Healing Words

Dearest Robin:

Just a brief note--it was good talking to you Sunday and I hope as long as you feel like it, or as long as we have things to discuss, that you will feel free to pick up the phone on Sundays and call Mom and me. . . .

So begins the first letter, written in October 1972 by Leonard Freeman to his daughter, Robin, at the time a freshman at Denver University.

In all, there were five letters, the last written from the 10th floor of the UCLA Medical Center two months before his death in 1973.

The letters did not delve deeply, but even today they are precious to Robin Freeman Bernstein for their reflections of day-to-day life back home in Pacific Palisades, the perpetual musings of a father who took time to express how he missed his oldest child, his friend, the first to leave the nest.

I have taken very long walks . . . on my sojourn today, which took me down Ventura Boulevard almost to the Tail O’ the Cock, where I remember a couple of pleasant lunches with you over the years--you were on my mind. All good thoughts, I might add.

The letters from her father--a television writer-producer whose credits included “Route 66” and “Hawaii Five-0”--provide an added dimension to Bernstein’s memories of a time and a man, now both gone. As she reads them, his words draw her close.

Bernstein, 42, became a therapist with her own practice in Santa Monica. Thirteen years ago, she met Cathy Moore, now 45, a Redondo Beach psychologist, and the two of them discovered they shared an appreciation for letters and journals. Moore had kept a diary as a child, a journal as an adult. Both encouraged clients to use writing as a means of untangling and venting feelings--not realizing how important that tool would become later when cancer touched their lives.

They also shared a penchant for entrepreneurship, which resulted in “Letters for Tomorrow: A Journal for Expectant Moms and Dads,” published by Doubleday last year. The journal--which is divided into trimesters so parents can document their thoughts as they make their way through pregnancy--was based on letters Bernstein and her husband, Nat, wrote to their unborn child during the months leading to his birth.

June 20, 1988

You are now 14 1/2 weeks old. We had the chance to see you for the first time today. It was at Dr. Francis’ office and the time was approximately 3:15 in the afternoon. It was our first ultrasound, and both of us were very excited and full of wonder. . . .

I just wanted to set this scene for you and tell you how we’re doing this. Your mom decided today to start a kind of diary for you, so here I am at the computer typing and she is relaxing on the couch “writing” this letter right alongside of me. She is busy patting her tummy, trying to soothe both of you. . . . I, meanwhile, talk to you secretly through her belly button. Needless to say, we both love you very much and are very excited about what the next six months will bring. . . .

Well, it’s 7:00 at night and Mom is starting to feel a little nauseous. . . . We’ll come back as often as possible during the next six months with thoughts for you to someday share with us. How does that sound? Good.

Love,

Mom and Dad

The letters continued after their son’s birth. Not all of them were joyful. Some reflected the world around them, events sometimes painful. On Jan. 19, 1991, Bernstein wrote:

Dear Matthew:

Two days ago on Pop-Pop’s birthday war broke out in the Middle East. It is terrifying. The code name for the war is Desert Storm. . . . Israel has been attacked again. Tel Aviv. Four missiles. We pray for peace. . . .

On April 5, 1992, Matthew began asking his mother about his grandfather Leonard Freeman and death. Matthew was 4 years old.

Before you go to bed, you seem to ask very intense questions.

Tonight you asked me, “Did your father die?” I answered “Yes.”

You continued with, “Why did he have to die? Is he a skeleton and where does his skeleton live?” (My father, your Grandpa Len was cremated so this is an extremely difficult question to answer. I wish so much he had a grave that I could take you to visit.)

“Can he talk? Does he have a voice?” you questioned further. . . . Eventually I did my best to help you relax and put your mind at ease. I said good night and left the room trying to collect my thoughts, totally unsure about what to say. I then heard you crying and I went back into your room.

I asked you what you were feeling. You said, “I’m sorry your father died, Mom.” This took my breath away. . . . Then you asked the question I expected, “Are you and Daddy going to die?”

As best she could, Bernstein explained to Matthew that he should not harbor such fear. But it was something she had thought about. All parents do.

“God forbid something were to happen to us, but if it did, he would know us through these letters,” Bernstein says, “and that’s something I learned from my father.”

*

In May, Bernstein and Moore’s second book project, “A Journal for Healing: Writing Through Pain and Illness” (Doubleday), was released. It was designed to serve as a tool for those tossed into new, unfamiliar territory as they battled serious illness--and like their first book for expectant parents, included suggested topics to help people write about their suddenly changed lives.

As Bernstein and Moore were nearing the end of their research--interviewing patients, doctors, clergy; reading about the process of suffering and healing--something unexpected happened.

Moore was found to have breast cancer. Suddenly they became the people in need of healing.

This thought keeps going through my head: Why me?

Moore’s Jan. 9, 1995, entry into her personal journal reflects a question without answer about a period of her life that began in early November 1994, when she went in for a mammogram. As she was driving home, she sensed something terrible was wrong inside her body.

After receiving test results that showed abnormalities, Moore immediately scheduled an appointment with a surgeon, who suggested they wait until after the holidays to perform a biopsy. There did not seem to be, he said, cause for urgency.

During a trip to Seattle to visit colleges with her daughter, Katie Kenderski, Moore received a message at her hotel to call her mother at home. Again, she knew something terrible was wrong.

Moore’s sister answered the phone. Their father had died of a heart attack. The following morning, Moore telephoned her surgeon from Seattle and scheduled a biopsy.

Looking back, she says, the possibility of cancer served as a distraction to a greater pain. It was the first time someone close to her had died.

A week after her father’s funeral, Moore’s precancerous condition was diagnosed. The surgeon recommended mastectomy, but Moore opted to consult with other doctors who were evenly divided over mastectomy.

She embarked on a combination of homeopathic treatment, natural diets and supplements, but by August 1995, her condition had advanced to invasive cancer. A lumpectomy was performed in September followed by chemotherapy in October. In her journal that November she wrote:

I feel so challenged. These mood swings--the lows are so scary . . . depths I never thought imaginable. So hard to stay here but I know that’s the only way out.

Feeling like I have no base, no foundation. I feel blessed in so many ways, and I can’t even stay focused on them. This is so hard. . . . I’m scared so much of each day . . . what if the chemo isn’t working? What if I can’t move beyond this challenge? . . . God, please guide me and help me face this challenge and grow from it.

*

One night about 2 1/2 weeks after she started chemo, Moore and her husband, Michael Talbot, were in bed. Talbot was holding her when he noticed her hair was falling out in clumps.

He didn’t know what to do, so he carefully hid the hair beneath the pillows. The following morning, Moore awakened and realized her hair was falling out. While she was in the shower, she sobbed.

The next month, there was another lump. A radiologist told her, “I will bet my husband, my children, my car and my home that this isn’t cancer. It doesn’t look like cancer, it doesn’t feel like cancer.”

The next morning, Moore received a telephone call. It was cancer.

Dec. 21, 1995

Robin came over today and brought wonderful gifts to help me make a meditation altar. She taught me some meditation and I look forward to practicing this as much as I can . . . it’s hard and that’s OK. . . . Robin has been so terrific through this time, she’s taught me what being a friend is . . . she’s unbelievable!! I am truly blessed to have her in my life--she’s there for me and I fear it’s hard for her. I wish this disease wouldn’t have to affect so many people, so many people that I love. Dear Robin . . . I’m so happy for our friendship and so sad that this time of my life is so difficult. . . .

One of the most difficult parts of the ordeal, Moore says, was the effect it had on those around her, including children Katie, now 18, and son Johnnie Kenderski, 15.

In conversations that began with the words, “If I die . . . “ it was always her two children she was most concerned about. Those conversations were becoming more frequent.

Bernstein sensed that her friend was giving up, that the grueling pounding of chemo and cancer had drained Moore of hope and spirit.

Dear Cathy,

It is Christmas Day and I am so scared and frustrated. Nothing seems to be sticking to your inner core. There is no hope, faith, strength or determination living inside of you. All you say is that it’s hard, that it will take awhile. Well, have you noticed that the cancer is spreading inside your body, that the chemo is not able to stop growths from forming, that your life is at risk? I wonder when you will truly grasp that it’s time to make up your mind that you want to live and are willing to do whatever it takes 24 hours a day. I know this is so easy for me to say. . . . I just wish you’d fight, fight hard. I wish you’d get really tough with the cancer and want to show it who’s boss. From where I sit now, it doesn’t look good, Cathy. I don’t know if you have what it takes to live and this really scares me. You’ve got everything going for you. A devoted husband, children, family, friends who love you and are right by your side . . . and all you can say is, “it’s so hard.” I want to shake you and say, “Wake up, wake up before it’s too late, before you’re dead or dying.” You are still alive, you’re not in physical pain, you still have a 50-50 chance. When are you going to take the hand that life has extended to you and grab it with all your might?

I love you sweet friend, please fight. I know you have it in you.

Two days later, Moore went in for another round of tests.

Dec. 27, 1995, a.m.

Today is a big day for me. I have three tests to get a baseline--that’s what they tell me but I know it’s to see if the cancer has spread. . . . I’m so scared, so terrified. . . . I truly feel the cancer hasn’t spread and now I’m even scared to think that cuz that’s what I thought when the lump grew in December and even the radiologist said it wasn’t cancer . . . so I’m scared to think and feel good thoughts cuz maybe I’ll be wrong again. . . . I’m told I’m so strong but not now, not after chemo and all this I don’t feel strong. . . . So I’ll go through the tests with Robin and Michael and pray that I find the peace, hope and faith that I need to get through just this day.

Later that day, she wrote:

What a difficult, draining day. Oh God. The time and energy it took--the noises of the machines, the fear inside me and then it was all over. They didn’t tell me the results--except one did . . . all clear!! I’m so glad and then so scared that the other two won’t say that. After the tests, we took Robin to her car and Mike and I went to watch the sunset at the beach. We saw dolphins. . . .

The next day, she wrote:

Tears of joy are great!! The tests are all clear--the chemo is working and I feel so incredible.

Still, however, Moore faced mastectomy.

*

Moore’s life is split in half: the period before cancer and after cancer. Before cancer, she and Talbot ran on the beach to train for marathons. After cancer, Talbot ran alone.

When Moore was chosen in the lottery to compete in this year’s Boston Marathon, Talbot ran in her place, and as he crossed the finish line, he cried tears of joy and sadness--the two intertwined until indistinguishable from each other.

On Jan. 8, Moore wrote about saying goodbye to her breast. She and Michael sat together in their double tub surrounded by candles. That night, they held each other and prayed together, something they had never done.

Both are Catholic. Sometimes Moore would hear Michael’s voice in bed and know he was praying, but they had never prayed together. They rarely attended church, instead feeling God’s presence in the beauty of the ocean, among the dolphins and the wind and waves.

It’s the night before my mastectomy and we said goodbye to my breast--such a sad, sad occasion--so many tears. . . . I’ve tried so hard for the last year to save this breast and I guess all I did just couldn’t work. . . . My desire to live is so strong that it overrides the sadness of the loss of my breast and Michael gets lost in this sometimes. It must be so sad for him and so scary too and sometimes we just drift through the days. Michael, my darling, I’m sorry we’re going through this. He says he just wants me alive--the breast isn’t important, and no one really understands how important it is to me. . . .

On the day of surgery, Bernstein sat in the waiting room with Moore’s family.

Sweet friend,

You are now in recovery. We’ve all been taking turns sitting by your side. Right now, Katie, Johnnie and Mike are with you, giving me a few to write.

Johnnie is wearing a surgical hat and gloves. He says he is a heart surgeon in training.

Your mom has just joined me in the waiting room. She is doing great. We’ve all settled into a nice rhythm of being together.

The best way I know how to capture this day for you is to simply write about [the] extraordinary and difficult and the many other moments experienced by us all. . . .

* Johnnie just joined me in his hat and gloves asking me where I got the pen I’m writing with, how much it cost and was it mine or his.

* Johnnie’s comment to you as you were wheeled off to surgery, “Mom, I flunked a test today and got a girl pregnant.”

* Johnnie slept throughout your surgery, half the time in a chair and the other half on the floor.

* Katie and I played dots. I won!

* Mike took a nice long run. After we left you in pre-op his eyes welled up with tears. Seeing you wheeled off to surgery left us all feeling alone and on edge.

* Your mom waited patiently while you were in surgery reading her Danielle Steel book.

* When Dr. Love came out to talk with us, we all gathered around as she said it had been a routine surgery--which is a wonderful way of saying there were no surprises and all went well. She is such a special person. There is never any fear in her voice and she is so good at putting us all at ease. Sweet Mike broke into tears after the good news. Oh Cathy, he loves you so much--I’m now sitting by your side as you sleep. Johnnie just came and said, “Well Ms. Moore, the surgery was a success.” . . . You woke up, smiled, then drifted back to sleep. Johnnie has been the gift of laughter today.

* Now for sweet Katie, she has been sitting by your side holding your hand and giving you a sip of water whenever you ask. Sometimes we’ve shared the chair by your bed--Katie with her arm around me or me stroking her hair. You are being surrounded with a great deal of love!!

* Coming out of anesthesia was very, very rough. You were shaking uncontrollably . . . so scared, so cold and in pain. Katie and Johnnie saw you crying and even though they said they weren’t scared, I know they were startled. . . .

* You just opened your eyes, checking to see who was in the chair. Our eyes met, you’re asleep again. . . .

So dear friend,

I’m going to close for now.

Please know

You are very loved!!

Robin

The surgery was followed by another round of chemo. The treatment ended in April, when Moore wrote:

I can’t believe it, Katie came up from San Diego and she and Kathy B. [Kathy Burke, a friend from college] and I went to lunch--we laughed and cried . . . so much thoughtfulness and care from Katie--she brought me a pewter angel--one with a horn--the celebration of the end of my chemo. . . . I cry now as I write and think of the significance of that. Yes, I rejoice that it’s over!!! I too sound my trumpet. I’ve won. I’m alive.