Joy

For many years joy has been one of my favorite words. We gave the name “Joy” to our youngest child. When I was younger I only associated the word joy with my emotions, not with any spiritual meaning. The older I get, the more important the word has become to me.

When one of my colleagues working in one of our foundations was undergoing treatment for breast cancer I challenged her to find joy during her devastating treatments no matter how difficult the circumstance. Every time I have received a report on her treatment or her condition she always ends the text or email with something about joy. Since we have been in Florida for treatment she has sent me encouraging communication—always mentioning joy. She, along with countless others, has been such an encouragement to me during these treatments.

While I was studying the tribal language in Burkina Faso I discovered that there was no word for joy. I was so hurt because I thought to myself, how do they express their deep feelings of God’s abundant love for them which makes our hearts overflow with joy. Later I understood that they know very well how to show the deep feelings of their hearts full of Christ’s love and grace. They use two words: “suri noogo” which means happy heart. I learned from these very simple people that when you have a happy heart, other people know it because the face is a mirror of the heart. They said to me very simply: “You know a person has a happy heart if their face looks happy.”

Wow! What a lesson. This was one of those moments when I stopped and thought to myself: I came to help point these people to Jesus and I have been so blessed that they are pointing me to walk closer to Him.

What do people see when they see my face? Lord may my heart be filled with joy so that others may see Jesus in me.

Updates

Only three more treatments to go. The time has quickly passed; we have enjoyed this time in Florida. Most of the prostate cancer victims are retired, so many of them call this period a “radiation vacation.” I cannot bring myself to call it a vacation—I mean every day I have the same routine, and it is definitely not something that I would call a vacation. I have enjoyed keeping up with my work every day. It has been challenging. I am one of those who doesn’t like to work from home anyhow, but I have to admit it has been a productive time. Maybe because I wasn’t in the office!?

We moved Rolfe Dorsey to a nursing home last weekend while we were in Louisville. The hospital would not keep him as he has requested no treatment for the cancer. His internist is the medical director of the home where we placed him, and Rolfe and his doctor have a very close relationship. His doctor walks with the Lord and has had several long prayer/teaching times with Rolfe over the last two weeks. He is taking good care of Rolfe and we feel good about his care in the home. Rolfe called today and asked me to arrange for him to go home to die. He is experiencing some dementia and is getting weaker every day. I had to tell him that he would not return to his home. That was hard. I have learned a lot about the legal aspects of death, and it will help me to better prepare my family for the inevitable.

Many have asked Cheryl how Allison is doing planning a wedding without her mother. If they asked me I would say, “Allison is so organized that she will take care of everything; besides she has our credit card.” Plans are going well for the June 23 wedding, and we are looking forward to having all our family together—which does not happen very often—and many of our extended family and very dear friends participate in this very special event.

Doorbells

When we built our house four years ago it never occurred to us to have a doorbell on the front door. I guess part of the reason is that we have never lived in a house overseas with a doorbell. After we moved in we realized that even though our driveway is nearly a half mile long, someone could be at our front door without us knowing it. We made a wise decision and added a driveway alert way down below our house that lets us know when someone is coming up our drive. It has helped in several situations—for example the night a pickup pulled up our drive without the lights on. They stopped at the barn below the house and when they got out of the pickup I pointed my heavy duty spot light at them and turned it on. They yelled, “Don’t shoot. We are looking for our dogs.” Two coon hunters thought they were slipping around looking for their dogs and did not know they had activated our driveway alert.

I am thinking a lot about doorbells over the last few weeks as there is one in the gantry where I am being treated. While I am lying there I cannot see anything except the top of the big gantry. I can’t see the therapists, but I can hear them moving about. So I listen for sounds to get me an idea of how much longer I have to hold it. There’s the sound of the X-ray machines going back into the back of the gantry. There is the sound of the therapists placing he two huge brass lenses into the zapper (custom made lenses for the shape of my prostate). Then there are the soft sounds that you really have to concentrate to hear such as their quiet footsteps in the direction of a particular computer where they are aligning my body with the machine. When the therapists have completed their tasks for preparing me for the treatment, they push a doorbell as a signal that they are exiting the gantry and will be observing me via cameras. I have to really strain to hear that faint sound, but I love the sound of that doorbell as it signals the halfway point in the treatment. The beautiful sound of that doorbell means that I only have 10 more minutes before I can visit the little boy’s room.

We close our eyes when we pray. Why? One reason is to drown out distractions that keep us from concentrating on talking with God. Do you think another reason is that when we close our eyes we can concentrate more on listening to God? Much of my prayer time is telling God what I need for Him to hear and not enough is straining to listen to what He wants to say to me.

Footprints

As we were walking on the beach late one afternoon, I was thinking more about water—water seems to occupy of lot of my idle thinking time. As we walked at the edge of the tide coming in, the water washed away all traces of my steps. It brought sand, shells and debris onto the beach and it took sand, shells and debris back out into the ocean. I have been thinking about legacy a lot lately. I suppose that is very natural for someone who is 63—probably even more so when you are diagnosed with cancer.

I started to think about how I want people to remember me—assuming that anyone will. That was not supposed to be a “feel sorry for myself” moment. I am just thinking about memories of my own family for example. I have to admit I know very little about my great grandparents. I don’t even know much about my mother’s father as he died when I was a preschooler. So my grandchildren’s children probably won’t know much about me.

I have come to the conclusion that all that worrying and planning to leave behind footprints for others to follow is really a waste of time. They will be washed away just like the tide washes the shells, sand and debris. Soon after the tide does its work there are more footprints left in the sand, and the tide comes in again to wash them away.

My job is to be the best follower of Jesus, husband, father, father-in-love, Papa, colleague, friend and family member that I can possibly be. Am I leaving footprints behind? Yes, but they are for my children, grandchildren, colleagues, friends and family members to follow NOW. They are my legacy.

Rx pride

I have had a lot of pride in myself that I have not had to take any long-term prescription drugs. I have had more than one person’s share of skeletal problems, but I have been blessed to have lived this long without having to take a lot of medicine.

My neurosurgeon told me during a visit last year about another ruptured disc in my neck, and I sighed and told him that I was falling apart. He reassured me that my bad back and neck were serious-enough problems, but I should be very happy because I did not have anything that would kill me! Actually, that was comforting and I have often repeated that to myself when I talk with friends and family who do have things that will kill them.

But, I still don’t like taking medications, so I have resisted taking pain pills after surgeries and toughed it out—maybe that is pride also?!

As I have shared with you on this blog, I have had difficulties with the urgency to “go.” It has been especially unbearable as I lie on the table in the gantry and try not to have an accident (that’s what we say about puppies, so I assume it is OK for me to say that here). I don’t care what others say about that urge, “oh, it is just in the mind, and you have to get control of your thoughts” or something like that. It doesn’t matter what I try to think about or try to control mind over matter, I still can’t get over that urgency. Shifting would help, but that is forbidden.

Finally at my weekly doctor’s visit on Thursday, he asked me if I would be willing to take some medication to help with this problem. Silence. My pride kicked in and I said I would have to think about it; then, practicality trumped pride. After 10 seconds of thinking about it, I said that I was willing to try anything to help this situation to be ameliorated. I left his office with two prescriptions and feeling a bit defeated.

I had an early morning treatment yesterday, and I came out of the gantry feeling like a new man. That medication was wonderful. Pride lost…Rx won.

Little children

The majority of the patients at the proton institute are old men with prostate cancer. Most of us are treated in the yellow gantry. There is a red gantry and also a blue one. All day these two gantries are used to treat children—most of whom have some type of malignant tumor. Most of the children have to be anesthetized for the treatment as they are too young to understand to lie perfectly still for a few minutes.

We see these children coming and going each day while we are waiting for my treatment. There are those who have already undergone chemo treatment and they have no hair. Some have patches over one eye. Many have huge (for their tiny bodies they look huge) scars on their heads from surgeries. Some of the children have come to the institute as a last ditch effort to heal their infirmity. All of the parents of these children come with the hope that their child will leave this place healed.

How sad to see the little children suffering. I pray for them as I see them walking by. Some of them are crying as they walk into the hall that leads to the gantries. Some have big smiles, but all of them have a very serious illness that brought them from all over the world for this very special treatment.

I count my blessings every day when I see these children. Cheryl and I have 11 grandchildren—all of them are in perfect health. We are so blessed. Thank you Lord for the little children. Mark 10:13a

Repete

The therapists have begun to take those real time X-rays after my zapping. I asked why and was told that they need to repeat the same process that they do before the beamer hits the spot. OK, so repeat means to do something again that you have already done, right? So, why do you repeat the process I asked the therapist. I received a lot more info that I can repeat, but the gist of it is that they want to make sure that the gold coils (remember those things implanted in my prostate that they aim for) are lined up before and after the radiating. So, technically they did not repeat the procedure because the second one was different from the first. That was all the therapist cared to talk about this issue.

When I was just a sweet little thing—4-5 years old—I would sit on the chopping block in the general store owned by Leon Tate in Black Hawk, Mississippi. The patrons laughed at me because I loved to eat “goose liver” from Mr. Leon’s meat box. I had an early start enjoying different foods. These same fellows gave me a nick name—Repete. They would say that I was a “spitting image” of Pete Cox.

All my life I have been told how much I look like my dad. That never bothered me as I think both of us are handsome dudes. Many have told me how some of my mannerisms are similar to Pete’s. Just like Pete, I love working in the soil. I love the smell of dirt. I enjoy tilling, planting, weeding, and harvesting food, flowers and trees—just like Pete.

My dad’s name is James Wesley Cox, but I don’t remember anyone calling him by that name while I was growing up. He was and still is “Pete.”  I have never heard him introduce himself as James Wesley, James or James W. Cox—just Pete Cox.

Ten of our eleven grandchildren (one can’t talk yet) call my dad Pete. Our children grew up calling him Pop, but somehow we are all now calling him Pete. I think he likes it that way.

No one calls me Repete anymore, and that’s OK. I am proud to be a repeat of Pete, so in my heart I will always be Repete.