Surviving and More

We had lost contact with Kirsten's godmothers and godfather. They are all a part of the same family and we had grown quite attached to them in Edmond, OK. The story of our friendship was odd at best. We met during the time we attended a mission church for the Lutheran church. A small congregation of about 120 people. Everyone knew everyone else and we kept our lives intertwined throughout our stay there.

Perry and Anita were special people. Initially we were drawn to them because their daughter, Lisa and Anita seemed captivated by our band of merry little ones. Even more so as Anita realized that she and Ariel shared the same birthday. Lisa could be found every Sunday surrounded by the small ones shouting her name, "Lisa, look at this. Lisa, did you see me?" Soon she became the favorite babysitter, despite her entrance into teenage years and activities. Anita was one or another of the childrens' Sunday school class teacher or vacation bible school teacher. There was always a Coleman in her class.

At the time, Perry had been diagnosed with Hodgekin's lymphoma. He was battling fairly well, but as expected, had good days and bad. They often were in each of the focus groups we were in. We began to add them to our newly found family, sharing holidays, Sunday afternoons and nights and general days of fun and talking. There was always a celebration of something- but mostly it was life!

We found out we were pregnant with Kirsten in August of 1994. Our surprise was marked by disbelief and down right fear. Barry had been laid off and we were far from our home state of Ohio. We had moved to Oklahoma only 2 short years before and were just then finding our way to breaking even from the move. Overwhelmed, scared and unable to look beyond the immediate sense of being swept away, we numbly followed each other through the next months of the pregnancy.

We found out not long before Kirsten's birth in April, 1995; Anita had bone cancer. Not one with a protocol of treatment, but one that the only protocol of treatment was for 65 yo black men. They were at a loss. Besides being the second parent for Lisa to have cancer, they were overwhelmed there was no established treatment. It is one thing to battle something you know, another entirely to battle more of the unknown. The search began for doctors, hospitals and the cure. Friends and family began the battle of prayer for the best results and answers to the dilemmas they faced.

Much time was spent going to doctors and seeking opinions. The best chance treatment was determined to be bone marrow transplants. One question answered, another search to begin for the best donors. We were all hopeful and prayed for the search to be short and fruitful. After many testings, and prayers there were none to be found. The small group of close friends tried to close in around them to shelter them from questions, from fears and from being overwhelmed with everyday tasks.

The next alternative was using her own bone marrow and killing off all the bad cells. Once it was removed and healthy, they could destroy the cancer within the marrow and then use the healthy, good cells to replace it. Sounded like a plan. But would it work? With much prayer she began the process. I cannot tell you how long she was in the hospital. I only know it seemed like forever.

She was there through most of November. Perry and she had been hopeful she would be home for Thanksgiving. The news was not so good. She seemed to be getting worse despite the prayers and successes. She lost her hair. She began to lose more and more weight. We would take turns going to see her. Groups of people, friends from church, the neighborhood all went to see her. Rarely was she the one in poor spirits. More often than not, she was the one cheering us. She always had something to tell us about her God, her faith and her belief she would be healed.

The worst of it came near her birthday. I managed to run away from home that day to see her. When I got there, everyone had left for the day. There had been a few visitors earlier in the day, but reports from church had been very limited, and very dismal. Even the pastor had begun to lose faith in her ability to fight the disease. I remember as I walked into the room, I could barely breath. I was struck by the silence of the hospital floor, and the overwhelming machines that stood around her bed.

She lay there with a damp wash cloth covering her bare head. Her skin was drawn and yellow, almost translucent. She was barely 80 pounds at that time. She had been on a ventilator, but now only had oxygen. Her chest seemed to heave up and down under the demands of just trying to breath. There appeared to be so little life left in her. She woke up and looked at me, but seemed to look straight through me. I was so taken back, I fought back tears. I could hardly face my friend who had been so full of life not two months before. I was failing her, by my own limitations and by my own fears.

I finally found my voice and began to talk to her. It was then my eyes came to rest on the pictures taped to the arm of her tv. As I could stop my racing mind, I could see where she had them hang the picture of our children, next to Lisa's smiling face. I slowly started to chatter about the kids. She would smile and attempt to talk and ask questions, but she was truly to weak to do so. So I would sit and talk about the room, the gifts of flowers, and stuffed animals, the pictures and the cards all placed on on top of another in attempt to fill the room with cheer. I tried to fill the room with noise. My endless and meaningless chatter rang empty in the small room. It was overwhelmed by the silence of the hospital floor late at night.

I rinsed out her washcloth, but the cool water seemed to evaporate the moment it was placed on her head. Her skin dry and thirsty for the moisture, quickly removed any hint of water that had been in the cloth. Her lips were dry and seemed somewhat cracked at the corners, the lip gloss or chapstick left on the bedside table useless to stop them from drying out.

I looked at myself in the mirror and then through the reflection to my friend. Surely she was too tired to go on. Surely God would soon stop her suffering as some of out friends thought he would. How could she possibly survive this torture? I also asked myself how could we ask her to keep fighting? Even with the knowledge that she would leave a husband and a beautiful teenage daughter, how could anyone expect her to have the courage to continue to suffer more in order not to leave them? Did we have the right to ask her again and again to have more faith in the healing powers of God, than we who were not sick could manage to believe in?

I quietly walked out of the room and approached the nursing desk. I asked the medical questions you ask about every dying person. What were the labs? How old were they? How much weight had she lost? Was she able to eat? Was her input and output consistent or was she losing the battle? Finally I saw a familiar face from my previous years of working at the hospital. There stood one of the nurses that had befriended me during my time there. I knew she would answer me honestly, frankly.

As I waved to my friend at the end of the hall, she began to walk toward me. She smiled and asked what I was doing back at the hospital. Then the look on her face showed shock and then disbelief. She realized then, that the pictures of the blonde children throughout Anita's room were pictures of MY children. That the little cherub faces she had seen and discussed with Anita were the faces I kissed good night each day. She started to cry as the realization came to her, that there was less distance again between her work and her everyday reality.

Lisa, the assistant director of nursing for the oncology floor had found herself attached to my friend, Anita. She had become more than a patient to her. Anita, as always was her custom, had become a friend and confidant. Anita, when she was well had shared her life, her family and her faith with Lisa. They had joked about her sharing her name with Anita's daughter. They had laughed at Perry's bad jokes and endless puns. She had shared in the oohs and ahhs of dance dresses for Lisa, Anita's daughter. She had been introduced to the family of friends that trouped in to see Anita each week. She was learning about the lives and concerns of each of these people as Anita prayed and worried for each and every one. But Anita rarely worried for herself.

As we stood and put together stories and pieces of Anita's struggle against the beast of cancer, Lisa shared details of how the beast had come and fought Anita's every step. She told of her weakening body and immune system. How certain drugs fought her system to the point of causing her to go into respiratory failure. How Anita had times of lucid conversations and then times where she created an entire world through the mirror in her room. Her mirror had become her window into our house and our family routine. She knew every detail of the day as she told the staff of the children in the mirror. The nurses would be able to judge how sick she was by the stories she told of dancing with the children in the mirror. Or how she would ask for one or more of the children to come and sit on her lap to tell her a story. Both of us wept as we realized that the mirror was her escape from the relentless power of the beast that sought her life.

This was when my heart broke for my friend. Again I began to question God, his wisdom and his power. The nurses informed me that no one had asked Anita if she was tired. No one had dared allow her to choose between the torture of fighting the beast or closing her eyes and not choosing to wake up. The labs, the breathing, the fight had begun to be more that she appeared able to bear. But no one would ask her what she wanted.

I made my way back into her room. Without asking permission. Without calling anyone else or talking even with Perry, I asked the question of Anita. "Are you too tired to go on fighting?" Tears ran down my face. I was the coward. I was the faithless. I was the one arguing with God about the fate of my friend and her life.

She smiled at me, despite my tears. She shook her head "NO" definitively. I tried to ask more questions. She slowly shook her head "No" again. I smiled and took her hand. I then apologized for my lack of faith. She smiled back and closed her eyes drifting off to sleep.

I watched her sleep a bit longer and then made my way home. Not two weeks later, I came back with friends to sing Christmas carols at her bedside. By this point she could sit up and enjoy the company. But sadly, the voice of the angels that had once been hers was silent. She would smile as she attempted to sing the high notes she had previously met with ease. They just weren't there. But she shook her head and answered that no matter, they would be back as soon as she left the hospital.

There had been some damage to her feet during the really sick times. The circulation and oxygen levels had been so low, they found a need to remove a portion of both of her feet. They did so, but she was not as aware as they had decided to do the surgery. As she became stronger, Perry began to realize that she feared never walking again. He tells the story of sitting beside her as she was in the whirlpool to rehab her feet. She was saying how she worried about needing so much help and care now that her toes and portions of her feet had been removed. She was very serious about the impact she felt it would have on their lives if she were unable to walk. Perry with his usual wry wit, quipped back, "I don't intend on taking home the sloth woman. It won't be long until you are walking." Anita's response was to throw a wet washcloth at him. That was when we realized just how strong she was.

We waited for her to come home. It took week upon week for her to be able to make her way back to their house. There were good days and bad. One doctor's appointment rolled into another. A trip for blood work or a therapy appointment. Despite her weakness, the appointments were again stacking up. But Anita would conserve her energy for church on Sunday.

As soon as she could beg, borrow or steal the opportunity, she was at church. Arriving with her 2 quart thermal cup and small bags, she would work her way into the church. She would come in and be surrounded by people from every direction asking how she was, or sharing prayers. She glowed despite the sense of endless tired.

As the spring came, Anita's strength improved. She was stronger and more vibrant each week. She was out among the people she loved. She went to the church she valued and continued to want to give back to the people that loved her.

All of us should have Anita's spirit and faith. Today she continues to work with others that are facing similar crisis of health. She has taught reading as an adult tutor to countless numbers of people. She volunteers and gives of herself over and over again without thought of getting anything back. That just isn't her style.

One of my saddest days was leaving her and her family. Although we are states apart, I recognize that she will always have my heart and best interests. I hear she is a grandma for the first time this year!!! I can only hope the baby girl can keep up with her Grandma!