Because, as I’ve said, there is an interest in my myeloma journey, I want to post another excerpt, a shorter one this time, from the book I’m working on.

From: How Cancer Taught Me to Swear, Chapter Seventeen, In Search for Human Life:

I’ve always had a temper, yet fortunately, tempered. I have also tried to limit my rage to inanimate, or at least non-animal, objects: leaking pipes, cars that won’t start, and roots I trip over, causing me to do a faceplant. The things that have kept me from directing my anger toward humans, such as nursing student “Mengele,” the Doogie Howser-looking hospitalist, or the Kidney witch, are empathy. I don’t need to hope for something bad to happen to someone who has done me wrong; I know they have already borne the Karma, or payback. If they had a good life, a loving family, and good health, they would not be assholes. So, whatever it was in their past that made them who they are is, in reverse, sufficient punishment… but in reverse.

During the months between diagnosis and heading to Seattle for the transplant, the most memorable event, interrupting that sea of misery, was when our pastor called me. “Is there anything the church can do for you and Denise?” she asked.

I thought for a moment and responded, “Yeah, there is. You know, we moved to this new house a year ago, and I promised Denise I would build her a garden. Gardening means so much to her as she is from a farming family. I could purchase the materials and get them to the house, but there is no way I would have the stamina to build it.”

A garden here must be fenced to keep out deer and rabbits. Beyond the fencing, the flat ground where we are going to build the garden wasn’t the natural loam that this area is famous for, but fill dirt. The ground would have to be worked, but I knew that Denise could handle that part, along with her friends on farms with good manure supplies. However, at the time, I could barely walk from the house to the car, and from the car to the renal dialysis center, without assistance.

I drove into Lowe’s with a shopping list, and the kind folks there loaded up my truck with fence-making materials. The pastor put out a notice about a “work party” at our house in the church newsletter. Not being one of the more popular people at my church, I wasn’t sure anyone would show up. I called Denise from my Dialysis chair and asked, “Is anyone there?”

“Oh, Mike, there are more than a dozen,” then she started to name the volunteers. Once again, I started to cry.

Over the next two Saturdays, approximately nineteen wonderful people showed up and worked hard to construct the garden using the materials I had purchased. Seven years later, I still get choked up thinking about it. That kind of encouragement is the church’s true mission. And such kindness can be a catalyst for someone like me to choose to fight harder to live.

The garden has been profoundly helpful for Denise’s mental health as a caregiver these hard years. In the summer, she spends her time there. I suspect that in those long hours on her knees, pulling weeds and planting seeds, is the time she communes with God. It’s where she finds herself again, after losing it in the shadow of my disease. It is also where our children, when they come to visit, navigate to, all of them gourmet cooks.

In health care, I have now become convinced that it is the stuff between the lines that makes the difference. The housekeeper in the hospital room who opens the shades, and with a bright smile, says, “Good morning. I think it’s going to be a great day.”  And then, with the hair that used to occupy your head now on his floor, while sweeping it up, he looks up and says, “Even without your hair, you still look great!” Or, the provider who puts her hand on your shoulder and whispers, “I can tell you’re a strong man; I think you can beat this.” Or the dialysis center nurse who shouts, “Hallelujah!” through the phone when you tell her you get to skip your next treatment. These saints can make a difference in helping people want to live. Their attitudes keep us human and not just a deposit of disease. Without the will to live, even the best medicines are limited in what they can do. My eyes fill with tears, once again, as I type about these dear saints.

 When death is on your calendar, it changes so much about your perception. You don’t have time for grudges or hate. I’ve never liked fad thinking because to embrace it, I would feel like a lemming following the butt of my fellow lemming over a cliff. But one faddish mantra, “living in the moment,” had some value for me as I was coming to terms with my new life.

Mike