Here are the collection of writings by Mark Scott
As he chronicles his journey with cancer…
four articles to date:
In a Mirror Dimly. . .Forward with Faith and Humor
(Article # 1, March 14, 2014)
(This article is the first in a series that I intend to write chronicling my journey with cancer in hopes that it might demystify another’s journey and by writing about it, I hope to better understand my own trek. . .Mark Scott)
Six letters, 2 syllables. . .a word, just a word, until it isn’t just a word: C-a-n-c-e-r. How many times have I rehearsed the scene; perhaps in a routine physical exam, or, as in my case, extreme pain with no outward explanation, an ache so deep that it remained untouched by conventional pain killers.
I have not felt particularly well for several months–nothing specific, just a sort of general, mild malaise, unlike my usual high-energy, self-motivated self. From the beginning of December, I began to experience pelvic (back) pain at night. Early on it was more annoying than debilitating but it was increasing in intensity every night but only at night. However, as it grew more acute I was unable to sleep. It is amazing how enterprising one can be in the middle of the night. My parents would be proud that I did not “waste the time!” Of course, there is wisdom behind the sentiment. When you are busy, you are not thinking about yourself.
There are so many things for which I am thankful: a loving, diverse, intelligent, outspoken church family; that I live in 2014 when there is greater hope than ever for living with cancer; for parents and a sister who always dealt with adversity head-on but with a self-deprecating humor that can transform the most serious problem into a manageable goal.
Then there is my gratitude for my primary care physician who would not like to be mentioned by name but she was in the first youth choir I directed at St. Stephen in 1975! She has been ‘called’ to her vocation by a desire to help ill people find healing and wholeness. With a quiet, straight-forward, manner and a keen sense of humor, her compassion and attention to detail assure me that she is the right person to help me map my future. “Mr. Scott, you have stage 4 prostate cancer. Now here is what we are going to do. . .”
Somewhat oddly, I have found parts of this journey very interesting as I have sought and found information about prostate cancer. I have little fear of death but a disproportionate fear of pain that might be part of the journey. I have been told not to worry, with a calm, reassuring manner that engenders trust in even the most skeptical person.
Part of my mother, father and sister’s legacy to me is a sense of humor, particularly a self-deprecating sense of humor. Some things just don’t bear too close scrutiny. The most serious problem can be managed with a good healthy look at the humourous side or as my father would say, “coping with the seeming absurdity of part of God’s plan was the reason God invented humor!”
Hospital gowns are designed for humor. Just picture my 6′ 6″ frame in nothing but a gown. The model I seemed to always be given was designed for someone 5′ 2″ tall and 65 pounds, thus, the naughty bits only remain covered if I stand up and perfectly still and never, NEVER sit down. Then, for some procedures, you wear it backwards. I am surprised in our conservative state of Texas that this is not illegal – at best it begs the question, “God, what were you thinking?”
“Mr. Scott. . .Mr. Scott. . .are you awake? Just checking to see that you are okay.” “Mr. Scott, have you had gas. . .have you had a bowel movement?” Holy moose, in old-time Amarillo, those kind of questions would tip you right off the social scene A-list.
Then, there is always the language barrier–no, I mean all English, but, you know, the language barrier! In spite of it, Harris Hospital, Richardson Tower, 5th floor offered me some of the finest care one could imagine, care for my body but also for my soul. Here is a delightful conversation I had with my Filipino charge nurse who was just checking in on me after the 7:00 a.m. shift change.
N-“Good morning, Mr. Scott, how are you today?” S-“Fine, and you?” N-“Good, thank you. . .Number 2?” S-“Pardon.” N-“Number 2??” S-“I’m sorry, could you repeat what you said?” N-“Number 2. . .pooh-pooh???”S-“OOOHHH, ugh, no, no pooh-pooh.” I grew up in a house where every bodily function was called by its clinical name from day one, consequently, I have always had some confusion as to what constituted Number 1 or Number 2.
With faith, humor, medical guidance and love of you, my family, this journey will be tolerable, regardless of the definition of healing or wholeness. I am very hopeful and with your help will remain so.
. . . Mark Scott
Article 2 follows….
In a Mirror Dimly. . .Forward with Faith and Humor
(Article # 2, April 4, 2014)
(This article is the second in a series that I am writing chronicling my journey with cancer, hoping it might demystify another’s journey, and by writing about it, better understand my own trek. . .Mark Scott)
What happened to my self-motivated, high energy self? Where are you? It is akin to waking up one morning in someone else’s body. Like most folk, I have grown accustomed to the idiosyncracies of my body. I have had almost 61 years of practice. Unwisely, I have been lulled into assuming I was in control and would remain so for the remainder of my days. This dilemma, directly related to the cancer diagnosis, is proving to be most challenging. I have always been able to summon the physical and mental energy to complete whatever task was at hand thinking that it was me who was controlling the engine. As I began to experience pain, I found myself in a sort of existential combat with my body; I can will it away if I am strong enough. But I couldn’t will it away in spite of summoning an army of mercenaries to accomplish the mission. Could I possibly not be in control anymore?
Then came the first treatments designed to fight the disease in my body, a chemical approach coupled with radiation. We have all known people taking chemo and/or radiation and I am ashamed to admit that up to now, I occasionally thought that the claims of no energy and no appetite might possibly be exaggerated. After all, I was in control and could overcome both, especially the lack of appetite, or so I thought.
I was told at the first chemo injection that I might experience a few side effects including among other things, hot flashes. Won’t happen, I won’t let it happen, at least until that night when I awoke in my hospital bed with what I am sure was a temperature inversion in the room caused by the heat emanating from my body. Good grief, it is raining in this room. How else could my bed be so wet. Push the call button and dutiful, patient nurses come and help dry me off and cool down the room. Back to sleep until an Amarillo Blue Norther’ blew through my room and I woke up certain my body temperature was 31 degrees. For goodness sake, there was ice around the edge of the bedding! Did you know how difficult it is to press the nurse-call button when your finger, your hand is frozen. It was about this time I began to remember the “few side effects” that might occur. The remainder of the night and into the next day the cycle repeated itself just like the crazy Texas weather has been this past winter and spring. You know something else, I was not able to control it, and I am beginning to suspect that I might not always be in complete control.
Not wasting any time, the radiation treatments began right away. Wheeled in my hospital bed down to the Klabzuba wing, a state-of-the-art radiation-therapy unit that I would visit every day for a couple of weeks, I could navigate my way through the labyrinth of halls, but only if I was on my back. I knew every crack in the ceiling but when I had to find my way walking, I did not recognize anything. It must have been a sight-seeing me staring at the ceiling as I walked to the unit the first time I went on my own in a standing position! I would discover that getting into one of the designer hospital gowns took longer than the actual treatment. The first thing I noticed was a gigantic door, at least 10″ thick–my first clue that something powerful lived inside this room. Getting placed on another stretcher designed for a stick insect, I struggled to keep most of me balanced and off the floor while holding the gown closed at the strategic points. Perhaps this was part of the treatment. . .strengthens character? Then the technicians began to mark on my body with felt-tip markers, in several colors. . .you know the permanent kind that got you grounded as a child when you helped decorate the living room wall. When they finished they began placing little round plastic markers on me. They looked benign enough but each had a secret, a tiny barbed pin in the middle so that when they were pushed in place, they would stay. “This won’t hurt, Mr. Scott, not at all, All, AT ALL. Never trust absolutes!
What a sight. I had the appearance of a Jasper Johns painting done on some old wrinkly material. Then we began the actual radiation treatment which for me included 2 places on my body for each session. Even at that, it only took about 10 minutes for the actual treatment; nothing more than an extended X-ray. Yep, just like an X-ray. . .aced it. . . until about 35 minutes after when my metabolism crashed into a wall leaving me a limp mass of humanity (artistic humanity, however) with hardly the strength to swallow. I have never known such a feeling but I am really thinking that yet again, I was not in control. Hmm, there is a pattern here.
Back in my room and the lunch tray was waiting for me. Not even a twinge of appetite for that food or for any other food. How can Mark Scott be off his food? Holy twinky, I am bloody-well certain I am not in control now. This was to be the same pattern following each radiation treatment. Even now, after the first wave of treatments, three weeks past, I still am definitely not in control and not back to an energetic eating machine. It is difficult to build up strength if you do not eat and difficult to eat if you are too weak to care about eating. How could I have ever doubted the severity of reaction to chemo and radiation when other folk walking a similar path complained about the very same things? It is embarrassing and arrogant and has been a lesson well learned by me, something like Thomas’ insistence on seeing and feeling Jesus’ wounds before he would believe. In a few weeks, we will reevaluate the state of my cancer and see if we resume radiation. I already have an appointment for the next chemo.
All of this was certainly not without humor. The radiologists were upbeat, supportive, encouraging and would laugh at the futility of any semblance of pride when one’s body is splayed out mostly open for the world to see, while holding on to a gurney for dear life. All of this brought back a very humorous memory. Several years ago, I taught a Sunday School Series at St. Stephen about Fundamentalism in America, based on a splendid book by Randall Balmer. Part of my preparation for the class was to watch and record (yes, record on VHS!) a couple of sessions with a well-known faith healer. I occasionally used to watch this individual for a really good laugh, but this was business, I was preparing a lesson.
How lucky I was that the particular episode recorded was a healing crusade in San Francisco with several hundred people packed into a theater. At one point in the evening, having worked the audience (I won’t dignify it by calling it a congregation) into a frenzy, he invited women who needed to be healed to come to the stage. . .and after that rush subsided, extended the same invitation to the men. Overflowing the stage and on to the floor, the women were all crushed together on one side and the men on the other. With an appropriate musical crescendo he tearfully implored all hoping be healed to place their hands on the offending body part(s) in need of divine intervention. . . really, Really, No, REALLY. As the cameramen began to pan the hopeful hoards, most of the women placed their hands on their breasts while the men had theirs covering their genitals. The only miraculous intervention I witnessed was camera operators keeping a steady hand when they must have been laughing uncontrollably inside! The Sunday School class had an incredulous and dumbfounded response. . . after all they were Presbyterians.
I was never in control and know I never will be. That has been the most profound lesson to date.
. . . Mark Scott
Article 3 follows….
In a Mirror Dimly. . .Forward with Faith and Humor
(Article # 3, May 1, 2014)
(This article is the third in a series that I am writing chronicling my journey with cancer, hoping it might demystify another’s journey, and by writing about it, better understand my own trek. . .Mark Scott)
Finding My Voice in the Psalter
The Easter alleluias are still echoing throughout the cosmos as we mark the passage of ecclesiastical time celebrating Eastertide and moving toward Pentecost. Eastertide is a lengthy season. . .50 days to be exact, ending on Pentecost which is 50 days after Easter counting Easter Day, hence the prefix, “pent.” During this period, the Church’s worship is decidedly celebratory, dispensing with the confession of sin and substituting a weekly lesson from the Acts of the Apostles for the lesson from the Hebrew Testament. During Eastertide we examine the enormity of God’s gift of his son to an undeserving people as we study the life and ministry of Jesus. In the Reformed tradition, the Service for the Lord’s Day (Sunday) is always a celebration of the Resurrection, even when it appears within the most introspective of seasons such as Lent and Advent.
The rhythm of the liturgical calendar, aka, church year or ecclesiastical calendar, helps demarcate and define our daily lives by modeling the life of Jesus Christ. Beginning with his Incarnation and continuing through his Ascension, Jesus’ interaction with humankind enables us to identify our own pilgrimage lighting our pathway. No two humans follow the exact same journey and it is in that uniqueness where we find our specific gifts enabling us to serve God to the best of our ability.
The most reliable guidebook to which I return over and over again is the book of psalms. Indeed, throughout Jesus life and ministry, he demonstrated his intimate familiarity with this biblical book of songs. Compiled and written by different people, every emotion and condition know to humans makes its way into this ubiquitous collection of poetry: joy, celebration, happiness, sadness, anger, resignation, confusion, warfare, peace, loss, admonition of an enemy, plea for victory in battle, etc. There are even psalms known as ‘cursing’ psalms that reveal the darker side of humanity. Portions of Psalm 69, 109, 137 and 139 reveal a wish for revenge, not the most laudable of human traits.
Let their table be a trap for them. . .let their eyes be darkened so they cannot see. . .let your burning anger overtake them. . .may their camp be a desolation. . .add guilt to their guilt. . .may they have no acquittal from you. . .let them be blotted out of the book of the living; let them not be enrolled among the righteous. . .(excerpted from Psalm 69: 22-28)
Let his prayer be counted as sin. . .may his days be few. . .may his children be orphans, and his wife a widow. . .may his children wander about and beg. . .(excerpted from Psalm 109:7-10)
Happy shall they be who take your little ones and dash them against the rock! (Psalm 137:9)
The Psalter served as the hymn book of the Synagogue and Temple and is still incorporated into modern day Christianity. After the 16th century Protestant Reformation, the psalter became the only officially sanctioned source for hymns sung in the church. The psalter in various forms has remained the backbone of the church’s song right up to today. Our new hymnal has at least one metrical setting of every psalm appointed by the lectionary.
I have always found solace through the arts. With the original cancer diagnosis, I looked to that most beautiful book of poetry, the psalter. The particular psalm to which I always gravitate in time of crisis is Psalm 121:
I lift up my eyes to the hills–from where will my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth. He will not let your foot be moved; he who keeps you will not slumber. He who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade at your right hand. The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life. The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in from this time on and forevermore.
The psalmist is able to evoke a place of beauty and a sense of God’s presence and protection; a safe place. And it is a safe place where I want to be. With any such diagnosis, there are far more questions than answers, a recipe for increasing anxiety. I find great difficulty coming to terms with the “on going ness” of the situation. I want it all neatly tied up, sent away and my life and routines returned to normal. This follows the previous article in this series where I acknowledge that I am not in control, never have been and never will be in control. Coming to terms with the new normal is akin to learning to read. . .slow at first but hopefully, less stressful as new routines are established.
Hear my prayer, O Lord; let my cry come to you. (Psalm 102:1). . . As Christians, we have assurance that God does listen and hear our ‘cry.’ There are many psalms asking God to hear our innermost fears where we seek comfort and hope. We can seek and hear God in silence as well as sound. For God alone my soul waits in silence. . .God alone is my rock and my salvation, my fortress; I shall never be shaken. (Psalm 62:1-2).
The psalter offers us a complete user’s manual for living. Everyone can find him/herself in the wisdom offered through the beauty of the poetry. I am learning to read this instruction manual and know that life is better having done so. I will give thanks to the Lord with my whole heart; I will tell of all your wonderful deeds (Psalm 9:1).
. . . Mark Scott
In a Mirror Dimly. . .Forward with Faith and Humor
(Article # 6, September 9, 2014, 2014)
(This article is the sixth in a series that I am writing chronicling my journey with cancer, with hope that it might demystify another’s journey, and by writing about it, to better understand my own trek. . .Mark Scott)
“Blind Corners”
Driving a car requires a rather keen ability to multitask, definitely not a skill possessed by all drivers! We rely on our experience to safely navigate. It serves us successfully most of the time but danger is always lurking at every curve in the road. Failure to remain vigilant can render cataclysmic results. One lapse of concentration can change forever a life (or lives) in a very short time. The most unfair involves you in an accident due to no fault of your own. Regardless, we are left to repair and recuperate seemingly alone. Analogous to our individual life journey it is both easy and tempting to become complacent expecting that if we “hold up our part of the bargain, all will be well.” Intellectually we really do know that this is a naive way to avoid being prepared for unpleasant occurrences – cannot see it so it is not there, right?
I was not prepared for the blind curve into which I coasted in early February, revealing a serious illness that can easily take my life. God, I trusted you and have spent my lifetime working for you. Are you listening? Are you angry with me about something? God, it’s me, Peter Mark, II; big guy (6’6″). I am a faithful employee and have worked long, that is l-o-n-g hours for you and for the betterment of your kingdom. Holidays most Christians have free to celebrate with family and friends are not available to me since I began working in the Church, your Church 50 years ago.
I do not expect special dispensation but am confused about your motives toward the remainder of my life. It just does not seem fair. There, I said it! I know that you never promised that life was fair but I was certain you were talking about the other people who did not do your work. I cannot seem to get an answer from you. I have been redialing that ‘Royal Telephone’ over and over again but there is no answer. Every day since that February day, I have received bad news from you. Can you not allow me to come up for air before the next little chat?
* * * * * * *
It’s likely you have had similar talks with God when your life was suddenly thrust in an unwanted and seemingly, unwarranted change of direction. On reflection I am humbled and embarrassed over the unabashed arrogance I exhibited about this episode. To think that I would or should be exempt from the randomness of life is a betrayal of the faith I say I believe. And it is nothing but heresy to intimate or accuse God of causing anything that would cause pain or harm to one of God’s flock. I seem to have temporarily forgotten about that abundant free grace offered by God for every human being even to those who choose to reject it. Our lives are peppered with these random occurrences, some good and some bad.
There is a dangerous word that quickly exposes the holes in our armor of faith. . .“why.” It is a waste of energy and contrary to a life of faith and obedience to God’s word. People mature in their Christian faith ask, “why not?” Remember that grace is always offered whether or not we choose to accept or reject it.
I sailed into several blind corners beginning in February and am still navigating the darker, shadowy reality of facing two serious illnesses. Never has my faith been confronted by such a test yet it remains anchored in a lifetime of preparation, beginning with my family. I was raised in the church and have been lodged there all my 61 years. Have I been angry. Of course I have but always am led back to trust in the God who gives us life. I have discovered that God is still not finished with my learning as I have moved toward acceptance of my own mortality. I am not in this battle by myself – you are there fighting alongside. I have been blest to have had you by my side for most of my life. Many of you have modeled an exemplary Christianity as you meet the challenges of your own lives.
Remember that the courage you have demonstrated is the nourishment for my soul and the great “calming” found only when we let go and let God have God’s wonderful way. Continue to keep me in your prayers and fear not as we are never alone in the shadows. Amen.