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My two-month course of chemotherapy intended to stop the spread of
cancer in the lymph system ended in mid August 2003. Another CT Scan
followed in early September. It found that the cancerous nodes in
the lymph had indeed been reduced, and that an operation to remove a
cancerous bladder could go ahead.
This was the first indication that I could indeed be cured of
cancer, that I was no longer in the 'departure lounge', and that I
could hope for a resumption of normal life. Naturally I was relieved
- but the experience of the nearness of death had changed me. I
found that I wanted above all to remember that experience in all of
its detail, not to escape from it.
The reason was that as a writer I had discovered the validity of
what my church had always taught: the reality of a mysterious
presence just beyond the range of our normal perception, available
to us in time of greatest peril, especially when we come to evaluate
our own lives. Trusting to that reality I had given myself to it
completely, and then experienced also its power to heal our bodily
ills as well as our closest relationships. I wanted above all to
maintain contact with that reality.
The operation that followed involved major surgery. In a four-hour
procedure, the cancerous bladder was removed. Then a 40 cm section
of the smaller intestine was excised and formed into a new
reservoir, connected to the kidneys and urethra. This has become the
standard procedure to deal with bladder failure in the US and
continental Europe, but it is comparatively new in Ireland.
I awoke to find myself seriously weakened and surrounded by infusion
drips, with several tubes draining the new reservoir to allow it to
seal itself before becoming fully employed. I felt as though I had
suddenly become many times heavier, as it took an immense effort to
accomplish even the slightest movement of an arm or a leg.
This was my time of greatest dependence, as I could not move, wash
or even drink without help. When the human bowel is handled by a
surgeon, it shuts down completely, refusing even to receive the
contents of the stomach. In my case this meant that the saline
infusion gathered in my stomach, creating an intense pressure. There
was only one way of relieving this - by passing a tube through my
nose into my oesophagus, and from there into my stomach. My very
worst hours now followed, as I had to try to sleep with this tube in
place, attached to my nose and impeding even my ability to swallow.
It would be great to be able to report that even in this crisis my
faith and serenity were unaffected - but the truth was otherwise. I
suffered, and there was no way round this. I could, and did, pray -
but I was overwhelmed by the bodily pain and discomfort that
enveloped me, and I experienced, at times, a profound despair.
I am now convinced that anaesthesia does not allow the human body to
escape the effects of the deep trauma involved in the excision of a
major organ. I felt as a child feels in the aftermath of a heavy
blow: traumatised and expecting further similar blows - and unable
to dwell on anything else.
Pain of this kind has a deep spiritual impact - persuading us that
somehow we have merited the blow that has fallen, and leading to a
profound loss of confidence in ourselves. Even now I am battling
against this tendency.
In the middle of all this I was told that an exhaustive biopsy
undertaken during the operation had confirmed that the lymph system
was now entirely clear of cancer. I was indeed now 'cured', and had
everything to look forward to. Only gradually did this sink in, as
my strength came back, and with it my independence.
Almost four weeks after the operation I am home now, recuperating.
My new bladder is fully operational, only slightly less efficient
than my old one at its best. I don't receive the same signals, of
course - and need to remain aware of time passing, and of the need
to relieve the new reservoir before it relieves itself!
One thing above all I have learned from all of this - how dependent
we are upon the normal functioning of our own bodies - something we
take entirely for granted - as well as the fragility of that body.
An amazingly complex organic machine, it is the medium through which
we experience and learn to function within our physical environment.
When it becomes dysfunctional - as it always does eventually - we
are faced with total separation from that environment, and with the
question of what happens next. There is no evading this question.
I am above all profoundly grateful that my church has given me a
framework within which I can face that reality, connecting my bodily
environment with one that transcends it - one that will receive my
essence with love when the moment of final separation comes. In that
truth I will try to live out the rest of my earthly life, knowing
that in the end God will find it sufficient that I commend my spirit
to him, in love and trust.
In the meantime I must never forget what happened when, believing
myself close to death, I trusted to what I had been taught - to the
real presence of the Lord, especially in the valley of the shadow of
death. If I can pass on that assurance to just one other person in
the same awful circumstances I will perhaps feel that I have earned
my reprieve.
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