A Walking Disaster by Jamie Aten

Author:Jamie Aten
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Templeton Press

CHAPTER 10

Keys to a Home Destroyed

Distinguishing between Optimism and Hope

ALTHOUGH I HAD resisted beginning the punishment of drip chemotherapy all together, I’d begun receiving treatments in early December and was now about five weeks into the grueling regime. As so many cancer survivors have reported, the way to life feels like death—because it is like death. Chemotherapy delivers toxic chemicals throughout the body that not only attack cancer cells, they also wreak havoc on one’s immune system and other organs.

I felt like I was in a boxing match with a heavyweight boxer who was pummeling me round after round. In the first round I was knocked to the mat by radiation and chemotherapy treatments. In the second round, just as I started to feel a bit better, I had surgery to remove the cancer, delivering a blow so bad I thought my fight might be over. After feeling like I was down for the count, I got back on my feet in the third round, only to be told I had to complete another twelve more rounds of drip chemotherapy over six additional months. I felt pinned in the corner of the ring. I struggled to muster enough strength to keep my fists up and arms close to my body as I absorbed punch after punch.

My colleague Terri Watson from the Psychology Department had invited me to share a devotional message on what I had learned from my cancer experience with my colleagues at a daylong faculty and staff retreat before the beginning of spring semester. I knew I didn’t have the stamina to make it through the full day, but I was willing to give it everything I had in order to try to offer a brief devotional. I missed teaching. I missed my relationships with my colleagues. I missed contributing to my community. I’d jotted down some reflections on my iPhone about what I’d been discovering on my cancer journey so far. Though I was looking forward to being with my colleagues, I was nervous about giving the devotional, which was uncharacteristic.

Despite the fact that I was on medical leave over the course of the fall semester, I had been trying to “contribute” as much as I was able from bed on the rare occasions I was able: scrawling disjointed book chapters, checking in with students, emailing with colleagues. And although I reminded myself constantly that my value did not depend on my productivity, I’d been looking forward to this opportunity to share something with others, especially those who’d been so supportive of my family and me.

Kelly had joined me that day, driving us through slushy streets that bordered yards filled with clean white snow and friendly snowmen, to a large hall at a church adjacent to the edge of campus where faculty had gathered for social, spiritual, and intellectual refreshment a few days before students were scheduled to return to campus. Kelly and I had timed our arrival to avoid the potentially exhausting coffee hour and had slid into the meeting room just as Terri was gathering those present.

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