Bright White Feather

By Jerry Healy

How am I supposed to carry on like normal when half of my soul has been taken from me? Losing my wife of 53 years changed who I am, and nothing will ever be the same again. I have never experienced such bitterness, heartache, and loneliness before. I struggle to find purpose and hope in the future. I've always been a happy guy, but now I'm facing the biggest battle of my life to be that person again. Although sometimes tempted, I can't give up.  I'll have to find my way without Jean. 

But will I have the strength to claw my way through the hazy fog of grief until I find sunshine again? Bright White Feather is my story of healing and hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jerry Healy
• Release date: May 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201289980

Book preview

Chapter One

Pastel-Colored Walls

2017

The imaging clinic called a few days after Jean’s routine mammogram. They needed further testing. We didn’t think much about it because this had happened many times in the past. Jean had dense breast tissue, and they often wanted to follow up with an ultrasound to be on the safe side. We’d had a few scares before, but things always turned out fine.

This time was different. They found a lump in her right breast that the ultrasound confirmed. The next step: was a biopsy.

We tried to hide it from each other, but the truth was we were both nervous. Jean was good about getting her mammogram every year, but this time she had missed a year. Somehow it had slipped through the cracks after being assigned a different primary physician.

On the day of the biopsy, she was noticeably more quiet than usual. I knew she was worried when she reminded me that she had missed her test the year before.

I can’t believe I did that. How could I have forgotten something so important?

Doesn’t your doctor schedule a mammogram during your physical every year?

Yes, but they assigned a new doctor to me last year and it must have gotten missed.

Driving to the clinic, we listened to music on the radio while I made small talk trying to take her mind off the test and calm her nerves. Let’s go to lunch after the test.

She nodded and looked straight ahead but didn’t say a word. It wasn’t working. She was obviously in deep thought, and I sensed that she had a premonition something was wrong.

When we arrived for the appointment, I asked the nurse if I could stay with Jean during the test for support, and she said yes. Sitting in a chair about six feet behind Jean, I could see the doctor and the ultrasound screen he would use to guide the biopsy needle. The doctor pointed out the mass on the screen and explained how the procedure would proceed step by step. Then it was time to numb the area where the long scary-looking biopsy needle would penetrate her breast. I cringed watching this bizarre scenario playing out before my eyes. The doctor had a calm, reassuring demeanor, and constantly checked with Jean to make sure she was comfortable.

I knew how much she dreaded this biopsy, and I couldn’t have been any prouder of the strength, bravery, and grace she displayed throughout the entire ordeal. She never even flinched.

As I watched the needle penetrate the spongy-looking mass on the screen, I thought, this will come back negative. It just has to. My whole life is sitting in front of me in that chair.

The procedure took about half an hour to complete, and, when it was over, I went back to the waiting room while Jean dressed. She smiled at me as she entered the waiting room through a hallway door, but it was an uneasy smile. She was using it as makeup to cover up the stress on her face, but this wasn’t a blemish that could be hidden. I knew her too well to be fooled.

Waiting for the biopsy results became agonizing. I don’t remember how many days it took. We were about to find out how slowly the wheels can turn through this process.

It tested our patience and our anxiety grew with every moment that passed — like waiting for a stoplight to change when you’re late for an appointment. You don’t give it much thought until it affects you, and you feel your hands tightening around the steering wheel as the minutes tick by.

In the past, they had always sent a letter stating the test was negative. This time they asked us to come in to discuss the results. Our hopes that the tests would come back negative were beginning to fade. Our daughter Lori met us at the clinic to hear the outcome.

Our hearts sank when the nurse showed us to an almost too comfortable room with a small couch and a couple of upholstered chairs. The first thing I noticed was the box of tissues on a small coffee table separating the furniture — not a good omen. The walls were a soothing pastel color with perfectly framed pictures of calming scenes. A pretty bouquet of flowers sat on the table. All were designed to feel less sterile and clinical, none of which helped to settle our nerves. This wasn’t a typical exam room.

Finally, the radiologist entered the room. Wearing his lab coat, he offered a weak attempt at a reassuring smile. He looked to be in his early forties and was a tall, slender man. He didn’t appear to be nervous, but I could tell by his body language that he was uncomfortable having to deliver life-changing news. He had most likely entered that room dozens of times before, but I couldn’t imagine it ever getting any easier. He carried a piece of paper that I assumed was the biopsy results.

After the word malignant passed his lips, everything else was a blur. Jean began to cry softly. Lori, a nurse, put her arm around her mom to comfort her while I sat numb. I can’t explain why, but I’ve always had trouble expressing my emotions in times of crisis. Now I’m haunted by the guilt that I didn’t take her in my arms and hold her for as long as she needed. I failed to provide what she may have wanted most at that moment.

Jean composed herself and dabbed her tears with tissue from the table as we asked the doctor a few questions. I can’t remember any of them because, although I was there physically, my mind had left the station. She never brought that day up again. I’m not sure she even realized who was doing what at the time.

Minutes later, we were taken to a much smaller room and introduced to a nurse who would be our guide for the dreaded journey ahead. Only two chairs were in this little room with a pass-through opening and the nurse on the other side. Lori stood next to Jean as we listened closely, trying to understand the instructions being given to us. She made the appointment for an oncologist in two weeks and gave us material describing what to expect over the coming weeks and months. It was hard to concentrate on the words she was saying when our heads were still spinning from the devastating news we heard moments earlier. I couldn’t stop wondering why it would be two weeks before Jean could see an oncologist. Hadn’t they just told us that the tumor was malignant? How much more could cancer grow in two weeks? This was our initiation into a club no one wants to be a member of.

At our first appointment with the oncologist, we were introduced to a nurse in charge of a special study program involving patients from all over the country with estrogen-dependent breast cancer. She explained how this research if proven effective, possibly could help these women avoid much more invasive treatments. I could see Jean’s spirits being lifted by the thought that she might be able to avoid the dreaded chemotherapy routine.

That she was willing to be a test subject didn’t surprise me. It made me even prouder of the person she was. The drug they were using was supposed to slow the growth of cancer by blocking the estrogen from feeding the tumor. She was given a shot once a week for a month. A biopsy of the tumor was taken at the beginning and the end of the month to see if the drug was working. When the month of treatment ended, we were facing another two weeks of waiting for the results. The biopsy came back with higher numbers of cell growth, not lower as we were hoping.

We were disappointed, but now it was time to move to plan B and start chemotherapy. It was a twelve-week regimen with a once-a-week dose. We were going to become very familiar with the inside of an infusion room. It was a large, open room with eleven recliner chairs lining three outside walls. On one side of the chair was an IV stand where they hung the various concoctions that made up the chemo cocktails. A small TV screen hung from a swivel arm attached to the wall behind each chair. It was supposed to keep patients entertained during their two- and-a-half-hour ordeal. Each space had a curtain for privacy, but most patients left themselves exposed to the room.

On the back wall, snacks and drinks were provided at no charge. The center of the room was filled with workstations where nurses recorded detailed information about the treatment each of their patients was receiving.

I found it strange how something so foreign could become routine. Patients sat in chairs for hours at a time, week after week, as the poison was pumped into their bodies. Some watched movies while others visited with loved ones or performed business deals on their phones as if it were a normal day.

I remember feeling empathy for the patients I saw by themselves. I wondered if they were alone in this world, or living too far away from relatives who couldn’t be with them. Either way, it made me sad.

I was fortunate to be retired and stay by Jean’s side for every infusion. It had to be hard on cancer patients to sit in those oncology waiting rooms seeing someone seated across from them, appearing to be in the final stages of their battle. How could they keep from wondering if they would have that same look months or years from that day?

One of the serious side effects of chemo is neuropathy, a numbing, burning, tingling, and painful condition in the hands and feet. Jean started getting it at week ten of the twelve-week regimen. Her doctor stopped treatment at that point. He thought the tumor had shrunk and talked about the possibility of a lumpectomy. A PET scan would show if that was an option, and Jean was excited by the thought of getting some positive news. Her neuropathy was driving her crazy by this point. It added an extra medication to the growing list of pharmaceutical compounds being absorbed into her tiny body.

This was Jean’s second PET scan and it took a while to get it scheduled. Unfortunately, there are too few scanning machines for the number of people with cancer. We waited, with fingers crossed, hoping the scan would show the tumor had shrunk enough to be removed with a simple lumpectomy. Meanwhile, we had an appointment with the surgeon to discuss options when the results came back.

One of Jean’s Chemotherapy appointments.

Another exam room, another doctor, another disappointment. The surgeon appeared to be very young. But then, everyone looked young to me those days. She was straighfforward