Smiling as I Remember

Traveling with Susan by boat in Vietnam

Two months ago today, my friend Susan succumbed to cancer on January 7, 2010. Within two years of age, we had many things in common: we were both fellow missionaries to Asia under the Church of God; we were from neighboring states in Midwest America; we were alumni of the same university; we both fought cancer; and we both loved photography and traveling, often together. In fact, we were traveling companions in Vietnam, Taiwan, China, India, Lebanon, and England.

Bernie and I remember our 2004 trip to China with Susan, Choki(our adopted Chinese daughter), and Rachelle(a co-worker in Japan). We had so many funny experiences together during that two-week trip, but the best one was on a sleeper train from Beijing to Shenyang. We had five top bunks in the second-class sleeping cars. Bernie and I were in the first cubicle with six bunks, Choki and Rachelle were in the second cubicle, and Susan was assigned to the third.

After the overhead lights went out for the night, Bernie, Choki, and Rachelle all went to sleep; Susan and I were reading by the light of our small bed lamps. Before she turned out her lamp for the night, Susan climbed down from the top bunk and headed past Choki/Rachelle’s and our cubicles for the toilet at the end of the car. So far so good. But on her way back, Susan got confused about which cubicle to enter—but she didn’t know that immediately. Quietly, so as not to awaken anyone, she climbed up the end of the three-tiered beds to the top and began to crawl from the foot-end to the head-end so that she could snuggle for the night. But something was strange; no matter how she pawed at the covers, she couldn’t get them pulled back. What in the world was the matter?

Suddenly, the bed lamp snapped on and Choki peered up from under the covers. “Soo-san?” Choki spoke up with surprise in her voice. (They’d only met a few days before, so how was she to know what Susan was up to?) Choki wasn’t the only one who was surprised! With apologies and surely a red face (if we could have seen it), Susan shifted into reverse, all the time trying to keep her head down low enough so as not to bang it on the low roof of the train. (It is impossible to sit up straight in those sleeper bunks.) She made as quick an exit as she could, all the time trying not to burst out laughing at her mistake. Remembering that my light had still been on, she retreated to our cubicle without exploding, but when she related the incident, we were both unsuccessful in muffling our laughter. Roused from his sleep by our giggling, Bernie was soon a part of the laughter.

To this day, whenever we are with Choki (who lives in Japan) and remember that great trip with Susan, one of our favorite lines is, “Soo-san?”

Today I’m smiling as I remember Susan. I’m also thanking God for her life.

Immeasurably More

Bernie presenting diplomas at Tamagawa Seigakuin's

2009 graduation ceremonies

Giving glory to God
“Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen” (Ephesians 3:20-21, NIV).

Our newsletter is a little late this month—on purpose. We wanted to be able to give you the latest news on Cheryl’s cancer journey, a journey that began one year ago when she was diagnosed with renal cell carcinoma in March 2009. What an incredible year it has been! Following removal of her left kidney in April 2009, the cancer recurred in September, less than six months later. Since September, she has been taking Sutent, an oral chemotherapy that is proving to be effective in fighting the cancer, with a goal of sending it into remission. It will be a life-long fight, but God is proving himself faithful day by day as we live hopefully in him. Join us in giving glory to God.

An update on Cheryl
We are praising God for the wonderful result of our visit to MD Anderson Cancer Center, Houston, TX, on February 25-26. What we heard was “immeasurably more” than we had dared to hope for. In fact, the only news that could have been better was hearing that Cheryl was cancer-free We almost had to be shooed out of the doctor’s office and told, “Go home!” because we just kept sitting there and expecting the “bad news” to come. There was none (and we finally did set the doctor free by going home). In short, this is what we learned:

■The time may come when Sutent no longer works to suppress the cancer, but there is no reason to think that this is that time since all the CT scans and other medical tests continue to show no increased cancer activity;
■To help with the side effects (that seem to have increased in intensity), the doctor recommends changing the six-week cycle of four weeks on, two weeks off to two weeks on, one week off. At the end of six weeks, Cheryl will have taken the same amount of medicine—just in a way that should be easier on her body;
■One of the side effects of Sutent is heart stress, and this is showing up in Cheryl in elevated blood pressure. As a result, she was given blood pressure medicine.
■She has been accepted as a patient at MD Anderson and, assuming things continue as they are, we will return to Houston in three months for her next CT scan. (This is perfect timing as we will be back in the U.S. for a three-month home assignment from late May.) In the meantime, she will continue seeing the doctor in Japan for regular check ups;
■On the U.S. end, the doctor will consult with colleagues about the possibility of treating the tumor with surgery and/or focused radiation. He told us that this treatment is available in Japan, suggesting the possibility of it being done here (since it would be so much cheaper and because the treatment and care Cheryl’s already received in Japan has been very good);

Here’s how you can pray with us:

►For the Sutent to continue working to suppress the cancer;
►For Cheryl’s blood pressure to return to the normal range and the water on her heart to dissipate; and,
►For her energy to be restored so that the upcoming three months will be productive and ministry assignments completed before we begin home assignment.

Additional prayer requests
●On March 15, Tamagawa Seigakuin will graduate some 190 seniors in its 59th graduation ceremonies. Please pray for these girls as they venture “into the world,” that they will not forget their introduction to Jesus Christ at Tama Sei and that many will eventually give their hearts to the Lord.
●With the end of the school year in March and the beginning of a new school year in April, these are especially busy months for Bernie. Please pray that he will find the energy, strength, and inspiration for the extra load that always falls on him at this time.
●A new church year begins on April 1 at Tamagawa Church, where we will begin our second of three years in an interim pastoral assignment. Please pray for the church’s pastoral team—Bernie, Cheryl, and Fujiwara-sensei—as we make specific plans this month for the upcoming year. (This is a special challenge in that we’ll be in the States three months for home assignment.)
●Please pray for our annual spring staff meeting, March 29-31. We look forward to getting to know our new regional coordinators, Don and Caroline Armstrong, as well as to spiritual and physical renewal (and a lot of good food) at the retreat center in the mountains outside of Tokyo.

The Best Medicine, Part 2

The offending--and currently empty--fire extinguisher

It must have been to test my resolve. Just how good was my ability to laugh, especially in situations that, at first glance, seemed anything but funny? Was I really taking my “medicine” faithfully? The results of this test would provide a fail-proof answer.

I’d been sitting at the hospital, waiting for my appointment with Dr. M., when I completed my last blog on a scrap of paper. Extolling the healing properties of laughter, I’d signed off cheerily with, “I think I’m due for another dose [of laughter] right now.” In retrospect, I’d clearly walked into a trap. Little did I know what I’d encounter when I got home.

Doing the laundry in Japan is no complicated ordeal even though we have only cold water for our doll-sized, but fully automatic washer and have to hang our laundry on the verandah, even in the snow—unless I hang it all over the dining and living rooms, taking advantage of the space heaters to speed the drying process. We don’t use lye soap, scrub boards or ringer washers, so doing the laundry is really no big deal. Usually.

Things were different on February 16. I’d hardly gotten home from the hospital when disaster struck, thoroughly disrupting the usually tame laundry task, not to mention the whole house. As I reached for the laundry tub on the shelf above the washing machine, I inadvertently bumped it into the fire extinguisher, whose “home” was also the same shelf. Before I could jump to catch it, the extinguisher hit the floor and exploded, shooting a cloud of gray smoke and fine particles into the kitchen. (Our laundry room—also my office—is at the end of the kitchen.)

Within moments, a cloud hung over the kitchen and dining area that reminded me of the mushroom clouds of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Certainly it wasn’t that bad, but from inside the “storm,” it did indeed seem devastating. The only thing I could think to do was to call Bernie at school, just down the street in the next block. I certainly did not think of laughing. Thankfully, Bernie was able to come immediately and help with the first clean up. (Note the word “first.”) He also insisted that I put on a mask in order to quit ingesting the fine particles that were falling as if a snowstorm had blown through suddenly.

As with Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the “devastation” in our dining room and kitchen continued long after the cloud had dispersed. No matter how many times I cleaned, particles continued to appear on shelves, floors, counters, and furniture. Frankly, I think we’ll still be cleaning up weeks from now. And to think that I used to think fire extinguishers were filled with foam!

Now Bernie and I are arguing over whether we really need a fire extinguisher. After all, we’ve never ever had a fire, but the problems wrought by that innocent-looking extinguisher were overwhelming. In fact, a friend of a friend had a similar experience and concluded that next time, she’ll let the fire have the house rather than deal with the extinguisher. But since we live in an apartment in a church that houses a pre-school, we must, by law, have a fire extinguisher, so I guess I’ve lost the argument.

And I failed the laughter test, too. I still believe laughter is the best medicine, but honestly, I hope my next opportunity to prove my words doesn’t come along too soon.

The Best Medicine

Laughing it up with a manikin in China

“Better to laugh than cry, says I.” It was the motto Naomi and I tried to remember as we worked together as resident assistants in a freshman dormitory during our junior year of college. It seemed like our floor of girls had more than its share of problems, taxing both our wisdom and relational skills. They also threatened our emotional well being (both the girls and their problems). The phrase, Naomi’s brainchild, helped return smiles to our faces and laughter to our hearts (if not our lips), even in the most trying of times.

If I didn’t have cancer, I might say that my urologist is one of my biggest trials these days. Don’t misunderstand me—he’s a skilled doctor and I am very grateful for his care over the past year. But bedside manner? That he is lacking in this department is an understatement of classic proportions.

Take, for example, the day in March 2009 when he discussed my surgery options. If he removed my kidney with a laparoscopic procedure, the surgical trauma would be minimized because he would be working through four holes in my left side. (Pardon my simplifying things so greatly.) If I elected for him to perform open surgery, he would be able to see better (no use of monitors) and any excessive bleeding that might suddenly occur could be dealt with more easily and quickly. The down side, however, would be a longer recovery time and more unsightly scarring, although since I’d long ago retired my bikini, I really had little reason to care. Still, I chose the more difficult procedure as I considered a swifter recovery.

“That’s good,” my doctor agreed with my decision. “I’m not sure I could cut through all your belly fat if you’d chosen open surgery.”

I was too stunned—and embarrassed—by his words to retort, though many not-too-nice thoughts about his lack of bedside manner crowded my head. I’m sure I also shot a few daggers with my eyes. They must have missed him, though, because his bedside manner never improved.

Just last week came his latest verbal faux pas as I was discussing my rising blood pressure. According to the literature on Sutent, my anti-cancer drug, heart stress is a common side effect—which makes you wonder why this doctor has never once taken my blood pressure or even asked about it during this past year! (For that matter, he’s never checked my weight, either, although remembering my inordinate belly fat, that’s probably a good thing. But that’s another story.)

In any case, I reported to my doctor in layman’s terms that my blood pressure had risen into the 150-165 range on top, with the bottom number in the 100-110 range. With hardly a flicker of interest, he assured me that this isn’t dangerous yet. “Besides,” he added nonchalantly, “elderly people tend to have higher blood pressure anyway.”

After a year of experiencing his limited bedside manner, I was ready for this jolt to my self-esteem. “Doctor,” I responded emphatically, “I am not elderly!” “Oh, excuse me,” he mumbled in reply, his sincerity definitely questionable. Still, I let it go, covering my chagrin with laughter no more truthful than his apology had been.

Since then, however, I’ve related the incident numerous times to friends and family. Each telling is more enjoyable and the laughter is genuine. In the process, I’ve relearned the truth that laughter really is the best medicine (and it costs nothing, unlike Sutent).

Realistically, Dr. M. probably won’t change his bedside manner, even if more of his patients chide him. (Of course, no polite Japanese would ever be so bold or bad-mannered as to challenge a doctor. They leave that to the foreigners.) Nevertheless, I’m feeling much better, thanks to this wonderful elixir. I think I’m due for another dose right now.

Tears of Truth

Seeing "our" babies off at Narita Airport

I don’t usually cry at airports. Goings and comings are such a part of the lives of missionaries that you get used to it. Kind of. Not that we aren’t sad to see someone leave or to go ourselves, but you just can’t cry at every departure. What a reputation you’d get, not to mention the headaches you’d have to endure and all the tissues you’d have to buy. My kids don’t allow me to cry quietly at movies or TV shows in the privacy of my own home. Can you imagine the scene they’d create in an airport?

All of which is to say that I was truly surprised at my tears the other day when we saw off our daughter and her two children at Narita Airport. I was completely unprepared when the tears welled up in my eyes as I kissed our grandchildren.

“Mama, don’t start that,” Stephanie warned me, as if I had some control and could turn the spigot on and off at will. But it was too late anyway; there was no holding the tears back. Poor Little Ben. He couldn’t figure out what was wrong with his Coco; he was obviously worried about me. Still, I couldn’t bite my lip and force the tears back inside. Trying to smile through tears, I waved at them as they disappeared into the security area. Even after I could see them no longer, my cheeks were wet with the parting.

Although this time my tears were fewer and more controlled, the scene reminded me of the first time we left Japan 30 years ago. During our three years of living in Japan, we’d made many friends and had become very comfortable. Now we were headed “home” to America and I didn’t expect to see Japan and our friends here ever again. After saying farewell to about 20 people who’d accompanied us to the airport and managing to keep smiling through it all, I started down the jet way. Suddenly the tears were as evident as the carry on bag I was wrestling to control. By the time we were seated, a few tears had multiplied into a torrent and I couldn’t stop crying.

But last Saturday? What was that all about? After all, our plans are to see Stephanie’s family again in May. That’s less than four months away—hardly an eternity. Considering all that is packed into the weeks between now and then, our next time together will be here before I know it. Why was I crying like this?

Pondering my unexpected display of emotion, I fished in my coat pocket for a tissue and found a used one to recycle; it was better than nothing. And suddenly I understood. What had happened really had much less to do with Stephanie and our grandchildren than with the uncertainties of living with cancer. No one has any guarantee that plans they make will come to pass, that they will live beyond the present moment. It’s a certainty we all know if we stop to think about it. But unless one is quite old—I’m not there yet, no matter what anybody says—it takes a catastrophic illness like cancer or a disastrous natural calamity like the Haiti earthquake to remind us of the truth we’d rather deny: life is a fragile gift that we hold only tentatively in our hands.

It’s irresponsible not to make plans and preparations for the future. In fact, I’m eagerly looking forward to May as I check date books, get airplane reservations, and take care of other related details to make it all happen. But the truth of the matter—and the attitude I want to live by—is best expressed by David in Psalm 31:14-15: “I trust in you, O Lord; I say, ‘You are my God.’ My times are in your hands.” Indeed.