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Cancer will not
get my daughter, I vowed
"Robin, We'll Fight This Together"
by Shirley Rollins
Lafayette, Colorado
Robin
is just bringing the kids by to see Grandma, I told myself. That’s all there is
to it. But I felt strangely apprehensive because their visit was unexpected.
Robin was the second oldest of my daughters and the only one who lived close
enough to stop by often. When she’d called to tell me she and the
children were driving over on short notice, I teased her: “How did you know I’m
baking Christmas cookies?”
The
front door opened as I pulled a cookie sheet from the oven and set it aside to
cool. My grandchildren, four-year-old Brenda and two-year-old Paul, raced into
the kitchen. I playfully patted their hands away from the hot cookies and looked
up to see Robin in the doorway. One glance at her puffy, red-rimmed eyes and I
knew she’d been crying. I opened my arms and she accepted my embrace. “Mom,” she
whispered, “I found lumps in my breast this morning.”
I hugged
her tightly. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said. “You’re a nurse. You know about
these things.” I tried to sound reassuring but I could hear the worry in my
voice. “You should have it checked, though.”
Robin
had already made a doctor’s appointment for that afternoon and left Brenda and
Paul with me. We had cookies and milk together, and I tried to busy myself while
I waited for Robin’s call. Over the years, living close to each other had drawn
us together in a special way. Her father, Dick, and I adored her husband,
Robert, and we often looked after the grandchildren.
I
answered every call that afternoon on the first ring. Finally, I heard, “Mom,
it’s Robin.” “Who else calls me Mom?” I asked lightly, again trying to mask my
concern. “They want to remove the lumps this Friday,” she said. “Could you or
Dad go with me?”
“We both
will,” I told her.
On
Friday at the doctor’s office Robin seemed to be her cheerful self. She joked
with the nurse about removing lumps from her flat chest. Less than five feet
tall, Robin looked more like a girl than a woman, especially that morning,
wearing a pink T-shirt, jeans and sneakers. Her dad often called her Bird, but
her small size didn’t fool anyone for long. Whether she was playing tennis or
responding to a medical emergency at work, she was a giant of determination.
We had
to wait through the weekend for the biopsy results. Robin’s mood had been
upbeat, but when she called Monday morning I could hear her sobbing even as I
raised the receiver to my ear. “Malignant . . . ” she said. “They want to do a
mastectomy right away.”
Cancer
will not get my daughter, I vowed. “We’ll fight this together, Robin!” I nearly
shouted into the phone.
“I know,
Mom,” she replied. “I know you’ll help, and I know God will take care of me.”
Days
later Robert, Dick and I waited in the hospital during Robin’s operation,
relying on God and one another for strength. Afterward, our prayers seemed to be
answered because the surgeon was optimistic. “I think we got it all, but I’m
recommending six months of chemotherapy to be sure. She’s bound to be pretty
sick.”
“Just as
long as she gets better,” I said.
We had a
wonderful Christmas with the whole family. Robin’s illness gave us a deeper
appreciation for one another and a richer sense of the blessings of the season
that day. But at times I felt icy stabs of fear—when I watched Robin playing
with the children, for instance, or counted the plates we needed before setting
the table. I tried to stop myself from wondering if we’d all be together next
year.
“I’m
going to be okay, Mom,” Robin said, giving me a hug. She surprised me with her
bright outlook and frequent laughter. Her faith seemed stronger than my own.
After
Christmas Robin started chemotherapy, and we all took turns driving her to the
treatment center. Many times after she got hooked to the IV she walked around,
pushing her little cart with the bag of medicine and cheering up the other
patients. She rarely complained. One spring day after I drove her home she lay
down in a patch of warm sunshine on the carpet near the sliding glass doors.
Paul snuggled beside her and Brenda held her mother’s head in her lap.
“Mommy,
are you okay?” Brenda asked, tenderly rubbing Robin’s head.
“I’m
okay. Just okay,” Robin said.
I ached
as I watched her. I always hurt when my children hurt. Seeing Robin suffer like
this caused a deeper sadness than I’d ever known.
Despite
her illness, Robin continued to work all that winter and spring. When she
finished her treatments in June, we celebrated by taking everybody to Phoenix,
Ariz., for her younger sister’s graduation from residency. Robin seemed healthy
again, and I forgot my fears.
But one
stifling August afternoon Robin called. “I found more lumps, Mom,” she said
quietly. “In the same place.”
Robin’s
visit to the doctor that afternoon brought grim news. She was told her chances
of survival were slim. A bone-marrow transplant offered slight hope, but for her
to heal, her marrow had to be cancer-free.
Oh God,
I prayed, don’t take my child from me.
In the
fall of 1992 Robin resumed chemotherapy. She was weaker this time, and she
started losing her hair. She refused to wear a wig. Instead, she covered her
head with a bright-red baseball cap, and it soon became her trademark. “Ain’t I
cute?” she asked with a silly grin the first time I saw her with it.
A few
days later, when I stopped by the Urgent Care Center where she was a nurse, many
of her coworkers were wearing bright-red caps. “We want to show Robin we’re with
her,” one told me.
Robin’s
bone marrow was found to be free of cancer, and she wanted to have the
transplant as soon as possible. It was Christmastime again, a year after her
initial diagnosis. Robin and the doctors at the University of Colorado Medical
Center in Denver decided on mid-December. First they would harvest some marrow
from her hipbone and then store it for three days while she underwent
chemotherapy. Finally, they would begin replacing her marrow. The critical
period would be those three days. During that time Robin would be dangerously
susceptible to infection.
Robin
seemed confident as the date approached, but I was overwhelmed with fear. What
can I do? I wondered. How can I help her?
And then
a simple idea occurred to me: I’ll fill Robin’s room with angels.
I
mentioned my idea to a friend from my Bible fellowship group when she asked how
I was coping. A few days before Robin entered the hospital, I walked into the
church basement where our group met. The room was practically wall-to-wall with
angels. Ceramic angels, wooden angels, cloth angels and metal angels. Big angels
and tiny angels, hanging and standing angels, and angels for the top of the
Christmas tree. There were nearly 80 angels in all.
But one
object stood out, causing me to hold my breath in wonder. It was a beautiful
watercolor of a whimsical, joyful angel, flying heavenward with open, embracing
arms. Her face was radiant, and she wore a bright-red baseball cap. I wanted to
laugh, but I also wanted to cry. A friend had painted an angel who looked
exactly like Robin.
I packed
everything into a huge box and carried it home. We had planned a special family
gathering at our house the evening before Robin went to the hospital. Her two
sisters had come home and we prayed and sang together around the fireplace.
Robin looked so thin and fragile as she stretched out on the couch. I decided to
show her the collection of angels, hoping it would give her strength.
“I
wanted to surround you with guardian angels,” I told her as I opened the box.
“My friends at church made these for you. One even painted this picture.” Robin
lifted her head from the pillow and stared at the painting. Her eyes widened and
a flush of color came to her face. Everyone in the room grew still. Then Robin
began to cry softly, and I knelt beside my daughter.
“See,
Mom,” she whispered. “It’s in the picture. I’m going to be okay, no matter what
happens.”
Robin
made it through the first part of the procedure just fine. She started having
trouble during the chemotherapy, and within two days her condition was critical.
Robert stayed with her constantly, and Dick and I traded off watching the
children at home.
Early on
the third day I sat on the edge of her bed, wiping her face with a cool cloth.
She didn’t need to have her face washed, but I needed to touch her.
“I love
you, Robin,” I said.
“I love
you too, Mom,” she whispered back.
Those
were her last words to me. Five days before Christmas, 1992, Robin
died—surrounded by her family in a room filled with angels.
The
angel painting that my friend made was displayed at Robin’s funeral, and then I
brought it home. I’m so thankful for that painting. I didn’t understand it in
the beginning, but I know Robin did. God uses angels in many ways and for many
purposes. Some are guardians, sent to protect. Some are messengers, sent to
comfort. Gabriel was sent to Mary before that first Christmas so many years ago.
“Do not be afraid,” the angel told her, and I think of those words as we prepare
for our fifth Christmas since angels took Robin to heaven.
For a long time I was afraid, but God showed me my child
would be well and safe with him—a message that now comforts me every day of the
year.
The above article originally
appeared in the November/December 1996
issue of Angels
On Earth. To subscribe to Angels On Earth click
here.
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