Health Care: The Real Deal

I had such a surreal experience last week that it begs for me to write about it. In the midst of all the political back and forth, arguments “on the hill” and in my own home, and debates about health care in this nation, I became witness to two separate cases that amazed me.

Though I still find it difficult to believe, my friend Jenny was diagnosed with lung cancer two weeks ago. She has never smoked and it is the kind of cancer that grows very slowly. In fact, it is likely that it had been there a while. In fact, it is a miracle that it was found at all.

In those last two weeks, a student sat in my office, burst into tears, and told me that her own daughter, Camille, had been diagnosed with cervical cancer. This daughter is not even thirty and has two young children of her own. This student cried as she became terrified that she would soon be burying her own child.

Jenny has insurance and she happens to be caucasian. Better than that, she works in an all girls school that happens to be the school of choice for many doctors in our community. Once they found out what Jenny was going through, they leapt into action. Phone calls were made, test results were sped up, oncologists rearranged schedules, and Jenny had been diagnosed, had a PET scan, met with a surgeon and an oncologist, and had surgery scheduled and completed - all within a week. I stood by her watching doctors do things I had never seen before, like coming into the waiting room to tell her the good news of the PET scan so that she “wouldn’t have to worry for one more minute.” Jenny received what we described as “the royal treatment.” And, I’m incredibly thankful for it. She is cancer free only two weeks later, the tumor has been removed, and she is at home recovering.

Camille, on the other hand, does not have insurance and happens to be African-American. She has been diagnosed with a deadly disease, the same one that killed her grandmother and great-aunt. But, she doesn’t know any of the doctors and she doesn’t have any money. She can’t get tests, schedule surgery, or receive any treatment whatsoever until she pays up front.

You must see why I describe this as surreal. I’m incredibly thankful for Jenny’s life. I’m thankful that she has been such a great mentor to young women that now those parents are reaching out to help her. But, while I will forever remain thankful, I can’t help but wonder what is wrong in our nation when these things are clearly possible, but only happen for a select few. It isn’t right. And, it isn’t fair. Christ may even call it unjust.

I don’t know what will happen to Camille. I fear that she will continue to grow sicker and sicker while trying to raise funds to pay for the treatment she needs. I fear her children will have to watch her suffer and die. In contrast, Jenny will be back at the park with her little ones soon. What makes the difference? And, are we going to settle for this?

Performance Anxiety

Performers have the standard nightmares – forgetting their lines, finding themselves on stage in front of an audience completely nude, no audience showing up. Stage managers have nightmares too. Last night I dreamed that all kinds of things were going wrong and I could not get the play started on time. Once I got one actor in place, another would be off someplace else. There was all kinds of drama happening behind the scenes. Actresses in tears with the director trying to comfort them. The director was my dear friend and he didn’t seem to care about starting on time. The audience was assembled, just waiting, and I could not get it all together. Once we finally did start the show - which was some sort of cross between the play I’m working on right now and the new TV show Glee – all kinds of things were going wrong. For one song, the performers started singing and I couldn’t get the music on in time. For another segment, I forgot an entire transition moment that depended on my working the lights and sound correctly. I was constantly having to leave “the booth” to run around to try to get things together. Being out-of-place would cause something else to happen. And then, something went so wrong that the show just stopped. The director ended up on the stage to talk through the problem with the actors. The curtains were closed and the audience was left to sit out there wondering what in the world was going on. I was urging the director and cast to pull it together when an older lady, shortish with red hair came walking through the crack in the curtain. She said, “I’m sorry, but I have these older women with me and they have to be in bed by 8:30. We are going to have to leave.” As the director attempted to apologize, see if he could convince her to hang in there for a few more minutes, in an effort to give her critique of the show, she said something like, “If your goal was to provide for a very confusing night that felt chaotic, then you have been most successful.” Not the goal of a stage manager!

There was this really weird moment in the middle of all that is described above. I think it happened before we even got the show started while I was trying to locate all the performers. I was up high in what seemed like a stadium instead of a theatre. I saw my mother, so I wanted to speak and give her a hug. As I squeezed myself between the backs of seats and legs of patrons, just as I was almost to my mother, I realized that my father was sitting on this side of her. He looked just as I remember him, but I knew something was wrong. There was nothing said in my dream about it, but somehow I knew that she had done something in order to have “the appearance” of Daddy with her. Maybe he was a clone or a robot. There was something like that which would make it seem your loved one was with you, but we all knew it wasn’t really him. I had a hard time looking at him. I leaned over him, hugged Mom, told her I was glad she was there, and turned to walk away – quickly because I felt so rushed and anxious because things were not going according to plan. I know my dreaming self was angry that she felt the need to do this. I know that my dreaming self wanted to tell her to stop trying to keep him with her. But, I couldn’t leave. I had not looked directly at him yet. Before running off to try to get the show started, I turned, looked him in the eyes, and said, “I miss you Daddy.” Before anyone could say anything else, I ran off and back to crying actresses and angry cast-mates.

Let the analysis begin!

Cicada

Tonight I had the opportunity to see a new play called “Cicada” written by my friend, Jerre Dye. To try to describe what it is about would be difficult because the script is so incredibly rich with human experiences and emotion that it is as complex as life itself. If you like ghost stories, you would like this. There are ghosts all up in this thing!

One of those ghosts is the dead husband of the neighbor to the main character. There are these funny, sweet, and so real scenes with the widow talking to her dead husband that, of course, it brought up this whole grieving process for me again. I found myself imagining my own mother’s pain and lonesomeness. It didn’t help that he was a preacher. Nor did it help that he had a very playful nature. Nor did it help that he liked to push his wife’s buttons to set her off and running on some sort of rant about a particular evil in the world.

In this play, the dead were all around interacting with the living. It is a common theme, one which many claim in their own lives. So, once again, I found myself wondering “why not me?” But, the truth displayed in the show was that this interaction with the dead was actually dibilitating to the living. At least, that is my interpretation. In order to be free, the living had to release the dead and move on.

I don’t yet know what that really means. I don’t yet know how one truly does such a thing. But through the magic of theatre tonight I’m beginning to see that while losing my father sucks (I will not allow anyone to take that feeling from me!), letting him go is liberation for his spirit and for mine.

If you happen to be anywhere near Memphis, you will want to see this show. It is one of the best plays you will ever have the opportunity to experience. Check out Voices of the South, get your tickets now. Tonight’s show was sold out.

www.voicesofthesouth.org

Two Years

Briefly last year I considered changing the name of this blog to “The Grief Blog” because it seemed there was nothing I could write about other than the death of my father. Today is almost over and I am so thankful. Today marked two years since he died. I stayed in bed most of the day.

It is just a day. Through sobs last night, I said to my husband, “He isn’t any more dead today than he was yesterday.” And yet, this date – these last two days – have held some significance for my entire family. My sister says it best when she says, “Today sucks.” Really, there is no way around it.

You want to know what I believe? I believe in eternal life. I believe that my father could not have died any better than he did. I believe he chose when, where, and how to let go. I believe he said goodbye to me roughly 13 hours before he died – the last time I saw him. I believe he is in the very presence of Jesus Christ. I believe he is at total peace. I believe I will see him again.

And, I believe this sucks. Because I don’t want some sweet by and by. I want it now. I’ve never been very good with the whole patience thing. I want to hear his funny stories now. I want to hug his neck, even with the stinky smell of smoke permeating his clothes, now. I want him to see my son missing his first tooth, now. I want him to see my daughter start ballet classes, now. My family is a family of faith. We believe. We really believe. And, this still sucks!

I don’t feel his presence in some mystical way with me. I laugh when I think of him. I remember stories he would tell my boy – making them up as he went along – about characters he called Zack and Blackey and, of course, Grimey Guts McGoover. I remember him and I am at peace about his life and about his death. But he is not still with me. Do not tell me he is still with me. He is not here. And, it sucks.

This I believe

I am inspired by a revival of “This I believe.” It was a 1950’s radio program hosted by Edward R. Murrow that featured short essays from all kinds of voices on what they believe. Now, there is a website that is archiving those early essays as well as new ones. Anyone is invited to submit a brief statement of belief. The guideline for submission is beautiful in and of itself. Writers are encouraged to be brief, to tell stories, be personal, and positive. Writers are discouraged from preaching, pointing fingers, or making statements on American politics. I have in my head that I would post on my blog a series of these essays – delving into my personal beliefs – one belief at a time. The first one has been on my mind for months. I have avoided writing about it because I know that some of you will not like it. I have avoided writing about it because I want to be able to share my own belief in the way that “This I believe” encourages me to. We’ll see how that goes.

This I believe. I believe that the Bible is the inspired Word of God, living, breathing, working in our lives. I have had experiences with the Word that are impossible to explain. I believe that the Word is written on our hearts because scripture tells us so. I have found myself in a situation where someone was looking to me for help and as I sat there feeling completely helpless, useless, even questioning my own call, passages from the Bible would come to me, flow from my lips, and I knew that it came from a place deep within, brought to the surface only by the power of the Holy Spirit.

I believe that the Bible is the Word of God, not God. I believe that, if not careful, I can make an idol of this gift that God has given to the world. I believe that God continues to speak and that prophets are being heard every day. I believe that using the Bible as a weapon against others causes God great pain and sadness. I believe that most scriptures can be used to say what we want them to say, that we must seek guidance from the living Christ to enlighten them. I believe that arguing over whether Creation happened in six days or through evolution is a waste of time. I believe whether or not Job was a “real person,” the truth found in his story touches each of us. I believe in miracles. I believe it is a miracle that these documents come together to tell the story of God’s love for God’s people.

This I believe. This book we call The Holy Bible is our gift from God. The gift can not outshine the Giver. I believe.