ENDURANCE

THE NOBLE KNIGHT

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Wed, 25 Mar 2009 13:33:00 +0000

i told you my life has become irrelevant when i learn of someone else's situation.

you asked about my relationship with gary. after i sent him the valentine letter, he called. we had a wonderful dinner, great conversation, and the following weekend i spent time with him and his daughter. lots of laughs and fun. i missed him so much. we had not seen each other since november.

the next day, he called me and asked if i was home, not driving, he had something to tell me, that he didn't want to tell me but he had to, he didn't want to hurt my feelings or make me upset, that's why he didn't tell me at dinner, but emmy insisted.

and i am thinking, i knew it, i hurt him so badly that he has finally smartened up and found someone else and he was just being polite responding to my attempt to reconcile....his voice cracked, he took a deep breath.

"angel, i have lung cancer. and i am dying. i only have a few months..."

i saw him again, we talked. i read his reports. stage IIIB non-small cell lung cancer, inoperable, metastatic to most of the surrounding lymph nodes, esophagus, liver, abdominal wall. palliative chemotherapy.

he was diagnosed in december.

i am so very powerless; and regretful, guilty, angry at myself for keeping my distance from him because of my own illness, my own insignificant problems that i did not want to share with him. i cannot write about it; i thought it would make for a great romantic tragedy. but it would be an insulting mockery.

i am stricken with such grief and disbelief, i am stunned, shocked. can i lessen his pain, his fears. can i comfort him. there is not enough time to make up for the time i stole from us. no one knows when he'll begin to feel the real effects of the chemo, the cumulative "delayed effects", punch drunk, chemo brain, fatigue, listlessness, confusion; the inability to make decisions about dinner.

he's all alone in that huge house; how will he manage to even climb stairs? he won't want hospice care; he would rather die now than be assisted by a caregiver. bringing soup to him is something he considers an act of pity, not compassion or love. anything he cannot do for himself is the benchmark he has set for his time to "quit". i am trying to encourage him to hang in there with the chemo, see how it goes, but i think to myself, am i doing this out of my own selfishness, like dog owners keeping their suffering pets alive...i don't want him to spend or even share this precious time he has left. live his life as he wants: travel to Europe once again, and linger where he wants to, for as much time as he wants without worrying about someone else’s needs.

and when the time comes, i pray he allows himself to succumb to being pampered, taken care of, soothed, whispered to, nurtured, held, and kissed farewell.

the noble knight is dying.

PICTURE WORTH A DOZEN ROSES

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 19:32:00 +0000

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. Last year you sent me roses, but I was in the hospital. Jim took a picture of them. They’re lovely. This year we are not together, but at least I can look at the roses you will never send to me.

I wonder where you are, how you are, what you are doing, if you are still living in your house, if you are still living… Truthfully, there is not one day I do not think about you. Just yesterday, I was struck by the resemblance of someone I saw in an elevator who reminded me of you. I had my reading glasses on because I had just come from picking up my records and I anxiously read them before leaving the hospital. On my way down to the lobby, as the elevator doors opened, a man in the middle of the floor stared directly at me, and he looked so much like you, not as stately and certainly not as gentlemanly. I was so stunned that I let the doors close without getting on.

I thought as I drove home, “What if it was him? What would I say?”

There is no excuse now. Too much has happened, too much time has passed, too many things to explain why I am not there with you. All you need to know is that I am not involved with any man and do not expect to ever be again in my life.

I may be moving to Ohio, living with friends, or up to New Hampshire. It is not certain when or where. That is the reason I disconnected from you, but also that I continue to be very ill most of the time.

Take good care of you.

'KNEE IN THE GROIN, WHATEVER"

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Tue, 06 Jan 2009 12:29:00 +0000

i am looking behind at what seems to be a wasted life, and looking ahead to an uncertain one...

I have so much hoped that some time you would be ready for, and would find, a good woman therapist, because so much of your trauma has come from men.

You are always in my mind. Everything you write I read with great interest. And I just want to say to you again, to urge you to remember that each of us is part of a larger Self, that no matter what you feel you have lost, whatever has been stripped away--breasts, house, mother--the spark of your soul is in no way diminished. When the gold ore is crushed and fired 98% of it is burned away, but no one who wears the ring will consider it anything but purified.

You have gold in you. I don't know that writing's all of it, but it's a part. You have the skill, the gift. But the great writers are great because they are still on the path, the path of discovering what it means to be human. They are not comfortably resting on their laurels, jotting down "Spiritual Growth for the Compleat Idiot". They're struggling with it, as they write. That's why what they write rings true, to the rest of us.

And I've got to say this. You need your memories. Sure, lots of them are awful, horrendous. Bitter fruit. But they're all done. They're past. And you're still here. You survived. You did what you did, you got your degree, you went to work, you raised your boys and nursed your mother, you were a faithful wife to a man with a troubled soul. You went through the holocaust and have potentially lived to tell about it. When you can remember. The memories are there, in detail, the harvest of your life. They haven't been deleted, I assure you--because they are being saved until you can fully process them and press them into the wine of wisdom and self-acceptance.

robert

II.

i admitted that i am probably at my most vulnerable now because of all the social and financial hardships my family is going through, all the stressors contributing to my fragility, in addition to my health, and my trying to redefine myself as a woman without breasts because i am so a nurturing woman, nurturing to all life, including animals, geese, sons, men...i cried through the confession that i am simply heartbroken, my heart is simply broken now, about everything.

not being able to nurture and hug and tuck dora into bed at night, not being able to cook for her and make her laugh, play scrabble again... and now, i cannot hold myself up when i attempt my visits at the nursing home. i merely walk in and step quietly beside her bed where she is sleeping, hold her hand, and cry until she senses i am there beside her, sitting on the floor, looking up at her silver hair encircling her sweet face...she smiles when she sees me, and hugs me.

and sobbing about michael, not being able to see his face and genuinely talk to him again, try once more before i die, apologize once more about how i messed up his young life but don't remember, damn it all, i just don't, but even so, was i at least a very good mother to him, jim knows, i worked, and went to school, listened to his problems, we were poor, mr. lenahan took all of my money for his drugs, i only had money for food. mike probably had to suffer humiliation at boston latin because of lack of diginity, lack of a good home, like his friends'. he must have had to endure harsh discipline from mr. lenahan but i cannot tell you, i do not remember, just like i don't remember what i endured, but jim witnessed it all. he tells me sometimes. then he backs off. there must have been times when the boys were not home, when jim and i were alone, God only knows what happened to me. or to mike, when he was alone with mr. lenahan.

all of the violent trauma has come from men; it is easy to trust you. i think i trust you now especially because we are friends, and we worked through the pain and suffering of forty years ago, and more...although again, almost all of it is lost in my other selves...

it helps me to process when i write to you about the sessions; you provide such interesting and rich insight.

i saw dr. miller on monday, and he graciously spent a full hour with me, mostly discussing the effects of this latest physical trauma and how serious it could have been. he knows the "lay of the land" here at island view; he had seen detailed photos in the past when i first began the landscaping renovations, and he marveled at the beauty of the property, the views of the water, and geese coming up to the back yard, the variegated colors of the unusual perennials, everything.

he encouraged me to keep applying for the housing because it is really clear to him that even with meticulous clearing of the snow, i still fell. he wants me to find a place in a building that has concierge service, (he's out of touch with the whole subsidized housing thing...) i laughed to myself while nodding in agreement, and bit my tongue from blurting out "and it must have valet parking..."

he then went on to ask me about my writing. he has always encouraged me to keep on with it, no matter what.

he also was very pleased that i found a woman therapist.

he approached the subject of socialization and actually said, "so how is that going?" didn't he realize he was talking to a hermit, an agoraphobic isolate, a pathetic person sitting in the chair diagonally across from his chair, four knees almost touching, two knees trembling... so what did he expect me to say? "it's going great. i went to a few holiday parties, and of course, the opera, and the club passim in cambridge"

(not so long this was true.)

the truth stumbled out through a series of stutters and sobs:

"i talk to no one all day except with my son before he hibernates in his cellar dwelling. (long pause.) as for making friends, or finding a companion, who would want me like this? i'm a broken down car especially now after this head injury. the village idiot. (very long pause.)

you remember what i was like last year before the cancer. bad enough losing the front bumper... if i lose the engine, i'm done. my mind is everything. without my mind, what's left?

tuna casserole in a place where no one comes to visit."

after the courtesy moment, he asked if i remembered how long since the last suicide attempt. he gently reminded me that it was only a little more than seven years.

angelina

III.

Witty. Beautifully written. It's you. But it makes me angry, want to argue with you. The world is full of people who are like this. Broken in every conceivable way. But who can't speak for themselves, like you still can. You could tell their stories. Your story. You could speak to them, you could listen to them, not as a doctor, above it all, but as one of them, a magdalene. OK, you're bitter. You've got your reasons--can't dispute that. So does James, but think how you feel when you see that bitterness in him. Think how you feel. You want him to let it go--not because it's unjustified, but because there's no future in it. It doesn't lead anywhere, or anywhere good.I don't know what to do with you, but I can't ignore you, so I'm just going to let fly.

I'm not your husband, don't claim or want to be. It's beyond that. But if I was with you now, I'd want to jump your sorry bones and fuck you until we got to some honest tears. There. Didn't that sound like a man? Righteous. Like a soldier who's confused his erection for the sword of Jesus. But it's been tried. Who could count the number of times you've been fucked in anger? At least once by me, long ago. It's not like you couldn't escape. You've become very creative at finding places to hide. You already live in a place no one comes to visit. By your own choice. But you haven't always been an isolate.... Sorry for the language. Shock treatment. Make you cry--or go numb, one or the other. Can't claim it's therapeutic--for you. It's my own woundedness talking, the hurt of being held out of your heart. I want to see, some fight out of you. Knee in the groin, whatever. Keep writing.
Robert

A DISCREET CELEBRATION OF TIME

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 13:02:00 +0000

forty-one years your hands reached out to mine (i am not
oblivious to how our hearts and souls align);

this last time i refused them, and did so with much regret, but yesterday i remembered what you thought i might forget...

"GRACE UNDER FIRE"

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Thu, 02 Oct 2008 21:29:00 +0000

Dear Angelina--
Are the leaves changing out there yet? Just starting here. How about your geese?

On the phone you sounded a bit numb. Not so good. Not your style.

First time I ever heard you refer to yourself as "disabled." I know you mean in a socio-economic context. But it's dangerous to go down that road in your mind, to sell yourself out that way. You've always had challenges, had hardships. Big time. But your spirit is not disabled. I don't believe it.

Just saw a sweet movie called August Rush. Heartwarming, a romantic would say. Pure fantasy, to a cynic. About music, and the threads between people. Do you good.

Every Sunday at supper I get to watch our little gang of 4-year-olds. That's our nature-show. Gotta have some hope after that.

We're the elders now. Down to the postscript of our drama. Time to cheer for somebody else. And prepare for our exit with whatever grace we can muster.

With affection,

Robert

"LITTLE ONE"

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 11:40:00 +0000

Dora sometimes knows who I am. Other times, in her mind at that moment, I am Nina, "little one".

As soon as I clear her dinner plate, I will ask her if she enjoyed it. "Enjoy what?" She cannot tell me what she ate, less than five minutes from her last bite. This woman would blaze through an historical novel about Alexander the Great, all 672 pages, in about a week. Now she is reading catalogues from Staples with the same intense passion.

What really saddens me the most is that she makes up words when she plays Scrabble. For as long as my memory allows, she has held the championship Scrabble title among family and whoever challenged her. Now her words are made to fit where they will score the highest: jtgoxp boxed for a triple word score.

I can no longer tuck her in and lean over to kiss her good night. Dora does not remember why I have pain. “You need a nap.” Other times, while she is sitting on her bed, she tells me, "Go out and find yourself a nice young man. You're a beautiful girl." I remind her that I am almost 60 now, not 16, and anyway, no man would want a woman without breasts.

She does not remember I had breast cancer and had them removed. She is genuinely skeptical until I lift up my top and show her the terrain of my chest: flesh caved in on one side, and piled up like pizza dough on the other. She points to the many scars crisscrossing this mess. "Who did this to you?" She demands, like her daughter had just been mutilated. So be it.

It grieves me that I am slipping away from her, and she from me.

Last night, she hugged me while she was standing in her bedroom, her walker between us. She said, "I love you so much. More than anyone." I looked at her and wondered if she knew who she loves. I longed for her to say my name, to be known while being held. Many times have I heard "I love you so much..." and waited to hear my name. How can you love me if you don't know who I am?

As I shut her door, she called out, "Have a good sleep, little one."

"SIMPLE CONTINUED EXISTENCE"

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Wed, 06 Aug 2008 16:50:00 +0000

Ah, lady-friend--

Your meditation about depression and suicide reminds me of something you wrote in a little scrap of 1968 journal I have (somewhere here) in which you said there was "something inherently tragic in the nature of our love." That was what you were thinking on one of the good days....

I think the writer's vision tends toward the tragic because she is not as good as other people at non-seeing, at blocking out awareness of the suffering and loss that is everywhere, like the empty cans and bottles, the scraps of greasy paper scattered along the ground at an amusement park.

Others are content to stare at the colorful signs and the flashing neon. The writer sees what is just below the surface. The skull beneath the rosy flesh. Or not-so-rosy.

You are not writing a society column, about what the beautiful people are wearing this year. You are a war correspondent at the battle front.

Your simple continued existence, without sinking into numbness, is a triumph in itself.

Robert

"MY DEAR PSYCHIATRIST"

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Tue, 05 Aug 2008 21:29:00 +0000

I promised you this letter instead of a visit, or a phone call. I write more fluently than I talk, and, emoting through writing is natural for me. You miss almost all of it when I come to see you because the pain is so very well eclipsed. What I need to tell you is all here, for the moment.

Unless you’ve made it a study, a serious life’s work, as Karl Mennninger did, of why people kill themselves, you cannot possibly understand how someone who, since early childhood, has been so intrigued with suicide. Let’s explore this odd statement that I just introduced to you by telling you that there seems to be considerably more depressive illness and higher than average incidences of suicide among writers, particularly poets.

So when you really set your psychiatrist’s mind upon it, you realize that we, the writer- poets, are very fragile, by nature, to begin with, and out of this fragility and despair, some of the most incredible creative genius emerges.

We tangle with our inner selves and struggle to untangle, cycle after cycle, and in this process, we develop the craft of expressing the deepest human emotions, creating an exquisite tapestry of the most delicate fabric.

I have just described to you, my psychiatrist, the writer’s heart, my poetic mind.

I cannot avoid the prolonged periods of sadness and melancholy. Asking for your help, to make the pain disappear, is just my way of drawing you close so that I do not become another Sylvia Plath. I fear that I am at my most vulnerable than I have ever been because I am physically declining.

So, my dear psychiatrist, when I say I can no longer care for Dora, it is because I can no longer care for myself. I barely function. It feels like I walk through a jar of molasses on good days, and on my miserable days, I am weeping as though Dora has already died. I can function but at such a low level, it’s frightening. If I had my way, I would stay in bed for days just to ride out the depressive storms. I cannot force Jim to “man up” and stand in the gap for me because he is more depressed now that he is going down on his methadone, and he is exceedingly anxious about life in general, especially my state of mind. He sees me in a panic mode most of the time, or depressed, or just angry, or staring, doing nothing. He is frightened that we are not going to find a place of our own to live, separately, but he thinks we will be homeless, and I think that as well.

The gentleman with whom I had quite a significant relationship, if you recall, after everything I have done, pushing him out of my life, still, he wants me in his life, and even without breasts. This brings a smile to my face. I look hideous. I have stayed away because my life is so chaotic, so sad. I am serving a life sentence, I told him.

What do I do! Tell me. Dora sometimes knows who I am. Other times, she blankly looks at me, and in her mind at that moment, I am a nurse or someone she knew from school, or her own mother. There are times she thinks Jim is her lover. As soon as I clear her plate from dinner, I will ask her if she enjoyed it, and she cannot tell me what she ate, less than five minutes from that last bite. This depresses me so much because I know how engaging and brilliant she was. I cry and cry. I do not know what to do.

She is my mother.

Angelina

"GRACED WITH PEACE"

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 12:39:00 +0000

am i a hypocrite? i profess to believe in the Lord and follow Christ, all of His teachings. He says in His Word "be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God..."

He is not asking us to do this--He is telling us. he commands that we pray when our souls are full of unrest; that we pray, giving thanks for our blessings, and then let our troubles be known to Him. when we do this, "the peace of God, which surpassess all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." that is a promise. the Lord gives us these words of hope when we give our burdens over to Him. in His Word, it says we should pray incessantly, not just when we are in trouble, but as we are going through the day, like talking to a friend, in private conversation. He walks alongside of us, guiding us. when we pray for His wisdom, he will help us to cope. our problems may not be resolved, but He will give us the resources, the guidance, the strength to deal with them without feeling despair, without losing our way.

i have always had faith in the Lord. nothing has ever shaken my faith, or threatened my belief in Him. lately because of such overwhelming circumstances, my depression and hopelessness have been strangling me tighter and tighter, until i feel i cannot breathe.

and then yesterday i received a belated message from the chaplain i met while i was very ill in the hospital. i cannot explain how miraculous the timing of her words were, and the vivid memories they brought back of the brief but very intimate spiritual connection the Lord established between us a few months ago.

i remember that day....in the Surgical ICU, so many clinicians around my bedside, IV lines, monitors, chaos, so much chaos! i needed an explanation from the Critical Care Team of what i was up against. i was "not out of the woods yet, a delicate balance, a mysterious situation, but we'll get you through this..." as quickly as they came in, they all seemed to leave at once, and i had but a few seconds to think over what it all meant. i asked the Lord for His strength because i was so very frightened.

another parade of clinicians filed in, followed by a young woman. the Lord has blessed me with the gift of discernment so i immediately knew by looking into her eyes that she was not part of the clinical team. let's just say, she was part of the Lord's team.

she sat quietly while the clinicians finished, and after they left, she then introduced herself in a very soft voice. i did not hear her name, i only heard the word "chaplain", and i smiled. thank you, Lord. thank you, thank you, thank you.

she was faithful in her visits, always very humble, quiet, and at times we laughed so naturally together. each visit before she left, she asked if she could pray with me. she held her hand over mine, and wrapped her arm across my shoulder. i closed my eyes while she prayed from her heart to our Lord, her sincere and beautiful words of concern for my health, my family, my well-being. i wanted very much to pray for her, that her ministry touch the hearts of many, as it has mine. i wanted her to stay longer, but i knew she had other patients to visit.

when i was transferred from the ICU to a regular room, i did not expect to see her again. i thought she visited patients who were in critical condition. every day i wanted to call and ask her to come again, but instead a different chaplain visited me a few times. i missed my dear friend in Christ.

on the day i was discharged, intermittently during all my preparation for leaving, i kept searching for her. i walked all around the corridors of the floor, hoping maybe i would see her. i needed to say good bye to her, especially to thank her for being so kind and strong for me, for caring about me. i became very tired and went back to my room to rest. actually i wanted to be alone, so i drew the drape all the way around my bed and tucked into the chair beside me, so that it was almost airtight.

i'm not sure if i had fallen asleep for a while, or just closed my eyes to rest, but when i opened them, she was standing at the foot of my bed! perhaps i was dreaming, or a residual of the ICU psychosis, but no, it was really my chaplain friend! she came to say good bye. i was very happy, so happy to see her. she brought me a gift, and i was deeply moved. it was a beautiful shawl, a prayer shawl. i picked it up and held it close to my surgically removed bosom; very close to my heart. she asked if she could read the prayer which accompanied the shawl. i watched her face as she read the comforting words, and noticed that she had tears welling up in her eyes, as i did in mine...

"May God's grace be upon this shawl...warming,
comforting, enfolding and embracing. May this mantle be a safe haven...a
sacred place of security and well-being...sustaining and embracing in good times
as well as difficult ones. May the one who receives this shawl be cradled
in hope, kept in joy, graced with peace, and wrapped in love."

thank you, my friend. may the Lord continue to bless your ministry and touch the hearts of the ill, and bring to them the hope and comfort that you have brought to me. angelina

"RIDING THE RAPIDS RAW"

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 11:10:00 +0000

truthfully, only because you ask...i have been feeling desperately inadequate, ashamed that i cannot function in ways i used to; but even in the day to day responsibilities, i have difficulties with simple tasks. this is worsening of my depressive state, my anxiety, my feelings of genuine hopelessness, despair. one day last week, i actually visited suicide.com. (anonymously, of course.) minute by minute, it succeeded in stabilizing me, keeping me in session with their psych behind the curtain. i guess i was contracting for safety. i was better after about an hour, still sad though, crying, very anxious and miserable, but at least i wasn't planning anything serious.

i ordered a book, you remember, man against himself. i was so deeply involved in it when you approached me on that park bench in boston common almost forty years ago. i was studying it to gain some understanding why i wanted to do away with myself, other than the fact that life was too unbearable. menninger couldn't have possibly had any answers for me then. i was too young and vulnerable, so impulsive.

there are nights when i think i will wake up the next morning without this dreaded cloud of doom, and that i will be able to actually enjoy even a few minutes of being awake, looking forward to what the day ahead will bring, and that's when i become anxious and panicky; sometimes it takes more than an hour to pass. i realize i've lost all resources to cope, and i don't want to participate in life this day, or the next. on and on it goes, loss of interest in everything and everyone, fear of everything and everyone.

i see no way out sometimes. no way out. i just want the pain of living to go away without taking life from me. but that's not possible, is it. there are life cycles each of us must face.

some of us (and i think of you when i say this) some of us have the ability to ride the rapids without being tossed out of the canoe. i don't even remember having been in a canoe...all i remember is hitting the water hard, grasping onto branches, hugging a boulder for a brief rest, and then sucked back into the water, raw, spinning swiftly down the river again.

i am barely keeping myself alive. but i'm drowning anyway, just from the effort.

'ERGASTOLANO"

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 20:02:00 +0000

all the way home saturday, i kept thinking "the impossibility of it, the impossibility of it" because there is always something critical and desperate clawing, ripping and shredding, until finally we are not together.

to explain what happened this time would be pointless. and i would become defensive in my explanation, possibly even angry if you didn't understand. i could not find any reason for telling you why i had to leave, the urgency, the fear and expectation that something dreadful would be waiting for me.

not far from the truth, a near tragedy ensued, and lingered for a few days, now under control...but the complexities of it, the evolution of it over the immediate few days, played out like a grim film noire.

thus i am still left with the thought of "the impossibility of it..." meaning, having somewhat of a normal relationship between us, undisturbed, uninterrupted, unaffected. i am serving a life sentence.

"NEVER GIVE UP"

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Mon, 12 May 2008 19:34:00 +0000

I must have slept at least a half a day, or a day and a half, after my double mastectomies. Probably the effects of morphine. As I was waking up, someone was breathing very close to my face, maybe checking to see if I was breathing.

"Angelina, is there someone you would like us to call? Do you have anyone, a man, you would like to come and visit you?"

"My noble knight." I was talking about my gentleman friend, telling the nurse how we met, and the operas, and what a wonderful cook he is, such a kind man, so witty, charming; but there was no one listening.

"Hello? Is anyone here?"

Intense pain, like someone had just shot an arrow through my chest. I could hardly breathe.

I was in the Surgical ICU. The room had an after-midnight stillness, but who could tell if it was day or night. A voice spoke from the corner opposite the door.

"Never give up, Angel. I want you around for the rest of my life. Be strong."

I recognized the blend of Old European accent, Italian and Hungarian. My noble knight was here! I could hardly keep myself from jumping the guard rail.

"Will you stay until I fall asleep?"

I waited for an answer. "Will you stay?" Still no answer.

I was completely awake now, my eyes were wide open. The room was very quiet. It was then I realized I had been talking to myself. Again. My breathing was more shallow and I was lightheaded, very dreamy, almost faint.

The brilliance of lights startled me. The monitors made a droning sound when the bodies of white burst through the room. They rushed around my bed, checking the IV lines, and the drains from my wounds. There were at least a half dozen from the Critical Care Team, and after the code, there were too many, so they waited outside.

My mind faded to a semi-conscious place where I kind of floated blindly around everyone. I could not see, but I could hear the urgency in their voices. I feared I was close to death.

"Please, call my son. Tell him I love him, I'm so sorry, and that he must believe this is what the Lord wants. Tell him to be strong." It was unbearable. My lips could not move to say these things and yet I felt tears on my face.

"BP 80 over 55. Pulse, wait, no pulse. O2 sat 86%."

"4 liters O2."

"BP 60."

"Come on, Angelina. Can you hear me? Angelina!"

"BP 50 over palp."

"Damn that PE. Flush the heparin again."

"Could be the Staph."

"Or both."

"Angelina!! Can you hear me?"

"BP 45, dropping, COME ON JOHN! WE'RE LOSING HER!

"Betty, call the OR. STAT."

"OK, put her into Trendelenburg, maybe that will help her pressure."

"Here's her chart."

"Let's go."

It seemed like a very long ride to the OR. I was nearly upside down in this Trendelenburg position, but my blood pressure rose a little.

We arrived: voices talking all at once, the smell of betadine and the sounds of metal behind me. My body was lifted onto the table, and my anatomy rearranged. The brilliance of light penetrated my eyelids, and for a brief moment, I opened my eyes to a slit.

"Angelina, the surgeons are scrubbing up. I'm the anesthesiologist. Soon you'll feel a stinging down your arm through the IV line."

"Angelina, dear, what's your son's number?"

".....Jim."

"His number. It's wrong in the chart."

"7...8...1...3....3......."

"Angelina, Angelina? What a shame. She's out, doctor."

I couldn't have been completely unconscious because a voice came close and said in his familiar accent, "Never give up, Angel."

"JAMES ANDRE LENAHAN"

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Sun, 11 May 2008 10:40:00 +0000

To James Andre Lenahan who died on Mother's Day, 1988.

"When the angels came down, did they give you a choice? Would they have let you stay where you were? Not to live here in pain should not bring you shame, and the light is so hard to deter. Did the gates of Heaven look just as you thought? Did Sister Mary describe them quite well? Years of catholic school were all good to you because you were the angel who fell.

I am the one who will never die young; I am a martyr and I can not hide. But I'm not a winner, I'm just brilliantly bitter, I'm sealed by my skin, but broken inside.

Angels are fragile and devils are hot. And life is a masquerade. Colors will blend and hearts will all mend. Just tell me you were never afraid. There were babies laughing and children running saying 'read me a book, sing me a song.' I was the one who I felt so so sorry for but you are the one who is gone.

So save me a seat if I make it that far. Will you even know I am the one? I will be old for the angels have told me that I will never die young..."

Written by Lori McKenna

"TO EVERYTHING THERE IS A SEASON"

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Sat, 10 May 2008 11:02:00 +0000

I remember when I was in the hospital, very ill from the septicemia which required subsequent emergency surgery after the mastectomies, I was waking up in the ICU. A male voice with a Venezuelan or Brazilian accent, speaking in Latin, stood next to my bed. I recognized some of the Latin words. I gradually opened my eyes and first saw the black cloth standing above me. Trying not to fall back into anesthesia hangover, I followed the black drapery of cloth until I could visualize a blur of dark skin, the hands folded in prayer. I reached up to touch those hands but my network of IV lines couldn't reach that far.

I finally succeeded in opening my eyes fully. He was a priest, and I asked him to pray in English. I closed my eyes again, and fought to stay awake. I knew I was weak, very weak, and I felt half alive. His soft voice, his accent, made it difficult for me to understand completely what he was saying, but I was shocked when I realized he was actually giving me "last rites". I heard him ask the Father to forgive my sins and ask me if I believe in Jesus Christ, to which I nodded. He then told the Father to accept this child into His Kingdom, or words to that effect.

By this time, I was weeping because I knew the medical staff had called him. Was there no hope left for me? What about my son, Jim? Why haven't they called him? What will happen to him, and my mother? No. God's plan for me is not dying now!

The priest's finger touched my forehead. I opened my eyes again. My mouth was terribly dry, my voice cracked when I spoke. "Thank you. It was a very beautiful prayer, but I am not dying. The Lord does not want me to die now. He has a plan for me, another season here on earth. Will you please ask the staff to send me a chaplain? I am a Protestant. Thank you for your kindness."

I believe in Jesus Christ as my saviour, and it is He alone who has given me eternal life, but He was not coming that day for me. There is so much work to be done here on earth. Didn't he allow me to wake up that day?

I prayed that He would place before me a woman chaplain who would truly believe that I am not dying, who would know that I believe deeply in the Lord, and that I need to share my faith and talk openly about God, Christ, Job, Abraham, and everything that has made me strong in my beliefs. I prayed that the she would be a spiritual advisor who will give me hope, someone to talk to and listen to, and be comforted by her prayers. More than anything else, this is what I needed to get well.

I fell back to sleep in the middle of my prayer. I trust that The Holy Spirit interceded and finished my requests.

To everything there is a season, and a time to
every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to
plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to
break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to
mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather
stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from
embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to
keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to
keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate;
A time of war, and a time of peace.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

"ABOVE AND BEYOND"

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Tue, 06 May 2008 10:21:00 +0000

Often we use the word “astronomical” to mean things are beyond our finite minds to comprehend. My earliest incomprehensible thought was of the mosaic sky as I gazed in awe from my third-floor window at night. I wondered about the Heavens, God, eternity, and the myriad of stars winking at me as I drifted off to sleep.

Light travels 186,000 miles per second, approximately 6 trillion miles in one year. Some stars are billions (yes billions!) of light-years from the earth, literally an astronomical computation to ponder. Many scientists agree with theologians that astronomy indeed proclaims God's greatness.

Think of the power that reigns the vast Heavens with such mathematical precision, the One who choreographs the planets to eternally dance in orbit, the One who rules this Universe and all others; and yet, He is the same power who hears and answers our prayers.

When I consider Your heavens, the work of Your fingers, the moon and the stars, which You have ordained; what is man that You take thought of him.....
Psalm 8:3-4

"A FRIEND'S WISDOM"

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 21:08:00 +0000

"Dear Angelina--

Thank you for sending me your recent postings, lamentations though they be. What I'm hearing is that people tell you you're looking like prime rib, but you feel like ground beef. And that you're distressed to see your son sticking with you, in your vulnerable condition, potentially compromising his own freedom. He's following the model you established, of course, with your mother. And with him, too, through the low places of his addiction.

Your steadiness through suffering, your endurance, is how you've earned your strength of soul, your wings. Even though you wish he could grow into them some easier way, he will need to earn his own.

But why would you feel guilt? Because you cannot carry the world any more?

Robert "

"CHANGES"

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 12:58:00 +0000

What they don’t tell you is that your mind may suffer more damage than your body.

I did not expect the psychological trauma, one of the delayed effects. I am plagued with intense depression and anxiety, overwhelming feelings of guilt, failure, anger, and profound sadness. Nightmares. Panic. Disturbing, intrusive thoughts. I should have died.

I was telling a friend the other day, “I am always angry or frustrated or crying or so moody no one knows what to do when they're around me. I can't stand being in my own skin. I guess it's a combination of extreme stress and all the physical changes, and pain. Kind of like being hit by a truck and walking away without a scratch, but inside every bone is broken and you're bleeding to death. Everyone says ‘you look great after everything you went through’. Gee, thanks. I feel like my whole anatomy has been chopped up, tossed around and put back together again--- the wrong way.”

What saddens and troubles me so deeply is the effect all of this has on my son. He has a very difficult time accepting that his once vibrant and engaging mother, who was always there for him to offer guidance, is no longer able to listen with the same attentiveness.

He must feel abandoned. He must be very so very angry at me, and bitter at life. I see in his face that he wants to walk away from this death trap and not look back. He deserves to enjoy himself, to explore his options, and to do whatever he wants to do with his own life. I want him to realize what he has to offer the world, and discover what the world has to offer him. Yet, he continues to stay here with me, to make sure I am taken care of. What a tragedy that he should sacrifice his youth! My heart breaks because he is this good and noble.

If I were to have a choice of any thing that could be changed back to what it once was, it would not be that I have my breasts again, or that I do not have cancer, or that I am not so burdened with the stresses of this miserable life, or that I have my vibrant energy back. None of these things, nothing else that I could ever want, except that the Lord restores the happiness and joy in my son’s eyes, his laughter, his enthusiasm in life, his free spirit, his confidence in himself, and, in time, a guiltless and forgiving heart.

TWELVE MINUTES

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 10:20:00 +0000

I scheduled the appointment with the oncologist, and was told to have the hospital send my medical records. Instead I had them sent directly to me, and then made copies for the oncologist. Knowledge is empowering. I’ve been a medical editor for years with a specialty in oncology, particularly breast cancer, so I understand just about everything that's in here. My pathology report wasn’t the first thing I looked for.

Like a blood hound, I hunted down that psychiatric consult.

It took place at my bedside. There was quite a flow of visitor traffic swishing by my half closed curtain; certainly not conducive to any kind of privacy.

I remember when he was inquiring about Family and Social History, the loud bustling from across the room suddenly became hushed comments, and the TV volume was lowered. I took notice and avoided intimate details of my tragic life. I smiled through his intrusive questions with grace and dignity. My Mental Status Exam was thoroughly intact, including insight and judgment.

The entire consult was over in about twelve minutes.

Finally. Here's what I was looking for: The Impression.

“This patient’s history is extraordinarily sad...a lifetime of trauma, a number of losses. She is at risk… and I would encourage that she engage in therapy as much as possible.”

Familiar, (like I've never heard that before?) but only after many months of cognitive therapy planted firmly on a foundation of trust.

What makes this psychiatrist so unique is that in just twelve minutes, he got it. He really got it. You have to admit, I spun this guy around pretty good and blindfolded him to the details of my pathetic life...and he still managed to pin the tail on the donkey. Such precision deserves respect.

Bravo, Dr. Gallo.

Now, where is that pathology report?

"DO YA FEEL LUCKY? DO YA?"

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Sat, 15 Mar 2008 12:03:00 +0000

They were bringing me down from the Surgical ICU, the second time, to my room.

I know I had lingering ICU psychosis because all through the corridors, running alongside my bed, Clint Eastwood hung over the sidebar, ducking under the swinging IV poles. When I looked to my left, I could see a crooked grin on his face, and his eyes twinkled down at me. This was a real adventure for him. We arrived to my room. He sat on the chair. The nurses came in briefly and announced that the doctors from the SICU would be down shortly to make sure everything was in place. Then they swished the curtain half closed as they filed by.

Suddenly he was at the rail of the bed. “Do ya feel lucky? Do ya?”

The exchange we had could only have been understood by the deeply convicted believer in the Lord. Nevertheless, before I could explain the difference between God’s plan for me, and “luck”, we were again interrupted, this time by the Critical Care team. They began tracing their fingers along the IV lines, flushing the heparin through the PICC line, checking the multiple IV bags, looking carefully at the wounds on my chest.

“You were very, very sick this time. I don’t think you know. Well, you’re holding your own. We have to watch your blood levels for a few days. There’s a lot going on. Get some rest, but in a day or so, you’ll be up and walking a little at a time.”

Dr. Patel looked around the room, behind the curtain to the other bed. “Didn’t you just have a visitor when we came in?”

I assured him that all my babbling was the ICU psychosis. In my most educated medical-speak voice, I contributed, “Well, you know, patients hallucinate and talk to people that no one else can see. That’s all. I’ve been talking to people for days. I realize they’re not there, but I’m certainly not psychotic. It does pass.”

He placed his hand on mine and smiled. “You’re doing just fine. You’re a very lucky woman.”

It was so painful to sit up, but my body jolted forward. “No, Dr. Patel, it is not luck! Don’t you understand? It’s not luck, it’s not luck.” Then the worst possible thing happened. I began to cry. I tried talking but it sounded garbled. He waited until the words could tumble out of my mouth without having to call for a translator.

“It’s not luck. I’m alive because of the Lord.”

Protocol won out: A psych consult was ordered.

"THY KINGDOM COME, THY WILL BE DONE."

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 11:32:00 +0000

"And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, they have their reward. But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.

But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking. Be not ye therefore like unto them: for your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask him. After this manner therefore pray ye:

Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation,

but deliver us from evil:

For thine is the kingdom,

and the power, and the glory, forever.

Amen.

For if ye forgive men their trespasses,

your heavenly Father will also forgive you:
But if ye forgive not men their trespasses,

neither will your Father forgive your trespasses."

Matthew 6:6-15

"ONE DAY AT A TIME..."

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 03:57:00 +0000

There are two days left before I go into the hospital for double mastectomies. When I went for the preoperative testing yesterday, everyone was so caring, and they spent time with me. I was understandably anxious, but they reminded me to take it "one day at a time". Most people think that "one day at a time" was coined from someone who spoke a long time ago at an AA meeting. Actually its author is Christ.

It's at the end of his sermon on the mount. He begins by talking to his disciples, instructing them how to pray sincerely and not like the hypocrites. He taught them the Lord's Prayer, and explained about forgiveness and righteousness. He spoke about where they should store up their treasures, not on earth where moth and rust destroys them, but store them in heaven; for "where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

Then he continued by reassuring them because they were anxious about what they would have to eat and drink, and what they would have to wear, and how their needs would be met. He said to them, "So do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." In other words, focus on today, and just today. When you get to tomorrow, that day will have its own difficulty as well. Live each day for itself, one at a time.

It wasn't until tonight that I remembered Christ's words in Matthew. I don't have everything organized as I had intended to before I go into the hospital, but I know that the Lord will take care of my family and make sure they are safe, fed, and warm.

As for me, I'm not worried about myself. Christ is with me as I walk on this long journey. It may seem that I'm walking by myself, but I know He's here, every step of the way.

"DO NOT FORSAKE YOUR MOTHER'S TEACHING"

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Mon, 04 Feb 2008 13:28:00 +0000

My son, do not forget my law,
But let your heart keep my commands;

For length of days and long life
And peace they will add to you.

Let not mercy and truth forsake you;
Bind them around your neck,
Write them on the tablet of your heart,

And so find favor and high esteem
In the sight of God and man.

Trust in the LORD with all your heart,
And lean not on your own understanding;

In all your ways acknowledge Him,
And He shall direct your paths.

Do not be wise in your own eyes;
Fear the LORD and depart from evil.

It will be health to your flesh,
And strength to your bones.

Proverbs 3:1-8

"DO NOT LET THE SUN GO DOWN ON YOUR ANGER."

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Sat, 02 Feb 2008 11:41:00 +0000

Cancer changes the dynamics of how families relate to each other. Adult children are confused, scared, lonely, and they feel guilty and sometimes they even blame themselves. They feel angry at the world and angry at the parent. They miss the quality time they had with their parent when everything was normal. They're afraid they'll never have those times again. They cannot even talk about the cancer with their parent because it may be too awkward and sad for them. It doesn't matter what age the "children" are.

My son is 30, and he's very depressed and anxious. Sometimes he is tenderhearted when he expresses his fears. Other times, the entire ordeal overwhelms him so much, it's like a boa constrictor is strangling the life out of him. He loses his temper for no justifiable reason. The more we try to defuse the emotional bomb, the closer we come to blowing ourselves up. Unkind words echo in the room long after apologies have been accepted. When we're left alone, we must wonder to ourselves is this anger because of yet another crisis we must cope with, or is it coming from the deep abyss of unresolved issues, those old wounds too unspeakable for the other to hear?

We have survived decades of wreckage, miraculously salvaged by the kindness of the Lord who roams around the junkyards of our hearts, picking up the scraps, and masterfully piecing them together, making some sense out of our pathetic lives.

Last night we had one of the most difficult and emotionally painful arguments, the kind that even the happiest of families engage in. It evolved into a heartbreaking revelation about our lives. After a couple of hours, we were both too exhausted to continue. For a few awkward moments, I lingered by his computer, and then he came over and started to show me something interesting. Within a few minutes, we were talking, and before I went upstairs, we were laughing.

Thank you, Lord, for reminding us. "Be angry, and yet do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger." (Ephesians 4:26)

PREPARING FOR THE STORM

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Sat, 26 Jan 2008 12:39:00 +0000

The island was barely visible during the storm. The geese and mallards had taken shelter hours earlier when the sun was still brilliant on this crisp January afternoon. They always know when and how to prepare for a storm. One lone goose lagged considerably behind the rest, and finally flew close to the island, honking loudly and following the sounds of their honking to guide him safely. I long for their instinct. A storm unlike any other I've seen is just ahead of me, and as much as I've braced myself for it emotionally, there are many things to do before I find myself in the midst of the turbulence, ill-prepared after the mastectomies and the long painful path to recovery. I'm terrified that I'm as blind and lost as that lone goose.

With each day, there are people who e-mail or call me, or something surprises me in the mailbox. I wonder how my name has been so quickly circulated. The first surprise was a huge package delivered last month. It was the Lance Armstrong Foundation LiveStrong, a large yellow three ringed workbook, stuffed with information, material to read, links to web sites, forms to fill out for assistance. I began to receive numerous e-mails from the LAF LiveStrong social workers, financial advocates, and case manager.

My breast surgeon's nurse signed me up for some assistance, and within a week the Bridge to Recovery, a local chapter of the American Cancer Society, sent me brochures, followed by a book about nutrition for cancer patients. Inside the book was a very warm welcome letter from a member of the American Cancer Society, and a kitchen magnet with their 800 number, and the words: Hope. Progress. Answers.

I admit I felt hopelessly lost until yesterday. I realize now that there are experienced people who will navigate me through this storm, in the same way the geese escorted the lone one safely to shelter. There are clinical professionals, my dear psychiatrist, and cancer survivors, who are all leading the way. With the support of caring friends, and my precious family, I'll make it through the storm.

The above photo was taken by Jim Lenahan.

GOT SCISSORS?

noreply@blogger.com (Angelina Lenahan) — Wed, 23 Jan 2008 13:27:00 +0000

I look in the mirror this morning. “What did I do?” I take a brush and wet down my hair, squirt some Paul Mitchell the size of an apple and wonder where to scrunch. No more long beautiful auburn curls cascading on my shoulders. Where do I begin? My bangs run across my forehead, rather ragged and uneven, giving my forehead a tilted appearance, as though I am wearing severely bent eyeglasses. The hair at the sides is pathetically short. I shudder when I look at the hack job I did on the back.

I’ve always had long hair. The thought of losing it when I go through the chemotherapy has been plaguing me. I’ve just about exhausted my thinking about the surgery, recovery, the radiation treatments, and all the symptoms, especially the fatigue. I’m feeling the fatigue now because the cancer isn’t being dealt with yet. So recently I began to seriously think about having my hair cut really short, military style, before the surgery, just so I won’t have to bother with this devastating aspect later.

I guess that’s what motivated me to reach for the old reliable utility scissors hanging on a hook in the kitchen. I’ve used these scissors for opening boxes, cutting through annoying hard plastic packaging, and even vinyl blinds. I figured they’d meet the challenge of cutting through 8 inches of hair. Little did I realize how tired these scissors had become. As my left hand was gripping the rope of hair, my right hand was working the blades rather painfully. After a few minutes, I discovered the blades weren’t working at all, there was no hair on the floor, and my right hand was red from gripping the scissors furiously.

Now what! I had a huge clump of hair in my grasp, running around the house searching for a sharp instrument, feeling much like I was holding my own head running away from a dull guillotine. Great!! I remembered my old sewing box buried deep underneath a pile of hardcover books that no one has ever read, but promise they will some day. With one hand, I finally uncovered the sewing box, and discovered some scissors. Well, not exactly scissors in the sense of being useful to finish the job at hand, but nonetheless, they would have to do.

After a half hour of chopping and trimming, I finally left it at that. Pinking shears can do just so much.

Definitely, with my oversized long tweed coat and my gloves with the cut-off fingers, I could easily pass for a homeless bag lady.