Open Writing

The phantom pain is worse. James hides in his room and cries out in despair and frustration. With each new day it intensifies. The doctor tells us that people, who've been in a great deal of pain over a long period of time before an amputation, usually suffer phantom pain the most. It's largely a problem of the mind. The drugs he gives James will take four to six weeks before they begin to reduce the pain, if they work at all. Ordinary painkillers don't help.

The pain is every bit as real as the agony James endured from his poisoned leg but the surgery seems to have knocked the fight out of him. Because there's nothing he can do, like shift position, scratch or rub, the pain is in control. And it's torture for us all.

We return to the hospital to see the oncologist, Dr Edwards. He tells us we have three options.

1. We can stop treatment now that the leg is gone.

2. We can finish the course of chemotherapy he's been on. Whilst it
hasn't been totally effective on the tumour it would appear that it
has kept the cancer from spreading to other parts of his body.

3. We can start a new course of chemotherapy using different drugs.

We agree on option 2, in case there are any rogue cells still looking for
a place to grow. It's the decision recommended by the doctor and the one James prefers. It means he will have three more cycles to take and will be finished by Christmas. It would also give us another set of chemotherapy drugs up our sleeve, if the cancer should reappear, we thought.

Three days after our return from Birmingham, James is back in hospital for his next round of chemotherapy. Unfortunately, this seems to increase the phantom pains. James can't see an end to it, feels he's lost everything and wishes he were dead.

I understand how real this temptation must be. There were times, when I was growing up, that the warmth of Jane's home and family merely heightened the sense of loneliness I felt in my own. One summer's night I lay on the dock that stretched out over the lake, in the dark. I looked into the cold, black water, sprinkled with reflected lights, and wondered about slipping under the surface and out of this life. Somehow I felt stronger for having looked squarely into the heart of this possibility and rejecting it. How much worse must it be for my child? I pray he will resist and find his way back to joy.

We try everything we can think of to distract James from the pain. I continue to take the boys to see the psychologist regularly and he gives us a relaxation tape. I phone the local hospice and they are lovely. Two women come to our house to try aroma- and art therapies. James isn't comfortable about a full aromatherapy massage but allows the therapist to massage his head and neck.

I'm offered a treatment, as well, but am so focused on James I can't bring myself to accept. The artist unpacks an array of colours in chalk, crayon, pencil and paint. She gives us paper and leads us into gentle play in our own space. I'm sitting on the carpet in warm sunshine and feel a quiet
peace spread through me. James' face is relaxed for the first time in weeks.

*

I am reminded of the problems I had trying to take an art class when I was in high school. Severe overcrowding at my school resulted in an unusual solution. Half the children attended lessons from 7am-12:30 pm and the other half from 1-5:30 pm. The school day was slightly shorter and there was no need for lunch breaks. It meant that pupils with good grades had no choices beyond the college prep classes, which for me meant no time for art. So I opted to take trigonometry at summer school, in order to free up a period during the term to take a jewellery class.

Birddog, a friend whose nickname was inspired from such an obscure source I can't recall it, also went to trigonometry class in summer school and he gave me a lift each day on his big motorbike. He was one of a crowd of friends and because I had often found it easier to relate to boys than girls, I felt very close to him. We had great fun that summer. I was truly distressed when he admitted to having a crush on me and wanting a different kind of relationship. For me it felt almost incestuous to even consider it but I was bereft at losing the closeness of our friendship.

I loved the jewellery class. It was a breath of colour and freedom. My favourite piece was a tiny silver skier that I wore round my neck until I lost it in the lake, swimming. I also made a beaded necklace that I wore to the prom. The art teacher was shocked and, I think, a little disappointed to
discover that someone who could do maths could also be creative.

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