He's in the Army now
http://www.jsonline.com/news/wisconsin/64677772.html
Wife's cancer prompts man to enlist
By Mark Johnson
Oct. 18, 2009
56 days . . . 55 days . . . 54 days . . .
Chelsea Caudle began signing her text messages this summer with a
countdown. At 14 years old, she knew no better way to express what
was coming. Day Zero was to be Oct. 7, the day Dad left for Army
basic training in Fort Jackson, S.C. He was moving 950 miles from
their home in Watertown, 950 miles from Mom.
He was leaving, even though Mom was sick with ovarian cancer. Even
though he had been at her side through two long, miserable rounds of
chemotherapy. Even though she now faced the likelihood of a third.
In fact, Dad was leaving because Mom was sick.
In March, he was laid off from his job as a raw materials coordinator
for a plastics company called PolyOne, where he'd worked for 20
years. His severance package had provided several months' salary, but
by August the paychecks were winding down. Soon the cost of his
family health coverage was going to triple, then a few months after
that, nearly triple again. They needed coverage so Mom could fight her cancer.
Dad's solution: a four-year hitch in the Army.
So Chelsea counted down the days to his departure. When the countdown
reached 49, the text message signature began to annoy and depress
her, so she stopped. High school was beginning, her freshman year.
In the first week of class, one of the teachers asked: What do your parents do?
The question jolted Chelsea back to the shifting ground of her
family. Mom was working part time at a Culver's restaurant, preparing
for more chemo, worrying about how to pay the bills. In less than six
weeks, Dad would enter the Army and her care would be covered.
The tradeoff was that he would be far away when Mom needed him home,
when Chelsea needed him, too. He would miss all of her high school
years. The band performances. Prom.
Chelsea thought of all his absence would mean.
When she sent her next text message, she resumed the countdown.
36 days.
***
Mom and Dad are Michelle and Bill Caudle, high school sweethearts now
40 and 39, respectively. They have three children: Chelsea, the
youngest; Alysha, a 21-year-old working at a nearby Holiday Inn; and
Little Bill, an 18-year-old ex-high school wrestler.
The Caudles are not fond of politics. Michelle and Bill have paid
little attention to the shouting this summer over health care reform.
They have not gone to any of the town hall meetings. They are well
aware that politicians and interest groups would like to trumpet
their story or dismiss it to score points in the debate - and they
would just as soon avoid all of that.
"We're not activists," Michelle said.
But this year the national story of lost jobs became their story. And
the saga of families losing health insurance was about to become theirs, too.
Except that Bill wouldn't let it.
True, he had been interested in the Army for years. And he could
always request an emergency leave to come home if Michelle's
condition grew dire (Army regulations allow this if a family member's
death is imminent).
But for weeks before enlisting, Bill had sought other options. He
revised his résumé. He answered "help wanted" ads, then watched the
companies cut workers instead of hiring them. He interviewed for one
job that would have paid $13 an hour - less than half of what he was
making at PolyOne. He didn't get the job.
Finally, on May 13, his 39th birthday, he signed the Army papers.
He remembers thinking: What did I do?
Chelsea learned about her dad's decision when Michelle picked her up
from school. It had been a bad day already: a problem with one of her
teachers, then she had to do the mile run.
"I have something to tell you," her mom said after Chelsea slid into
her seat. "Your dad enlisted in the Army. There's more: He'll be gone
for four years."
Chelsea started to cry.
Two weeks later, Michelle Caudle sat in the office of her doctor,
Peter Johnson, at Aurora Women's Pavilion in West Allis. Johnson has
been an oncologist for 13 years, and despite the immeasurable sorrow
that comes with treating cancer, he loves the work for the hope in
it. He has shared the joy of patients who've lived to see birthdays,
anniversaries, and the graduations and weddings of their children.
On this particular day, Michelle's latest tests had come back. Just
six months earlier she'd celebrated the end of her second
chemotherapy treatment. Now, the tests revealed tiny "spots," or
changes on her abdomen, neck and lungs. Not a good sign. The measure
upon which cancer hopes rise and fall, the CA125 number - Please, let
it stay low - was climbing.
"I could lie to you but I'm not going to," Johnson told Michelle.
Although he could not say for certain the cancer was back, this early
sign pointed to that possibility. The doctor compared her cancer to a
chronic disease that would never be completely vanquished from the body.
Michelle broke down. For three years she'd been nurturing her hope in
the face of uncertainty.
"I'm not going to beat this," she said.
***
Ovarian cancer is a stealth disease, shadowy and overshadowed.
Years of publicity about breast cancer have empowered women with the
knowledge that they can catch the disease early by performing a self-exam.
Ovarian cancer has garnered just a fraction of the publicity, and the
message has been decidedly more negative. There is no self-exam. By
the time ovarian cancer has announced its presence, the disease has
often progressed to the third of the four cancer stages. Once a woman
has been diagnosed, her odds of surviving five years are less than
50-50. All told, the disease kills about 15,000 American women every year.
On Nov. 14, 2006, the day Michelle first walked into Johnson's
office, she thought she had a cyst. Her abdomen felt tender and she
was constipated. No one had said "cancer." Still, she had been
referred to an oncologist and she was scared.
A CT scan showed a large mass, about 8 inches in diameter. Her CA125
level, which measures cancer antigens, was 21 times higher than it
should have been.
The next day she went into surgery. Johnson spent more than four
hours removing as much of the cancer as he could.
From that day forward, Michelle and Bill had a new job that
superseded any other: fighting cancer.
Although the disease was hers, he would assume responsibility for
meals and laundry and the things she'd always done but was too tired
and sick to do now. Michelle passed some of the days curled up on the
recliner, drained and queasy. Bill worked around her, cooking hot
dogs and other simple meals. Chelsea made spaghetti and chicken.
Bill went with Michelle to her doctor appointments, surgeries and
chemotherapies. When the cancer returned in 2008, he sat beside her
as the doctor discussed what to try next.
He felt he had to be "the strong one," so when she cried, he did not.
Of all Bill's responsibilities, one rose above the others:
Health coverage.
***
The March 2009 layoff was announced months before it took place.
Though the news was jolting, Bill thought maybe it wouldn't be so
bad. He'd wanted a job a little closer to home than PolyOne, 30 miles
away in Sussex. Now he could find something better.
But it had been a long time since he applied for work or sat for an
interview. What do you tell people about yourself?
After sending out résumés, he got the feeling it didn't much matter.
Even companies that had advertised for staff were changing their minds.
By the second week at home, he was struggling to find things to do.
He cleaned the kitchen. He vacuumed. He exercised. He logged onto the
computer and checked job sites.
The president's stimulus bill was helping laid off workers pay for
the health coverage they had while employed. Between this assistance
and Bill's severance package from PolyOne, the Caudles initially paid
$136 a month for their coverage.
But in September, when Bill's severance package ended, they would pay $497.
In January, when they would be on their own: $1,370.
Bill needed a job. He needed health benefits. And a cursory look
persuaded him that the answer would not be BadgerCare Plus,
Wisconsin's public health insurance program.
Besides, he was leaning toward another idea, one that presented the
Caudles with a quandary. The Army would solve their health coverage
problem. In years past he would have been too old, but in 2005 the
age limit for enlistment was increased from 35 to 40, and a year
later it was raised again to 42. The tradeoff would be his absence from home.
In the end, although he risked leaving Michelle to fight cancer on
her own, Bill chose the Army. He signed on for a job as a signal
support systems specialist, a soldier who works with communications equipment.
"Seventy percent of the reason is for the insurance," said Bill's
mother, Marguerite Hemiller. "He told me, 'I've always wanted to do
something for my country and I have to help Michelle.' "
***
Enjoy the summer, Johnson had advised Michelle in May when they got
the first inkling her cancer might be back yet again. There was no
emergency, no need to hurry into another round of chemo. Not yet.
So Michelle tried to live her life as if cancer and health coverage
were not calling the shots. She continued working at Culver's in
Watertown. She enjoyed the return of her auburn hair after the
previous rounds of chemo. She spent time with her husband and
children, though it was not always easy to avoid reminders of what
they were facing.
Bill began a vigorous program of jogging, pushups and exercises to
prepare for basic training. Once a week, he went to the Army
recruiting office in Watertown to train with other recruits.
In August, they celebrated a friend's wedding. As they slow-danced at
the reception, Michelle wondered how many dances they had left. She
leaned close to Bill's ear.
"That'll have to be good for the next four years," she said.
Bill reminded her they had another wedding in two weeks. Also, they
had a week coming up at a cabin in the Great Smoky Mountains with
Chelsea, Little Bill and Michelle's parents.
The vacation in Tennessee was a last chance for the kind of closeness
the family would have to manage without.
Bill and his son went four-wheeling in the mountains. He took Chelsea
horseback riding along a forest trail. Riding single file was not
conducive to long conversations, so they savored the quiet.
Michelle and Bill had their time, too, sitting together at the cabin,
then white-water rafting down the Pigeon River. Michelle enjoyed the
cool spray on her face. The future stretched only as far as the next
bend in the river.
One day they all hiked up Clingmans Dome, an elevation of 6,600 feet.
There were benches every tenth of a mile or so. Michelle had to sit
frequently. She found it hard to watch her parents, both in their
60s, waiting for her.
She had been trying to forget about being sick.
***
On Aug. 27 - 41 days - Michelle's summer ended. She sat with Bill in
a private room in Aurora Women's Pavilion waiting for the official
word on her latest blood tests. The doctor's office had called to
tell her that her CA125, the cancer measure she hoped to keep low,
had risen from 17 to 66.
"Odds are he's going to tell me it's back," she said.
Johnson entered the room and crouched beside Michelle's chair. There
was cancer in her abdomen, he said. "There's some areas in the lung, too."
"Oh no."
"Not a lot," the doctor continued. "There's one area in the right
side. There's a little area on the left side. None of these are big.
We're talking three-eighths of an inch."
Michelle's eyes went watery. The nurse reached for a tissue.
"You know what? I brought my own," Michelle said, and her smile let
everyone know it was OK to laugh. For a moment they did.
Johnson said there was no single area to go after surgically, but
Michelle had responded well to chemotherapy. His soft voice outlined
the chemo plan. "I'd suggest we start fairly soon," he said. Right
after Labor Day.
Michelle bowed her head and Johnson leaned toward her.
"I'm sorry," he said.
During the car ride back to Watertown, Michelle told Bill there was
one thing she wished she could do.
"I'd like to be a grandmother. I'd be a really good grandmother."
At home, Michelle wrote six words on her Facebook page:
"Cancer back. Sucks to be me."
***
35 days.
"I'm going to blow the whistle and you are going to jog."
Staff Sgt. Larry Finefield stood before Bill and half a dozen other
recruits on an empty soccer field in Watertown on a cloudless
September afternoon. Finefield called out each new exercise. The
recruits shouted back in unison, then went to work.
Bill was surrounded by teenagers, kids who could have gone to school
with Little Bill - in fact, one had. After 10 minutes of pushups, leg
lifts and other drills, Bill's face reddened. Sweat beaded along his
forehead. The teenagers were straining, too. Each time they jogged, a
chorus of panting filled the air. An hour later, they finished by
sprinting pass patterns one-by-one as Finefield hurled the football downfield.
"All right guys," Finefield shouted finally. "We're done."
This was a taste of what Bill could expect at basic training. He was
building up his body.
20 days.
Michelle was more than a week into her new round of chemo. The
exhausting ritual was familiar and she tried to approach it with humor.
"They have to draw my blood first to see if I'm healthy enough to be
poisoned," she said one morning as she waited to be treated.
Chemotherapy destroys healthy cells as it attacks cancerous ones.
That's why nurses had to measure Michelle's white blood cells, red
blood cells and platelets to be sure that she had recovered
sufficiently from the previous dose and could receive the next
without risking life-threatening complications.
And that's why Michelle's stomach churned and her energy vanished.
The previous Sunday, she had gone back to sleeping in the recliner
for a simple reason: "When you sleep, you don't feel sick."
As she slept, Bill cooked and cleaned. When she woke, he asked what she wanted.
"Who's going to baby me?" Michelle asked, anticipating the days ahead.
Now, as she sat beside Bill, waiting for the next dose of chemo, she
still had no answer.
The pale liquid arrived in an IV bag. The pump pulsed, emitting a
soft, mechanical whir as the liquid flowed. Michelle talked about
going to work at Culver's. Might take her mind off things.
The bag was empty, the poison inside her. On the way to the car, she
told Bill she might look for a new hat.
"I have a feeling I'm going to need it."
11 days.
The cake was for Bill, but the party was as much for Michelle. In the
chemo cycle - two weeks on, one off - this was her break from the
poison. She was ready to feel good again.
Friends and relatives arrived at the Caudles' backyard carrying
dishes. Bill shook hands. Michelle wandered back and forth between
the kitchen and the yard, smiling and laughing. She stayed on her
feet until just about everyone else was seated.
"She's a strong woman," said her mother, Sharon Hutchins.
Both Hutchins and Bill's mother, Marguerite Hemiller, have
accompanied Michelle to her cancer treatments. Hemiller, a nurse for
27 years, remembered that during the first months of chemo, Michelle
would stand in the parking lot crying, not wanting to go inside. Now,
Hemiller felt conflicted about her son's decision to join the Army.
"One half of me says, 'Go.' The other half says, 'You'd better stay,'
" she said. "I know he's got to do it. He's got to get that insurance."
Hemiller lived without insurance for two years after she lost her job
late in 2006. When she did not feel well, she diagnosed herself. That
would not be an option for her daughter-in-law.
At the party, Michelle wore her birthday present from Bill: a Green
Bay Packers jersey with the number of her favorite player, defensive
end Johnny Jolly. Her birthday was still a few weeks away on Oct. 20,
but by then Bill would be gone.
After dinner, friends and family sliced up a "Farewell Bill" cake
decorated with an eagle clutching arrows and a shield. There were no
songs, no toasts.
"We're kind of quiet," Michelle said.
By evening, most of the guests were gone. The Caudles lighted a fire
in their outdoor fireplace and sat around talking until it was time for bed.
6 days.
Oct. 1, Chelsea's 15th birthday. A balloon and flower bouquet waited
for her on the dining room table. Chelsea was at a football game.
In the living room, Michelle lay in her recliner, huddled under a
blanket. She had turned the television way down, but the glow from
the screen flickered over her, the only light in a dark room.
The chemo, administered two days earlier, had hit full force, nausea
overwhelming her. During earlier rounds of chemo, Bill had tried to
talk with her, to distract her. Now he knew better. He left her alone.
Posted on the door of the refrigerator were the doctor's orders and
the date of her next appointment: Oct. 6. The same day the recruiter
would take Bill to Milwaukee before his flight to South Carolina.
"It doesn't seem real yet," Bill said, coming in from the garage
where he had been cleaning. "I don't know if I feel anything yet."
In the dining room, he had the list of things to bring: comfortable
clothing, socks, underwear, shampoo, soap, deodorant, toothpaste,
disposable shaver, $50, Social Security card, birth certificate and
marriage certificate.
"I'm scared for when you leave," his daughter Alysha said.
Bill knew how the family felt. To help them prepare, he had written
lists of the tasks they would have to pick up when he was gone.
Weekly jobs: "garbage, cleaning the bathrooms and bedrooms, laundry,
vacuuming." Biweekly: "dusting, cleaning the shower, recyclables."
Monthly: "cleaning windows, running computer disk cleanup."
Seasonal: "mowing the lawn, shoveling snow, switching the furnace
from summer to winter, then winter to summer."
Little Bill had arranged the night's dinner, a rotisserie chicken
that came free with the purchase of 10 packages of Rice-A-Roni. Bill
ate alone at the dining room table. Michelle slept. Then her cell
phone began beeping.
A text message from Chelsea. The football game was over. "Get me."
Michelle called to her husband.
Bill grabbed the keys and headed to the garage.
***
Day Zero.
The separation came sooner than Chelsea had expected.
Her dad was not scheduled to fly to basic training until Oct. 7, but
a day earlier he had to report to the recruiting office where a van
would take him to Milwaukee. The recruits would be driven to a hotel
in the city so that early the next day, they could be processed,
sworn in and flown to their base.
Bill's family would not be there on the 7th. Hard enough to face one
farewell. No one had the stomach for a second.
Besides, separation wasn't the family's only misery scheduled for
Oct. 6. Hours before Bill left, Michelle was to receive her next dose
of chemo. Bill planned to accompany her to the hospital. Chelsea, too.
This time, however, Michelle's blood tests were not good. She was not
healthy enough to be poisoned. She would have to skip a week.
So, on a rainy morning, everyone, including Bill's mother and
stepfather, waited in Watertown, watching the clock tick closer to 1
p.m. and his appointment at the recruiting office.
Less than an hour remained. Bill hooked up the camera to the TV and
they watched a slide show of images from the past year. Here was
Little Bill at his high school prom and graduation, and Chelsea at
confirmation. Here was the Fourth of July parade, Chelsea marching
with the band and holding the flag. Here was the trip to the Great
Smoky Mountains - the cabin, four-wheeling with Little Bill,
horseback riding with Chelsea.
"This is me dying," Michelle said, smiling at a photo of the climb up
Clingmans Dome.
"You made it," Bill said.
When the slide show returned to Little Bill's prom, the family stood
up to go. Bill grabbed his backpack. The long goodbye moved to the
recruiting office.
The van was late. Michelle straightened her husband's jacket and
hugged him. She talked about the last few months, how strange it had
felt to have him home during the day instead of away at work. It
would feel stranger still not to have him around at all.
"I'll find out how many times I say, 'I don't know. Ask your Dad.
That's your Dad's department,' " she said.
Just before 2:30, the van arrived.
"Butterflies are coming back," Bill said, excusing himself for a last
trip to the restroom.
The driver checked IDs, consulted his clipboard, then eyed Bill and
the other recruit.
"You ready?"
Chelsea and her Dad hugged. It happened so quickly; all she could say
was: "Bye."
In the parking lot, tears streamed down Michelle's face. She held
Bill near the van, unable to find any words at all.
"I love you," Bill said. "I'll call."
And then he was gone.
On the ride home, Chelsea texted her cousin and her best friend.
My Dad just left.
No signature this time. The countdown was over.
***
Early the next morning, Bill Caudle learned that he would not be
going to Fort Jackson, S.C. He was headed to Fort Knox, Ky., instead.
He would be half as far from home - 475 miles instead of 950.
The moment he was processed at Fort Knox, his Army health coverage kicked in.
Having missed a week of chemo, Michelle is scheduled to return for
treatment Tuesday. Her birthday. "Not exactly where you want to spend
your birthday," she said, managing a grin.
If all went according to schedule, Bill would finish basic training
in mid-December. Michelle would still be in the midst of chemo. She
hoped to make it to his graduation.
.
