next thirty minutes, IV lines went in, and fluids started dripping. But what were they dripping? Probably just some “pre-stuff.” But the details of that didn’t seem so important.

“Thank you Jennifer for staying with me,” she said looking up at her.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

As the two of them talked, more and more medicines were pushed into her IV, and the surroundings turned to blurriness. There were now two Jennifers—or so it seemed. Whatever the drugs were, they were certainly controlled substances, and not medicines you would take before driving. The world became hazy.

And just as her drowsiness hit a crescendo, a big, important looking bag came in. It was filled with clear fluid. She surmised it must be the real “stuff”, the raison d'etre for the day. It had labels and warning signs all over it. But her eyes couldn’t focus enough at this point to read the print. Somehow at that moment, she realized that all of this around her was real. She had cancer. She was in a fight for her life. What was about to happen would change her life forever, and somehow she felt helpless to stop it. It was a needed cleansing, a purging as she saw it, of all those bad little evil cells floating around inside of her belly. They would need to be killed—and this was the ticket to that event—even if it was going to be exceedingly difficult. Part of her wanted to get up from the chair and run, part of her knew she needed to take her medicine. It was not a choice, it was now her destiny.

The nurse got ready to push the start button.

“Claire, would you wait one second?” And then as Claire nodded, she asked, “Jennifer would you pray for me?”

“I would be honored.”

They gripped their hands tightly together and prayed. Coco felt the anxiety begin to wane. Maybe that was from the medicine. Maybe it was from the prayer. Either way, she sensed a peace roll through her letting her know that she could endure, that she would make it to her daughter’s wedding, that she would see her grandchildren someday. This was a fight she was involved in, but she didn’t really know what the outcome would be. To win it would take trust—and good fortune—and the Lord’s blessing. And today’s step into chemotherapy was a very big step of faith. 

When Jennifer said Amen, Coco looked up at Claire and nodded. “I’m ready.”

The medicine left the bag, dripped slowly through the line, and filled up her belly. Her eyes closed and she drifted off to sleep.  

Chapter 7

Two weeks flew by since the first treatment. The anticipated abdominal pain from the chemotherapy was not a ten. Maybe a four. Pleasant? No way. Tolerable? Coco had to think about that one. Could she do it again? Her resolve said yes. Her desire said no. But fortunately her resolve was stronger than her desire—at least today. It was time to start the morning. 

Cold defined the walk. A stiff breeze rattled the bare trees. A chill registered in her bones. Her walk seemed tougher than normal, and longer. In fact, when she looked at her watch, she realized it took eight minutes longer than normal. What had become of her routine pace? She knew the answer to that one.

Chemotherapy. 

Fatigue had become the new her. But she was not daunted. She would simply work harder for each mile—and that was ok.

Coming back, she found that the house was empty, as her husband had left for the day. With water in hand, she headed upstairs for her rinse off. Dropping her robe, the hot steam coming from the shower enticed her in. A fog had settled onto the bathroom mirror and the moist heat felt scrumptious.

Standing under the water jet, her eyes closed in bliss. A peaceful moment. Several minutes of calm and she lathered up her hair, only to let the hot water stream like a luscious summer shower over her head. Suds rolled down and coated her skin. For ten delightful minutes, she remained motionless and savored the isolation. 

Eventually, she began to focus on the upcoming day and decided this was not going to be a cancer day. It was her day. Coco's day. The cancer may own a piece of her life, but it would not own today's pieces. That was how she saw it. There would be no chemo and no blood work. Nothing but her own affairs. She would go to the grocery store, have lunch with Jennifer, and then prepare dinner for her husband. Maybe even a glass of wine.

Recharged and excited, she turned off the shower. When her eyes began to clear, she noticed that the water was standing in the shower basin. There were two inches of soapy, cloudy fluid surrounding her ankles, like a moat around towers. As she knelt down, she rubbed her eyes and touched the shower floor. There, to her dismay, she found a large collection of her hair blocking the outflow.

Reality was addressing her. The physician's words were now ringing prophetic. Her hair was coming out--in clumps--big clumps. It looked as if someone had taken a weed eater and taken a whack—or so it seemed. All of it appeared to be in the drain. Immediately, she reached up and touched her head. Running her hands through her hair, she found plenty still left--at least by feel. But as she pulled her hands down from her scalp, they were coated with long strands of brown locks. It was not what she wanted to see. 

Stepping from the shower, she wiped down the foggy mirror and looked. No question. She still had hair. But it looked thinner. No major gaping holes yet, but intuitively, that would come over the next few days. Somehow, she forgot about the dinner tonight, her lunch with Jennifer, her list for the grocery store. This cancer does own your day. There was no escape. 

Walking into the closet, she opened the box. And there it was. Her new look. Her new hair.

She pulled the wig out and studied it. Then dropping it back in the box, she pulled out her smart phone and looked up the number to her hairdresser. She would add on one additional trip for the day. Her head would need to be shaved. No one would be the wiser. She hoped. After a weak second, she got dressed and decided she could tackle this too.

She placed the wig box in the back of the car and drove off.

Chapter 8

She looked in the mirror. A reflection from the baldness. To her, an ugly reminder of a journey. A picture that told the story, five weeks from surgery, three weeks from chemotherapy, and two months from perfect health. Why me? 

At least now, her pain had resolved. She could walk and eat again. But she still battled sadness. It was hard to be upbeat. The chemotherapy suite still flashed too clearly in her mind. She would be back there in two very short days. Is it already that time again? It was… And it was time to be strong, and a time to be resilient. Closing her eyes, she took a moment to pray. And then without looking back, she placed on her wig and turned to go.

Pulling up to the cancer center, the parking garage was no longer a foreign place. In fact, it was beginning to be too familiar. Every parking place was bringing back flashbacks of former visits. Another deep breath. Calm your heart. You can do this. She climbed from the car, searching for some confidence—a warrior heading to battle. But deep down, she knew she was fragile. 

She got checked in. The necessary exam was done and then she dressed. Her heart was now racing like the wings of a humming bird. What was the news she was about to hear? It was time for “the talk”. Her realtime update. Where was she in the journey at the end of chapter one? What did the first chemotherapy do? She wanted to know... She didn’t want to know... She could hardly breathe.

“Coco, I am so proud of how you are doing,” her physician said.

“Do you think so, Dr. Michaels?”

“Let me just walk you through everything. Your blood work is excellent. The white blood cells that fight your infections did go down a little bit a week ago but they have now fully recovered. It seems that from what you have told me your nausea was minimal and that the abdominal pain you had was tolerable… That is what you said, right?” Coco responded with a nod.

“But the important thing is this,” he said reaching out to hold her hands. “Your CA 125 has plummeted.”

“What does that mean?” she said.

“Well, if I've never talked to you about CA125, I apologize." he said scratching his head. "Let me put it this way, to help you understand. I will paint an analogy, to make all of this a little clearer. CA 125 is a cancer blood test. And there are many blood tests that tell stories about us. For instance, when you were pregnant, you made a unique substance that was found in your blood known as the pregnancy test. So someone could tell you were pregnant even without an exam. Well in some cancers, that same thing can happen. Cancers can sometimes make proteins that let us know they are there even if we can’t see them or feel them. The ovarian cancer protein called is CA 125 and it should be under thirty-five. When I met you, yours was 1276. That is a pretty high number and reflective of what we found surgically with your cancer. Since that time, you have had one surgery and one chemotherapy out of six. And today your CA 125 has dropped down to an amazing fifty-three. What that says to me is that we are having a very significant impact on your cancer. At this rate, you may well have a perfectly normal number by next cycle of chemotherapy. And the quicker it goes to normal, the better your chances are of a cure… And that’s what we are after, right?”

Coco was struggling to retrieve her words. It was part confusion, but mostly elation. Suddenly she reflected back to the bald head she had seen in the mirror this morning. Is this news worth that picture? She knew the answer to that. But at the moment she had forgotten to breathe. A thousand thoughts were being processed in rapid sequence. The bald head was worth it. Bald was suddenly beautiful--not ugly. The abdominal pain was unquestionably worth it. All of what laid in front of her somehow seemed doable. Temporary pain and suffering had a tangible goal, a gorgeous endpoint. Maybe she would see the grandkids someday. But until then, that test she learned about today called CA 125 would become a very big focal point in her life. She would live for it, breath for it, and find a way to crush it if she could. Less that thirty-five, that is what he said. That will be my prayer.

“Yes, that is what we are after,” she responded after the delay.

“Then you can breathe now.” Dr. Michaels leaned over and offered a hug. She was ready for chapter two. It would all start again the day after tomorrow—but this time with more hope than the last.

Chapter 9

How to Meet a Friend (In the Midst of the Storm). Chapter 9; Coco's Journey

This time the parking garage did not trigger a racing heart, or evoke panic, or churn up fear, or create a desire to run—like it had three weeks ago. The chemo suite was not quite as frightening. And the word chemotherapy came attached with prior experience. It was not so unknown. Feeling the elevator surging up, Coco reflected about her CA 125 blood test. It had plummeted, breathing hope into her troubled soul. It made all this seem doable.

Switching gears from wife and mother and friend to patient, she made it over to her chemo bed for the day. She came alone. This day would be a solo act. But that was ok; she was stronger now. Her wig was on. Her prayer partners would be at work and her husband was coming later. It was all good.

By three, she woke from a medicine-induced nap. Her mind clung tenaciously to a dreamy state, like a fog had settled over her view of the world. But she didn’t care. A fog was good on a day like today. 

“Hello,” she heard the soft voice say. Turning, she saw a woman with an IV hanging from her arm. The woman had not been there when she had fallen asleep. “Is this your first time?”

Why is she talking to me? Coco didn’t actually want to talk right now. And her mind was hardly clear. She wanted to sleep. But the woman asking was ten feet away and it would be hard to ignore her. And to do that would be rude. So finally she said, “Yes… No…” She shook her head. “What I mean to say is that this is my second treatment… How about you?”

The woman smiled. “I’ve been in this chair off and on for three years now. Today is my fiftieth treatment anniversary if you will.”

Fifty? Really? Can people take fifty treatments? Studying the stranger, she couldn’t help but focus on her smile. 

“My name is Coco Vin,” she said softly.

“And I am Marcia Covington.”

“Marcia, what they are treating you for—I mean if that’s not too nosey?”

“Not at all. I don’t mind talking about it. I have ovarian cancer.”

Fear spread through her. Is this what happens in ovarian cancer? “I do too,” she said reluctantly. There are other women in this world with my diagnosis?

“Is yours genetic?” Marcia said.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Do you have the BRCA gene?”

“No idea what that is?”

“Really? BRCA is the gene that causes ovarian cancer. I have it. I inherited mine from my father... You’ve never heard of it?”

“Never.”

“Well I hadn’t either. But I know all about it now. And so does my family. Two of my three children inherited it from me. So they are at risk as well, and their kids may be too… Anyway, enough of that. When were you diagnosed Coco?”

“My diagnosis was given to me just about eight weeks ago. I’ve had surgery and one chemotherapy since then. Today is my second. And I seem to be hanging in there. At least for now. My doctor says I am progressing nicely. How about you?”

The woman hesitated. “I’m not. I’m three years into my cancer. And I sometimes feel like I live here. But that’s ok. I’m alive and I have my family. At the present time, my treatment is stabilizing me. My CA 125 has been about the same for several months now,” she said as Coco thought about what that meant. And then Marcia paused. “But in the end,” now looking down, “I am not going to beat the cancer”. Then making eye contact again, “I don’t say that for pity. It’s just the truth. I am still very blessed. I learned a long time ago I was not going to win this battle, but God has been gracious to me. And I am still reasonably strong and will fight this for as long as I can… After all, I’m holding out for grandchildren someday,” now smiling.

Thinking about this woman’s story, it was hard not to have pity on her. And it was hard not to be a wakeup call for herself. Coco recognized that in her own case, she didn’t know what the outcome would be. And this woman already knew, and it wasn’t going to be a favorable. Yet she seemed so brave—and so upbeat. How does she do that? Her fight was still in her. She wondered if she could be so brave if her circumstances deteriorated and she was told she was dying. Could she find that resolve? She didn’t know. 

She needed to know this woman better. Maybe God dropped her into in her lap for a reason. Someone who could teach her how to be brave—or heaven forbid, how to face death.

“Marcia, maybe we could get together sometime and have lunch?”

Chapter 10


The Mother-of-the-Bride Dress Fits Just Fine. Chapter 10; Coco's Journey

The wedding was just a month away and Coco’s heart pounded joyfully. Her daughter! Getting married! That was so cool... 

And then her unrelenting doubts crept in. Could she pull it off? With a little help from her friends—perhaps. She would at least be there that day. Nothing could keep her away—well almost nothing. But what about chemo side effects? She was convinced they could be controlled (well some of them, as she reached up and felt the wig). The aches or pains could be overlooked too—and if not, there would be wine at the reception. But she didn’t want to do too much of that. A clear head was paramount. This would be a day to cherish. The event was within her grasp; and she wanted to savor it like a great Cabernet. 

Over the last two trying months, staying involved with the wedding plans had certainly helped maintain some sanity in the midst of the turmoil. But she had required help. There was no way to get this all done by herself. And her daughter Kate had stepped up. The pride she felt about how this little girl had grown up into this beautiful and responsible young woman made her beam. So many of the preparations, and the planning, had been handed over to her—including the final details regarding the wedding ceremony, the photographer, the flowers, her own wedding dress, and even the food at the reception. Kate had run it like a quarterback. But then as Coco thought about it, that had just been inevitable—given the diagnosis—given the fatigue.

She and her daughter arrived to meet with the seamstress. The wedding dress needed a few tiny last seconds alterations—and the mother-of-the-bride dress—needed a major overhaul. There would have to be some serious fitting adjustments. In the last three months, she had lost twelve pounds, and that drop came in at a whopping ten percent of her total body mass. She knew that. A big question mark hovered over whether this same dress could even be used at the moment. Somehow she questioned that. But even with the question mark, one thing was certain, they were going to try. This dress had been SO expensive. It would have to work. 

The last time she had slipped on the blue taffeta gown was about four weeks prior to her diagnosis. At that time, she had a belly—from cancer—sticking out—and to think she thought it was just an age thing. She knew better now. And somehow in an operating room, she converted back to a relatively flat tummy. Like a tummy tuck—only it wasn’t plastic surgery. Imagine that, she thought as she rubbed her belly. The initial fitting had been no more than an exercise in futility.

Boy how life changes.

Stepping out of the changing room, the seamstress showed no emotion. Coco studied her. She could only imagine how many women had walked out of this very changing room expecting this seamstress to make them look fabulous. And she knew she was no different. She wanted the same, yet somehow she believed she could not look fabulous. Could she pull it off for her? She wondered. Something major would have to give if this dress was going to work. She felt the material hanging down everywhere. Curtain arms. No waist. Longer than it used to be. Twelve pounds on some people may not make a difference, but twelve pounds here—all the difference in the world.  

She didn’t know if she should laugh or cry at herself. The sight in the mirror—well she didn’t know how to describe it. For just a fleeting second, she fought back the tears that were welling up. So much material draping over her skin. There was no tailor fitting to this piece of cloth. This formally cute dress had morphed into a gunny sack—a burlap concoction that covered her over like a tent. 

“Mom, you are going to look great.”

“Somehow, I doubt that. I may have to find another dress unless they can work magic.” And with that the seamstress immediately cut in to let her know that this could all be fixed—easily. Coco turned and gazed down as she was pinning the dress. She’s a good liar. But then she decided to let that go. If they think they can fix it, then so be it. And if I can wear a wig, I can wear a former gunny sack turned mother-of-the-bride dress—with a pound of fabric cut out of the sides. Life was now different. It was all about changing things along the way. And without change, her mantra said there would be no growth.

She would survive this change as well.

Chapter 11


Why Can't the Bride Give a Toast? Chapter 11; Coco's Journey

Just under a hundred people filled the room. She gazed around the banquet hall; all the people Coco loved were here—some coming from as far as a thousand miles away. Her daughter Kate looked exquisitely beautiful in her red and white cocktail dress. And the smile decorating her face—nothing short of genuine—reflecting a glorious version of happiness. She wasn’t certain if she had ever seen her daughter so joyful in all of her days.

The salmon was cooked to perfection. And the dessert—positively decadent. But the blessing? There was no lingering pain or nausea quashing the night. The thought of cancer had passed from the forefront of her brain—even if for a moment.

As she was talking with the mother of the groom over a chocolate tart, she heard the clicking of the glass. Turning, she realized, her husband was kicking off the toasts. He had somehow snuck to the podium without her knowledge. When he began to talk, his words were mesmerizing, and captivating. The stories flowing from his lips were as a treasure in her heart, spoken of their only daughter. So many beautiful details of her younger years were resurrected—as a child, as a teenager, and now as an adult. There was no greater culmination she could have had that night, watching her daughter as they shared the special family moment. She place her hands over her heart.

Thirty minutes into the toasts, Coco rotated around to say something to a friend. When she turned back, Kate had unexpectedly stood and walked off towards the podium. What are you doing? A soft undertone of voices buzzed the room until she tapped the microphone. 

Kate held her hand up to quiet the room. “I know what you’re asking... What is Kate doing up at the podium?” She swept her bangs from her eyes. ”Have you never seen the bride at the podium?” smiling. “Well if it makes you feel better, I haven’t either. Perhaps it is a breach of protocol. And please, please, do not tell Emily Post that I did this… But sometimes you just have to do something unexpected to keep the world guessing, and the only way to make that happen is to stand up and take over this stage. So that’s what I’m doing… And it’s my party and I’ll do that if I want to.”

Then she turned towards her mother.

“Weddings are obviously all about the couple—or maybe all about the bride. And since this is Jeff's and my night, I wanted to do something a little different,” and then her voice cracked. “Mom, I know you are probably going to be mad at me for doing this, but it is important to me.” Kate reached up and wiped her right eye. “Four months ago next week, my mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. And I just want to say what an amazing woman she has been through all of this. Her diagnosis came just when we were in the midst of planning everything—every event, every meal, every invitation. And I know she has struggled with fatigue and nausea. But you would never know that. She stayed fully by my side in all of the planning and work and missed very few beats.

"I have learned a lot from just watching her. Things I should have learned as a child, but I was probably too stubborn to listen. But I am learning them now, Mom," she said connecting her eyes to her mother's. "I have learned how she is so amazing even in this time of suffering. And I know I will never be as polished in life as she is, but I want to try. She is presently teaching me the art of placing other people first, even in the midst of her cancer. I have learned how to be strong when that screams impossible. I could stand here at this podium and name fifty thousand tidbits that I have come to observe over the last four months—and even now, even tonight, but I won’t do that. 

“Jeff and I talked about this and decided we wanted to share the spotlight of this night with my mom, not to take away from anyone else in this room, mind you. Because all of you are important to us--Jeff's parents especially and my loving father. But bear with us just a moment. My mom has given me her all from the time I was born, up until this night. And I wanted to focus on her spiritual gifts to me given her circumstances… She is truly my hero. She always was, and she is especially now. She is a true inspiration and an example of life. They could write a book on you, Mom,” she said pointing at her mother.

“So, thank you for all you have given me—and I am not talking about things. Thank you for giving me time, for giving me an example, for loving me when, I know at times, it has been probably very hard. And I want you to know now in front of all these witnesses, that I will give back to you, whatever is needed as you travel down this road,” Kate said hesitating, tipping her head down. “My prayer is that you will win this battle. But whatever the outcome is, I will never leave you alone. Thank you Mom for everything. Thank you Dad for loving us. Thank you Mr. and Mrs Milliken for giving me your son Jeff.” With that she raised her glass. “To my mom. I love you.”

Chapter 12


How Precious is Each Day? Chapter 12; Coco's Journey

People were filing in the church. One by one the rows were beginning to fill. There was an audible hum emanating from the sanctuary. Coco knew that the time was drawing nigh. 

And she was very much thankful to be alive. 

Her daughter Kate was hiding away in the dressing room with her attendants. The veil would soon be in place. She prayed the day would be everything she had hoped for! 

The temptation was too enticing. She walked back to see her daughter—one last time. 

As she made her way through the door, she scratched her itchy scalp under the wig. And then looking down at her waist line, she smirked. The dress had probably loosened a tiny amount over the last few weeks since her final fitting. But those were small matters. She would not let those tiny issues ruin this one beautiful moment in eternity.

She gazed across the room.

All the bridesmaids were surrounding her daughter. She couldn’t help but smile. And the picture made her see the reality of the day. This young woman, her only daughter, was about to be given away in marriage. Wow. Could it be? How did the years zip past so fast?

And then like an uninvited movie, a glimpse of memorable events that they had shared over their lives popped into her mind. A remembrance of Kate plodding down the stairs, rubbing her sleepy eyes as a child. Where did that one come from? She must have been three at the time. And why that memory? She didn’t know. Then another vision. This time it was from when she had first learned to ride her bike—and then the subsequent fall—all on the same afternoon. Tears were spilt over the scraped knees. The next one brought back a time from just a few years back. The blue dress crossed her mind. The one they agonized over before her senior prom—way too much tension over that one. And then as if the dress event hadn’t been enough, the day she dropped her off at her dorm for the first day of college came blazing back. Can’t go there, she thought. Was that really five years ago? How could time fly by so fast? So many sweet memories fading with time—never to be experienced again.

Why does life have to be so fleeting? Hmmm… Her head shook. When she considered it, she felt like she had let it slip away too easily. So often, without even a thought. But how she wanted them back right now. This very second.

The emotion was too hard to control. Her eyelids felt the weight of the accumulated moisture. And then the tear broke free. It plunged to the floor. Her eyes blurred. So many feelings were swirling around in her head. Sadness had crept in like an awful virus. Sadness that she was losing her Kate. Even though she was losing her for all the right reasons. 

At that second, the gorgeous bride looked across the room. The two of them immediately locked eyes. Communication was being transmitted through a stare—words without speaking. She hoped that her daughter would not perceive the redness casting its tentacles over the whites of her eyes. Perhaps the distance would shroud the image. Yet as they stared, one thing was certain, love flowed across the lines of communication. A powerful emotion. It was a language unique to a mother and daughter. Translated without words. A feeling. A sense. An understanding grasped from a glance.  

All of the visions and thoughts and emotional vacillations occurring happened in five seconds. Maybe even less. A split second? Coco’s mind was like a tornado, spinning, churning, wondering—where did it all go? How did those last twenty-three years disappear into oblivion? Why did it have to be this way? The cancer accentuated all the questions. 

Then a new resolve hit her. Life would be different from now on.

She would consider each day more precious than before. From now on, each twenty-four hours would now hold some special memory, a special thought—because life would not go on forever—or maybe not very long—if the cancer got ugly. Then she erased that last thought. 

Her husband slipped in, tapped her on the shoulder and told her it was time to go. She needed to be escorted down the aisle by their son. And then he told her he would be in soon enough—with the most beautiful daughter that God could have given them. And with that, she smiled one last smile, blew Kate a kiss, and mouthed the words—I love you. Then she turned to go.

Chapter 13

Lunch and Learn. Will You Go? Chapter 13; Coco's Journey

Coco arrived early. A quiet table in the corner. And then dressed in teal, she walked silently through the door. Marcia Covington. A woman she met while receiving chemo. The woman who piqued her interest two months ago in the chemo suite. An ovarian cancer patient like herself. Only further along. A lot further along. A beautiful smile had adorned her face on that initial day, but not now, as she crossed the restaurant. I hope everything is ok. Today, she seemed tired. Was this the same woman she had met two months ago? The eyes said yes. But her face said no.

Before she sat, they hugged. Coco then tiptoed delicately through some opening small talk. She wanted to be sensitive about Marcia's situation. She was losing the battle against cancer. Somehow her intuition could sense that. Marcia had seemed more bubbly on that day in the chemo suite. And her skin had had more color. What had happened in her story, especially the last two months? She had to know.

Coco asked.

“Well it all started,” Marcia opened up. The complicated words crept out—one by one. Over the next thirty minutes the saga was unveiled. Coco hung on every gritty detail. She wanted to learn from this woman's journey. And she wanted to learn from these honest words. But the more the honest words were woven together, and the more the raw tale came from her mouth, the less she found herself desiring to listen. Because each subsequent detail made Coco's fears build. The truth being espoused was hitting too close to home. This woman, whom she had barely known an hour ago—was painting a snapshot of the bad side to cancer—a genuine reality of what life was like when a cancer returned, when it reared its ugly head. That was not the story she wanted today--or any day. And suddenly she was not sure she wanted to be here. 

Coco had never let her mind dwell on the possibility of a recurrence—not consciously anyway. Oh, she acknowledged that at times it could happen. But those had been pushed away into the recesses of her brain. But now they were surfacing. She was seeing a possible reflection of herself. Marcia’s words were tough. And the story unfortunately resonated--more than she cared to admit. My cancer might not go away, she thought.  

A thousand questions were flying through her mind that needed answers. And finally the most pressing one just spilled out. “What has been the hardest part of all of this?” The question was followed by silence. Maybe I shouldn't have asked her that. She debated if that question was too personal. But she couldn't retract the inquiry as it had floated across the table.

And then Marcia looked up at the wall behind her, focusing on something, and then it looked like her face winced in pain. No response came out for the first ten seconds. Slowly her eyes returned and she whispered, “My husband.”

“What do you mean?”

“I see too much sadness in his eyes.”

Coco couldn't speak on that one. The lump in her throat was growing. 

“I feel the suffering in his soul. And that hurts so badly to see him like that. He knows I am dying and is struggling to accept it. And I get that--particularly after forty years together--which doesn't make it easier. He tells me to keep fighting. But I am getting tired of fighting. The resolve I once had… is not there like it was at the beginning. And I know he senses it. So now I see the desperation in the way he looks at me, the way he stares at me. He is sweetest man and I don't want to disappoint him. But when I tell him I am considering giving up this fight, his eyes tear up. What can I say? I am getting weaker and I understand I'm not going to live a lot longer… But he cannot accept that… I fear where his mind will go when I am no longer there with him... He says I am everything to him… He says he will be lost without me… That issue makes me feel guilty, like I have let him down." She shrugged her shoulders. "So that's the hardest part—him watching me die... I am going home. I will not be able to take care of him anymore. And that reality, in light of what he means to me, has been even harder for me than my physical suffering.”

As Coco heard these words, she couldn’t help but feel her heart crumble. Reaching over, she touched her hands. Here she was, a woman at the end of her life and all she could think about was someone else. She wasn’t certain she ever met anyone quite like her. If only God would have brought her into her life earlier...

But He didn’t.

So she resolved, right then, to walk as closely to this woman as she could in her final days—to learn—to understand—to appreciate the gift of life.

A tear fell from her eye and splashed onto her plate.

Chapter 14

When the Finish Line Seems So Close—And So Far.

Five treatments down and one to go. She could almost taste it. Coco recalled every time the nurse had hooked up that catheter attached to her belly. It was never pleasant. But it was never miserable. It was just an investment—in life. A temporary suffering for a hopeful future. And hope was important to her.

She pulled the car out of her garage and drove to meet her doctor. The azaleas were in bloom and the dogwoods were sprinkling the yards. Spring had arrived. A new beginning—for the world—but was it for her? It was just two days before her last set of treatments. What did the future hold?

“Good morning Dr. Michaels.”

“Good morning Coco. It’s great to see you. I hope you are feeling well.”

“Other than some fatigue and a touch of numbness in my fingertips, it is all good. And I’m hoping you are going to tell me the same?” she said with her eyebrows going up.

“Your numbers look great. And you are coming up on the last treatment. After this, I will get some scans, see what your cancer blood test is, and then we will see… But I am very optimistic.”

She studied his eyes. It was important to see if there was truth emanating from them. Or were those just hollow words? 

Thinking back on the last six months, she remembered what a journey it had been. There had been the surgery, the recovery, the fear, the tears, the acceptance, the trepidation, the chemotherapy, all the blood draws, the scans, and probably some events that she had forgotten—either by necessity or by “chemobrain”. It was the long and winding road. 

And somehow as she pondered it all, the finish line seemed so close. She could almost reach out and touch it. 

But then she remembered she was here to discuss her last chemo. There would be some aggravating pain one last time. Bearable, but not fun. And then there would be a scan, a blood draw, and a waiting period to hear the results. All of a sudden, the finish seemed so far away. And what would be there at that finish line? Would there be a sign that said, “the end”? Or would the sign say, “it’s just a break”? Or worse? He might say more treatment was needed. She wondered if she would end up like Marcia who she had just had lunch with last week. Would her cancer give up the fight, or would it fight back? Who would win? Maybe this wasn’t a finish line. Maybe it was just a vacation. But what she was hoping for (with all her soul) was that this was the end. And it would afford her the opportunity to recover and grow hair and get back into life and think and celebrate.

She was glad to be here though, at this place and time, near the end of the marathon. Thinking back through this time, she had lived a lot and learned a lot—and she married off her daughter. She smiled. It had not been an awful time. In some ways it had been a glorious time. Perhaps the wedding had had more meaning now that she had been through this. The precious gift of marriage was even more precious now. And reflecting on her own husband, and the words that Marcia had said over lunch, she wanted to savor the time alone with Mike—and with her family and friends. This malignant event had stretched her and taught her well.

Maybe the cancer had been a blessing. When she analyzed it all, she concluded that It was the tough trials of life that grew her, not the easy ones. That principle was now cemented in her brain. She had always known it superficially, but now she really knew it deeply. Whatever was waiting out there at the “finish line” would be good, whether or not it was good. Because it would test her will and test her faith. It would teach her some new piece of something she didn’t yet know. 

As Dr. Michaels listened to her breath with his stethoscope, she prayed and thanked the Lord for preserving her long enough to meditate over such a moment as this. 

Chapter 15


What Do Dreams Look Like at Three AM?  Coco's Journey; Chapter 15

She was four weeks removed from her final chemotherapy—and hopefully her last. Coco’s appointment was scheduled for 10:15 this morning. In a few hours she would know where she stood with the cancer. The parasite within. 

But there was this long night before the big day. And sleep proved elusive. How could she rest during such a pivotal time as this? And then to make matters worse, a storm swept through at midnight, a lightning show that lit up her walls, casting eerie shadows. Her husband’s heavy breathing reminded her of what deep sleep sounded like—though she couldn’t mimic it for the life of her. He never stirred once, though the ground shook with thunder. How she envied that. But in the end—fatigue overwhelmed her weakened body and she drifted off—at three am. 

A flash of light. 

Then the cold chill followed. There was a mist or a fog hovering over the lights. She found herself in a doctor’s office, but was it hers? She couldn’t recall trekking over here. Yet here she was, in an office, with unfamiliar surroundings, and yet vaguely there was something familiar. She just surmised that this room must be the right place... But it looked so different.

Dreams can be so confusing. 

In he walked. He was not smiling. Immediately she questioned if something was wrong. Her heart rate picked up. Sweat beaded up under her clothes. What was he going to say? Trying to read his unemotional face, anxiety clinched her. And that was tormenting. She needed to know if the news he would offer was good or bad—or worse--ominous. But how would she know unless he talked? And he didn't. He just sat across from her. At first, utter silence. There was no hello or hand shake or smile. Zero emotion. No inkling of what information he possessed. Should I leave? 

Panic.

Though this was her doctor, he looked different. Maybe he was having a bad day. Maybe that is why he wouldn’t smile. But he is not usually that way. Never. At that moment it didn’t connect to her that dreams distort reality. They can be so cruel. But finally he spoke—very quietly--murmuring something about her cancer. There was so much jumbled minutia, and none of it meant anything to her. She turned to look at her husband for help, but he wasn’t there. Where was he? He promised he would come. She searched the room. But he was not found. She had never felt so alone—so scared. This long road she was on was not meant to be traveled in lonely isolation.

Then the doctor said something about her liver. Something about a change of direction. Too much information. Why did she have to face this alone? Then he turned and walked out the door. No looking back. Wait. Come back. But he was gone.  What did he say? Was the last six months for naught? Did none of the chemotherapy work? Where had all the hope gone? A wind blew through her mind and the hope drifted off with it. All of her secret fears were picking and taunting her, taking over the direction of her mind—whispering ideas that simply couldn’t be true. Or were they?

She bolted upright. The curtains came down on the dream. Or was it a nightmare? Was there any truth to it? Her heart pounded out of her chest. Her lungs could not find air. Her nightgown was drenched. She didn’t know if she screamed or not. 

But maybe she did, because unexpectedly, there was a warm touch. 

She felt arms slip around her—warm and loving arms. Reality was returning. The dream—now definitely labeled a nightmare—slipped out of her mind and off into the night. She realized that none of it was true. Her head leaned sideways onto her husband’s shoulder, where he rubbed her back, and whispered, “It’s all right now”. 

This time she savored his strong enveloping hug like there was no tomorrow. There was a protection in that. It provided strength. And she needed strength, for she hated the dream… And then she second guessed herself—was any of it true? She would know in the next five hours.

Chapter 16


How Do You Thank God Enough? Coco's Journey;

In the elevator accompanied by only her daughter and husband, she leaned over and gave them a deep embrace. It was a wonderful moment of joy that could not be contained. Coco's tight hug symbolized the thankfulness she had for their support during her cancer journey--and for the fact that she had arrived at a place such as this.

Remission. 

The word resonated in her mind. Did the doctor really say that? But as she asked her family to verify it, they both acknowledged it with smiles on their faces. Remission. Such a sweet word, and so coveted. She pinched herself. This was not a dream.

Then suddenly a question popped into her mind: “Why me?” It’s not that she didn’t want it to be her, or that heaven forbid she had hoped for anything less. But the question persisted, why me and not someone else? A vision swept into her mind of her friend Marcia Covington—the one dying from cancer. She had not been so lucky. Why wasn’t she in remission? She didn’t know.

The elevator doors slid open. Stepping out, she gazed out over the sea of people waiting for something—appointments, x-rays, blood draws, whatever. When she walked through the lobby her eyes beheld all those souls--scared and bewildered—none of them were different from her. So many bald heads. Scarves. Forlorn expressions. Unspoken suffering. And yet when she observed them, she realized she was one of them. She was on their journey. Her head was bald. She wore a scarf. Her joints reminded her of the chemo. She pondered how many of them were on a road that would yield a happy ending, and how many of them were on one that would not end so well. 

Making it outside to the waiting area, she opted to sit and let her husband and daughter retrieve the car. Though her daughter wanted to stay, she encouraged her to go on. She wanted a solitary moment. And she needed that time. All she had had time for since her glowing report was to cry, but what she wanted to do now was more than that. She wanted to tell God thank you—even though her battle was not yet over.

Looking across the street, she saw the church building. High up on the steeple, the cross reflected the sun’s light. She just stared. And reflected. A man walked in front of her with a young woman helping him down the sidewalk. A single beaded tear welled up and hung in the balance on her eyelid. The two people disappeared inside. 

Her head was drawn back towards the cross. Staring up, she began considering everywhere she had been over the last six months from diagnosis until now. She thought back on all the chemo, and all the times they hooked those needles up to her ports—both in her belly and her neck. There had been so much fatigue and weakness, but nothing that she hadn’t been able to work through. And then there were the blood draws. It seemed like there had been nothing short of a thousand of those. Do I have any blood left? She chuckled. And then there were all the times she had held her breath waiting for her results.

And now the culmination. All of it was not for naught. It was all for something. After all, she had been blessed to witness her daughter’s wedding—even if the dress hung a little bit loosely. That was small matter. 

Wiping the tear away, she now smiled. And then she bowed her head and thankfully prayed while sitting on the bench. There was no end to her saying thank you. A million times would not be enough she realized. She praised the Lord for how He had guarded and protected her, how He had sustained her, and how He had helped her to not focus so much on herself, but on those around her. Her prayers went in a thousand directions, detailing every single place and emotion she had experienced over the last six months. 

Peace washed over her. What she had just offered was not much, but it was what she could offer. It was all she had. How can you ever thank your Sustainer, your Creator, your Father enough? And she knew she could not. But she was content that she could at least give back one small measure of thanks for all the mercy that had been shown to her on the journey thus far.

She couldn’t wait to see what the next chapter would reveal. And right then she opened her eyes and smiling at her was her family, patiently waiting. They smiled as if they understood.

Chapter 17


How Many People Actually Go On Facebook?

The sun peaked in the blinds covering her bedroom window. Her husband had already left, having slipped out to work before six. Morning had arrived. Coco wiped the slumber from her eyes, realizing that she had no scheduled appointments with anyone today. It was time for her—a time to regroup—a time to reflect. 

Yesterday’s conversation with her doctor about remission was still being replayed in her mind. And nothing could wipe the smile from her face. With her robe on, she walked down to grab her morning coffee. As she sipped the Columbian brew, she gazed out the kitchen window, watching the birds on the feeder as they came and went. At one point, a brilliant gold finch sat alone nibbling on breakfast, watching the world go by. She smiled. The morning reminded her of when she was younger and had just returned from college after final exams. Because in those moments, there was a freedom in knowing that all her tests were behind her—just as her cancer test was behind her now. She was still alive—and the future was out there to be discovered.

Eventually Coco made it to her desk and sat down at the computer. There were hundreds of emails to be looked at, and lest she forget—Facebook too. It had been over two weeks since she had last visited the sight. She couldn’t remember if she had ever gone that long in the last five years without catching up. But something at the end of her treatment kept her away. Maybe fatigue. Maybe the unknown of what was going to happen. But there had been something that kept her disconnected from the world… And now, it was time to reconnect. She was determined to get back into her other lives—of friends—of physical activity—of serving. 

Being a recluse was no longer excusable.

Several hours passed by. Three cups of coffee were consumed in succession while working forty-seven emails. And after all that, she made it to Facebook. And then she found the surprise. There staring back at her was her own picture—tired and ragged as she thought the picture looked. It was posted by her daughter. And there Coco was, with her husband, her daughter, and her doctor standing in the office with their arms around each other. And underneath the photo sat the caption, “To my hero. My mother survived surgery, eighteen days in the chemo suite, at least ten doctor visits, three hundred blood draws, and more that I won’t get into. And yesterday was the verdict. She is in remission. Let me say that again because it felt so good. She is in remission. I just want to say publicly that Mom, you are an inspiration, a gift, an amazing person, and a survivor. Dad and I could not be more proud of you. And we are happy that you are sticking around to be with us—and we know that we are not always easy to be with. I love you Mom. We all love you.”

Maybe the fatigue and weakness built up from the last seven months tipped her over the edge. But there in the privacy at her bedroom desk, the tears came rolling down. A deluge of moisture. A catharsis of emotion. An avalanche of thanksgiving. She was alive. She would live to see tomorrow, at least as far as she knew.

And once the cascade of tears dried up, she read the one hundred and twenty-two comments that had followed posted underneath her daughter’s words. The cascade started up again, stronger than before. It was great to be loved, though she felt so unworthy. But then isn’t that love? Never truly deserved, but given as a true act of kindness.

Chapter 18


What Questions Come on the Long Road Back?

Attempting to tie her shoelaces was somewhat harder now than six months ago. She found the process—well—complicated. It took more concentration and certainly more dexterity than she presently possessed. The numb hands made for some clumsy coordination. But Coco wasn’t daunted, it would get better—she knew that.

Opening the front door, she inhaled deeply, stretched and looked out at the brilliant blue sky. It was a summer day brimming over with life. A small breeze drifted through the trees. It was her new beginning--a great opportunity to start back on what would likely be a long road to recovery. Yet her willingness was powerful. And the desire was great... Though her expectations were realistic.

Stepping out onto the street, she turned left and started walking slowly for what would hopefully be a one-mile stroll. It was not going to be glorious or fast, just completed—assuming she could find the strength. One by one she took her measured steps while the shortness of breath controlled her speed. Soon she found herself thinking it was doable. And nothing would dampen her determination. She had on her favorite walking shoes, her new workout shorts, and no hair to contend with under her pink baseball cap.

Rounding the first corner she saw the ball come flying out of a yard at the end of the cul-de-sac. And seconds later she saw the small boy, somewhere around seven years of age, come bounding from behind the hedge to retrieve the errant soccer ball. And when he turned to check for traffic in the street, they caught each other’s eyes. And then his face changed. He just kept staring. What are you looking at? She intuitively read his mind. The puzzled look gave it away.

“Did you lose your ball?” she said breaking the ice.

He did not immediately answer. Then tentatively he broke in, “What’s wrong with you?’

“What do you mean?”

“Why don’t you have any hair?”

She knew that from the mouths of babes came honesty. And she appreciated that. The question may have been uncomfortable four months ago, but not now. She had come to accept who she was, and was proud of what she had achieved. She fully grasped why a little boy would not get the picture of a bald woman walking through his neighborhood. 

“”Oh that,” and then she pulled off her hat and teasingly rubbed her scalp. And then smiling she answered back, “It does look funny, I know. And believe me, I wish I did have hair. But it all came out and I can’t seem to get it to come back.”

“That happened to my dad you know. He says he can’t get his to come back either… Are you related to him?”

She smiled. “Well I don’t know. What’s your dad’s name?”

He turned his head at a funny angle. “Dad.”

“Ok… I’m not sure, but I don’t think he and I are related because I don’t have a brother by that name.”

“Oh well. You remind of him with your head like that.”

Nodding she said, “I understand.” And no sooner did the words come out of her mouth than Coco heard the little boy’s mother calling his name. When she came around the corner, her eyes connected to Coco's. They were acquaintances.

“Coco,” she said followed by a pause. “It’s... great to see you… I see you have met my son Phillip.”

“I did. We were just having a delightful talk.”

“Yeah. I told her she reminded me of Dad because she doesn’t have any hair.”

And with that Coco saw his mother’s eyes grow wide, followed by an awkward silence. The boy seemed totally at ease and proud of what he had said. He was clueless. But not his mother. She turned back to Coco and raised her shoulders and hands before saying, “I am sorry for that.”

“Don’t apologize. He meant nothing by it. And besides, he had honest observations and I would have expected nothing less from a young, curious mind. It was actually a delightful exchange.”

Coco walked across the street and grabbed the soccer ball and threw it back to Phillip.

“Phillip it was great to meet you. And I just want you to know that I, just like your father, hope that one day my hair will grow back as well.” And with that, she headed off down the street. 

Chapter 19

What Happens When Mrs. Kravitz Won’t Shut Up?

Coco laughed thinking about her encounter with the little boy. Honesty is such a beautiful trait—and he possessed it. When she considered her striking appearance, given the baldness, it made her understand where little Phillip was coming from. How many glistening top women were roaming around this neighborhood—sane ones anyway? She was the only one—that she was aware of.

As she replayed the conversation, she turned the next street corner and noticed a woman watering her flowers. She had never seen her before, even though they only lived a few blocks away.  

“Good morning,” Coco said, feeling the shortness of breath. “You have the prettiest flowerbeds.”

“Thank you… They are really pretty this year.” Suddenly the woman stopped, turned her head at a funny angle and said, “Are you ok?”

“Yes. Why?”

“You seem... short of breath. And... Oh… I don’t know,” she said staring.

Coco had just seen that same expression on the last block with the little boy. Been there, done that. Then she smiled. “I assume you are talking about this,” pulling her hat off. “It’s just a... temporary hairstyle,” chuckling.

“Cancer, huh?”

“Yes,” nodding.

"Are you still getting treatment?"

"Just finished last week. And I am out celebrating."

“Congratulations... And..."

"And what?"

"Well I just... just... hope you are doing better than this woman I know.” 

Coco did not respond initially, but it seemed obvious this stranger was waiting for her to ask about the woman she had just mentioned. After a pause, she finally acquiesced, "what kind of cancer does she have?"

“She has ovarian cancer." Then the stranger stepped closer. "And I hate to say this, but she is not doing well. I see her all the time, trying to do yard work and such, but I think she is clueless about what she really has. It makes me so sad how naive she is. I mean come on. She has ovarian cancer. I guess I said that already, didn’t I?" Coco wanted to cut in, but immediately the woman continued. "Anyway… I don’t think anyone has ever survived that deal. Some days I just want to walk up to her and say, give it up honey. There is nothing they can do for you. But just when I think about doing that, she looks at me with her little puppy eyes and I hold back." The woman was shaking her head no. "And I’m not sure if that’s the right thing to do. I think she is just living in la-la land,” now moving closer to Coco. Her voice went down to a whisper. “But then I guess that’s not really my place to say those things. But heavens to Betsy, she ought to just go on the internet and look things up.” Now she was no more than a foot away.

“If I were her, I would just quit—now. It’s not worth going through all the treatment. She’s had surgery and tons of chemotherapy. She probably throws up every day. And after all the chemotherapy she went through, let me just tell you, she just looked awful... Not like you of course," pointing her finger at Coco. "She was sicker than most people I think, probably because of the kind of cancer." Then she looked around like someone might overhear them. "I heard her toenails fell off. And she looks like she lost thirty pounds.” Then suddenly a smile crossed her face. “But you know what, she could stand to lose the thirty pounds, if you know what I mean.” The discouraging woman could not stop talking. 

This is really getting weird, Coco thought. The obnoxious neighbor was resurrecting every fear Coco possessed or had possessed—all of it now came rushing back in. Why is this woman so free with her words—painful as they were? She could not believe that any grown person, or anyone with any thread of kindness, could be so insensitive and stir up the raging battle cancer patients experience—the battle that wants to survive--the battle that looks for hope. But this woman apparently was not like everyone else. She was a Mrs. Gladys Kravitz on steroids. Babbling. Noisy. Uneducated. Thoughtless. And frankly cruel. This conversation needed to end—and it needed to end ten minutes ago. 

It was time to keep walking. This woman, hellbent on destroying everything the morning represented, was not going to destroy any more of it. 

Yada. Yada. Yada. On she went. Empty words, but never-ending words.

Coco snatched up her phone, looked at the blank screen and said, “My phone just sent me a reminder about an appointment. I better get going. Nice talking to you,” when she suddenly turned and walked away.

“I enjoyed talking to you,” the stranger said. “Hey, I forgot to ask, what kind of cancer do you have anyway?” now almost yelling as Coco’s distance grew.

Coco would not turn back.

Chapter 20

What Would You Do with a Beautiful Day at Kiawah?

Coco slipped her shoes off, wiggled her toes in the sand and shuffled down the shoreline. It was a breathtaking sunrise. The morning waves rolled in softly against her ankles, splashing at times up to her knees.  She paused and stared out over the mass of water. Glistening rays bounced off the surf as the sun made its way up over the horizon. Standing still in the blissful moment, she noted the pelicans coming in from her right inches above the waterline in perfect formation. And looking down, she saw the shallow waters teaming with small minnow-like fish darting between fresh seashells and wisps of sand.

She was happy to be here. Her breathing seemed easier this morning. And her stamina was clearly improving.

The beach was hers alone, even if for a moment.

The inspirational view and backdrop grew more mesmerizing with each passing second. A feeling of warmth moved through her as thoughts of thankfulness suddenly permeated her head, thankfulness for life, for family, for the morning--even for her cancer journey. She had survived and come through the ordeal spiritually unscathed—and for that she was amazed. As she stood there, she began to wonder whether if she had seen this sunrise at another time in life before her cancer had entered in, would she have relished it as much? She smiled knowing the answer to that question. 

Surviving this trial had changed her perspective on almost everything.

Life had become more precious. Each breath was more satisfying. Every conversation with family or friends had become more important. Up until now, she had at times, wished her life away—waiting for the next big moment, or the next big event. But during the last six months or so, things were clearly different. There had been a paradigm shift in her life, now that she had seen a glimpse of the jaws of death. And that shift made little things take on new meaning. The little things had become big things. The mundane was now actually important.

As her thoughts culminated, it suddenly drove her to praise. Her hands and voice went up, breaking into “Amazing Grace”. Alone, except for God, she sang without reservation. It was important to her that He heard her above the sound of the crashing water. And she worked to make sure He would. She did not look around to see if anyone was close, somehow it didn't matter. What she was doing would never bring her shame. She wanted to worship. The praise spewed forth like the lava from a volcano. Nothing could contain her joy. 

The words and the tunes carried out over the ocean all the way to heaven. He would hear her; she would make sure of that. Maybe He would smile.

Cancer had made her a more thankful soul. 

Chapter 21

When Does Summer at the Beach Spark Fear? Coco’s Journey;

Rubbing her head, the gritty little bits of stubble were bursting forth like a freshly planted wheat field on the surface of her head—a breaking forth of spring. And it was spring—to Coco. New life. New hope. The testimony her hair revealed was—chemotherapy was all behind her—at least for now. And maybe, just possibly, hopefully forever. But time would reveal that uncertainty. One thing learned from the cancer road was in concrete. This whole cancer adventure had taught her patience—and humility—and a fresh view of life.

Equipped with her sense of momentary hope, she walked the streets of Kiawah’s town center on her summer beach vacation. And there in the heat of the day, she noticed a man pushing a woman in a wheelchair. An unusual couple mixed in with all the young families galavanting around for their summer outings.The temperature that day hovered somewhere around the hundred degree mark. The sweat was dripping from under her arms. Actually, it was pouring out like a faucet. Heat, taking its toll on her—draining what little strength she had built up. But knowing that this heat was temporary--but real, she wondered about the man pushing the woman. The couple disappeared around the corner.

Five minutes later as she was enjoying her sweet tea at a shaded table on the sidewalk, she watched the odd couple round the corner and come right towards her. They stopped one table over and parked in the shade as well. When the man went in to buy them something, the confined woman looked out towards the street. And when she did, Coco caught a glimpse of her eyes. Unexpectedly, they sparked a memory. I know those eyes.

Then the woman turned towards Coco and their eyes locked. 

She definitely knew that face. But from where? And maybe it wasn’t the face that was so familiar, but the eyes. Tired and sunken as they were, they were memorable. 

Something came up in her memory just as the woman spoke. “Coco? It’s me. Marcia Covington.”

It all came flooding back. The lunch. The fear. The questions. I was supposed to call you back. This was the woman she had had lunch with not four months ago in Atlanta. The acquaintance with ovarian cancer. The dying one. The one she was supposed to arrange a follow up meal with… But today she looked different.

Guilt welled up. 

As she thought of what to say, Coco reasoned silently, but quickly, searching the recesses of her mind as to why she had not pursued this sweet woman. Chemo brain? Maybe. Busy? No, not really. Why didn’t I follow up? Then she landed on the reason—which would remain forever secret. The answer was embedded in her fears. More guilt. 

Coco knew it would be too difficult to talk to someone in the first person losing their battle to ovarian cancer. That mirror would be hard to reflect upon. 

“Marcia, it’s… It’s… It’s good to see you.”

“What are you doing here?” her friend said slowly with labored breathing.

“We’re having a little summer vacation… You?” 

As Marcia answered and they carried on their conversation, Coco studied her in the wheelchair. Though she was partially listening, she was equally analyzing everything Marcia—the woman defined everything her diagnosis could be. She studied her friend’s weight loss, her pale skin, the wheelchair, the labored breathing, the weak voice. There were conclusions in the clues. Coco could not and would not ask her how she was actually doing. The answer was staring at her. An awkward moment of silence followed.  

This short conversation was a slap of reality, revealing the truth of human frailty. It made Coco see a snapshot of how it could be—of how this could be her—and would be except for the grace of God… 

Coco’s fears surfaced once again. Sadness overcame her. 

And while she questioned being here now engaged in this exchange, Marcia asked. “I will be back home next week, would you be interested in going out to lunch?”

The courteous part of her wanted to say “of course.” The fearful part of her wanted to find a way out. But the woman in the chair was looking up… Smiling… 

She nodded yes.

Lunch was on.

Chapter 22

What Shape Are Your “Genes “ In?

Walking into the exam room, she sensed her pressure rising. What would he say today? But as she thought about it, he always had something encouraging to say. And she felt good. That had to be a positive sign. She took a deep breath and let her anxiety calm down.

“Good morning Coco. I hope you're enjoying your new life.”

"New life?"

"Yes. Off chemotherapy."

“Oh that. I am, as a matter of fact. It's pretty special. And I'm hoping you will keep me there."

"That's my hope too."

"I’m getting stronger day by day. My stamina is such that I can walk for over a mile at a time without stopping. And though I haven't shown you yet, I’m starting to get a little bit of hair under this itchy wig..." And then she pulled it off. "See... And probably the most exciting thing for me now is that my weakness is almost gone.”

“I'm so happy for you. That is great. Who knows, by the next time you come in, you may have a real hairdo… I am so proud of how you're working hard to get your life back. And I know what a big deal that is, given the magnitude of everything that you have been through. It is no small accomplishment what you have achieved.”

She sensed a real peace inside. “Thank you for saying that.”

“I mean that," he said as his eyes appeared deeply sincere... "And speaking of being done with treatment, I would like to discuss something with you I haven't brought up yet. Something I have been saving until we got through all of the treatment. But I think now is a good time."

"What's that?"

"I want to talk about risk factors for the cancer you had. Because it has bigger implications that just the cancer you went through.”

“Ok. Fire away.”

“One of the unique causes for ovarian cancer is that some of the patients like yourself, may carry a genetic issue. One that you may have inherited from your parents and set you up for developing this malignancy. Now I will tell you that the majority of the patients with this cancer do not carry these genetic abnormalities, but when they do, they can raise your risk for certain cancers besides the one you got. For instance, your lifetime risk for ovarian cancer in this country is 1.3 %, but if you carry a genetic mutation called BRCA1, your risk climbs to nearly 40%. That is a huge increase. And that same defect carries direct implications for your children and raises your risk substantially for breast cancer.”

“Really?” she said turning her head.

“If you carry the genetic mutation BRCA, your children have a fifty-fifty chance that they will inherit the gene from you and carry it for their life as well. And if you have siblings and the gene runs in your family, they also stand to have the same risk for this mutation that you have--which can be passed to their children.”

“How would that be possible for me to carry the gene if no one in my family has ever had ovarian cancer?”

“Do remember, I didn’t say you carry the genetic mutation, but that you are at an increased risk for it. But to your question, if your father carried the mutation, it’s very possible that it has been silently passed on from him to you. And if it was his father before him that carried it, the same would apply… So then I will ask you, do you know what your great grandparents died from?”

She nodded her head. “I do not.”

“Nor do I know what mine died from. The point is the gene can pass very silently from generation to generation, and equally through male lines, so that you may not have clue that you are a carrier. All that being said, I would like to send you down for testing at this point to see if there is anything there, to see what shape your genes are in. If there isn’t a mutation, then that is valuable information for you and your family. Because if there is, then we need to begin to look at testing the other members of your family—especially your daughter… And didn’t she just get married?”

“She did,” feeling her anxiety rising again.

“Then I will set up for this for you… And if you are positive, I will set up testing for your siblings and for your children. It’s important and it can save your life as well as their lives too.”

Chapter 23

What if an Illness Stole Something Precious From You?

Coco rang the doorbell. Questions flashed through her mind. Three weeks had passed since she happened upon Marcia at Kiawah—and now she was just outside her house. Hearing the door unlock, she could only imagine what her friend’s weakness and frailty might look like today--compared to three weeks ago. 

The door eased open and there was that sweet smile--yet unexpectedly weak. Her friend was on her feet but gripping the door handle firmly--almost searching for balance. The temples of her head were more sunken than before. This troubling visual portrait had more detail than a thousand words ever could. In the three seconds that elapsed from seeing Marcia to now, Coco reached conclusions—and those made sadness sweep through her. So this is what the end of life looks like from cancer. She felt the moisture building in her eyes.

“Marcia it is good to see you again,” before hesitating. What do I say next? She didn’t know. She didn't want to ask how she was doing--the answer stood in front of her. So searching for verbal direction, she opted for silence--and a short hug.

Their exchange started slowly. Discussions about the beach, the weather, families. All with little depth. But finishing the introductory comments, Marcia chimed in and changed directions to inquire how Coco was doing. She wanted to know about her life off of chemo, and about how her strength and neuropathy were doing. But Coco wanted to know something different--she wanted the update on Marcia's situation.

So she cut Marcia off gently. "Enough about me. I want to know how you are doing since I saw you three weeks ago?"

Without expression, Marcia spoke, “I would like to say fine. And in some ways, I am doing fine. I don’t have any pain and I am still able to care for myself. Though poor Jack," shaking her head, "has to do so much for me every day. It’s wearing him out. He has cut his work hours down a bunch to be here with me everyday… In fact, he is out right now doing the grocery shopping." then she stopped and smiled. "But of course, the scary thing is what will he bring back?” Chuckling, she had to stop and catch her breath.

“You don’t look like you are eating much. How’s your appetite?”

“Not good… I'm not eating much. The doctor says I cannot eat what I want to any more. I have to have mostly liquids and blended food, because any more than that and I get queasy,” and then her head went towards her lap. “and it won’t stay down… And that is hard for me to not get to eat what I want. And food for me,” she looking back up, “represents so much of what I hold dear in life.”

“Like what?”

“Food represents celebration to me. The table over there,” pointing over at her dining room, “represents my family and friends. It symbolizes communion, oneness, honesty, laughter, life. Everything I hold dear in life.” And then she wiped her right eye. “And I miss that. I can no longer sit around the table anymore and savor the sweet aromas of food. If I do, I get sad… And I get sick… That table symbolizes my life and my family… And that is one big struggle…” Then she stopped. “I'm sorry to lay that on you.”

“Don't say that. Thank you for sharing your soul.”

“I shouldn’t wear my difficulties on my sleeve like that. Please accept my apology.”

“I won't. I am honored that you would open up to me and let me share in your moment of suffering. Thank you for doing that.” And with that Coco went over and hugged Marcia, who began weeping on her shoulder. Perhaps at that moment silence was the best conversation.

Chapter 24


When is the Husband’s Pain Too Unbearable?

Coco stepped onto the oncology unit where Marcia had been admitted last night with nausea--and emesis. She questioned how bad it was… Her intuition whispered answers… Approaching the room, she saw Marcia’s husband standing silently outside her door. His head was down.

“Jack, good to see you," she said softly. "How are you?”

He looked up, and initially didn’t answer. A bewildered look filled his eyes. He twisted his head to the side. Then shrugged his shoulders and said, “Thank you for coming up.” He never answered her question. Perhaps he couldn't.

She noted the eyes painted in red--bloodshot by every definition. This man standing in front of her defined despairing. A man drowning in pain, hiding his fragile and visible emotion in the hall from his wife. The body language brought tears to Coco's eyes. His demeanor suggested the end of the Marcia story was approaching. Heartbreaking. Her spirit began to grieve…   

Coco had been married a long time and knew much about husbands. She had come to know how lost they could be without their spouses--how the loss of love could break their spirits. And this man seemed to epitomize that. She now knew, Marcia was his "raison d'être", his reason to be. His everything. She saw how deep and strong his love was for this woman and wondered whether he would survive her death. 

Obviously Marcia's last four years of suffering—culminated  in this moment—was pushing him to his breaking point. This man's will was desperate to hold on to her. But reality was too emphatic; he would soon have to let her go… What do I do? Coco could only think to hug him. It was all she knew to do. And when she did, his lingering embrace confirmed everything.

Stepping back for a second, she said, “She's not doing well, is she?”

Hesitation. “She has a blockage,” though Coco could barely hear him.

“And if she is blocked?” 

His shoulders dropped when he looked down at the floor. "I don't know for sure." 

She stood in silence.

He took a deep breath. “Probably nothing... And,” he stopped when his voice cracked... “I hate this cancer,” he murmured.

“I'm so sorry Jack...”

His eyes began to well up--probably not the first time today.

She couldn't speak either. The pain became too unbearable.

Inside the room, next to where they stood, was a beautiful woman suffering with overwhelming nausea. And in this hallway, was this scarred man suffering in his own way as well. She questioned why God would put her here right now--particularly given that she shared this woman's diagnosis. How could she help and stay sane? She didn’t know.

So she just put her arm around him again and held on. It was going to be a tough ride.

Chapter 25

The Pain Experienced by Those Left Behind

Jack Covington glanced up as the pounding rain hammered the hospital window, like tears falling from heaven. Suddenly, a flash of lightening, then a crash of deafening thunder. The building nearly shook.

His wife neither moved nor stirred.

It was then he understood just how weak she had become All the tubes hanging off her emaciated body, piercing her arms and chest made him grasp the inevitable. Her battle with ovarian cancer would soon be over—she had only days or hours to live.

“Dad, I probably ought to go,” Ellen stood.

“Of course, you need to head home and get some sleep. Why don’t you let me walk you out to the car?”

“Are You sure?’

“Absolutely. And besides, I don’t want you going out in that parking lot by yourself.”

“Thank you.” She turned to face her mother, leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “I love you Mom.” Her eyes never opened.

“Tom should be here when you arrive tomorrow,” looking at her. “He hopes to leave Charlotte by nine, and maybe make it here by early afternoon. I want to make sure you two have some good time with your mother.”

Ellen looked at him. “I’m sure we will Dad. I’m sure we will.” She picked up her purse, “ I only wish Mom could be there for Tom’s wedding.”

“Me too…” And with that he walked over and hugged his daughter. Me too.

One final glance confirmed that his wife was sleeping peacefully. Please don’t leave me tonight. Smiling for his daughter, he put his arm around her and walked her out.

Stepping back inside from the rain, the foyer was nearly vacant except for a few employees. Visitation time had come to a close. Approaching his wife’s room, he stopped outside the door to verify the room number—a number etched deeply into his mind. He sighed, dropped his shoulders, place his hand on the cold doorknob and stepped back inside the hospice room.

She was softly breathing under her warm blankets. The IV machine was making a constant purring sound, pumping the important fluid into her veins. Carefully, he crept around the mechanical bed and sat down on the sleeper chair. He heard the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Unexpectedly, she cracked open her empty eyes and stirred with apparent pain and then drifted back to unconsciousness. Her dear face appeared peaceful once again.

Jack Flashed back to all the days they’d had together. There had been joyous ones and difficult ones, and these final days. The journey the last four years, from her devastating diagnosis to this dark night had been very long and arduous. He recalled multiple surgeries, countless rounds of chemotherapy, days of despair, times of suffering and precious few moments of hope. In all of this, his wife had always remained externally strong.

Until now. 

It seemed she was giving up. Death was at the door.

Visualizing their journey brought emotion to his eyes while he sat perched next to his wife’s deathbed, consumed by the moment and his growing solitude. He wanted to control the tears, but had lost the will to fight them. They went from a trickle to a steadier pace as they began to stream out one-by-one, crashing to the floor from his eyelids to their demise—mimicking the deluge outside in the darkness. His heart ripped in two. Sleep eluded him for hours, until he fell mercifully off to sleep to the steady ticking of the wall clock.

Chapter 26


The Final Counsel to a Husband

Jack was fighting sleep when his son walked through the door at three that afternoon. After exchanging hellos, he savored the sweet family conversation and the tenderness of his children’s voices. But at times, the exchanges were interrupted when Marcia fought to absorb her intense cramping with what little dignity she had left.

When evening came, his wife appeared to be wearing down quickly. He encouraged her to get some sleep. But when he did, she looked up and strangely fixed her eyes on his. An odd expression covered her sunken and pale face and made him wonder what she was thinking.

“Is everything ok?” he said.

Without an utterance, she lightly patted the bed for him to come and sit beside her. Climbing from his chair, he rose, approached her and carefully lowered the guardrail. There next to his wife on the crumpled sheets was a small sliver of space where he thought he could perch. He pushed the IV lines out of the way and slid her catheter down towards the foot of the bed. 

Once seated, she grabbed his hand in a small way and began to talk quietly. “I’m glad you kids are here. I have a few things I want to say to your father and I want you to listen… Honey, you have given me the greatest gift and man could give a wife. You have made me feel cherished beyond measure.”

She stopped momentarily, short of breath.

“But I pity you Jack Covington,” feebly smiling. “I have done everything for you in life. I have balanced our checkbook. I have run the house and cooked every single meal for you—until recently I guess,” adjusting her shoulders. “You will have to figure out how to manage the house completely on your own. The grocery store will become your new hardware store. Imagine that. Who knows, you may start collecting cooking recipes. But I am sure you will be able to figure out a life alone no doubt,” ending the sentence almost inaudibly. 

She then motioned for him to come closer before gently taking hold of his face. “I know you better than you know yourself. We’ve been a good team. We made it all work—better than most couples. And there are reasons for that, I think. You have a giving heart… So listen to what I am about to say. Someday you will need another woman. I know you and I want that for you--just like you would that for me if the roles were reversed,” still looking winded. “And if you are lucky, she won’t order you around or complain when you leave your shoes in the wrong spot…”

His voiced was silenced.

“Jack?”

“Yes,” wiping the moisture from his right eye.

“I love you and I want you to be happy. Remember that please,” staring up at him. 

He was not predicting that comment, nor was he aware how those spoken words would pierce his heart. The rising tears surfaced over his eyes, revealing droplets that spoke about the previously unspoken.

A life without his wife. 

For just a moment, he wondered curiously if he would survive alone to face the world.Don’t go there! Don’t even think about it. With those thoughts now swirling about, he was determined to cut her off. That was a discussion he wasn’t going to have here and now, so he held his finger up to her lips. But gingerly, she wrapped her withered hand around it and moved it away. Her eyes held his. I will never think about anyone else! He wanted only her, forever and for always… Beautiful Marcia was dying and he knew he could not stop it.

Being at her bedside was complicated, but cathartic. Jack understood the need to let it go. It was time to let go. Skirting around the reality of what the cancer was doing was no longer possible. He recognized he must face it head on and work towards final closure.

She drifted off to sleep, and for that he was thankful. That night his children went back to Ellen’s place, assuming tomorrow would be just like today.

But it would not.

Chapter 27

Saying the Final Goodbye

Jack saw his children out and tried to sleep, though that needed task was simply not possible. In the dark room listening to the clock, he watched her and willed her to sleep. Please give me another day. Each long breath she took and each slight turn she managed, he drew closer to her side.

At three in the morning, everything changed. 

Marcia’s breathing began to slow. Each breath appeared more labored. Repositioning himself on the side of her bed, he studied what was happening. By four in the morning, the color of his wife’s face transformed from a slight dash of pink to consuming gray. Death was no longer at the door. It was barging in, slithering into the room. Her soul was being called home. He wanted to protect her, but what could he offer? Fighting God was not an option. His children needed to be called, but it was too late for that now. Climbing into Marcia’s bed and sharing the waning moments of her life was all he could think to do. Delicately he placed his arm around her side and caressed her for what would be the final time.

Then it began—the final agony and pain.

His silent misery could not be assuaged. Her breathing became more erratic; longer intervals appeared between each successive gasp. Now convinced he was running out of time, he whispered into her ear, “I love you.” His voice cracked, but no one else heard it. She breathed one last breath that was followed by deathly silence. Almost immediately her body began to turn cold. The IV pump began to beep. His beloved wife was gone. Death became real. Pain like he had never known engulfed him.

With her death, Jack Covington was completely broken. Half of him died that night.