The Paper 041014

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Volume 44 - No. 15

April 10, 2014

Forward: by lyle e davis

One of our favorite writers is a rascal by the name of Kent Ballard. He can write you stories that will make you laugh and then turn right around and write a story that will make you cry.

He’s special, Kent is. We’ve been trying to get him to write more often but he’s also a stubborn cuss and sometimes would rather tend to his 40 acre farm back in Indiana than scribble.

But when he scribbles, he weaves magic. A number of years ago a writing colleague of ours, let’s call her Diana, went through a rough time.

Diana had breast cancer and had undergone a radical mastectomy. The whole sad story will unfold as you read the following, told as only the marvelous wordsmith, Kent Ballard, can tell it, in a story that is derived from a number of emails. Listen to the caring and compassion in his 'voice' as he writes. The conversation and commentary is in three separate parts: by Kent Ballard

I spoke with Diana on the telephone yesterday and she gave me permission to pass along a little information about her. Diana is ill, very ill. She underwent what was assumed to be a standard radical mastectomy and when the surgeons got inside her they found the cancer was much more aggressive than they had originally thought. They believe the cancer has metastasized in her and is spreading rapidly.

If ever a person among us needed your good vibrations, kind thoughts, and prayers, it is Diana. The doctors refuse to give her a prognosis at this time. After we cursed all doctors everywhere, as most folks do at times like these, Diana did admit that they seemed both surprised and stumped by her condition. So it is possible they are planning other things for her, but have yet to come up with any kind of plan, at least one they are willing to share with her. She's in the hospital now and her insurance won't keep her there much longer. She was happy to tell me she's been in contact with a The Paper - 760.747.7119

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hospice in her area, and according to her it's a very good one. She hopes to be transferred there soon.

Diana is now on a regular morphine drip via IV, and says she is still comfortable at this point. She's also undergoing chemo therapy and they're giving her drugs to fight off the nausea that accompanies that kind of treatment. She does not have her laptop with her in the hospital, so email messages will not reach her. I asked her if I could give her telephone number out, and after some hesitation she said yes. Should you call her, I suggest you keep your messages light, hopeful, and quick. She's uncomfortable staying on the telephone for long periods of time. As you might imagine, they now have her wired up like a Christmas tree, oxygen tubes, IV drip, and heaven knows what else, and the phone is difficult for her to handle.

There's not much more I can add to this. Those are about the only facts I know, save that she has been a good and close friend to us all for many years. She did say she was looking forward to her transfer to the hospice, since nobody likes spending time in hospitals anyway,

but there is a short waiting list and it may be a period of time before they can take her in. Kent

Subsequent to this note one of our members (I do not have permission to quote her messages; I have carte blanche from Kent, on anything he writes. He trusts me) asked Kent to convey her deepest concern and caring for Diana.

Years ago, when we started getting those highly unusual (and to me, very frightening) posts from Diana you'll remember that I loaded up the Mexican Pontiac and spent four days with her. Before I left to come home, she joked with me saying that I, "landed here like General Patton, kicking ass and taking names". I laughed too because we both knew it wasn't like that at all. But I did play the role of something akin to a father, ordering her to make a doctor's appointment the night before I left, taking her to it and admonishing her, "don't you come out of that office without some prescriptions in your hand", and then driving her directly to the pharmacy and getting her meds, and casually (but closely) watching

her take them every day I was there.

Bipolars are like high-stakes gamblers. It takes one to know one. And from the words she was writing no one else may have rung an alarm bell, but when I read them I knew she was on the razor's edge and heading the wrong way. Too many references to that little .22 rifle she had. We talked for hours and hours while I was there, me about all my past sins and the dumb things I've done, and she about hers. It was a good visit for both of us, despite her cat sleeping on my head one cold night. I never made much about it, but I think I saved her life. I dropped in (from 500 miles away) at just the right time. And since I was bipolar too, she could tell me about all the odds and ends on her mind and she knew I wouldn't be judgmental. How could I be? I'm manic-depressive too. I just watched my medications a little more closely. But I always thought well of myself for doing what I did. Then Annie committed suicide.

Try to imagine how that felt. I saved an old pen-pal that I'd only

Wisdom of a Woodsman Continued on Page 2


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