Chapter OneChristmas Night, 1995I should be in bed. It's after midnight, so Christmas is officially over. As much as I have come to accept living further away from my family, it always feels good to be home.
I write by the only light in the room: a glowing angel atop the Christmas tree and the colored, blinking lights draped from limb to limb. We trimmed it just two days ago. Traditionally, we would cut down our own tree Thanksgiving weekend on my Grandma and Grandpa Shaw's mountaintop property, but with my Grandpa, so many cherished traditions have died.
My dad describes this year's tree as the Charlie Brown Christmas tree. The few branches it does possess are frail and have few pine needles. It has already begun to dry out. My parents have never been very particular about the tree that we trim, because they have always said it's the people who live here who light up our home. When my brother and I used to anxiously ask how we should begin decorating each year, my mother would say, "Decorate the tree the way you've decorated our lives."
There were times in my life that my brother and I would each receive only one gift from my parents, because that was all they could afford. The gift was always something we desperately wanted, like alloy rims for my brother's slowly built BMX bike or the typewriter I begged for that weighed more than I did and was just as loud. No matter the gift, we learned early on the meaning of Christmas. Even as the years passed and my father began to earn substantially more money, we never made Christmas lists or expected Santa to bring us everything we asked for throughout the year. We loved the gifts, but I think even at that young age, we just felt lucky to have each other.
One of my best friends used to come to our house Christmas morning and show me all of her gifts, but I never got jealous. This is the same friend whose mother was on her third marriage to a man that she didn't love but who did provide the gifts that appeared under their tree each year. I knew my life was richer. She probably did, too, because she usually spent the rest of the day at our house with my family rather than her own.
Since Wesley and I moved to Texas in early 1994, we have promised to return every other year for the holidays. There's something very special about waking up in the only home I remember living in as a child and being able to have Wesley and our dog, Huck, here with me. When I was a child, we lived in the smaller house two doors down before my parents had this one built. The times I spend awake while everyone else sleeps are always spent reflecting on the years I lived here.
I just finished watching a television interview with Naomi Judd. She was talking about remaining in remission from hepatitis C, attributing it to her spirituality, taking care of herself physically and having a positive attitude. I honestly don't know how she does it. To have something so wrong with you it could take your life—I can't imagine. I've always heard the saying about God not giving people more than they can handle, but I don't believe that always holds true. I have suffered little in my life, which makes me more vulnerable to life's unpredictable possibilities. Only in the face of genuine tragedy do most people learn of the human spirit's promise. I don't think I could be so strong. As much as I enjoy spending time alone while everyone else sleeps, I am mainly still awake because I can't stop itching. I thought for sure it was the laundry detergent or the water at home, but after washing my clothes and showering at Wesley's mom's house last week, I don't know what it could be.
I guess I will go to bed. I think I will go see Dr. McCabe tomorrow since I am here. Early tonight, I discovered that my glands are still swollen from a few weeks ago, and I just noticed another gland swollen between my collarbone and my neck. The lump is small, smaller than a golf ball, but it wasn't there earlier today. He'll be able to give me some antibiotics to lessen the swelling.
I woke Wesley up to feel the lump and asked him if I should go to the doctor. He said I should if it'll make me feel better. I'll try getting in to see Dr. McCabe tomorrow, while Wesley and my dad are golfing. It's better than waiting until we go back to Texas. I feel more comfortable with my doctor. After all, he did deliver me twenty-four years ago.
Chapter TwoDecember 26, the next day . . . 8:52 p.m.—As I lie here in bed, I keep asking myself if any of this is real. How stupid and naive I was to think Dr. McCabe would give me antibiotics and send me home.
I sat in Dr. McCabe's office and waited over an hour to see him. I didn't mind. I expected to wait. I hadn't been to see him since he diagnosed me with gallstones two years ago. Wesley and I had only been married for twelve days when I had my gallbladder removed. It wasn't exactly our idea of a honeymoon, but I felt much better after the surgery. That is one of the reasons I didn't mind waiting for my doctor. Every time I have gone to see him, he knows what is wrong with me, and then he fixes it. I've heard other people complain about their family doctor not treating them properly for what ails them, but I have never experienced that with him.
The wait was boring, so I sat and "people watched." Most of the patients were at least sixty years old and sat in their chairs reading magazines, trying not to fall asleep. It's been years since Dr. McCabe stopped delivering babies. My brother, Vance, was one of the first babies he delivered. My mom had a different doctor at the beginning of her pregnancy, but that doctor died when she was seven months pregnant with my brother. Dr. McCabe has been our family doctor ever since. Some of my relatives go to him as well. My Grandma Shaw used to, until she got tired of waiting. She wrote him a nasty letter about how inconsiderate it was of him to make his patients sometimes wait in the lobby for several hours. She not-so-politely informed him that she'd be taking her business elsewhere. Until my grandpa's death, he continued seeing Dr. McCabe, despite my grandma's feelings. My grandpa made the right choice. When my grandpa was bed-ridden in the last days of his life, Dr. McCabe called our family at my grandparents' home to see how he was doing. He wanted to make sure my grandpa's pain was being well-managed. Beyond the familiarity I had always known with Dr. McCabe, I knew then that a doctor who made house calls was worth waiting for.
I sat in the office and wondered what each person was there for. A woman walked into the lobby and rushed outside crying. A man followed her, and the two of them sat in their car smoking a cigarette. I hoped they weren't told one of them had lung cancer. You never know; after all, my grandpa never smoked a day in his life and he died of lung cancer. He was a diesel mechanic most of his life and was also exposed to asbestos, but if you asked him, my grandpa would have told you he would not have changed how he earned his living. He provided for his family.
My appointment was for 11:00 a.m., but I didn't have my vitals checked until after noon. I overheard the gentleman who ran outside talking to a nurse. He was being admitted to the hospital for a minor injury. He'd fallen down in a drunken stupor. I felt sorry for his wife.
That was what had the doctor running behind, admitting two patients to the hospital. I still didn't mind waiting. I was lucky to have gotten in so quickly. When I woke up this morning, Wesley had already told my dad about the lump. My dad misunderstood him, thinking the lump was in my breast. Poor guy. I bet that scared him until Wesley clarified that the lump was in my neck and was probably just swollen glands. The next thing I knew, my dad was telling me he got me an appointment with Dr. McCabe.
I was glad to find out I had lost a few pounds. Lately, with very little effort, I have managed to shed some of the weight I have been trying to lose for months.
I finally managed to see Dr. McCabe around 1:00 p.m. He walked in and started with his usual small talk, asking how my family was doing. I reciprocated. Then, he asked what brought me in to see him.
"I've had swollen glands for a few weeks, and last night I noticed another gland has swelled. It's between my neck and my collar bone," I explained.
He stood in front of me and started feeling the glands in my neck. He saw the lump and felt his way to it.
While he stood before me, I studied the lines that had accumulated on his face and the hair that had changed from black to gray in my lifetime. He was still handsome, still ran four days a week, and still tirelessly contested the statistic claiming that many doctors die of a heart attack from stress before they are old enough to retire. It looked like he was still winning.
"That's a lymph node. It shouldn't be swollen at any time for any reason," he said as he backed away. He pulled his swiveling stool over to me and sat down. With his hands folded tightly around his kneecap, he bent his left knee and leaned back. "Have you been having any night sweats or losing unexplained weight lately?"
"No, what are night sweats?" I asked, still unconcerned.
"You'd know if you were having them. So you haven't lost any weight lately?" he asked again.
"Not unexplained. Why? What would cause my lymph node to swell?" I knew I had lost some weight but my appetite had decreased lately; I assumed it was just because of my hectic schedule. Surely this weight loss had nothing to do with the lump. I didn't want to tell him about it. I was starting to get frightened.
"Well, it could be a few things, but it may be Hodgkin's disease."
"What's Hodgkin's disease?" I asked. I'd heard about a hockey player who'd had it. But then I thought it might be some type of blood disease.
"It's a disease that's very easily treated if found early, especially if it's above t...
