False Healing

February 19, 2014

In the oncologist office as they perform a bone marrow biopsy on Jim. I sit on the sidelines, avoiding seeing the procedure to keep from fainting.

I love Jim Wiggins

I love Jim Wiggins

I love Jim Wiggins

I love Jim Wiggins

I don't want him to die. I want to live with him forever and be the best wife, friend, and lover. I want my life to be entwined with his blue eyes, his soft hands, his exuberance with nature, his passion. I love the way he loves me.

I will not be selfish.

I will give all that I can.

I will write and touch others' hearts for him. I am here to give more love.

I am a conduit of joy.

I will not suffer. I will enjoy and give Jim all my humor and my crazy bits of wisdom. I will keep our connection. I might be scared, but fear isn't anything to be ashamed of. Fear makes me grow, if not taller, then deeper. My heart expands with the "L" words: Love, Like, Listen, Luck, and Laughter.

I place a pen between my lips so I won't offer my thoughts when Jim is listening or talking to the doctor. I want to scream my thoughts ... but I smile, pretending I can find the humor, kindness, and grace. I want no regrets. I focus on keeping the calm as the storm swirls. And to remember best intentions, not an easy task, to keep Jim comfortable.

Lots of kissing ...

Dinner at the Wiggins/Rolnick Home

February 19, 2014

Haiku from Jim

Home from our doc talk.
Dinner, digesting the day
Can't speak, overwhelmed.

John calls, how are we?
Two thoughts are all I can say,
Eating, have cancer.

Email from Jim

February 20, 2014

Hello all, more of the story:

In October I "broke" my back but did not realize it. Went hunting, and my back hurt so bad I had to leave early. Returned home and went to the doctor in early November and had an x-ray done. The doctor said I had a compression fracture in my 4 lumbar, and osteopenia. So he put me on some vitamins and drugs. Hobbled through November and then went to Africa, where the rough roads did not help the back pain. After returning home I waited a few weeks to see a doctor and finally saw one in early February.

This is where the story changes. All this time I thought I was on the mend, but when I had an MRI done the doctor said I had more cracks in my vertebrae, and some of the vertebrae were reduced in size, in other words the damn things were disappearing. I then had a blood test (this all happened yesterday), which showed a high level of protein cells, and I was anemic. With this information, the doctor now believes I have Multiple Myeloma. He then took a bone marrow sample from my hip, and the results from that test will be available tomorrow. I have an appointment with the doc to go over all the results, which will confirm if I do indeed have MM. I do suspect I have MM, and if so, I will start on chemotherapy soon. Not sure what other therapies he'll prescribe, but will find out tomorrow. I'll let you know what I find out. Abbe and I have a lot of talking to do to make sure our lives are in order for what is coming at us.

M&M no longer evokes the image of candy, but multiple myeloma.

Email from Janet

February 20, 2014

Jim and Abbe,

I am so sorry to hear about the Multiple Myeloma diagnosis. Garth and I will keep you in our prayers for the biopsy to be negative for the MM. I am so glad you have each other for support and that you are such a positive, optimistic couple. And don't forget all the rest of your family and friends who love you and are pulling for you, too. There will be lots of prayers being said and loads of great Karma filling the atmosphere on your behalf.

Love and Peace, Janet and Garth

Email from Abbe to Frances

February 22, 2014

Life has its twists and turns. This bend of the road is a sharp one — especially with the speed. Jim's fractured back turned out to be not a fracture caused by natural causes. While we thought he was healing, the plasma cells in the bone marrow multiplied too quickly and overtook his normal blood cells. This caused anemia and leakage of an acid that is eating away at his spine and other bones. They call this multiple myeloma. He is in Stage Three — the most advanced for this type of cancer. We start chemo on Monday, and if we can get the readings down from 80% to 10%, Jim will have a stem cell transplant, where they harvest his stem cells, and after radiation and more chemotherapy the harvested cells are replaced inside Jim. All this takes place at Fred Hutchinson Cancer Care Center in Seattle. That would happen, if we are lucky, in about three months. Jim is Jim, not complaining, looking at this as a scientist.

We will carry on our lives as close to the normal as possible. However, Jim is in pain, tires easily, and is very vulnerable to catching germs. So we invite our friends to call and pop in when we are home. I'll be here most of the time (home) with short jaunts to Robeks to make sure all is well with the business.

We are lucky that our home, life, love, family, and friends are so wonderful.

Best always, Abbe

Healing

I believe in the warmth between the pains.

I believe that I can kiss the air and the love moves with it.

I believe that if I can see your eye, I see your heart.

I believe healing comes with laughter.

So ... I will curl with you, find your funny bones.

Kiss the air and warm your heart.

Here is to you feeling better.

Email from Abbe to Adrian

February 25, 2014

Adrian,

I so appreciate your kind thoughts and wishes. The cancer journey is one no one chooses.

Jim's question isn't why me, but why me now? I am taking each step in sync with Jim's. He is my loving companion, special in all ways. Neither of us has a choice. He worries about the pain he inf licts on his friends and family. You are correct, so many people are here to support us.

Our goal is to reduce Jim's plasma cells down from 80% to the 10% required for the stem cell transplant.

The first chemotherapy appointment yesterday was tough. A blizzard of heavy snow knocked out powerlines, our generator failed, and I found myself outside with a small hand saw, cutting down limbs to get us out of our driveway. Hands frozen, after two sets of twenty-minute intervals, I answered my daughter's call to my cell phone. Hearing the desperation in my voice, she called Jim's brother who lives in town, a thirty-minute drive from our home.

Jim had no idea of Elly's rescue call. Later I explained to Jim that it was a job for a chainsaw, and I don't do chainsaw. I had him laughing, which broke the ice, pun intended.

So my friend Adrian, I thank you for all that you give from afar, for being a cancer model who understands.

Best always, Abbe

Awaiting Sweet Nectar

Jim has embarked on an unsolicited journey. A traveler, scientist, and adventurer, he sees the world with eyes of wonder and discovery. Jim is one of the chosen few given the opportunity to be humbled in the wake of living. His new journey takes us both into territory that has dubious directions and a cloudy beginning. Unlike our trips to Sri Lanka, Kenya, Puerto Rico, or along the Columbia River, the cancer journey embodies the abstract concept of living with the end insight.

Each day brings miracles to our window. We watch the seasons change with the presence of birds — Stellar's Jays forever present, and now with the buds bursting on our trees, the hummingbirds return seeking sweetened water until flowers blossom. Jim walks slowly, filling feeders with sunf lower seeds, suet, and peanuts. He sits in his big brown chair by the living room window, delighted with the flit-f light of old friends and the scurried activity of squirrels and rabbits.

Protocol takes us to our local cancer center — radiation, chemotherapy, blood draws, doctor visits. Now that we're into our eighth week, the receptionists, nurses, lab technicians, doctors, and even the cleaning staff know us by first names. Jim, with his corny sense of humor, ribs the red-headed lab technician who draws his blood: "I'll be seeing you for the next thirty years. Take care of yourself." And if he is lucky, that will be the truth. For Jim's cancer isn't curable, and the red-haired lady will turn gray but still greet him with the same, "Here comes Jim Wiggins. I've got you."

Blood, the lifeline for all living creatures, passes through Jim with too many plasma cells. We watch weekly as the chemo attacks the M-proteins, myeloma. Questions upon questions multiply, as Jim puts together the puzzle of mutations and the effects of too much cloning. Cause and effect, consequences, experiments, these words belong to science, and Jim relies on new technology to pave his chances of thriving past two and on to ten years.

Even on our off weeks, when Jim's body rests from chemo or radiation, I drive us to the cancer center, ten minutes from our home in the Skagit Valley to what becomes a second home. It is luck that sends us to the oldest cancer treatment center north of Seattle. Tests take time, give answers to unasked questions. There is a sense of comfort between patients. I console the newlywed lady, wracked with grief and anguish at her husband's diagnosis. "What do I do with my anger?"

She wants me to fix a problem as if there is an answer. I hug the stranger and feel her tears on my face. "Dig a big hole with a large, heavy shovel. Then drop every ounce of anger into the pit. Find a beautiful plant to place within the hole, cover the roots, and watch it grow." Her husband mouths "thank-you" as he heads off to radiation.

On our way to a bone-marrow biopsy, we pass Larry, a throat cancer patient, who befriended Jim on the first day of chemotherapy. In a room filled with fellow adventurers, each with their formulated chemical cocktails, Larry had noticed Jim's discomfort as he struggled in the overstuffed chair. Although he couldn't speak, Larry motioned to Jim to pull the lever on the side, to ease the legs up. Small gestures have huge significance. Jim and I both note that Larry feels poorly, but even though his cancer has affected his face, Larry's eyes hold us. We watch as he heads to radiation, a sign that his cancer has taken another detour.

Time slows to a standstill, absorbing the needs of all around us. Everyone, staff and patients, develops a choreographed dance based on need and urgency. Rooms fill up, and they shift Jim into a room across the way, an official operating room in the hospital. Our nurse follows, and soon Dr. Bruce Mathey makes his entrance. He remembers all our conversations and engages Jim in the science of probing. More aware of the pain of the procedure the second time around, Jim talks less. The doctor fills the void with a prediction. "I believe the results will show the plasma cells have been reduced from 80% to 15%." Jim and I hope for the same.

Soon Jim will graduate from our local cancer center to the renowned Seattle Cancer Care Alliance. As the hummingbirds wait for the flower blossoms, Jim waits for the M-proteins and plasma cells to disappear. His sweet nectar will come from stem cell transplants, one from his own and one from a matching donor. As the physical pain subsides, his eyes tear up. He isn't afraid of dying. He loves his life and feels only the immense weight of gratitude and the sadness of causing emotional pain for others. I am a companion on this journey, blessed with the grace to be open to uncertainty.

Email from Mike to Abbe

February 26, 2014

Abbe,

I wanted to check in after receiving your email forwarded by Sue. I am very sorry to hear the news about Jim and promise as you requested in your email to love, laugh, learn, and live life fully both personally and with others in support of both your and Jim's journey.

Along the way please feel free to reach for me for anything that you two might need. I don't care if you decide you want an apple at two in the morning or need a jacket placed over a puddle, I am here for you both. I have quite a tool box full of resources that can figure out a way to get you whatever might make things easier or more comfortable. Please don't ever hesitate to call, text, fax, or email. I have my cell with me 24/7.

In the meantime, I will keep you both in my thoughts and prayers as well as send positive energy your way.

Love to you my friend, Mike

Email from Abbe to Frances

March 5, 2014

Another hard day. Jim's pain is so evident that the nurses and doctors are concerned. This was our second day of radiation as we continue the twice weekly chemo treatments. We are at the clinic every day for radiation, ten total. We will have the official in-person consult at the SCCA soon, but no date yet. My hope is to get ahead of the cancer, as it is running out of control. Jim looks at me with his puppy dog eyes, blue oceans, saying so much. Braving the moment.

Email from Frances in response

March 5, 2014

Abbe,

This is breaking my heart. And yours too, I'm sure. I share your hope that these difficult treatments will fight back the cancer and give Jim a chance of feeling better and living longer. My love to both of you.

Email from Abbe

March 5, 2014

Jim is sleeping, and he doesn't want to get up. My heart hasn't hurt this much ever. Elly is coming to cook us a dinner, but I know Jim will pass on it. I hope he will eat later, as all the medicines require food. Our consult for the SCCA is now set for March 19th, after radiation, and between chemo sessions.

Not much else. I can't concentrate.

— Me

Email from Harriet

March 5, 2014

Dear Abbe,

I have thought about you so many times today, but did not call as I know you need some time and space from the well-meaning callers. I can't begin to imagine how overwhelmed you are feeling with it all. But I have no doubt that your indomitable spirit, natural optimism, deep abiding love, and the support of all of those who love you and Jim will see you through things. I know you know I am here for you and Jim. My life and work are completely consuming, but I can change what I am doing and extricate myself from it all to help you. I love you, plain and simple. There is little I would not do for you.

So on that note, my dear sister, please call when you can. I am thinking about you and sending all my love and most positive of thoughts and prayers.

Email from Abbe to Harriet

March 6, 2014

Dearest Harriet,

Yesterday afternoon and evening were the hardest yet. I came home from work to a very pained Jim. He is no longer driving. At the radiation appointment, our nurse noticed Jim's stiffness and pain and immediately called the doctor to get him another medicine. They made him understand that his body can't go with the ups and downs of pain and that he shouldn't wait for some sign to take his painkiller. The body reacts negatively to the dip.

He fell asleep in the car while I ran errands, and when he took off his clothes to let me apply oils for his radiated body, he just slept. I gave him a smoothie so he could take more medication for the night.

Elly came and cooked. The two of us ate quietly. If she hadn't come, I would have skipped eating, as I was drained. She left and I went to bed.

I held Jim's hand most of the night. This morning he asked about all the phone calls (business, employees, doctors, and friends). I took messages for all that I could, except when the SCCA called, and I had to get his permission for them to talk with me. We go down on March 19, an 8:00 AM consult for four hours. John and Jan will drive us, as we have to leave here early and the day will be long. I don't know how much Jim will be able to walk. I'm going to ask for a handicap parking pass, and we'll see if he will need a wheelchair. I'm hoping that after next week's radiation and a break in the chemo, he'll regain some energy.

Seeing Jim in such pain is the hard part. He doesn't want to think about anything but relief. I want to give him this. I'll massage him later this morning. I won't go into work today, as we have radiation, chemo, and another doctor consult. Maybe I'll run in for a couple of hours on Friday. Thanks for your note, love, and desire to help.

Email from Jim to friend Andy

March 6, 2014

Good to hear from you.

Here's a quick rundown from a layman's perspective. I have multiple myeloma. The trigger is a mutant gene (no kidding). The genesis P-53 on my 17th chromosome. Said gene inhibits cell growth, and although I am not sure, I believe it specifically deals with blood cells. My P-53 gene mutated and does not inhibit the plasma cell growth anymore. In my case, my plasma cells are cloning themselves. So I am in a cloning war with a mutant gene. (I'm told that the P-53 gene behaves differently in other cancers.)

The problem is the plasma cells are crowding out the rest of the cells in my blood, hindering my other blood cells (white cells and red cells) from doing their job. Somewhere along the line the plasma clones are affecting the calcium in my body and accumulating in specific places such as my spine. Thus my spine is getting weaker and hurts like hell.

The chemo affects all fast-growing cells, and the radiation is targeting the specific areas where my bone density is decreasing. I mentioned my spine, but also my upper left arm and my left hip have reduced bone density.

I go to Seattle in two weeks to have a meeting with the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance to discuss a stem cell transplant.