“Now a word came stealing to me, my ear received the whisper of it. Amid thoughts from visions of the night, when sleep falls on mortals, dread came upon me, and trembling, which made my bones shake.” (Job 4: 12-14)

“O that my vexation were weighed, and all my calamity laid in the balances! For then it would be heavier than the sand of the sea.” (Job: 6: 2-3)





ENVYING JOB

By
John Butler







Intro/One Saturday morning

One Saturday morning in August, 2009, I lazily make my way to the kitchen for a cup of coffee to drink as the kids eat bowls of cereal. I listen to them talking, acting silly, picking at each other – the usual table stuff. Leaning forward, I rest my neck on my hands. Suddenly I am aware of a swollen gland on the left side of my neck. It isn’t sore, but here it is. I rub it. No pain. I get up and go to the bathroom to look more closely. It is small, almost unnoticeable. I return to the kitchen table and tell my wife, Becah. She observes the gland and massages it. She, like me, is puzzled. We decide I should call the doctor and have him check it out. Probably an antibiotic would be all that would be needed. I am concerned, but manage to put it out of my mind.

The following Monday I call and set up an appointment with my doctor. This would be the first of many appointments over the next few months, as I am referred from one specialist to another to try to determine which antibiotic will make the swelling disappear. I am a school psychologist, and as I drive to schools at the onset of a fresh new year, I find myself frequently looking in the mirror at the swollen gland, imagining that on some days it is actually shrinking. I try to distract myself regularly by playing CDs loudly and singing along. My wishful thinking diagnosis is mononucleosis (that would explain the swelling in the neck and fatigue that I had recently been experiencing).



Part 1 There Must Be Some Mistake/Merry Christmas



On December 21, I check into a suburban surgery center. I am calm and comfortable at the center, as I have gone there in the past for lithotripsy procedures for kidney stones. My otolaryngologist, Dr. M -, is simply removing the infected area in the lymph gland, biopsying the results, and reviewing them with me at his office in a few days. It will be a brief surgical procedure and I will be home by noon.

Two days later Becah and I walk into Dr. M’s office. I am fairly upbeat, expecting a “hey, we just cleaned a bunch of bacteria out. Take two advil and call me in the morning if you have any complications”. Instead, the doctor walks in and with a solemn expression and quiet voice says, “we examined it and found that it was cancerous. I’m so sorry.”

I hear little after that. “Chemo”, “radiation”, “contact your doctors”. Isolated words. I am too much in shock to make sense out of this unreal situation, much less able to formulate a response. Becah reviews with me later that his suggestion would be a comprehensive, aggressive program involving three different types of chemotherapy followed by radiation treatment. Of course, the other specialists would have to devise the specifics of the actual plan.

That evening, I go through intense feelings of denial (there must be a mistake, they brought me the wrong records). I think of how unfair this all is, merely two days before Christmas. In following days I will even entertain the idea that it is all a conspiracy conceived by physicians acting in concert to make money off an innocent person. Maybe I should get a second opinion. How about a third? Returning to reality, I wonder who to tell about my condition. Only certain close friends? Everyone? No one? How do you keep such a thing secret? I want support and prayers from others, but I don’t want their pity. I think of my own behavior around those I know who have been diagnosed with serious illnesses, my tendencies to not say enough. Out of uncertainties of what to say, I often did not say anything. Do people appreciate your discretion, leaving them to their own and not calling attention to their plight? Or are they saddened that you do not even acknowledge their condition and how they are feeling? How would I want to be treated? Oddly, I do not know. In later days I would be comforted by well wishes from others but at times distressed by the constant barrages of “how are you feeling?”

I have been singing in the church choir for several years now. I never sang in a choir in my youth, preferring to play drums or guitar in bands and sing rock music. But I learned to enjoy the musical challenges of ensemble singing, and found it to be a good way to serve others in church as well as improving my musical skills. On Christmas Eve 2009, however, there is simply no way I can sing without choking up at the thought of my condition. I awake very early that morning, questioning the reality of my diagnosis, only to be faced with the truth. Our family attends the children’s service, where I am able to stand often and be a little more active. I avoid glances of others, tear up frequently, and offer only brief thanks when someone approaches me with condolences. Following church, my niece and her daughter come over to our house. Staying up talking with family members helps temporarily distance me from the pain. After they leave, I begin watching the 1951 version of “Scrooge”, “required “ holiday fare for me, but I stop after a short while, either too tired or too depressed to stay up.

We awake early as usual on Christmas morning, and I videotape the kids opening their presents. We watch the rest of “Scrooge”, in portions, and I cry at the end (like always). I get a keyboard for my big present, adding to my collection of musical instruments, and hope to expand my songwriting skills. But this holiday I can not bring myself to be musically creative. I wonder if any music I write during this time will bring negative associations in the future. Even listening to favorite songs during hard times can backfire and make you not want to listen to them when you feel better.

Later that day we go to Becah’s mom’s house. Surrounded by immediate family and friends, I feel a little better. I don’t talk much, but I know they are available if I wanted to. My mother is a two time survivor and has been disease free for over 30 years, a good source of inspiration. Driving back to our house that night our kids fall asleep in the car. What a very strange holiday.