Lucky 13
08 Feb 2011 4 Comments
in breast cancer, family, side effects, treatment, update Tags: breast cancer, family, holy cross, pets, treatment
Today I had my 13th radiation treatment. Only six more to go!
I took Lily’s small digital camera with me today so I could show you what the equipment, room, and machine look like. Of course, the camera battery was dead. I’ll try again tomorrow.
So far, I have encountered minimal reactions to the radiation. My skin just looks tanned, not red at all. I’m nowhere near as tired as I was during chemo. I may have some swelling, but no pain.
Zoe & Lucy
In the mean time, my mom is doing well, Lily has a bad case of the yucky upper respiratory gunky gunk, Silas has been astounding me with his knowledge of electricity, we hope we’re getting a dog, Lucy and Zoe do not want a dog, the Sigmon guys are building our fence, and Paul is speaking at our church this Sunday.
The memorial service – Uncle Elwood’s version
01 Feb 2011 Leave a Comment
in encouragement, family Tags: encouragement, faith, family
Uncle Elwood circa 1950
I had heard the story many times. How Dad had nervously journeyed from the balcony at the old Tabernacle Baptist Church to the front of the church, responding in faith to Christ. How his older brother Elwood had joined him along the way to stand beside him. However, I had never heard Elwood’s version.
Richard circa 1950
Uncle Elwood shared this familiar story at Dad’s memorial service. For weeks, he had wanted to demonstrate his faith by going forward during the hymn of invitation, but he said he had struggled to find the courage. Seeing his “baby” brother bravely going forward gave him the confidence he lacked. Uncle Elwood said he was thankful that Dad had helped him at such a pivotal crossroads in his life.
Uncle Elwood and my cousins David and Ken related many accounts of how Dad had helped them and others. Dad was, indeed, generous and kind. I doubt he ever considered himself especially “courageous,” but Uncle Elwood viewed him as brave that particular morning at Tabernacle Baptist Church.
Dad could have provided countless examples of how Elwood and others had helped him along the way and how they had given him courage on many occasions. What a positive example these brothers are for all of us.
Sometimes we need a brother (or a sister or a friend) to show us the way, to come alongside and walk with us, giving us strength and courage. Sometimes we lead by example, encouraging others to be brave.
I’m thankful for my heritage of faith and for these role models. I’m reminded that God gives us others when we need support (as I often have in recent months) and that we can be a source of strength for someone else, sometimes without even realizing the impact of our actions or words.
Elwood, Albert, James, Richard, Grace, Ma Wrenn, Dot circa 1970
The memorial service – The hat
29 Jan 2011 8 Comments
in breast cancer, coping, family, hair, hats Tags: coping, encouragement, family, friendship, hair, hats
Soon after I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I read an article in Parade Magazine about actor Maura Tierney, better known as Dr. Abby Lockhart on early seasons of ER. She had been diagnosed with and successfully treated for a very aggressive type of breast cancer. The article’s objective was to highlight her strength and perseverance and to introduce her new show, The Whole Truth (which flopped).
I, however, was totally distracted by a single detail, casually mentioned in the 10th paragraph, “she had to go bald to her dad’s funeral.” I thought that was one of the most tragic things I could imagine.
Yet, that was my own fate last week.
I have worn my hats proudly in an effort to defy the sinister disease and subsequent treatment that robbed me of my unenviable limp mousey brown locks. But, on the day of my dad’s memorial service, I so wanted regular hair. It didn’t matter to anyone but me, but it did matter, and I can’t explain why.
To make matters worse, I didn’t have anything that I thought was appropriate to wear. I took a twelve-year-old suit to the cleaners with no intention of wearing it, especially since I knew my mother was planning to wear one almost exactly like it. I genuinely despise shopping for clothes (which is how I ended up in this mess), and I endured five different stores before stumbling across something mildly promising. I purchased a dress I didn’t even like at store number four, just in case, which I now have to return.
On Thursday evening, the outfit dilemma resolved, there was still the issue of my bald head. I remembered a wide-brimmed black hat I had purchased ages ago, but had never worn. Once I unearthed the darn thing, the Belk’s price tag still dangled from its brim. Lily said I looked like Madeline, Paul said I looked like the Jesuit priest in Black Robe, Silas said it looked like a black sombrero, and Mom just hated it without making a particular comparison.
How was I going to conceal my naked noggin during Dad’s service?! I have all sorts of toboggans (or tuques, depending on where you call home) and bucket hats, none of which were remotely suitable for this unwelcome occasion. The pretty ‘20s cloche one of my sisters-in-law gave me just seemed too whimsical or cheery for the situation.
Clothing proved to be an issue for several Konings, so I visited one of our neighbors Friday morning, just a few hours before the service, to borrow a blazer, button-down shirt, and tie for Silas. While at Hope’s house, out of utter desperation, I happened to ask, “You don’t have any hats, do you?” Does Hope have hats?! As it turns out, Hope used to manage a Laura Ashley store, and she has more hats than I do, all very pretty. She easily produced five or six straw hats, but I needed a winter hat. She disappeared up into their third floor, complained about her tall husband storing things beyond her reach, and returned carrying the lovely black felt hat I wore to Dad’s memorial service. God provided a beautiful hat, just in the nick of time, through an unexpected source.
While my wardrobe and bald head should have been the least of my concerns last Friday, I couldn’t help worrying over those details. I still struggled with self-pity over the fact that I was bald at my daddy’s memorial service, but I thank God for his mercy and grace in the midst of our grief. I’m finished with chemo, so I didn’t feel as rotten as I did a month ago. I got the week off from radiation, so I didn’t have to drive back and forth to and from Cary all week. Therefore, I was able to help Mom with the arrangements. I ended up with an acceptable outfit and an attractive way to conceal my smooth dome. And Dad is healed.
Richard Terrell Coley, 1929-2011
28 Jan 2011 4 Comments
Japan circa 1951
My daddy died on Tuesday, January 18, 2011.
After two weeks at Rex Hospital, Dad just wasn’t improving. He slept nearly 23 hours a day and had stopped eating. He would wake from time to time and obviously recognize me, Mom, and others. He responded as best as he was able, even trying to say, “I love you,” but he wasn’t getting better. On Friday, January 14, he moved from the hospital to The Rosewood, the nursing care facility at my parents’ retirement community. Dad didn’t seem to be in pain, and the Rosewood and Hospice staff members did everything possible to maintain Dad’s comfort level.
1964
He had been unresponsive for two days, but on Sunday, he clearly smiled at Lily and his brother Elwood. He continued to decline on Monday. On Tuesday, Mom called me during my weekly Bible study class and said I needed to come. I raced across town. At one point before I arrived, he stopped breathing for more than a minute and then started breathing again. Mom and the nurses believe he waited for me. I rushed in, hugged him, and he died in my arms.
2009
Even when you know it’s coming, the death of a loved one is overwhelmingly difficult and sad. Thank you for your prayers, cards, encouragement, and kindness. Dad is now healed, completely whole in body, mind, and spirit.
Click here for Dad’s obituary.
Brief update
17 Jan 2011 2 Comments
in family, treatment, update Tags: family, treatment
The operative word being brief!
Richard Coley circa 1950
My dad was in the hospital for 14 days before moving to the nursing care facility at my parents’ retirement community on Friday. He has pneumonia that has been difficult to control with antibiotics. Dad seems to have lost the ability to swallow causing aspiration. He hasn’t been eating, his breathing is labored, and he sleeps a significant part of the day. We’ve started working with Hospice.
I begin radiation this afternoon. I’ll have 19 total treatments, one every week day for the next four weeks.
Coffee with Ann & Sharon in December
I wish I had something profound to say about Martin Luther King, Jr. or Silas not practicing his trumpet (but he was practicing a little while ago) or Lily doing Sporcle quizzes while simultaneously watching reruns of Psych or the Sigmon guys drywalling my mud room, but I got nothing. I’m spent.
My Daddy
01 Jan 2011 10 Comments
in breast cancer, coping, family, prayer Tags: family, prayer
When you are diagnosed with cancer, everything seems to stop. At least temporarily, until you realize that life really does go on. Kids go to school, soccer practice, and music lessons. Homework must be completed. Church, work, NCSU basketball games, appointments, Christmas shopping, etc. And other people get sick.
My father is 81 years old, and his health has declined noticeably in recent months. He has battled an ongoing illness for a few years, but according to his doctor, he’s been having mini-strokes recently that have affected his mobility and how he interacts with us.
1965
Dad rode Space Mountain with me a million times while Mom sat on a bench. Dad rode the double ferris wheel with me at the N.C. State Fair while Mom looked on from below. Dad played in the ocean with me while Mom sunned on her beach blanket. Dad built sand castles with me. Dad brought us presents from his business trips in Canada, Mexico, Brazil, Argentina, and China. He played basketball, volleyball, and handball every week at the Hillsborough Street Y. It’s been difficult to watch such a fun, active man age.
On Thursday night, Mom found him on their bathroom floor. She never heard a fall, and he simply said, “I laid down.” They ended up in the ER. Both his temperature and blood pressure were elevated, so he was admitted to the hospital. The ER doc told Mom that Dad has a virus.
Atlantic Beach circa 1985
Lily and I visited him in the hospital last night. It didn’t even dawn on me until this morning that chemo patients have compromised immune systems and are supposed to avoid situations in which they could contract a virus (like in hospitals or intentionally visiting a person who has a virus). I just wanted to see my Daddy.
We took an over-the-top balloon bouquet, and Lily got him a card. As we walked through the halls, people smiled at us and commented about the lucky recipient of our spectacular balloons. I forgot that I’m BALD. I was wearing a hat (I always wear a hat), but you can still tell that I don’t have any hair. I wasn’t thinking about the fact that I’m a chemo patient. I could only think about Dad. I wonder if people were thinking, “There goes a poor woman with cancer with a bunch of balloons for someone else.” What were they thinking? I know it doesn’t matter, but in hindsight, I suppose we did appear a bit strange.
He looked awful. Lily and I both cried. Mom watches him deteriorate daily, so I don’t think it occurred to her that she should have prepared us in some way. We see him often, probably several times a week, but we’ve never seen him like this.
To me, he seemed to be in pain. I prayed for him and marched my bald self to the nurses station. I launched into my spiel about who my father was, what room he was in, how he was in pain and this and that, and I burst into tears and then apologized. I had prayed for the poor nurse who would have to deal with me, that she would be patient and respond with compassion. Whether it was my prayer or my obvious status as a chemo patient or just the way she handles all situations and weeping family members, the nurse totally disarmed me. She told me never to apologize for loving my daddy, that nobody will care or advocate like I will. So, predictably, I just choked back more tears and returned to Dad, Mom, and Lily. The nurse quickly appeared in Dad’s room and gave him Extra Strength Tylenol. Honestly, I was hoping for something with a bit more kick, but I don’t know if a doctor had authorized more potent medication. When we left, he still looked extremely uncomfortable.
I’m worried. I slept very little last night. I’m bald, my mouth tastes like metal, my right arm is numb, and I have a headache, but these are of little consequence today. I just want my daddy to be okay.
Kenya 1993
- 2010
I’ve just learned that Dad has pneumonia. He is being treated with an antibiotic and oxygen. I am much more optimistic and peaceful now. Thank you for your prayers for his smooth and speedy recovery.
Birthday Parade
29 Dec 2010 1 Comment
in breast cancer, coping, encouragement, family, hats, treatment, update Tags: encouragement, family, friendship, hats, holy cross, treatment
If you’re from the Raleigh area (and well over 30 years old), you probably remember Time for Uncle Paul. Donning a black top hat, a black tuxedo jacket, a colorful shirt, and a polka-dot bow tie, Uncle Paul hosted this live children’s television show. Each episode featured cartoons, puppets, and music, including a band of Happy-Birthday-singing fleas housed in Uncle Paul’s top hat. The best part of the show was the daily Birthday March that honored the children in the live audience who were celebrating their birthdays. I distinctly remember proudly marching in at least one of these televised Birthday Marches which was, in reality, a group of reluctant, uncomfortable children meandering in a circle behind the precious (but, mind you, visually impaired) Uncle Paul, circling the television studio set.
My 47th birthday reminded me of Uncle Paul’s Birthday March, other than the fact that I was sitting, so I suppose it was more parade-like. On December 20, 2010, I not only celebrated my birthday, but the date also marked the occurrence of my final chemo treatment.
Uncharacteristically early, I arrived at the Cancer Centers of NC for my appointment. As usual, a nurse began by drawing blood. I couldn’t receive the treatment if my lab work indicated that my white blood cell count was too low or revealed any other indicator that I wasn’t healthy or strong enough to proceed with my final treatment. I had been doing my best to ward off what felt like a winter cough-sinus-cold thing, so Paul and I were apprehensive about what my lab results might present. When I saw Dr. Singh, my lab results weren’t even complete, but because my numbers have been so good all along, my temperature and blood pressure were both normal, and I appeared relatively healthy, he sent me on to chemo anyway.
More than an hour after arriving at the office, I was finally hooked up to “the candy,” as Dr. Singh calls it. And the parade began. First in line was Janet. She presented a lovely Christmas arrangement with a big red bow and homemade sugar cookies. A bit later, Tracy and Laura came bearing a gift, balloons, and cinnamon buns. Next, Mom, Lily, and Silas appeared. I’m not sure if they came to see me or the beautiful aquariums. Or maybe they came for the snacks. Silas hardly said hello to me before he was popping open a Dr. Pepper. Donna was the Santa, the end of the line. Donna and Janet both kept me company until I was finished, generously addressing our Christmas cards which always become a gigantic project, much more burdensome than necessary.
I’m not sure how my fellow patients may have felt about my enthusiastic fans. Many of the people receiving chemo are much more sick than I have been. Many have significantly more serious types of cancer than I have. Some receive treatments in solitude every time. Others have a spouse or friend who sits quietly with them for the duration of their treatment. Did it bring them joy to see my sweet friends and family bustling in and out, trying to be unobtrusive (with relatively little success)? Did we break the monotony of a routine chemo treatment? Or was our spectacle annoying? Were we too noisy? Did we simply remind people of their loneliness? I can only pray that God will bless my fellow cancer patients, that He would give them His joy in the midst of their pain, that He would surround them with friends and family as precious as mine, and that He would heal them, that the chemo drugs would kill the sinister disease while sparing as many of the healthy cells as possible.
Hat #9, a gift from my friend Cheryl
The display of affection did not end at the Cancer Center. I arrived home to find balloons strung across my front porch, large cardboard signs declaring birthday greetings, flowers, sparkling grape juice, a chocolate cake, and other treats. While I have only clues to confirm my suspicions, I assume my church family is responsible for this array. That evening, we enjoyed a delicious chili Kristen prepared and the fabulous birthday cake, baked by one of the Klassa girls, I’m guessing.
The intended goal of Uncle Paul’s Birthday March was to help children feel special on their birthdays. Every child deserves to feel special everyday, but particularly on his or her birthday. While no one would intentionally choose to have a chemo treatment on her birthday, I felt exceedingly special on December 20, 2010.
This is what the Lord says:
“You are precious and honored in my sight, and I love you.”
Isaiah 43:1, 4 (RCV—Revised Carolyn Version)
I see my radiology oncologist, Dr. Kennedy, on January 7 and will begin a four-week, five-times-a-week course of radiation soon thereafter. I have a follow-up appointment with Dr. Singh on January 10.
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