Conversations

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.