One man's loss and one man's lesson

By TOM KANE

I thought nothing of it when my companion, Elizabeth, came home to tell me that her visit to the doctor revealed a small lump on one breast.

Just a month before, she had had a breast X-ray that revealed nothing.

I optimistically recalled that a few years earlier, a lump found on my ex-wife was declared benign after a biopsy. Why would this one be any different?

None of the women in Elizabeth's immediate family had had breast cancer. There was, however, one cousin who had died from it at the age of 35 years a few years previously.

When Elizabeth revealed she was a first cousin, I still felt optimistic. Why Elizabeth? Why me? Why us?

Well, it was us and it was Elizabeth. The biopsy revealed a cancerous growth in one breast-a small one. Not to worry, the doctors said. This happens all the time. One woman in 15 gets breast cancer and no more than one in eight die from it.

However, when I heard those odds, I began to worry.

She had the breast removed and then embarked on a regimen of chemotherapy that took her to the Imogene Bassett Hospital in Cooperstown. Luckily, I was there for the operation and was able to accompany her on all but one of the chemo sessions.

She and I read every book on healing that we could lay our hands on. We were positive, up-beat and optimistic. That was the message of the books.

We were so optimistic that she had reconstructive surgery on her breast and thought of herself as made new.

Then, it hit again.

Now the cancer had metastasized into her lymph glands under her arms.

Close friends began to barrage her with every new treatment and possible cure that there was. One friend had the scoop in shark cartilage therapy, another laetrile therapy, still another on chelation therapy. They gave her books to read and pamphlets that talked of the very latest therapy.

The result was that Elizabeth grew confused and uncertain. After talking it over, she decided that she would put herself totally in the hands of her oncologist and the staff at the Bassett Hospital and forgo any experimental treatments.

My role, I decided, was to support her in whatever she chose and nothing else. I didn't want to add to her pain and confusion.

Some of our friends criticized me, though not to my face, for taking that position. They thought I should urge Elizabeth to take more drastic modalities.

After another set of chemo treatments, she got a little better, but soon the dread disease took her body over. When it reached her liver, it was over.

At the hospital one day, the usually bright-faced nurse came out to me somberly in the waiting room to tell me the oncologist wanted to talk to me. I dreaded those few steps to the consultation room for I knew what I was to learn there.

The oncologist showed me the MRI pictures. Elizabeth was in tears as she began to speak with me.

"The liver is now pushing the intestines aside," said the doctor. "Eating will become increasingly difficult. I'm going to leave the two of you for a few minutes," she said. "You need to consider whether Elizabeth want a bone marrow transplant or whether she wants us to simply keep her as comfortable as possible.

Immediately, she grasped my hand and said to the doctor, "No more. No more."

Elizabeth came home and I tried to make her as comfortable as I could with the help of the visiting nurse from the county and darvon.

Six weeks later, she was dead.

She would been 50 that December.

During her last few hours at the hospital, the nurse who had been so friendly during chemotherapy came to the room.

"Tom, tell her that it's okay with you if she goes," the nurse said. "She'll hear you. She's struggling to stay for you. Tell her that it's okay to go."

For the next hour I repeated that in her ear.

She took her last breath at 3:45 p.m. on Friday, April 28, 1995. I was lucky to be there when it happened. What I experienced is hard to describe. I was crushed and deeply grieved, but I also experienced a bliss that surprised me. It was as if I was experiencing her bliss, as I had experienced her pain.

I soon learned that deep pain can lead to deep, spiritual changes, for the experience opened a door to my spirit that I had kept closed for years. The beginning of my journey toward awareness I owe completely to her.