Over the past six months I have had a lot of time to look at my wife—as she received chemotherapy, while she waited to see the doctor, as she lay in the hospital after the double mastectomy and as she sat, for hours in front of the television, too sick and tired to do anything else.
My conclusion from studying her for all that time is that she has not changed one bit since the day we were married forty-four years ago.
Her blue eyes still sparkle when she is happy; they still roll in exasperation when she has to put up with stupid people; they narrow when she is angry; and they fill with tears when she’s in pain.
On our wedding day she had dark thick hair. I still see it even though most people see a silvery halo of wispy silver strands.
I love to watch her talk to the doctors and nurses. She still uses her hands to provide exclamation points to the words coming from her mouth. She always bounces in her seat when she gets to a particularly important part of her story.
And, to be honest, she still has that withering, almost cruel, tone to her voice when she thinks I’m not catching on to what she’s saying fast enough. Even that is kind of exciting, in a weird way.
When I massage her feet they feel exactly the same as they did the first year we were married. It’s the same hand I hold as we lie in bed, side by side in the dark, each vowing we will never go away.

I’m all for teaching propaganda; that is, teaching our kids how to recognize propaganda when they see it.
We were taught in school how to detect propaganda during the 1950s and 60s, but I’m not sure about today. I hope so. Schools taught us to recognize propaganda because of the communist threat. You know, the guys that were supposed to be under every bed in America, which was a bit of propaganda in itself. What we learned, however, was the ability to judge objectively messages manufactured for public consumption.
The earliest lesson in propaganda I remember was not in school but in a Walt Disney cartoon. It was about a wolf who wanted to eat the chickens but the rooster stood in the way. So the wolf started a whisper campaign.
“Did you hear that the rooster was a drunk?”
“Why should he get to be the boss? We know as much as he does.”
Once the wolf had the chickens doubting their leader, he then picked the dullest among them, Chicken Little, and convinced him the sky was falling. It was his duty, the wolf told him, to warn everyone else of the impeding catastrophe. Chicken Little did such a good job scaring everyone that pandemonium broke out. When the rooster tried to calm them down, the chickens ignored him.
“You old drunk, you can’t tell us what to do.”
Instead they followed Chicken Little out of the chicken coop to a cave where they would be safe from the falling sky. Of course, the cave was the wolf’s lair, and they became his lunch.
In school we learned to ask for the source of statements meant to make us angry or afraid. You say the rooster is a drunk. What is your proof he is a drunk? And if the rooster is a drunk, does that disqualify him from being a good leader? You say the rooster thinks he’s better than us. What makes you think the rooster thinks he’s better than us? You say the sky is falling? Can the sky actually fall? Take away the fear and anger and what do you have left?
Another propaganda tool is syllogism. That’s a big word meaning to take two true statements to create a third true statement. In other words, you say if A=B and B=C then A=C. Man is mortal. Mortals die. Therefore man dies. That sounds credible enough, and many arguments use that equation; but it isn’t always true.
For instance, in my novel Lincoln in the Basement, a befuddled janitor finds himself held under guard in the White House basement along with President Lincoln and his wife Mary. The janitor knows that he is in the basement. He hears conversations that lead him to believe the president is in the basement. Therefore, the janitor thinks he is the president. Oops. Wrong.
My wife and I have done what we could to teach our children to listen carefully and objectively. We pointed out television commercials for products that proclaimed to have 50 percent more. We asked our kids what the product had 50 percent more of. Fifty percent more than the product used to have? Fifty percent more than other products? Everybody likes this brand of toothpaste. Oh really? What independent survey organization decided that to be true?
Politicians say “they” are not like “us”. Who are “they”? Who are “us”? Do you identify more with the “they” group than the “us” group? Then “us” is not really us but “they”.
As you can see, propaganda is a tricky technique to persuade a person to think a certain way. In fact, I urge you to look up propaganda and decide for yourself what it is. Don’t take my word for it. After all, who am I to tell you how to raise your children? Don’t let me do that. And don’t let somebody on television selling soap or politicians do that either

Lucinda covered her face with her hands after Nancy left. She could not stand another confrontation. When she opened her eyes, she saw Vernon, dressed in military fatigues and a helmet. He stood in front of her with a blank expression on his face.

“Vernon! I’m so glad you came back. I wanted to—“

Vernon fell forward, revealing the back of his helmet blown apart and a red mess that was once his brain. Lucinda screamed loud and long. Bertha rushed in the door, grabbed her and hugged her as she dissolved in tears.

“You poor baby!” Bertha cooed. “What’s wrong?”

“There! There! On the floor! Can’t you see him!?” Lucinda pointed to the form only she could see on the floor. “All that blood? The back of his head! Just blown away!”

“You poor thing!” Bertha patted Lucinda’s head. “I didn’t know you suffered from the hysterics too!”

The very thought that she was not always in complete control of her emotions jolted Lucinda back to reality. Taking several deep breaths, she averted her eyes from the vision of Vernon on the floor. The tears finally stop. “I’m all right now. Thank you, Mrs. Godwin.”

“Thank goodness. I don’t think I’d have the nerve to slap you into calmin’ down.”

“No.” Lucinda forced a smile. “You won’t have to slap me.”

“Jest what on earth happened to make you have a fit like that?”

Lucinda stood, closed her eyes momentarily then walked to her rocker where she sat. “I was remembering a student of mine.”

“Oh, I know what you mean. Young people today.” Bertha’s eyes widened. “I jest don’t know where we went wrong. They’re so disrespectful and—“

“Oh no,” she interrupted. “This young man wasn’t bad at all.”

“That’s unusual.” Bertha’s eyebrows went up.

“He was sweet and kind. Not the brightest in his class but the hardest working.” Lucinda dared not to look down. “He was the kind of student that made teaching all worthwhile.”

“Well, what about him upset you?”

“I remembered a spring day, near the end of the semester, many years ago.” She decided confession might be good for her soul. “This very special, very wonderful young man came into my office and announced he had been drafted and was going to serve in Vietnam. He was obviously scared.”

“At least he wasn’t of them draft dodgers.”

“He needed me to say something, to make him feel better, not to be scared anymore.” She smiled ruefully. “And all I said was to worry more about driving home that day than dying in war.”

“But that’s true.”

“There is truth, and then there is reality.” Lucinda leaned back in defeat. “He was dead of a mortar blast to the back of the head less than a year later.”

“At least he died for his country.” Bertha persisted in her perky optimism.

“That’s what he said, that he was going to die for his country.” Lucinda had never allowed herself to be so harsh in self-judgment “And all I could say was something trivial, something so heartless.”

Bertha scooted across the bed to be closer to the teacher. “Now don’t you fret about that and make yourself have fits.”

“But it’s hard not to be.”

“I know a woman who had the same thing happen to her, or jest about. Her husband had a heart condition, and they lived right behind their daughter and her family.”

“Bertha! Come here!” Emma’s voice echoed up through the stairwell.

“One day while the wife was mowin’ the lawn — the man couldn’t, you see, because—“

“Shouldn’t you answer your sister?” The last thing Lucinda wanted was to have Emma bursting through her door in an outrage.

“Oh, if she wants me bad enough she can come git me. Anyway, he couldn’t mow, you see, because of his heart, but that day he followed her every step while she mowed. She said that made her nervous.”

“Bertha! Help me move this sofa so I can clean behind it!”

She continued to ignore her sister. “After supper that night he wanted to go through the back gate and visit—“

“Won’t she hurt herself lifting the sofa?”

“Oh no. Emma’s strong as an ox,” She replied with a sneer. “Anyway, he wanted to go through the back gate and visit the kids. Well, she said she was too tired from mowin’ and that they’d go another night. Sure enough, he died of a heart attack that night, and she felt jest terrible ‘cause she didn’t fulfill his last wish.”

“Bertha!” Emma was sounding angrier.

“There was the kids—“

“There were the kids.” Lucinda could not help but correct Bertha’s grammar.

“That’s right. There was them kids close and he couldn’t see them one last time because of her. Why, she jest about drove herself nuts thinkin’ about it. One day while I was over havin’ coffee—“

“Bertha! Where are you!?” Emma was on the verge of erupting like Mount Vesuvius and scorching everyone in her grasp.

Bertha went to the door and shouted, “I’m in the teacher’s room calmin’ her down after a fit!”

“I didn’t have a fit.” Lucinda tried not to sound too offended.

“Hold your horses!” She returned to the bed and sat. “Where was I? Oh yes. We was havin’ coffee, and she jest bust out cryin’ and told me how she felt and — I don’t know why I thought of this but I did and I’m so proud — I asked her if she knew her husband was goin’ to die that night.”

“If I git a hernia it’s your fault!” Emma continued her rant from downstairs.

“Oh git a hernia! I don’t care!” There was a rough angry edge to Bertha’s voice. A sweet smile covered her face when she resumed talking to Lucinda. “Anyways, she looked at me funny and said no. Then I said then you didn’t deprive him of that visit on purpose, did you? And she said no. If you had known it was his last night you’d gone to Timbuktu for him, wouldn’t you? She said yes. Well, I told her no one knows when you’re goin’ so you can’t cry over what you might have done if you had known. You know, she agreed and started feelin’ better right off.”

“But, my dear, don’t you think we should always be mindful that what we do today will be with us all our tomorrows?”

“But that’s kinda hard to do, ain’t it?”

“Isn’t it.”

“It sure enough is.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Lucinda leaned back in the rocker, drained from her attempts to be Bertha’s teacher.

“So don’t you worry about that boy none.” She reached over and patted the teacher’s bony knee.

“Thank you very much, my dear.” Lucinda found herself out of breath again. “It was sweet of you to comfort me.”

“Call me Bertha.”

“Very well. Thank you, Bertha.” She decided to be magnanimous. “And you may call me Lucinda.”

“Thanks, Lucy.”

“Lucinda.” Perhaps not that magnanimous. “Um, I’m sorry I wasn’t a very good sentinel, but your sister flew up the stairs and past me before I could say a word.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry she didn’t let you complete the call.”

“Well, that’s life, ain’t it?”

“It isn’t my place to talk.” Lucinda wrinkled her brow. Has your sister always been so hard on you?”

“Oh yes, ever since we was little girls.”

Emma exploded through the door, put her hands on her hips and stared at Bertha. “I’ve been callin’ you to help me move the sofa in the parlor.”

“I’m sorry, Emma.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Lucy and me’s been talkin’.”

“So. It’s Lucy now, huh? Well, I don’t care to be on first name basis with jest boarders.”

“Emma, what a thing to say.” A shy little laugh sneaked from her mouth. “Why, I’m jest a boarder.”

“Yes, and I’m the landlady because Buster Lawrence saw fit to leave me with this wonderful house, big enough to rent rooms to make a livin’.

Seein’ you jest got four boarders, you ain’t makin’ much of a livin’ off of it.”

“That’s right,” Emma retorted. “And one of them ain’t even paid full rent.” She pulled a pack of cigarettes from a pocket in her worn apron, extracted a lighter from another pocket and lit up.

“I’ll pay full rent if you want me to.”

“Oh no. You’re my sister, and I love you.” She blew the smoke in Bertha’s direction. “It’s the least I can do for you since your husband didn’t see fit to leave you as well off as Buster left me.”

“Now why do you always have to say that?” Her face started turning an ominous shade of red. “My Merrill couldn’t help it if he had kidney stones. His three operations took up all the money we’d saved.”

The telephone in the kitchen rang. A moment later Cassie called out, “Mommy! It’s the fire marshal on the phone. He wants to talk to you right now!

“If I find out it was you who set the fire marshal on me I’ll slap your face off!” She goes out the door, throwing an order over her shoulder. “Bertha, you git down there in that parlor and wait for me to move that sofa.”

“I should have said, ‘You’re gonna die from cancer by smoking all those cigarettes.’ That’s what I should have said to her. But it wouldn’t have done no good. She’d come back with smart answer.”

“I’m so sorry your sister acts that way.” Lucinda’s hand went to her chest.

“She causes all my fits. I jest know I wouldn’t have none of them if I didn’t have to be around her.”

“Of course. I’m sure,” she agreed in a whisper.

“But Lucy, why didn’t you back me up on them cigarettes? You know they cause cancer! Practically all the doctors say so now. Everybody knows that!”

“I’m sorry, Bertha.” She looked up to the ceiling. “I suppose I let your sister intimidate me.”

“Well, I jest thought you was stronger than that.” Bertha’s voice was filled with petty spite.

“No, I’m not strong at all.” It was as much a confession to herself as to Bertha.

“You fooled me. And I thought you was perfect.”

I’d like to pause and reflect on the nature of this horrible disease cancer. We are relieved that my wife is rid of it, but it’s not the same case for everyone.
Sure, we have been reassured by many ladies who have told us they went through the chemotherapy and mastectomies and they have been healthy ever since. Yes, progress has been made in the battle against all kinds of cancer. Even though pancreatic cancer is still fatal, patients today do at least have a longer reprieve. My mother, for instance, was diagnosed in March of 1962, and she died three months later in June. In the 1980s, actor Michael Landon had cancer and did not last as long as my mother. Actor Patrick Swayze lived more than two years with pancreatic cancer and still worked until the final decline.
But we lost a friend this week. He was a robust family man in his forties. He, his wife and daughter were active in community theater and were known for their kindness and encouragement of young talent. She is a drama teacher, and he was known for his lighting and sound skills. He told me one time he preferred to be the one in the dark casting attention on everyone else. A couple of years ago he had a sore throat that didn’t go away. He fought his cancer, undergoing surgeries and treatment. Last spring, they renewed their wedding vows before friends and family, a gesture to show that cancer could not kill their love.
Even on a national level, former President Jimmy Carter announced he had brain cancer. He is undergoing treatment, but he takes comfort that he has had a long, fruitful satisfying life. Even cancer is not going to keep him from teaching his Sunday school class in Plains, Ga. People from around the country are flocking to hear his words, and he does not go home until everyone has had a chance to have a picture taken with him.
What a somber reminder that this is a fight unto death, and no one is assured a victory.
I can’t say any more.