News from Howard's Big Adventure

“The results were ideal.” What does that mean? “The tumor is dead.” Hearing those words were akin to discovering the elusive Fountain of Youth. It had been 30 days since the chemo had been administered directly into the tumor. By all medical accounts, the hope was to shrink the cancer down by 1 centimeter, at minimum. There was almost an offhand comment made that someone once had the entire tumor destroyed with the procedure. They didn’t dwell on that, but I did. Not to mention the 100’s of people around the country who had been praying. And, it happened. Somehow between the chemo and the prayers, all that remained was the carcass of a creature that had invaded my body. Why it happened for me and not one of the others who remain on our prayer list is a mystery. I will never understand. I can only be grateful for my results and continue to pray for the others. The next step now is to really kill the tumor. On February 25 I will return for a specialized radiation treatment to pummel what remains. Talk about beating a dead horse! They want to make absolutely certain that not a single cell remains. This particular tumor has a high incidence of returning. I will receive two or three treatments that week and be done, at least for that stage. Those treatments will carry me to March 1 and a ticking clock. I must go 3 months without a recurrence or a new tumor. Assuming that happens, A CT scan will verify it and on June 4 I can officially be put on the transplant list. During those three months, the radiation remains in my body and continues to work. That will help carry me right up to the day that I can be put on the list. As a reminder, I have to have a transplant because my disease is genetically based. The day they remove my current liver, they will also remove the defective gene. The new organ will heal me completely. That has been our goal now for two years but the cancer put me on a fast track for that to happen sooner than expected. Over the last three weeks I have been very sick because of some creepy crawly that is yet to be diagnosed. I have been assured that this plague is completely unrelated to my liver. I have lost a lot of weight because I am not getting the nourishment I need, despite having a good appetite. While it is nice to eat ice cream and cake in abundance, I would much rather be well. Hopefully my doctor will be able to help when I see him this week. We continue to thank God for your many prayers. We ask that you continue. Each stage is critical. Howard and Jana

Howard's Big Adventure-the latest

We have learned that I will go to Kirklin Clinic at UAB on January 2 for consultation concerning my chemo treatment. The next day I will be admitted at 6:30 am for the procedure. I will stay overnight for observation and home on the 4th. The procedure will consist of running a catheter through an artery located in my hip area. The catheter will go all the way to the tumor where they will release the chemo directly into/on the tumor. This treatment is highly successful. Because it is placed directly at the location of the tumor and does not go throughout my body as traditional chemo would, I will have minimal side effects. At the most, there will be flu-like symptoms for a few days. It is anticipated that this will be done twice with about a 30 day interval. Radiation is likely to follow. There is a chance that the tumor will be completely killed with the first treatment but it is not likely. So many of you have been so kind in offers of help and the promise of prayer. There are individuals and churches from Texas to Indiana to the East Coast who are praying. It is good to have friends in these times. Jana and I are deeply grateful. We pray God’s good gifts of grace and peace to each of you. Howard

Howard's Big Adventure

On Wednesday, December 5, Jana and I went to Kirklin Clinic in Birmingham for what we thought was preliminary work for an eventual liver transplant 4 or 5 years away. You may not know, I was diagnosed with cirrhosis about two years ago. The disease is genetic meaning that my parents carried the defective gene and passed it on to me. When I was born, my genetics set off a timer that would result in my acquiring cirrhosis in my mid-fifties thus the eventual need for a transplant. After my blood work and CT scan, I met with the doctor who would head the transplant team. He gave me the news that I had a cancerous tumor on my liver that was 6.6 centimeters in size. Of course this was devastating. I went numb and at the same time into business mode asking question after question. We learned that there is a treatment available that has had good success in shrinking the tumor. That is important. In order for me to be considered for a transplant at this point, the tumor must be reduced to 5 centimeters or less. It must then remain stable for six months. The doctor also indicated that the CT scan seemed to indicate that the tumor had not invaded the liver. That was great news. If it had, options for treatment would be limited and there would never be a transplant. I asked the doctor, given all he knows, what was his feeling about there being a good outcome, that is, a transplant and thus a 100% cure. He confidently said that he was very optimistic. He threw out some percentages that would make a gambler in Vegas salivate. We were pleased. The doctor took the initiative of arranging an unscheduled meeting with the surgeon that same day. The surgeon believed that the tumor had invaded the liver so our roller coaster took a plummeting fall. He explained that my case would go before the tumor board the following Friday, December 7, and they would decide if I was a candidate for the preferred treatment. Friday came with a phone call and good/bad news. There was consensus that the tumor had not invaded the liver and the preferred treatment was available. However, the nurse indicated that we would not be considered for a transplant because the tumor was 6.6 in size and the upper limit was 6.5! We were dumb founded. How can that be possible? We wondered if our transplant doctor had not had accurate information. Fortunately Jana had taken detailed notes. The doctor had said it was 6.6 and yet was very optimistic of our success. Then we remembered that he had spent a great deal of time talking about my young age, my overall health, my healthy diet and general care for myself. He said that would weigh heavily in my favor. We believe he is going to extend the boundaries for me because of those factors. I am still on track for an eventual transplant. We think chemo and radiation will begin in a couple of weeks. We are waiting for another phone call with that information. The chemo’s side effects will be minimal with only flu-like symptoms for a few days. I will have two treatments, return in 30 days to check the size, hoping it has reduced significantly. That is what we know as of today. I will try and stay current with information at this site. I will post on Facebook when there are updates. I hope you will refer to this as your source as there has already been some misstatements by well intentioned folks. This will also help ease the stress of telling my story over and over. I hope you understand. Jana and I appreciate your many encouraging words and prayers.

The Mansion

The old house at Shake Rag burned down one day. You’ve read that in another story. That wasn’t the house that I remember. The house that I remember was its replacement, a 4 room cinder block house. A counter was added to split the kitchen from the dining table so I guess with a little creative thinking it might have been considered five rooms. There was nothing special about this rural farm house except that everything was special. The living room had three chairs and a couch. Two of the chairs were recliners that had been given to Mamma Bea and Daddy Freeman as gifts from loving children. Daddy Freeman’s was as hard as the concrete block he sat on outside to clean the fish. Mamma Bea’s was more suitable for her to rest in, which was seldom except for the afternoon nap that she took after putting the dinner dishes away, drinking a bottle of Coke and watching As the World Turns. At one time there was a giant fish bowl in the living room. The scar on my left leg leaves little to guess what happened to the bowl. There was a Pillsbury Dough Boy and Girl that were Christmas gifts, pictures of family and a color TV. There was a coffee table too although I don’t remember anyone ever drinking coffee around it. That was done at the dining table, sometimes from a cup, sometimes from the saucer. There were two bedrooms. One bedroom was where guests slept when they came to visit. As I recall, the only ones who ever slept in that room was my parents and Uncle Fred and Aunt Linda. They came down from Coldwater up near Memphis every so often. It used to irritate Momma Bea just a bit that Aunt Linda slept past breakfast time. I don’t think she ever complained but her face, well, it told a different story. The other bedroom was where Momma Bea and Daddy Freeman slept, and me. The room was big enough to have a double bed and a half bed. I always slept there, even when my long, skinny frame extended well beyond the bounds of the foot board. There was a fan in the room. The fan was an electric motor that Daddy Freeman had attached a car’s engine fan to. Stick a finger in it and you regretted it: for a very long time. The small closet held the few clothes they had which, by the way, were always starched and ironed. At the bottom of the closet were a couple of rags that Tiny, their dog, slept on. I hated that dog. It would sit in Daddy Freeman’s lap and growl at me. In the hall were the shotgun and rifle. The stove was there. Not the oven, the stove. The stove was the house’s heater. It was gas and sat there in the hall waiting patiently all summer until it would finally get its call in late fall. The telephone was in the hall. A useful tool, that telephone. When travelling home, we would ring it once and hang up. They knew their children had made it home safely without incurring any charges from Ma Bell. It also kept them informed about the Shake Rag gossip, particularly if you happen to pick up when the neighbor down the road was on the line. Then there was the kitchen. A well used oven, butter churn and refrigerator resided there. Oh the magic that Mamma Bea could perform. Made-from-scratch biscuits. Fried chicken. Apple jelly. Fried corn. I still crave each of those and much more. There was a chair there that Daddy Freeman always brought his socks and black leather shoes to in order to put them on. It must have been just the right height. In the drawer was a butcher knife. Most knives have a straight edge but not this one. It had an arch in the middle. It served as evidence of the thousands of ears of corn that Mamma Bea had cut and scraped through the years. Just off the kitchen was a small room or large closet that housed the hundreds of jellies, jams and vegetables that had been canned and preserved. There was a chest freezer and another refrigerator, which must have been the first Frigidaire ever made. There were other special things in the house like the old radio that the three of us listened to Gospel music on every Sunday morning along with a little preaching. I guess it was their substitute for going to Mount Olive Baptist just down the road. Jesus said that He would prepare a place for us. I think I just described what I hope mine is like. I suspect that Mamma Bea is happy if there is an oven, a bottle of Coke and As the World Turns playing once a day. Daddy Freeman? He’ll be happy where Mamma Bea is . . . and that spiteful little dog . . . and Mom and Loretta and a host of brothers and sisters. A few cows would be a bonus, but not in the house. Well, I guess that is what we all want, really. To be with Jesus and family that is. We’ll all get there someday. For now, I’ll cling to my memories of Shake Rag and work on creating new ones with Jana and the kids.

Billy's Grand Adventure

Some of you may remember Billy Brown from the first story in this series. Billy was a TV repairman who lived in Shack Rag. His parents had lived there also and were buried in the Boone’s Chapel Methodist Church cemetery, along with the rest of the Shake Rag community who had gone on to their reward. Billy had one arm but could carry a full 32 inch in-cabinet TV all by himself. He was also single and had a twinkle in his eye toward my sister Judy. Perhaps that’s another story. I went to visit Billy a couple of weeks ago. The Sullivans were having a family reunion and Mama Bea originated from that clan of Irish Southerners. I decided to drive out to the Boone’s Chapel cemetery and that’s where I visited with Billy Brown. He too had gone on to his great reward some years ago. There was his marker, right next to his mama and daddy. It was a nice marker and his resting place was in the corner of the cemetery, just a few over from Mama Bea and Daddy Freeman. Seeing Billy reminded me of a trip that he once took on the Continental Trailways bus. Continental Trailways and Greyhound were the main contenders for transportation years ago. You could travel north and south on the Illinois Central Railroad and some of the brave souls could fly. The bus, however, went in all directions. I suspect there were few Shake Rag citizens who rode the train and even fewer flew, except for those who went to war in Europe and that conflict that flared up in Korea. So Billy wanted to take a trip on the bus. Trailways was offering a special at the time whereby an individual could buy a thirty day ticket and you could travel anywhere in the continental United States during that thirty days. It didn’t matter how many times you got off and on. You just had to be sure and time it so that you were home before the thirty days ran out. Billy figured this would be a good and cheap way to see the country so he began planning. Billy was a smart man. He didn’t want to be bothered by luggage so he packed a few clothes and necessities in boxes and shipped them ahead of him so that they would be waiting at the bus terminal when he arrived. Billy left on his grand adventure. He kept an extra pair of unmentionables and socks with him and if required, he would wash them in the sink at the terminal. He also carried all his meals with him. Now don’t think he had his mama’s china and candelabra with him. Nor did it include the fine spread that was available at Mama Bea’s table any Sunday. Billy feasted upon such Southern delicacies as sardines, potted meat, Vienna (pronounced Vy-enna) sausages, crackers and Nabs. If you don’t know, Nabs were those peanut butter and crackers packages that you usually acquired from a vending machine. I assume the name, which was common mostly in the South, was a derivation of the name “Nabisco”, the maker and originator of such fine dining experiences. One can only imagine the aroma that wafted through the coach following the sound of tin being pulled back on those sardines. When Billy arrived at a terminal, he would get his box of clothes and supplies. His dirty clothes and whatnot would be shipped back home and he would be off to his next destination. Billy got off the bus at every destination. He would look around, the terminal that is, and get back on the bus with the satisfaction that he had visited that city. As far as I know, Billy never made it out of the terminals. When he arrived back in Shake Rag, Billy had seen the country, at least what views bus terminals had to offer. That wasn’t the only trip that Billy planned for. As I said at the outset, Billy Brown was buried next to his mama and daddy at Boone’s Chapel. He bought, paid for and had his headstone placed well in advance of his demise. On occasion, Billy would go up to the cemetery to pay his respects. While he was there, he would lie down, fully stretched out, in front of his headstone. He would say, “I just want to make sure I fit.” I suppose that is important to a man whose width and height were of equal dimensions. Needless to say, Billy Brown fit when the time came for him to board that final bus. Something tells me upon arrival to his destination that he wasn’t satisfied with just visiting the terminal. I suspect that Saint Peter’s greeting was enough enticement for him to venture on and see what grand adventure lay ahead. We would all do well to take Billy’s example of planning to heart. Christ said, “Who plans to build a tower without first counting the costs?” We need to examine our lives, measure them, and then set out to build a life that is pleasing to our Lord. We should seek to be examples to others. We should desire to be good disciples in service to our Lord and His people. Plan ahead. Also, plan to see more of the life of faith than just the terminals that you may pass through along the way. There is much more to our faith journey than what we learned as children and youth. Begin the grand adventure that we call prayer. Explore ways of praying that are old but new to you. Look beyond the terminal walls and see the world in which you live as a place that is in need of God’s saving, healing grace. Find new avenues through the regular study of Scripture and by listening to the lives of the saints who have written volumes on finding your way along the journey. If you will do these things and a few others, you may just find your own grand adventure, with or without the Continental Trailways bus.

Hell Fire

Daddy Freeman wasn’t a religious man. At least from what I could tell. It seemed we spent more Sunday mornings hunting or fishing than in the church house. I do remember him invoking God’s name a time or two though. There is the story of when the pastor came to visit. He and Mama Bea were still living in the old farm house that eventually burned to the ground. There was only one thing saved from that burning tender box. As they dragged Mama Bea out of the house she reached up and grabbed a photograph. The rest was lost. I guess that really means two things were saved. But I digress. The preacher was there on a hot summer day, probably making the rounds in Shake Rag to the backsliders of which I suspect Daddy Freeman to have been one. The old house had plank floors that covered a crawl space underneath. It was a good place to keep things cool on hot days. It this case, it was Daddy Freeman’s home brew. As the temperature rose, so did the contents of bottle upon bottle of his hidden elixir. The caps on those old bottles did what they could but eventually they had to let go under the pressure that was mounting in each bottle. First one went off and “POW” it hit those wood floors and made the sound of a rifle going off. Then there was the second. “Blam”. Then the third, and fourth and suddenly it was as if the Second Battalion had cut loose on the enemy, all from those popping bottles and rocketing caps banging up against the old wooden planks. That’s as far as this story ever got in its telling at family reunions. My guess is that Daddy Freeman was more grieved that he had lost his brew than that the preacher had been the beneficiary of the surprise. There was one other time that Daddy Freeman’s religion surfaced. It too was associated with grief. I must have been about ten or twelve years old. A piece of land had been cleared to make more pasture. I didn’t like it, the clearing that is. The small patch of woods was always occupied by a squirrel or two and at least one rabbit. That, despite my best efforts to invite them to dinner and Mama Bea’s frying pan. When the land had been cleared, the larger trees were pushed up into a giant pile to be burned. Inside the pile were old tires, fuel for the ensuing inferno. Daddy Freeman climbed over into the pile and lit a starter fire. Soon the tires were burning and the fire was spreading. The fire was so hot that the flames were blue. As we stood there, my grandfather fixed his gaze upon the blue flames and said with seemingly a bit of grief, “The fires of Hell are ten times hotter.” We stood there a while longer just watching in silence. His words have haunted me. I have never known if Daddy Freeman was contemplating his own future or pondering the destination of so many who had gone before him. Maybe it was even a word of warning to this preteen. I’ll have to admit that it stuck. Hell was very real to him. It’s not so much anymore, at least among the “educated”. We don’t think as much about a place or fire as much as about the shear agony of not being with God. I think we should be as focused on the present as much as on the future. “Hell on earth” as the expression goes is far more real to me. The abused and neglected children who pass through my home renders any speculation about Hell that one might have to nothingness. We are far from “Thy Kingdom come.” Maybe we would all do well to pause and ponder the future of those we love and don’t love. Maybe God would be just as pleased if we would spend some time pondering the fate of so many innocent sufferers of greed, war, and a host of other evils that live happily in that blue flame of unjust existence.

The Bad and the Good

Recently I had a conversation with my daughter concerning one of her friends. I had commented that the teen’s family had some issues that I was struggling to understand. The parents of the teen seemed uncaring about where the teen was or, when or how the teen might get home, if the teen ever got home. Abigail is the least judgmental person I know and in her very direct way, said to me, “You didn’t have parents with issues.” To which I responded almost reflexively, “I did.”

My mind then found its way back 40 years to 922 Franklin Street. My life was a bit “issue filled”. Before I was 14 I had been arrested twice. Should have been arrested several more times but I was sneaky. I wasn’t Al Capone and it was mostly kid stuff but still . . . My closest friends at the age of 14 would all eventually take up residency in the state penitentiary – every one of them, except for one. He committed suicide. On the weekends I could be found on the streets of my small town at almost any hour of the night.
My parents never knew. My sister who will be reading this may even be shocked, just a bit. They didn’t know because at home and school, I was the perfect kid. I got almost straight A’s, mowed the grass, hung up my clothes, was quiet, played baseball and loved apple pie. But the weekends and summers, well, fourteen year olds shouldn’t know what I knew or do some of the things I did.

That’s the bad.

Let me be clear. In my case, the issues that plagued my parents did not revolve around parenting. The lack of supervision was a symptom of other things and the fact that they really did think I was perfect. I know, hard to believe. My parents loved me and it was what sustained me during a very scary part of my life.

Then came the brown haired girl down the street asking me to go to church. I said sure. What 16 year old ever told a cute brown haired girl no? So, I went and never stopped. The church became a safe place. It was a place where Youth Sunday School teachers would drone on about Moses or Noah or some other dead guy. But that was ok because those boring youth teachers were there not because they liked teaching (obviously) but because they cared about the youth of the church. Mr. Branscome could kill the best story of the Bible, but he cared.

Then there were the youth. Mostly new faces for me but they adopted me, the only kid in the group whose parents didn’t attend. They let me go out to eat with them. They didn’t make fun of my clothes. They invited me over for cards and we shot baskets together. One night six of them lined the walls of my living room just to say hello and welcome me to church. I became one of them and it was as if I had always been.

My life changed because of that church, that Sunday School, that youth group - in Grenada, Mississippi. I went back not so long ago. I thanked them for all they had done and said, “God saved my soul, but you saved my life.” That’s what churches do. Thanks be to God for boring teachers and non-judgmental youth. Even for kids with . . . issues.

And that . . . is the good.