By T. Frank Box
On the last of my radiation treatments, in September of 1999, I waited to see
the oncologist for my chemotherapy referral. I held the strange plastic mesh mask
in my lap that had held my head motionless as the six million electron volts of xray
radiation was beamed through my brain for all of the thirty treatments. The
mask was made of a white thermal plastic that was heated, molded to my face and
then bolted to a table as I lay there for twenty minutes for it to cool. I was glad my
nuclear treatments were over, but was not looking forward to the twelve months of
Chemo that would be starting soon. The mask was a trophy to hang on the wall as
a reminder of just how far I had come. 2 brain surgeries and 30 radiation
treatments completed, only one year of chemotherapy left to go. My Mother and
daughter were with me, but I felt very alone. The thoughts of loosing another year
to being sick seemed unbearable until I met the man with the blue mask.
A couple entered the waiting area and as they passed I noticed he had a mask
much like mine. Unlike my mask, his was blue, and had the eyes, nose and mouth
cut out. He seemed alone like me, separated from a world that has no clue what it
feels like to have brain cancer. We eyed each other with the interest just as
members of any elite group might; a conversation just seemed to start on its own.
He seemed to know that I would understand his anxiety from the radiation burns
and surgical scars that made my head look like a red swollen soft ball.
Within minutes we were opening up our lives to each other, trading stories,
as two long lost friends, or two soldiers in a foxhole with a common enemy that
was seeking to remove their life. Two souls met that talked and understood the
language of a brain cancer patient. My mask was solid with only the standard holes
left by the plastic mesh to see and breathe through, his mask had the eyes mouth
and nose area cut out a little, so I asked if he were claustrophobic. He confirmed
my suspicions and added that the MRIs were hellish and the valium was the only
thing that saved him.
Then our conversation drifted toward our individual prognosis, his cancer
seemed much worse than mine. As he opened up to me, in desperation to explain it
to someone who might understand it became clear he had only a few weeks to live.
As he unloaded his fears and frustrations on me, every passion filled word
slammed home. His wife, just a little behind him and to the left, was out of his
peripheral vision, and I could her face as she hung on every word as he retold a
story she knew too well.
“Its in my liver, I do what they say! Its in my Lungs, I do what they say!
And now it’s in my brain, and I am doing what they say again! But they tell me I
only have a few weeks! Maybe six. As he inhaled for next verse of his tirade, I
locked eyes with him, and then shifted my gaze to his petrified wife; he turned and
saw her pained expression, as if her very core were being sucked out. As he looked
back to me I nodded toward the hallway and asked if I could have a word with just
him, he followed with his head bowed a little as his wife slumped into a chair
sobbing into her hands. We had an unobstructed view of the waiting room through
the glass of the personal agony she felt in having her husband torn from her. I was
moved to speak some words of comfort, and don’t know where the words came
from, but the words flowed with clarity that spoke to his heart as only another
cancer patient could.
I said, “She really loves you?” He said, “I know.” I continued, “... and she
has been with you through this entire ordeal?” He nodded yes. I said, “Your life is
from now till it’s over; how do you want her to remember you? If you only have a
few days, make them count! Be strong for her!”
He grabbed me in an appreciative hug, and thanked me. I could see them
through the glass as they embraced ready to enjoy their remaining time together in
this life.
I have reflected on those few moments of clarity over the last several years
as I drift from brain cancer patient to brain cancer survivor status. The words I
spoke to him were ones that I needed to hear. I have been given everything that
man thought he wanted, and he had everything I thought I wanted. He had some
one to love him his whole life through. I was given the time he wanted, but no
partner to share it with.
Thinking of life as a proportion; it is difficult to say who got the better deal.
I was chosen to live, and he was chosen to have love every minute of his earthly
life. He felt his life being torn from him as I felt my true love slipping away with
the part of my brain that was removed. I guess life is about suffering well, falling
with grace, and loving as if your life depended on it, in the end it does.
T.F.B.
PS. Three years later while sitting church, a nice lady walked in, and we talked a
little... drank some coffee... talked a little more. And we were married in
September of 2003.
Frank Box is an Independent Living Specialist specializing in Home Modifications and Adaptive Technology at Access Alaska - Anchorage.
