Thank You Will Never Be Enough

I am still grappling with the day’s events. I anticipate that I will, over time, write several blogs about this day, from various perspectives. No matter the angle from which I choose to view today’s events, I am unable to find a perspective that fully encapsulates the enormity of it all.

So, let’s start from the beginning.

I awoke this morning and dragged out the door to the doctor’s office. Today was the day that we were to discuss the next phase of medical options. In a nutshell:

Existing tumors showing no further response to treatment. New tumors growing in spite of it.

Remaining options:

1) Do nothing, live life with a tumor garden inside me, to an anticipated early death.

2) Try chemo, even though the pros aren’t sure that it will actually be any more effective than what I’ve been doing.

3) Opt for surgery which may or may not work, and will result in some significant life changes from here on out.

4) Quadruple current medications and add something else that will accelerate drug results.

Door number four is the decision I made. The doctor said that the prognosis still remains extremely good with the use of the new drugs, and that the fact that things have not progressed as we’d hoped to this point is more a matter of having to experiment to find the best and most effective treatment, than it is of being on a single course that simply won’t work.

The doctor suggested I take some time and think it over. I pointed out to him that the first three alternatives were identical the last time I had to make this decision, and nothing about my circumstances at this juncture compels me to feel any different about those options. The only option that has changed is trying new drugs. Bring ‘em on, I said.

Not that I would have necessarily made a different decision had I known, but the conversation from that point forward was all about the cost. The office manager told me that my share of cost for the next thirty days’ treatment (drugs, labs, imaging, etc.), above what the insurance will pay, is $20,000. She told me that there would not be a problem in getting it negotiated down to $10,000.

I’ll be honest. Some ugly and horrific thoughts bolted through my mind at that point. First: Is my life worth that much money?

I did the mental math. This morning, I had slightly more than half the cost for the treatment in my savings account. I thought about how much any number of people in my family could benefit from that much cash.

I decided, all things being equal, it was worth it to ME to find another $5,000 for the possibility of extending my life. I made arrangements with the doctor’s office to take the money off of my bank card later in the afternoon, after I transferred money between accounts. I said aloud, “Gosh, I guess I’d really best get to living right, so I can justify the expense of my existence.”

The office staff laughed courteously, and then hugged me and said good-bye.

The first part of the drive to Weaverville lacked much conversation as JC and I drove over Buckhorn. The CD player blared Talking Heads as I contemplated how to manage this latest medical/fiscal development. Finally, after mentally turning over a lot of ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’, I turned down the radio and shared my morning’s events with JC.

Upon expressing my concern about the cost, JC contemplated for a moment, and then said, “How many pies would you have to bake?” We both laughed as we thought about the time in 2004 when I raised money for my reconstructive surgery by baking pies and taking donations for them. All of a sudden, it almost seemed like a doable plan.

JC offered to do a benefit concert, and change the name of his garage band to 'Rapunzel's Sister', a nod to my current state as the antithesis to the namesake of the fairly-tressed fairy tale.

Our collective resourcefulness made me think about how, for the preceding two hours, I had been making the financial piece of this equation much bigger than it actually is. Shameful.

By the time we pulled into Weaverville, I had determined for myself that I would put the whole medical thing out of my mind and focus on some things I could manage at work. I banged away at things that needed to be completed, gaining a sense of satisfaction at seeing results.

Around 10:30, my cell phone rang. The doctor’s office. I answered the phone, immediately launching into my plan for moving funds, etc. The office manager stopped me. She explained to me that purpose of her call was to report that someone—who wished to remain anonymous—had written a check for the patient balance of my treatment. Someone—whom I presumably do not know—wrote a check for $5,000 so that I can continue taking up space, using up oxygen.

I have been struggling all day to find words to express what the knowledge of that feels like. Thankful. Humbled. Grateful. Amazed. Awed. Shocked. Inspired. Fearful. Loved. Relieved. Appreciated. Alive. Curious. Blessed. Challenged. Eager. Indebted. Grateful, Thankful, Thankful, Grateful.

I am curious to know what compelled such an amazing act of generosity. Was it something I did? Or didn’t do? Or maybe it’s not me at all, but the memory of a loved one. Or the burden of compassion placed on a stranger’s heart by a spiritual force bigger than us all. The enormity of the grace-- the pure, unmerited favor-- of it all has left me staggering.

I am not a woman who generally runs short of words. Long ones, short ones, in between ones, I usually have from one to too many for any occasion. I just don’t know how to properly say thank you to someone for believing that my life is worth living. It feels like a situation where the only real way to show appreciation for such a precious and invaluable gift is to demonstrate gratitude through a life lived well.

Even that sounds trite and clichéd, but I think in this instance, it’s sort of all I’ve got. The chance to live life, and life more abundantly, no matter the terms in which it’s granted, is both the gift and the expectation.