Peter, Paul & Merryweather

PETER, PAUL AND MERRYWEATHER

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.

Hebrews 11:1 ESV

***

You almost certainly surely remember the worst bad news. I’m sorry he didn’t make it through the operation. Or there’s been a terrible accident. But do you remember the strangest bad news?

***

I wake up in a decrepit, dumpy room in a fishing camp overlooking a lake about 100 miles from Fort Worth. It’s a brown world covered in frost. I drive the four-wheeler back down the isolated dirt road to an upscale vacation home and endure the last four excruciating hours of a firm meeting. In a law firm where I no longer enjoy working and the type of meeting I despise. Cell service is intermittent, but mine buzzes. The prescription for the obscure antibiotic you didn’t order is ready.

On the way home, I Google “Obscuricine.” It’s for prostate infections.

***

Peter and I drive to the meeting with only two rules. We can’t talk about the law firm, and we can’t discuss the meeting. He’s made a play list of music I love—The Who, The Rolling Stones, Willie Nelson, Gordon Lightfoot. We discuss our sons, our favorite football players and how we love the way our wives drive us crazy. Joni Mitchell belts the chorus line in Big Yellow Taxi--“Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone!” I almost break the rule and say something about the firm.

Years later, I treasure the memories of the drive to the firm meeting. And I’m glad Peter drove me home after I received the bizarre text. I’m already doubting and fearing. And wondering what I’ll miss. Doubting that I have an infection. Doubting that an antibiotic will lower my PSA. Fearing that it’s not even remotely possible that I don’t have cancer. Knowing I’ll miss the loss of my manhood, thinking about mortality. I do know what I’ve got; but will it be gone?

I’m somewhat of a complicated introvert and a bit challenging to get to know…will I have the support I need to get through what’s coming. Will I even ask for support?

Peter’s faith is strong. He’s a leader in our church. I feel inner peace riding home with him. But I fumble an opportunity to tell him why I’m afraid. We drive home mostly in silence. He probably thinks I’m quiet because I hate firm meetings. I don’t correct that impression.

***

The antibiotic doesn’t work. My PSA remains elevated. My newly-acquired urologist, Dr. Merryweather, says my prostate feels “funny.” Brenda offered to drive me, but I go alone to the biopsy; afterwards, I go home and crawl into bed although I don’t feel physically bad. On the way to a church men’s retreat, my phone buzzes. It’s Merryweather’s office. I send the call to voice mail. I fumble another opportunity. I discuss my fears with nobody. Others share their burdens. A child who almost dies. A spouse who leaves a guy to raise 3 little children by himself. My burdens are small in comparison, so I don’t even talk to my associate pastor who is also a valued friend. He does ask about the biopsy.

“I don’t know yet.” But I did know even though Merryweather hadn’t told me yet. The scary thing about the cancer is I can’t avoid it.

***

The word gets around in the firm that I have prostate cancer. So that means it gets around town too. Advice comes from every direction. Nobody in Ourtown can treat that.

I’m far from the life of the party, but my “friends” are multiplying like loaves and fishes. Jesus hasn’t sent most of them.

My friend went to Sloan Kettering. I thought it was a common cancer.

I went to the Mayo Clinic. Or I went to Johns Hopkins. We live in Texas. None of you guys went to MD Anderson?

Peter is steadfast. A rock. He never tells me what to do. Or what he’d do. He’s always there for me when I walk into his office and close the door and unburden myself. But I need a medical professional to guide me through the treatment options.

I’ve had a meeting with Merryweather, attended by my wife, Brenda. He outlined robotic surgery, traditional surgery, radiation. Says those are the only real options for me. I lean toward robotic surgery because I’ll heal faster. Merryweather is the only doctor in Ourtown who does that. He says he’s done maybe 150 of these operations. If I want someone who’s done thousands, it’s not him. I don’t want to listen to the “know it all’s” who recommend the Mayo Clinic or Johns Hopkins. But they’ve sown some doubts and planted some fears.

Some of those recommending out of town treatment emphasize the perceived advantage with traditional surgery in making sure that the surgeon has removed all the cancer.

I unload on my older son, Trey.

“The choices are overwhelming. I almost can’t take it. So many people telling me what to do.”

“You, know, Dad, it’s your cancer. You own it. You get to make every choice about how to handle it. Nobody else decides that for you. Not even me or Mom.”

That helps a bit except when weeping tarries “for the night” bringing fear of death, erectile dysfunction and wearing Depends. The psalmist assures that “joy comes with the morning.” Psalm 30:5. But I decide he never had to listen to these guys tell me that nobody in Ourtown can treat my cancer. Can I please go back to being a friendless introvert?

I do resolve that when I’m overwhelmed, it’s “God’s cancer.” As my current pastor might put it, regardless of the bad news, I’ll trust God. That’s his definition of faith. But it’s an erratic, meandering journey. I don’t get there—to the place of “nevertheless” or “regardless” or “despite” quickly.

So, the next afternoon right after a health club shower in a locker room full of prostate cancer laureates, I dial the number for the only oncologist I know. But I mostly know him through a French language group. A bunch of us hang out, attempt to speak French, and drink red wine and champagne. Of course, they have become my friends over the years. But I’m too self-absorbed to see that. I tell Dr. Paul about the biopsy and that I’m overwhelmed with choices. He says, “I can’t help you decide unless you’re my patient.” In less than 10 minutes, I become his patient. In less than 15, I’m seeing him. It is still one of the most powerful acts of friendship I’ve witnessed in going on 75 years. Paul guides me through the valley of the shadowy choices. Tells me that my urologist, Dr. Merryweather, is the only person in West Texas that he’d let operate on his prostate.

But Paul also says if I’m not comfortable with treatment in Ourtown, he has the connections to send me quickly anywhere I want—MD Anderson, Sloan Kettering, Johns Hopkins.

He’s intelligent, irascible and caring. Or as Dr. Merryweather tells me when he next sees me, “Dr. Paul takes a special interest in all of his patients, but he really takes a special interest in you.”

I respond that Paul said he’s one of the best young docs in Ourtown. And that “he wouldn’t let anyone in Ourtown touch his prostate except for Dr. Merryweather.”

When I checked in, Paul’s waiting room was nothing like the way I imagined an oncology clinic. It’s not a cancer practice. It’s an OBGYN office. Everyone is pregnant with hope and courage. And dilated with faith.

Paul’s practice doesn’t treat children. The only ones there were with their mommies and daddies who were being treated. Seeing that was hard…but it also said that life goes on.

The staff was shocked when I arrived and simply said, “I’m here to see Paul.” But eventually, I check in at Paul’s office enough times that his long-serving staff is no longer surprised that I ask for him by first name.

Back in the office, I relate the oncologist story to Peter.

“I might need someone…sometimes…to go with me to an appointment. When Brenda can’t go…” I don’t complete the question.

“I’ll go with you, Adam.”

***

I have an MRI and a CT scan to confirm the cancer isn’t outside my prostate. After the MRI, I rush to the airport and fly to Chicago to spend a long weekend with Trey. He’s planned trips to the museums, brew pubs near Wrigley, even a cold April baseball game.

Over a beer, I lament. “Your mom doesn’t care about my cancer. She doesn’t even ask me about it. When she does, she’s almost flippant.”

“She cares more than you think, Dad. She’s afraid to talk with you about it. So, she just puts on a confident act.”

He doesn’t go on to add, “You’re forgetting how she helped you sort through the information from Paul and Dr. Merryweather and decide on robotic surgery in Ourtown.”

Brenda is out of town when I return to West Texas and have my appointment with Paul to discuss the test results. I can’t face going alone. Chicago didn’t adequately distract me. When not actively occupied with Trey’s engaging itinerary, I’ve worried about the results for the past 5 days. Peter goes with me. The results are good. I make final arrangements for the operation with Dr. Merryweather.

***

I can’t believe how many other specialists and medical technicians I see in preparation for the operation. Merryweather’s office asks if I know a cardiologist. They schedule a stress test with Dr. Clark. I saw him many years previously when I was feeling lightheaded after running. Certain that I was dying from an undetected heart condition at 28, I went to his office for a stress test. Dr. Clark has one of the best bedside manners I’ve ever seen in a physician. But we’re all prisoners of our clichés.

If you have prostate cancer, many people will say, “it’s so curable. It’s the cancer you want to have.” They don’t know that Bob Williams, a founding member of my firm, died from prostate cancer. Or that the cute children next door…who dote on me when they hear my diagnosis…had a grandfather who died from it.

Clark is so kind and gentle. Usually, I would have thought, “I want to slug you.” Or “I guess you think I’ll enjoy the end of my sex life and wearing Depends.” Not with him. I just thank him and say, “It’s always good to see you.”

But Peter never tells me, “you have the cancer you want to have.”

Dr. Merryweather says, “It’s usually very curable, but it’s a serious disease. Thirty-five thousand guys a year die from it. It’s a watershed event. It marks the first time most men think about mortality. And wonder if they need to put their affairs in order. Then there’s the complications afterwards that mess up your sex life and affect urination. About 90% of guys have relatively few problems with urination. Maybe 3-4% are totally miserable. They’re lucky, because we can usually fix a lot of that. The ones that really struggle long term are the ones in the middle.”

He’s confident, but not cocky. The ultrasound doesn’t indicate that the cancer is beyond my prostate. And neither do the scans that he and Paul ordered. But he assures me that he’ll remove enough surrounding tissue to biopsy that we’ll know for sure whether it’s progressed.

***

A few days before the operation, I finally agree to the prayer meeting at work many have tried to schedule. Half the firm joins me in the main conference room and lays hands on me. Prays earnestly. And asks God for healing and comfort. I think differently about several of them as a result. I’m thankful I agreed to let them do that. Afterwards, the managing partner says, “we don’t want to wear you out after the operation. Who would you most like to have come see you?”

***

In the waiting room before I go to get “dressed” for my surgery, a support group of men that I meet with every week comes and lays hands on me while my associate pastor prays. Do I have more friends than I thought? A few weeks later, the guys from the group tell me that they were disappointed that they didn’t get to pray with me longer.

***

When I see Peter through the lingering fog of the anesthesia, I transform into Dorothy telling the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz, “I think I’ll miss you most of all.” I want to say that to him, but I don’t.

***

The post op pathology shows the cancer isn’t confined to my prostate. There are treatment options. If I don’t do them, Merryweather says maybe I’ll live 5 years. At least it’s not months. But I don’t know most of my grandchildren yet. I only have one. I tell Brenda, “Don’t Google my condition.” I go home to die. I tell nobody at the firm except Peter the pathology results.

I once told my daughter in law, “A Christian can’t be a pessimist. It’s not part of the definition.” But I’ve always made an exception for my pessimism.

On the way home from receiving the pathology report, Brenda and I eat lunch at Jason’s Deli. We play Dominion on our tablets.

***

I’m eating breakfast on the patio on a beautiful June day when my cell phone buzzes. Paul has scheduled another scan. He has already outlined the treatments that he recommends if the results are good. Says he has patients that live more than a decade in my situation. The day before the scan, I have reached the end of my faith and my hope is gone. I finally text and email the men’s group. My phone is overwhelmed with reply texts and emails of support and prayer. One of them says, “I’ve never seen such a sad text. Of course, I’ll pray for you!” While I’m hooked up to the IV before the scan, Peter sends several encouraging texts. Trey and my associate pastor phone me. Brenda takes me there, waits for me, and drives me home. Paul gifts me an “all expenses paid trip” to MD Anderson after the good results. Blue Cross doesn’t argue so much when the C word is in the conversation.

***

Dr. Merryweather says, “let’s check your PSA. I think the docs at MD Anderson would like to know.” I’m afraid of the results. I briefly argue. My phone buzzes at lunch the next day. Ironically, I’m there with Bob Hope, a dear friend and strong Christian. It’s Dr. Merryweather. They only call you if it’s bad! I take the call. Bob will pray with me after I receive the devastating news. But Merryweather is ecstatic. He sounds like a 17-year-old who just scored the winning touchdown. I text Brenda, Matt, the men’s group, my associate pastor, and my sons from my car…”My PSA is undetectable.” I probably texted more people the results. My support group is exponential.

***

The Anderson docs say they approve Paul’s course of treatment. They make no guarantees, but say that I should have a long, cancer-free life. Brenda plays Dominion on our tablets with me in every waiting room and restaurant. And we see a lot of docs!

The Anderson waiting rooms are Paul’s on steroids. Overflowing with faith, hope, and love…all three. For years afterwards, I prayed for some of them daily.

***

I slide into the car to drive back to the office from a follow up appointment with Paul. My younger son, Dylan, calls and prays powerfully with me.

***

As I continue to make a recovery and to live as a cancer survivor one day at a time, my nearly 90-year-old aunt calls me frequently. I can feel her hugging me through the phone. My sister and I share a bond as she successfully navigates her own cancer journey. My adopted cousin calls and texts encouragingly. He and I and another cousin start a huge and entertaining text thread that’s still going.

***

One undetectable PSA follow another. Once again I wake up in a brown world covered in frost. Tennessee is not Florida in the winter or New Mexico in the summer. I’ll have my high fiber breakfast to keep my aging body regular. Attempt to stay awake during the church committee meeting. And watch my grandsons play soccer. Turns out I was “in the middle” as Merryweather called it. I have a urologist on retainer to address my bladder issues. But fifteen years after the “worst” bad news…here I sit. Attempting to write a story about faith. Planning to see Paul by Zoom next week for a French lesson. A bit of fear still in the back of my mind about an upcoming PSA test. And realizing this story is about a great cloud of “witnesses” instead. Peter, Paul and Merryweather. Trey and Brenda and Dylan. Bob Hope, my sister and cousins, and so many more. Much more than witnesses…they’re friends. Those who upheld me from the bizarre text about an obscure antibiotic to today. From doubt…through crisis…to faith. I’ve even forgiven the law firm and the prostate cancer laureates of the Ourtown locker room.

Do you remember? Who was there for you? Who helped you say “nevertheless, I’ll trust God”?

Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses…

Hebrews 12:1 ESV

Christ gives me the strength to face anything.

Philippians 4:13 CEV

A friend is there to help, in any situation, and relatives are born to share our troubles.

Proverbs 17:17 CEV