Author: Layne

a layne post

A loud show played in the background, my sofa scattered with sleepy girls buried under their colorful silky blankets their grandma made when they were born. As I jog down the stairs, I call out, “One hour!” because if you know me, even a little, you know I hate to be late. As I walked through the kitchen, my puppy, Humphrey, wriggled at my feet, sneaking a lick of my toes from time to time, making me squeal, ‘Gross!’. I rise to my tippy toes and lean across the kitchen sink to peek out my kitchen window see if anyone was moving around out back. It is Sunday morning and few patients will commit to going to church ahead of time, it’s going to depend how they slept. I’ve lived with cancer patients almost fourteen years now, and I am keenly aware that how someone feels can change by the minute.  

I scoop Humphrey up to take him potty outside, and see one of our young patients. He is walking back into our pedestrian gate, a plastic grocery bag in hand filled with fresh Mozambican bread bought next door. His nice outfit, one of the few he brought with him to my house, indicates he will come to church today. I was surprised as he had a round of chemotherapy only a couple of days before, but forgetting the hospital had run out of half of his treatment and he had only gotten part. “Bom dia!” I say loudly with a wave. “Wow!” I exclaim with my eyebrows raised, “you look so handsome.” He giggles and bashfully looks down saying, “Obrigado,” with a smile to rival the best of them. He really is handsome.

A wave of love comes over me.

No one else was feeling up to the car trip and hard chairs, so there was no need for two cars this morning. I hop in the backseats with the girls and tell him to sit up front with Jon. It was our church’s first day at a new-to-us building. Upon arrival I could hear the worship music from the sidewalk. We followed the melody inside and the first thing I noticed was that we would need to walk upstairs. Steep stairs.

A wave of worry comes over me.

I casually put myself behind him, to make sure he wasn’t too weak, but also not wanting to hover, as he is a teen. He is fine; however, I cannot help but notice his thin body as I trail him. We find our seats, and I flash a smile to a few people, giving small waves, not wanting to be too distracting since worship had already started. Everyone is standing. He sits.

A wave of sadness comes over me.   

I frantically try and pull it together. I know if a tear falls a full-on sob might take over. He’s dying. I want to lean over a hug him hard, but I hold it in, he is a teen.

I love him.

This is going to be hard.

I walked up as she sprawled on the cushioned wicker couch with a bowl of porridge resting on her small frame. No words necessary, she was wasted.

“How you doing?” I asked gently.

“Weak,” she quietly responded.

“I can see that. It’ll pass,” I assured, as I know these chemo rhythms well.

“It will?” she begged reassurance. This was her first round of chemotherapy.

“100%. Ask around you,” I offer, as I pointed to the other Casa Ahavá patients under the shade.

Everyone nods.  

“When did you finish up treatment?” I ask.

“Saturday.”

“Ok,” I offer grin. “By Saturday you’ll be feeling much better. Promise.”

She gave me a weak smile of relief…a little hope to hang onto.  

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“How’s it looking?” she asked.

I peel the bandage off and give a wipe. My face twists into a ponder. What can I say? It isn’t getting better.

I pause, take in a breath and then try not to sound hopeless as I report, “Well… it is clean!”

“But what are they going to do? Isn’t there an operation?” she pleads.

I gently press the tape around the piece of gauze, making sure it isn’t bugging her nose.

“I wish. We are hoping chemo will shrink the mass. It’s too big to operate.” I reply, gently shaking my head.

It isn’t quite time for the difficult conversation. We need to see if chemo can shrink it some and offer better quality of life.

“Let’s give it another couple rounds of chemo and then we’ll see, alright?”

“Ok,” she says cheerfully with her easy smile. “Tchau!”

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I frown as I come under the thatched shade.

“I see you,” I say seeing her face, jokingly wagging my finger at here. “You are in pain.”

She shrugs. This is her life.

A familiar pang in my own chest.

She is laying on her side massaging her own lower back.

“You ready to try morphine? I have some,” I offer/beg. I hate to see her suffer so much.

“No, Mama,” she shakes her head, replaying in her mind’s eye everyone she has known who took morphine. She’s afraid. They are either dead or dying.

“Alright,” I listen and remind her that we can start low or just use some as rescue medicine for really rough times.

She is insistent. No morphine.  

“Well, you know where I am. Just ask me,” I say with my eyebrows raised like a Mama.

We switch the conversation and talk about her kids at home.

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“Bom dia!” I holler across the yard as I begin to walk over.

He is watering the small garden.

“How did you wake up?” I ask, but as I approach I can see. His eye is more swollen today than yesterday. I wince just a bit.

“I am okay,” he says. “It’s just my eye,” he explains, “it hurts, but the rest of my body is good. I am strong,” motioning with his arms his strength.

“I know!” I exclaim. “You never stop working around here!”

“Have you been taking the morphine syrup?” I remind him.

“Yes, but the pain comes back,” he answers.

My lip sticks out a bit as I try to communicate compassion.

“I am so sorry. I’ll keep checking,” trying to offer any reassurance.

As I walk away I let out a private, helpless sigh.

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“Hey, babe!” I answer the phone.

“Hey. I finally got her results from the lab. She still has cancer; it’s in her lymph nodes. The recommendation is to come back and do a different line of chemo,” Jon says.

I hear the disappointment. I feel it, too.

“I gotta call and tell her,” he resigns.

My whole body slumps.

Dang it.

We really wanted this one. We don’t get a lot of hopeful cases.

“Ok,” I sigh. “Love you. Bye.”

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Thank you to every single one of you that supports us and the work we do.

Casa Ahavá cannot run without out you. I hope you know what a difference you are making.

A Layne Post

I pushed the door carefully open, making sure not to bump anyone on the other side. I peeked inside and gave a quick glance around. It was obvious who I was looking for, the alone one. “Maria?” I asked quietly. She was peeking out from a big blanket. It almost looked like like she was hiding. I pulled my mask down letting her see my face. The staff at the hospital had indicated that she might be a good candidate for Casa Ahavá. After a few questions I discovered she indeed had nowhere to go and had been living for some time in the hospital.

With a big smile, I explained all about our home and extended the offer for her to come. Basically, a little like, “Wanna get outta here?”

I walked out of that room feeling somewhat like Santa Claus. Usually Jon does the inviting, as he is at the hospital most days. When I got home I teared up telling Jon about my experience. I had forgotten. This job of ours, this thing we get to do, feels a little bit like magic. Because of generous, compassionate people around the world and their money, I get to deliver presents.

Yesterday we said goodbye to a patient who finished her treatment and sent her back to her family. It is not uncommon for the patient to give a bit of a formal speech thanking Jon and I in front of the group. It is awkward, but I’ve learned it is the way of things. This patient went on and one about the love she felt because we paid for her basic needs, electricity, food, water, etc. She explained that when she comes back for a checkup, she might not have water along the way, but she knows when she gets here, she will have a cool cup of water waiting for her. I kept thinking, “This is not because of my money, it is because of a community of people who care.”

To many reading this, that is YOU. This project is made possible by you guys. You are making a difference. I wish you could see it. Thank you.

It is terribly beautiful.  

A Layne Post

Her smile, a head tilt, a little laugh.

I’ll be honest, nothing we were saying was funny or light. But with her chin held high she said, “I am going to die in style.” I shook my head, grinned, and assured her that I had no doubt.

Her courage astounded me. I breathed deep, being present for that holy moment.

We talked about legacy projects, about cards for her children. We talked of hard things… necessary hard things to make space for future beauty.

Silence lingered for just a bit and, rubbing a piece of grass between my fingers, I looked over at her and told her how glad I was to have known her, to have had this time with her.

I don’t always get that chance.

I slapped my thigh and told her it’s time to make lunch. She stood to hang her clean and dripping clothes.

Holy moments in the middle of the ordinary.

Sitting on the porch later that day Jon and I reflected on how many sacred conversations have been had sitting on these sidewalks of Casa Ahavá.

These past couple of months have been difficult for me emotionally and spiritually. The suffering and death this year at Casa Ahavá is heavier, closer together. I just couldn’t catch my breath. All felt dark, all bad, all hard. I pulled back some, leaned on Jon and my community.

Thankfully I can feel my lungs filling up. I am reconnecting. I’m remembering why I love what we do.

Today I sat in a room and had some good belly laughs with two ladies.

Holy… smack dab in the middle of the hard and the ordinary.

To our supporters, I am ever grateful for your prayers, your financial support, your love for my family, and your compassion towards our dear patients. I really believe so much in this project of ours and yours.