About fifteen years ago I
took part in a care team for a member of my home parish who had
been diagnosed as terminally ill and wanted to spend her last
days in her own home. I never thought that I would be the
recipient of such care, an experience I have learned to call
grace.
When I first suspected a lump in my breast I didn't want to believe it. But I worried. One Sunday, after service, I approached a member who was a nurse as she went to her car. I asked her if she would help me with a breast examination. Without a second's hesitation she closed the car door and suggested that we go to the washroom in the church office. There she carefully located the lump, checked for its size and whether there were others. Then quietly but firmly said "Yes, you should see your doctor right away."
Following her advice, I saw my physician and subsequently, an oncologist/surgeon. On my second visit another friend from church came with me. The doctor, my friend and I talked together about the extent of the malignancy (a tumor which had broken and spread to the lymph glands) and about the surgical and therapeutic options open to me. My friend took notes. That day we set up two further appointments -- one for a second consultation and the other for surgery.
The next Sunday, at the time of "announcements" I decided to share my news with the congregation. Not wanting to sound too negative I started with a joke. "Sooner or later we all have to take our lumps," I said. Everybody giggled. Then I told them about the lump and the upcoming surgery. A stunned silence followed. But at the time for intercessory prayer I was remembered before God and, at the conclusion of the service, people came to me to wish me well. One woman expressed astonishment at my apparently flippant remark, so I reminded her (and me) that there were a lot of people walking around who had been through this before me.
For the next eighteen months, my co-parishioners were "with me" in ways that, even now, bring me to tears. Three people took turns accompanying me to appointments, so I never had to go alone. They kept notes and confirmed these with me and shared them with one another. One came with me on the morning of the surgery and stayed until I was out of the operating room. As I emerged from the effects of the anaesthetic my pastor was at my bedside ready to greet me with a smile.
My oncologist and I had agreed that since the malignancy had spread I would be wise to follow up the surgery with the "full monty" of treatment -- radiation, chemotherapy and Tamoxefin. Again friends accompanied me to consultations and appointments. We discussed the treatments, possible side effects, any alternative treatments and the potential outcome of the whole procedure. I asked what my chances of survival were. He said, "You don't want to know that just now." I replied, "Yes, Doctor, I do." So he laid it out for me. With all three, radiation, chemotherapy and Tamoxifen, the survival was about 55%. As a congenital, life-long member of and protester for minorities, for the first time in my life I wanted to be part of the majority!
The cumulative affect of surgery followed by simultaneous radiation and chemo soon began to tell on me, yet I continued to go to church. A massage therapist gave me "mini treatments" that relaxed me so that I could make good use of the energy I had. One Sunday, at the end of the treatment, she asked, "Who's at home?" I replied,"No one." I realized I had to get some further care for myself, that I couldn't manage alone. I phoned a nursing home in the city recommended by another parishioner. They had space for me. I explained to the proprietor that I couldn't pay him until the end of the month. He replied simply, "Come." I went immediately, stopping only to call the church to let them know where I would be.
For the next four months members of the parish were in touch with me daily through prayer, cards, visits and phone calls. A "Helen Team" was formed. The team developed a schedule of people with time and cars to take me to treatments, stay with me through them and return me to the nursing home.
As the treatments progressed, I became steadily more enervated and depressed. For about six weeks I was at my lowest "plateau", taking my meals in my room and getting up only to use the bathroom or go to treatment. But the "attending" of my friends continued. They spread the word of my illness. Other friends and colleagues outside of the congregation and prayer groups in other parishes, too, became part of the team, visiting or simply holding me in prayer.
Communion
Every week the pastor or another member brought me communion. For an Anglican of the Catholic tradition, there is little that compares in importance with this regular communication. They never gave me a "private communion". Instead, they brought bread and wine from the parish communion, the Sunday table. It is the custom in our parish to stand in a great circle around the altar/table and to communicate the consecrated elements to one another. As if the Eucharistic circle were that most elemental of life forms, an amoeba, the circle expanded and drew me in, to hold and feed me. Thus I continued to be part of the community's weekly remembering.
On Christmas Day, a family came, parents and children, to hug me, to read "the Story" together and to nurture me with bread and wine and their very presence. Another day my pastor brought a mutual friend with her. I was too lethargic even to have cleared a space for her to put the elements down. Seeing her dilemma, the friend said, "I'll be your table." It was an eloquent expression of an awesome truth. Once when I was too low to even receive communion, my pastor helped me to my bed, drew a cover over me lightly and tucked me in. Then she sat quietly across the room until I fell asleep. When I awoke she was gone. But I was safe.
As my body slowly accommodated itself to the treatments, I began to experience short bouts of energy. Visitors began taking me out for a drive to nearby parks where I could sit in the sun to see and smell the flowers. One woman came regularly, every Tuesday, to walk with me -- first down the hall, then out on the grounds and finally around the block! By the end of the third month, with the treatments over, I began to think about going home. One of the men came and helped me think through my options -- going home to my condo, selling it and moving to a seniors' residence, and the pros and cons of "power of attorney".
When I decided to go home, another member helped me plan what steps I needed to take to make the transition. She said, "We want to do what we can to make you independent again." Her timing was impeccable and a turning point for me. To support me in my decision, a squad of people went in and cleaned my condo and mended my vacuum cleaner -- for future use! Others shopped for staples. Still others formed a roster to stay overnight with me and to bring me my main meal of the day, until I felt able to care for myself.
The visits from the team members bringing food seemed an extension of another custom of our faith community, namely to follow the Eucharist with a light meal together of homemade soup. Sometimes an individual came to me, sometimes a couple. But they never just delivered the food. Whether they cooked at their home or mine, they sat down at my table and we ate together. Occasionally, as my energy allowed and for a change of scene, they took me to their homes or to a restaurant. Thus did they nourish my spirit as well as my body.
With their ongoing help, I began to care for myself again, although people still visited me and offered me "lifts" to Sunday service and to Wellspring, a wonderful volunteer service offered by and for cancer survivors. When, finally, I was able to go to church again, it was Pentecost, the "birthday" of the Church. As I offered thanks to God for health and for this faith community the congregation replied, "Hallelujah!"
Helen Gough lives in Toronto Ontario and has been a regular participant in MZB's "Soulmaking" retreats at Kirkridge.
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