Tributes to Colleen
... can be found on Legacy.com. To find her page, enter "Colleen McCarthy" in the Search field and choose "Past Two Weeks" (or 30 Days). On Colleen's page, click "Guest Book."
Friday, November 22, 2013
Saturday, November 9, 2013
A Letter
This is the letter I wrote last February to the Lung Transplant Committee at the University of Pittsburgh, where Colleen and I went for her week-long evaluation. For five days, I carried copies of the letter with us to every appointment and handed them out to each of the key doctors, who would ultimately be making the decision whether or not to put Colleen on the transplant list, doctors in Rheumatology, Cardiology, Gastroenterology, and Pulmonology. We also handed a copy to the lung transplant surgeon, one of only a select few, who would have been Colleen's surgeon. We learned that, in spite of its length, they all read the letter, to which I attached photographs of Colleen, lest they forget the face attached to the name.
I'm including it here because it fills in a bit more of Colleen's scleroderma story. I'm also attaching the pictures.
This is the letter I wrote last February to the Lung Transplant Committee at the University of Pittsburgh, where Colleen and I went for her week-long evaluation. For five days, I carried copies of the letter with us to every appointment and handed them out to each of the key doctors, who would ultimately be making the decision whether or not to put Colleen on the transplant list, doctors in Rheumatology, Cardiology, Gastroenterology, and Pulmonology. We also handed a copy to the lung transplant surgeon, one of only a select few, who would have been Colleen's surgeon. We learned that, in spite of its length, they all read the letter, to which I attached photographs of Colleen, lest they forget the face attached to the name.
I'm including it here because it fills in a bit more of Colleen's scleroderma story. I'm also attaching the pictures.
and recur, pass and recur. And
thus began the physical, emotional, and spiritual journey that now—a long, 22-years
later—brings her to UPMC and to you. We, her family and friends, have born
witness to the hundreds upon hundreds of physical assaults, losses, medical emergencies,
doctors’ appointments, fear and feelings of aloneness that scleroderma has
thrown at Colleen unceasingly for all this time. We’ve watched her live with
this disease of attrition, day by day, and prepare, more than once, to die from
it—with indomitable courage, honesty, strength, and always that smile of hers.
Remarkably, I can’t recall ever hearing Colleen complain or exhibit a shred of
self-pity—tears, yes, self-pity, never.
The first doctors Colleen consulted were stymied by her
symptoms. Both Lyme’s disease and lupus were considered, but ultimately ruled
out. The University of Pennsylvania diagnosed Undefined Collagen Vascular
Disease, which later came to be called Mixed Connective Tissue Disease, a
diagnosis we understood to be an umbrella for autoimmune collagen diseases.
Searching for a more specific diagnosis was prolonged and taxing, as was, and
still is, the repeated trial-and-error of seeking the right medications. From
the time of its arrival in her life, up until this very moment, scleroderma has
required nothing less than herculean patience of Colleen—and heroic acceptance.
In
Year 3, Raynaud’s came to stay. Year 4 brought a diagnosis of Adult Still’s. Year
8 hospitalized Colleen with acute pericarditis. Commonplace were mouth sores,
high fevers, night sweats, swelling, pain, backache, and bronchitis.
Colleen
continued teaching a full-course load and raising her children, never stinting
on family vacations or fun of any kind, never missing her daughter’s school
plays or her son’s karate competitions, never forgetting one of her many
nieces’ or nephews’ birthdays. If you asked her how she was doing, invariably she’d
say, “There are good days and bad days.”
In
Year 12, Systemic Scleroderma was diagnosed and Colleen was given a 5-year
prognosis. That was 2002—ten years
ago.
A
few years prior to that prognosis, Colleen began doing yoga, which she fell in
love with immediately, in spite of the daunting contraction and stiffness she
faced from years of scleroderma. Feeling her body unfold, millimeter by sometimes
excruciating millimeter, was a joy beyond measure for Colleen. Her mantra: “I
want to touch my toes, I want to touch my toes.” My sisters and I began envying
the muscle definition developing in her upper arms. She practiced yoga daily,
both at home and in the studio. Her example inspired me to find my own yoga
practice. And I watched it inspire other students when the time came that
Colleen had to start bringing her oxygen tank with her to class.
During
Years 13-15, heart complications meant hospital stays and eventually a pacemaker.
Colleen joined a clinical drug trial at Robert Wood Johnson Scleroderma Program
in New Brunswick, a two-hour drive from Colleen’s home at the South Jersey
shore. The program’s Dr. Vivien Hsu becoming her primary scleroderma doctor at
that time.
Year
16 marked a watershed. Colleen began oxygen therapy for routine housecleaning,
for exercise—yoga, outdoor walking, treadmill—and for sleep. By the next year,
Year 17, she was on oxygen 24/7. The good news was that she had made it past
her dire 5-year prognosis. The bad news was that she was now permanently
tethered to oxygen equipment.
By
this time, Colleen had moved from classroom teaching, which had become too
difficult physically, to becoming head of the school library, a role she loved.
All those books. All those potential young readers. Outside of work, she began
travelling, singlehandedly making all the necessary O2 arrangements
with airlines and with her many destination points, including a most ambitious
journey to Ireland, our ancestral home. She also began co-teaching a hatha yoga
class at at her local Gilda’s Club and, looking ahead, trained to teach Chair
Yoga as well.
Year 18. Colleen was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma.
She made it through six months of chemotherapy, lost her hair, and wore cute
hats. I never heard her lament aloud about her lost hair nor, before and after
cancer, about her premature aging from scleroderma—beauty blows that would take
most women down.
The cancer went into remission and Colleen resumed
travelling—until she no longer could. Two years ago, in Spring 2011, she came
to visit me here in Santa Monica. We went to the theater a few nights in a row and
during the day made our final preparations to leave for Yosemite, a six-hour road
trip we were over-the-moon excited about, Colleen’s O2 needs already
arranged and taken care of by her. But Colleen suddenly got very sick with some
kind of bronchitis and immediately had to fly back to New Jersey from
California.
For the entire 22 years she has lived with this disease, Colleen
has pushed the outside of its envelope. I have watched her need to test the
edge each and every day in order to know her limits so she could exceed them,
to live her life without pulling back one second too soon. This has been her modus vivendi even during this past year
when her world took a steep nose-dive. Dr. Fredrick Wigley, head of the Johns
Hopkins Scleroderma Center, in conjunction with Dr. Stephen Mathai of JH’s
Pulmonary Division—two remarkable and dedicated physicians—tried everything to
level off the precipitous drop in Colleen’s function in order to get things
trending back upward for her. No dice.
Colleen’s world has narrowed pretty much to her sweet yellow
house with the massive white oak in the backyard. Her life includes a
wheelchair now and Colleen has to ask for help a whole lot more than she wants
to. And the O2 can’t be cranked up any higher. Is every day for Colleen like being on Mt. Everest,
in the thinnest of air, with no oxygen mask? Probably. We try to comprehend
what it’s like not to have been able to take a deep breath—for years. We can’t
comprehend this.
Hardest for Colleen to accept in the past 20 months, though,
might be the loss of yoga, which was integral to her daily life and sustained
her physically, emotionally, and spiritually for more than a decade. She talked
to me last summer about knowing that as each day passes without being able to
“get on the mat,” her hard-won elasticity and ability to touch her toes was
slipping away.
The heartbreak was plain.
In recent weeks, since Colleen was approved for a
transplant evaluation, I’ve dared envision the very best—a new pair of lungs
for her, lungs that stick around, soft air-filled lungs that Colleen can fly
with for however long—a year, two years,
five years, ten? I’ve dared envision her completely untethered from the oxygen
machine, miraculously walking with a lightness in her step again—her yoga bag
slung over her shoulder perhaps—and her blissfully taking a series of slow, down-deep
breaths. I also envision other outcomes.
My family and I know that Colleen could be in no better
hands than yours. Godspeed in your evaluation.
Deep gratitude,
Mignon McCarthy
FAMILY SUPPORT
TEAM
|
Proximity to Colleen’s Home
|
Suzanne McCarthy, mother, Ocean City NJ
|
10 min
|
Camille McCarthy Nickles, sister, Ocean
City NJ
|
10 min
|
Leslie McCarthy Phillips, sister, Ocean
City NJ
|
10 min
|
Kirsten Wenzel, niece, Ocean City, NJ
|
10 min
|
Dan McCarthy, brother, Ventnor, NJ
|
20 min
|
Sean McCarthy, brother, Mays Landing, NJ
|
20 min
|
Chelsea
Di Pilla, daughter, Margate City, NJ
|
20 min
|
Ben
DiPilla, son, Atlantic City, NJ
|
25 min
|
Kim
McCarthy, sister, Boston, MA
|
6-hr drive, 2-hr flight
|
Myself,
Mignon McCarthy, sister, Santa Monica, CA
|
5½ hr flight
|
Devon Road wearing Cinnaminson Pool Swim Ankle Band
At Kripalu Institute, Stockbridge, MA
for a residential Yoga Retreat
Mom & Col
Visit to Santa Monica 2006
Rhode Island Christmas
Danny, Camille, Sean & Colleen
In the mountains above Santa Barbara
Painted Cave Road
Sausalito, CA 2007
Colleen Emcees Mom's 90th Birthday Party
August 16, 2012
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Colleen, of whom there has only been one and shall never be another, my beloved sister and friend, who came from light--from the Source--has now, last night, returned to the light. Or that is my hope. We are a family in pain, but take solace in knowing Colleen's suffering is no more. I would crawl on my hands and knees in the desert for a a thousand days and nights and more if that would bring her back. But that is not an option. I don't know why. Our mother says maybe we're not supposed to know why. This grief lay in wait for us who deeply love Colleen from the moment Colleen's wonderful blog began. Grief at the ending we hoped would never come, never close in. Dear Colleen, I hope you don't mind this addendum to your final entry. I just looked at its date. You last wrote exactly one month ago today. There is a hole as big as the universe here without you. Please let me know, somehow, you're still close. Forever yours, Mignon
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