THE APPPROACHING STORM

The Bay of Plenty on New Zealand’s north eastern seaboard is a magnificent stretch of golden sandy beaches open to the rolling surf of the Pacific Ocean. Here, in the right conditions, perfectly formed breakers roll in, onto the wide open beaches, offering a mecca for board riders from far and wide.

Almost as a centre piece, the statuesque Mount Maunganui rises high, a mass of volcanic rock marking the deep water entrance to Tauranga’s shipping port and picturesque inner harbour.

From 30 kilometres inland it is hard to imagine the accompanying roar of the pounding surf would be noticeable, yet tonight it is, with the murmuring, thunderous intensity of an approaching battalion of fully armoured horsemen. An onshore wind of 35knots, together with an imminent high tide has meant the salt spray off the crest of the rollers is blowing in clouds across the beach and coating neighbouring apartment blocks and vehicles with a liberal skin of dried and crusty saline solution.

The roar of the breaking surf is a welcome distraction as I lay flat on my bed, shutting out all TV noise and conversation, my senses peaked by an intense pain of another blockage deep in my abdomen. I can tell there is an obstruction because food eaten four hours ago is not digesting and the reflux is starting to burn my digestive tract. I have taken the painkillers, Panadol with a Nurofen top up, but the intensity of the pain keeps building and the bed seems the best place to find any solace.

I offer up a prayer of hope that my loving Father can understand my pain, but the answer does nothing for the agony save to remind me of the freedom of choice I had when I sipped the ginger beer. BUT AHHhhhhh! The frustration, and I allow my ego a couple of minutes to fix myself another little temper tantram.

Outside the wind continues to build and the bare trees, stripped for winter, howl and bend in much the way that I am feeling! Caught in the reflected light of the city’s container port, light clouds scurry across the sky and the temperature seems to dip from balmy to a moist chill that precipitates rain.

A light perspiration dampens my calico cotton sheets as my body reacts to my struggling search for relief. I roll off the bed and crawl around on all fours; this is getting too bad and a threatened lack of sleep is going to make me grumpy. My nurses have said don’t put up with pain, so here we go, they are going to hear all about it as I reach for the telephone.

Throughout New Zealand a string of respite care services operate from local Hospices. These remarkable facilities of, in our case, eight to twelve day stay rooms are the nerve centre of a team of registered nurses travelling constantly between terminally ill cancer patients at home. While sixty percent of funding comes from the District Health Boards, the annual shortfall of between one and two million dollars is funded by all manner of community projects, including highly successful second hand shops generating the life blood to pay clinical and professional staff and upgrade facilities.

Tonight there are two nurses manning the phones and half a dozen rostered district nurses awaiting a wake-up call at any time of the night to attend a cancer patient in their own home. I am incredibly humbled by this service and right now, at 12.30am they are going to prove to be my rescue line.

Surprisingly there’s reluctance to take advantage of this service because many cancer sufferers believe the Hospice is where you go to die. As they regard death as the absolute end, rather than a stage of transition, it becomes a state of being that is singularly unattractive to the many, who don’t want to come near the Hospice.

I feel certain the intense pain is caused by wind in the small bowel and taking a couple of Antacids brings slight relief. Outside the dogs are on duty around the front of the house, alert to any visitors who may have caught us by surprise. But if we were expecting to get a bit of warning of Nurse Lynn’s arrival, we are quite out of luck. A trickle of surface water washes off her tyres with a swish and we welcome her in, without a murmur from the two bloodhounds!

It takes just seconds to administer an injection to the thigh which, twenty minutes later starts to bring the urgent relief that quietens me down. Once again I am in awe of the fact Lynn has hopped out of bed to see to it that I am comfortable, and on such a hell of a night. I am convinced she is the angel, the answer to my prayer, for despite me wanting instant pain relief with prayer, I should know by now that everything is in His timing, which is always just in time, but never as soon as I wanted it. My gratitude spills over again and I hold back the tears of relief that I am so blessed to be made comfortable enough to sleep.

By this time the tree tops are fair whistling and the stream at the bottom of the garden has already changed its tune from a light and breezy trickle to a full on gurgle. It always intrigues me where the head waters to these streams start out and ours is at a spring two kilometres up the valley. Between here and there is a small dam which quickly fills in a downpour like this to become a lake. The storm water escapes down the valley by overflowing into the gaping mouth of a vertical drain, when the level is high enough, which gives us a raging torrent downstream, carrying all flotsam and jetsam before it.

That’s exactly what I need to flush out my own system! Oh, the sheer relief of the thought of it!

By morning I have had a good deep sleep and there is no sign of the pain. However, there is still the feeling of being completely blocked. I cannot eat anything except dry biscuits with warm filtered water; I have simply lost all appetite.

Outside it is pouring with rain, lashing against the windows, carried by the same north-easterly gales that foretell the arrival of an intense low pressure system crossing the central North Island. Despite the day it is early enough to schedule some help and we get on the phone for an appointment with the Hospice doctor.

Now this is another aspect of Hospice care that is particularly comforting; while the doctors are there to attend to emergency situations only, they clearly have some ‘down-time’ when they can give opinion on various symptoms arising for day care and visiting cancer sufferers. But what makes their work of such great value is the experience they are gaining. These are GPs in time away from their private practice, but in so doing they gain a wealth of experience in the care of those like myself, with dozens of invasive tumours throughout the body. Now with the best will in the world my own GP is going to reach retirement before he gets the first hand experience of helping so many cancer sufferers. And besides, this month he is on sabbatical, so with the best of intentions I would have only been able to see another locum who knows little of my situation.

The western bank of the winding Wairoa River at Te Puna is the picturesque location of the Waipuna Hospice, with plenty of carparking amongst mature gardens that overlook the river. The building entrance is expansive, with two business awards on display in recognition of the fortitude of this not-for-profit organisation in competing for funding and controlling costs in a manner that matches the best of the city’s commerce.

The lounge acts as a waiting room at the front of the recently renovated and enlarged facility and it is full of Lazy Boy arm chairs. The adjoining family kitchen allows us a good cuppa as we wait to see the doctor.

Almost an hour later the examination has finished and I am armed with half a dozen prescriptions because they don’t keep stocks of drugs for patients. Because of the painkillers I will now need to be on anti-nausea tablets and as expected a schedule of laxatives will aid things along. But in addition is a steroid and for rather unexpected reason, it is to reduce the inflammation around the tumours, especially those surrounding the bowel. Reducing this swelling is hoped to take off some of the pressure and allow my system continued free movement.

I am grateful for the time allowed me and the careful consideration Dr March has given to my symptoms. But all I want to do right now is get back home to bed and sleep; the activity has really knocked the stuffing out of me. Sure enough, my head on the pillow, it takes less than five minutes for me to drift off to sleep and an hour to become conscious again. With all the will in the world it takes twenty five minutes before I can pull myself upright and start paying attention to the passing day.

One of the most remarkable attractions of the New Zealand climate is the speed with which weather systems pass over the country. Already the sun has broken through the cloud, the remains of which are now draped lazily over nearby hills as the cold front passes out into the Pacific. The wind has swung to the north west as we enjoy the penetrating rays of the sun through the clearest atmosphere on the planet.

Margaret brings me warm filtered water and I sip at it, very conscious of the need to get liquid into a body being drained of fluids by the effect of the laxatives. Fluid is all I can cope with and I continue my fast into the late evening, when at last the thunderous rumblings of my stomach start the process of release of the pressure that caused so much agony. I have a storm of my own to deal with before, at last, I start to relax and the body starts to cool down.

With overwhelming gratitude I realise I am going to get a deep sleep of recovery now that my own storm has passed. Through all of this I have known it will be temporary, from the experience of the last four months, as my tumours have grown. For this reason my spirit and resolve are strong and intact, never wavering toward fear as an option. It is not an option because there is nothing to fear, even in dying. My spirit will simply be released from the body that can no longer serve it and it moves into a spiritual realm, in preparation for whatever is the next life cycle.

Ahead of me is closure for the physical life cycle in this body, an ending for all of the attachment this body has invested in, in the physical world. Already this process, that ends my own attachment to the ‘things’ I love, has been happening on a very regular basis with changes taking place all around me. I had grown attached to springtime in the valley where I walked the dogs and they have just clear felled it, temporarily destroying the environment to which I was so attached. The crowd of people I loved to work with have moved on, they are not the same folk; my attachment to the old co-worker family is gone.

The approaching storm has been partial closure in this lifetime for my body, this walking source of intelligence, in order that my spirit can let go and let God. This is all the dying process towards the time when I will finally choose to go to the Light. This Light is thee source of all Love, God, and I will choose to leave rather than hold on any longer, choose a new direction that is purely in the universal spirit, and without my failing body.

But that is not today, it is sometime ahead, when I am ready to be received, and I haven’t a clue when that is going to be or how it will happen. My mind thinks it will be another storm, but my inner voice reassures of peace as I pass through to finally go home.