The articles on this page were written for and published by the Cancer Society's newsletter, distributed to cancer patients and other interested parties throughout the world. They were all written to show that there can be humor and blessings even during trials and tribulations.  I hope you enjoy them.

Below is an article (one of my feeble attempts at humor) that may give somebody an inkling of how adversity (or even radiation treatments) can be dealt with.  After long contemplation, I decided to entitle it:

 “Ribet-Ribet”

I remember when I began the radiation treatments.  The first day they fit the facemask and told me to come back.  They explained that the mask was to hold my head steady during the radiation treatments and also tell them exactly where to point the radiation as to get the cancer and not the surrounding tissue.  That sounded pretty smart to me, so I allowed them to continue.  I wondered what the radiation would do to me and it worried me so much that I immediately went home and lit up another cigarette.  What the hell, it was too late to stop now, right?

            They set me up for a once-a-day treatment regimen and the first day I went in, I was introduced to four or five others that were sitting there in the waiting room at the same time for the same thing.  Although the cancer was in differing places in the body, everybody felt a sort of kinship.  We were brothers and sisters.  Some of us were fearless, as was Judy, an older person that was full of joy, regardless of her circumstances, and she refused to let the treatments get her down.  Others hid their fear with some success.  Some were noticeably more somber with the thought of radiation.  Bob was one of those.  He showed up with his wife every day and leaned heavily on her for support.  He rarely spoke.  An introvert.  His cancer was lower than mine, he was in some pain, and while my voice was affected, his affliction was somewhat more private in nature.  I allowed him some leeway since he wasn’t too keen on talking about his affliction.  But he gave me what encouragement he could muster up, and when it came my turn, he waved at me, as if he was waving a last goodbye to someone on the way to the hangman’s noose.  I wasn’t too concerned the first day, but I had no idea of what was to come.

              They gave me daily treatments for a few weeks (I forget how many now), and near the end, I graduated to twice-daily treatments, and every day I brought stories of my exploits back to the waiting room and to Bob.  I really wanted to cheer him up.  Bob soon began looking forward to my ridiculous stories, and his wife enjoyed them as well, even though at times she turned her head in embarrassment.  Even the nurses began to take notice of our amusement and enjoy the banter, although this may have been grave stuff, radiation treatment. 

                One morning I told Bob and the group of the first real change in my lifestyle due to the treatments.  And the story went like this: 

    I had been out on the patio when my wife opened the door, looking for me to tell me that breakfast was ready, but she looked right at me, and through me and didn’t see me; finally shutting the door and going back in, still hollering my name.  I was astonished and immediately realized that I had been leaning on a tree and had changed colors like a chameleon, thereby becoming invisible to the human eye.  It was shocking, but I soon managed to control it when I was around people.  Bob was very interested in this turn of events and how it might affect his own life and his wife said she looked forward to the day when Bob would disappear, but she was smiling when she said it.

                Then things began to get bad.  The first negative thing to happen (as I explained to Bob and the rest of the group) was when the hair on my legs began to fall out and the guy next door began looking at me with something like admiration in his eyes, and he explained to me that his wife never shaved her legs.  That was nerve-racking, but I solved the situation by wearing long pants when I went outside, and that took care of that.

                After a few weeks, the burned area on my throat sags considerably and I began making new sounds when I coughed.  When I arrived one morning at the waiting room, Bob greeted me with a smiling hello.  “Ribbet – Ribbet,” I answered.  That brought a small smile to the faces in the room.  I began to be a little more concerned.  Bob continued to listen to my stories without comment.  But it all came together for Bob and I when at last he opened up, and when I arrived at the waiting room, he couldn’t wait to tell his first and last story.

                It seems that he and his wife had some neighbors over for a weekend barbeque in his back yard.  Everything seemed to be going fine, but Bob had a little wine and began feeling his oats.  He was relaxed and sitting at a table with about four others when a fly sat down on the far end of the table, landing on a piece of bread.  Without thinking (according to Bob), he frowned, and his tongue flicked out over a distance of three and one-half feet and snatched that fly right off the top of the bread without even touching it, and then his tongue just rolled back up in his mouth as if it were commonplace.  Bob explained that everybody saw it and a couple of the lady guests began looking at him sort of funny and that was when his wife told everybody to go home and has refused to have another party until this radiation stuff was over and everything back to normal.

 
             By now, Bob’s wife is having some sort of fit and she’s holding her side and blushing to beat all, and we called for a nurse, who was also having trouble keeping her composure.  I had no idea that this radiation stuff could be so much fun!

                Well, let me tell you, I couldn’t top that story, so I just stopped going back for the treatments.  They were over with anyway, and the burn spot on my neck was larger than ever, but I had finally quit smoking.  It was one experience I’ll never forget, especially the thought of Bob and his lizard-like tongue snatching flies at great distances.  It’s a picture I just can’t quite get out of my mind.

"Don't Worry Dad, It'll Be Okay!"

Written For and Published in the
 Cancer Society Newsletter in November, 2000

When I awoke I was in a hospital bed, head raised slightly, and tubes running all over me.  There was still the tube in my stomach so that I could be fed, but now there were also a couple of tubes stuck in my throat and chest that were draining blood and fluids from the area into bottles attached to the tube, and tubes running into my arm bringing medication and pain killers.  A larger tube brought a light mist to my throat area.  I also had a device to suck the saliva from my mouth because swallowing was impossible.  My laryngectomy was over, but my new life had barely begun.  I would no longer be able to speak as I had.  Not with my voice box surgically removed.

There was almost no pain, but I was limited in head movement.  I remembered the joke about pilots fighting with swords and during a close pass, one pilot swung his sword at the head of the other, and he responded with, "Ha, you missed!”  The sword wielder replied with a snarl, "Oh yeah, shake your head!"

Decapitation might be too strong of a word to describe this operation, but I had been cut open from ear to ear to remove the cancerous cells.  The nurse brought me pad and pencil so that I could communicate.  I had no desire for anything except for the ability to speak.  My wife was there as well as some of my grown children.  They all assured me that everything went fine and I was doing great.  My future was unknown and full of fear.  I was apprehensive.  I was scared.

The next day my daughters all visited me.  Michel came and went after giving me a kiss on the cheek.  Rhonda sat next to the bed with me for an hour holding my hand and I treasured every moment.  Jenine, my youngest daughter came, and she too, sat next to the bed and held my hand.  Jenine had been having a hard time calling me Dad.  My wife and I had been separated for some time and had gotten back together for the last 17 years, but Jenine had a hard time coming around.  Now she sat next to me and the concern was clear on her face.  I knew she loved me and I felt a tear of gratitude coming into my eyes as I thanked God for his blessings.  Somehow my situation didn't seem so bad.  Jenine looked and saw the solo tear rolling down my face; squeezed my hand and said, "Don't worry Dad, it'll be okay.”  And it was then that I truly knew it would be.

Two days later I was released from the hospital and sent home.  Two days after that I decided I could drive, and against the doctor's advice, I got behind the wheel of my car.  Since I couldn't turn my head, I turned my shoulders in an effort to see what was coming.  It felt good to be alive.  And today, still bright in my memory, and always sure to bring a smile to my face are the words that brought me so much comfort, "Don't worry Dad, it'll be okay."

. . .and with God’s help, it was.

Families can be healed and it takes just one person to begin the process.  And adversity is lessened to a great degree when there are family members there to love and support.  The following story was written for the Cancer Society and was entitled:

            Hello, Helloooo!  Is anybody there?

          It was just recently that I found out about the availability of the loan closet offered through the WebWhisperers organization and I immediately took advantage of it by borrowing an electrolarynx (Servox).  Darlene, the wonderful lady in charge of the closet, sent me the box and when I opened it, it was one of the most exciting days of my life.  I was gong to have the ability to speak again.  The moment finally came.  The mailman left and I almost ran upstairs to my bedroom and tore the box open.  There it was.  I eagerly read the instructions, and was ready to go.

    I couldn't find a spot on my neck to use.  I was too sore, the operation being less than two weeks past.  I found one spot high up on the right side of my neck, but after a few minutes the pain made me decide to look elsewhere.  The cheek didn't work at all.  It was then that I noticed the mouth attachment.  I figured out how to put it on and stuck it in my mouth.  My first tentative words were, "Hello, how are you?”  Eureka!  Success!  Fascinating!  I was off to the races.

    After almost four hours of practice, I could control myself no longer.  I
picked up the phone and called my wife at work.  The following conversation
ensued:
    "Good afternoon, may I help you?"
    “Hello, how are you?"
    “What?  Hello?  Is anybody there?
    “Hello, how are you?"
    “Jerk," she replied, and hung up the phone.

 I was stunned.  Well, what could I expect?  She had no idea that I would be calling and that box did make me sound like a robot, so I pulled myself together, took my Servox in hand and hit redial.
    “Good afternoon, may I help you?"
    “Hello, how are you?"
    “Hello!  Hello!"
    “Hello, how are you?”  Steam was beginning to come out of my ears.
    “Vance!  Is that you?  Are you all right?"
    “Of course I'm all right!"
    “Oh my God, do you want me to come home?"
    “No."
    "Are you all right?"
    "I'm OK."
    "Oh dear God, do you want me to call 911?"
    "NO!  I screamed.  The Servox buzzed.
    "Let's do it this way.  If you want to say yes, tap once.  For no, tap twice.  Now, are
you all right?"
    "I looked contemplatively at the Servox in my hand and dutifully tapped it once
against the phone."
    "Good," she sounded relieved, "Do you need me to come home?"
    "No," I tapped twice.
    "Good. I'll see you later.  I have to go.”  She hung up the phone.

    I placed the phone on the receiver and looked thoughtfully at the Servox.
Hundreds of dollars worth of equipment and technology brought down to the level
of tapping yes and no.  I felt humiliated.  This would never happen again.  I would
send the damned thing back and just wait for the TEP procedure.  That was
supposed to let you talk more normally, or so I had heard.

    I don't know how long I sat there, but finally the self-pity began to be replaced with anger and determination.  I picked up the Servox, stuck the thing back into my mouth and began to practice slowly.  Shortly, I picked up the phone and dialed a different number.  The voice came on the line:

    "Hello, this is Rhonda, may I help you?"
    "Hello, how are you?"
    "Hello?  Hello?  Is anybody there?"
    "Hello Rhonda, I love you."
    "Dad!  Is that you?  It is, isn't it?  Did you just say I love you?"
    "Yes I did."
    "Oh Dad," she blurted, "I love you too.  You can talk. You just need to practice a little bit.  I'll call you when I get home, OK?
    "OK."
    "Bye now.  I love you, Dad."
    "Bye, bye," I buzzed, and I felt the tears roll down my face.

            I found that God can give you strength and hope even in the most trying circumstances.  Even humor can be found in these things when you rely on God.  Here’s another story written for the Cancer Society that got quite a few responses.  I called it,

That Ole’ Devil, Pineapple

Egad!  I pushed the envelope!  I stepped right to the edge.  I challenged death and spit in its face.  Maybe I'd better start at the beginning.  You see, for the last 36 days I've had this tube stuck in my belly.  It's used for feeding purposes.  Five times a day, I open a can of vanilla tasting goop, mix it with a little water, and inject it into the tube.  The doctor tells me that I cannot even begin to think about swallowing anything until I receive an esophagram and he knows whether I am "leaking" or not.  In fact, when he allowed me to go home from the hospital, he made me promise that I wouldn't attempt it.  I agreed.  And that brings us to the present crisis. 

Now, the doctor did say that I could rinse my mouth out with grape juice or something as long as I didn't swallow.  This has been doing all right, but yesterday I came across the demon--- crushed pineapple.  I opened the fridge and there it was.  I stared at it for a few minutes then made the almost fatal mistake.  I removed it from the fridge, brought it over to the sink, picked up a spoon and shoved it into my mouth.  Just a couple of chews and spit it out.  Nobody would ever know.  It would never be missed.  And then it happened.  Somehow, seemingly of its own accord, the pineapple began to move to the rear of my mouth.  I could feel the automatic swallow mechanism take over and I was within a second of committing suicide.  With an almost super-human effort, I stopped the swallow reflex and managed to spit out the demon pineapple.

    So I live to see another day.  When I realized I had beaten the odds, calmness came over me.  I picked up my newly acquired Servox, stuck the stick in my mouth, articulated perfectly, and advised my daughter, "Some people skydive for thrills.  I chew crushed pineapple.” 
    “Wha'd he say?" asked my other daughter. 
    "I'm not sure, she replied, "but I think he has to go to the bathroom."

        I have to admit that at times, not everything ran as smoothly as it may seem.    Though humorous now, some stories can reflect some inner conflict. 

            The 3-piece dinner

          Well, I thought it was over.  My Servox voice sounds more like me every day, which means, I'm getting used to it.  At least once a week I dream about me miraculously finding out that while I was sleeping, God made my larynx grow back, like a reptiles whatever it is that grows back, and I find myself in a nightclub playing the piano, singing and crooning away to the ladies delight.  No, I can't play the piano either.  All in all, I have accepted the fact that this is not going to happen and I use a full battery in my Servox every day.  Boy, can I talk, and everybody seems to understand me completely.  Until last night, that is.

    Popeye's Chicken started it off.  I wanted a 3-piece dinner of chicken strips, with two side orders.  Once I had that order, I told the clerk that I wanted another order, exactly like the first.  "Two Orders," I said plainly.  She nodded in agreement and told me that it would be $5.71.  I knew that couldn't be right, because the 3-strip dinner alone was $4 bucks and I had ordered two.  So I spoke right up.

    "You must have misunderstood.  I want two dinners exactly alike and you only charged me for one.” 
    “Oh," she said politely, "two pieces.
    "No," I was beginning to get irritated.  Not 1 two-piece dinner, but 2 three piece dinners."
    By now the Hispanic clerk was getting nowhere fast and becoming more confused in the process.  A black man, overhearing the conversation, stepped in, smiled at me, wagged his finger for my silence, and tried to help.  "Let me," he started.  "This man wants two dinners.  3 piece dinners with 2 side dishes for each one," he said to the clerk.  He smiled at me, knowingly, and stepped back to observe the results.

            Now there were two other employees edging near to see what all of the commotion was about. 

"What side dishes do you want?" another asked. 

Now we were getting somewhere.  I smiled at the new clerk and said, "Mashed potatoes and cole' slaw.” 

Everything was going fine.  The original clerk, now operating the cash register calmly said, "That will be $7.99.”

Oh no, not again.  How on earth could two $4 dinners cost less than $8 with even more charges for the additional side dishes?  I decided to count my blessings and shut up and paid the bill.  A few minutes later, the dinner came.  I looked into the package.  One 3-piece meal with cole' slaw and onion rings.  I thanked them profusely, and headed for the door.  I had enough of this. 

I arrived home shortly thereafter. My wife, Stella, opened the bag and looked at me questionably, "Didn't you get anything for yourself?” 

"No," I replied, "I wasn't hungry."

"Well, for God's sake," she exploded, "you know I don't like onion rings.  I told you mashed potatoes and cole' slaw.”  I shrugged.  "Next time I'll go myself," she growled.
I put my Servox up to my throat to speak, but changed my mind and headed for the bedroom. 

"Where are you going?”  Stella yelled.  "What am I going to do with these onion rings?”

I almost told her, but instead, I just kept going.  Tomorrow is another day. 

And finally, the Servox is accepted and seems to be doing its job better than I had ever expected, as you will see in this next story that comes to you through the inspiration of the Star Trek series.  I called it:

The Magical Servox

I don't make much of a sound when I laugh, but this time I almost roared.  I went up to a pool hall owned by a friend and got into a pool game (partners).  My partner  (John) and I were playing against two Hispanic fellows that were both intrigued with my Servox and the way I talked.  The instrument has two buttons on it so that a person can change intonation, from one to the other, if they want.  When you place it on your neck and push one of the buttons, it vibrates with a certain tone and takes the place of the larynx.  It makes you sound like a robot.  After a lengthy explanation, one of the guys asked me what the two buttons were for.  I told him that the top button was for English and the bottom button was for speaking Spanish.  It was a Universal Translator!  I then proceeded to demonstrate. 

Using the top button I said, "See, this is used when speaking English", and then I switched to the bottom button and said in Spanish, "& este es por hablando en Espanol (this one is for speaking in Spanish).” 

I didn't crack a smile.  Both Hispanic guys were astounded and began jabbering together about the wondrous machine that I had and wanted to try it out themselves.  Other people around me, overhearing much of what was going on, began laughing and pointing at the guys and they finally realized that I had been pulling their legs.  One of them actually "blushed" with embarrassment.  Who won the game is not important.  Ahh, the magical Servox.  What a wondrous thing to have.