There have been a number of requests around the world for updates on the condition and situation of Marc Nikkel, Episcopal mission worker for Sudan. Marc has recently prepared an update for his friends and I have discussed with him the possibility of it being shared through Sudan Infonet. He is reluctant because many receipient may not know him or have a particular interest in this type of personal information. However, he has agreed to allow Sudan Infonet to distribute this so that the many of his friends and colleagues around the world can have this informed update as we continue in prayer for him in his fight with cancer. Sincerely, Bill Lowrey ____________________________ Sender: MNikkel@maf.org Date: Fri, 30 Oct 1998 From: MNikkel@maf.org (Marc Nikkel) Subject: MN, on Pilgrimage, Reedley to London, 28 October, 98 Venn House, Kent, England, Thursday, the 29th of October, 1998 To Friends on Three Continents. This comes as an update on this, the most recent phase of my pilgrimage, body and soul. It will be a long letter with information a number have requested. I don't, however, want to burden you with my many words and encourage free use of the DELETE key!. For three weeks I've been in the company and care of my good friend of 16 years, Robin Fisher (MD). Were it not for Robin's vigilant support, especially during our Westward flights for NY and California, this last journey would not have been possible. In the process our mutual love has deepened and proved another superlative gift of these precarious months. On arrival back in Birmingham Robin and his wife, Anna, have thrown themselves into preparations to return to Northern Sudan, she for linguistic research, and he to offer his services in medicine. Friends at the Episcopal Church Centre in New York had arranged a wonderful reception for the week of 5th October, with an invitation to preach at the Wednesday service and a private meeting with the Presiding Bishop. Our first day was as rich as it could be, including a moving encounter with our PB. On Tuesday, however, it was clear I was becoming increasingly anemic, caused by the malfunction of my swollen kidneys. A lengthy doctor's appointment consumed Tuesday morning, and the only opening for a blood transfusion was Wednesday, the 7th of October, at Mount Sinai Hospital. Events at the Church Center were slipping into the haze of medical expediency. On admission I was taken to the bowels of this great teaching hospital and engulfed by a bewildering array of doctors, feeling rather like a medical hostage. During the next five days my beleaguered body received not two but seven units of blood, and a great deal else. All this on Mount Sinai, the biblical symbolism wafting round my bed. With airline delays on oxygen tanks for our ongoing flight we were unable to leave until Monday, the 12th of October. Departure was a relief, though the flight itself proved difficult. Neither Robin nor I had taken seriously the time changes, and quantities of drugs I needed for the arduous high-altitude journey. Chest pains proved debilitating, and I was a trembling geriatric, short of breath, by the time we arrived. Once back in the loving embrace of my sister and brother-in-law in Reedley, California, my health stabilized remarkably, and my strength and agility have improved daily since. Undeniably, this is also a result of the decision I've made, with the support of doctors in London, NYC, and California, to terminate chemotherapy as of the 7th of October. The side effects of a month on 5 Fluorouracil (5FU)--mouth sores, lack of taste, cracked and bleeding hands and feet, digestive malfunctions, degenerating skin and hair texture, a depressive, disorientated state, and many more--were proving just too much, with no observable benefits. While continuing these poisonous drugs may minimally extend the length of my life, the quality of that life is doubtful. Better to continue with a range of painkillers, seeking to facilitate the best quality of life, whatever its duration. Know, however, that I restrain none of my friends from prayer for miraculous and complete healing through the power of the Spirit of Christ. Increasingly I receive narratives of healing and recovery from cancer, all of which underscore the intimate links between these diseases and one's spiritual and psychological resources. Doctors have, to date, appeared quite bewildered by my case; their prognoses have been innacurate, as have the percentages of cure they show me. Having put a halt to chemo, my life is, more explicitly than ever in the hands of our God, and that vast, worldwide community who hold me daily in prayer. To you and our Lord I commend my continuing life and pilgrimage. Some of you were aware of my longing to see my father, Reuben Nikkel. Given my medical status as "terminally ill", and Dad's substantial loss of memory at age 86, time spent physically in each other's presence has been a priority. Yes, I'd repeat things a dozen times and still the same question arose, "When are you leaving, Marc?". Or he'd remark for the 20th time, "Your feet are sure swollen". It seemed no new concept remained with him but a few minutes. And yet, when we'd ask Dad to pray he would launch into petitions of remarkable depth and detail, not least about my illness, using fresh vocabulary, remembering events past and present, in ways that were quite astonishing. It is in prayer alone, in the realm of the spirit, that Dad's inner world finds expression, and gave me all I could have hoped for. Though I was something of a hermit those two weeks in Reedley, one remarkable evening gathering found me with about 20 of my Immanuel Academy classmates, graduates of the class of '69, most of whom I'd not seen in three decades. How we'd changed, how much the same. Though far too brief there was a heartwarming sense of solidarity. Most inspiring, however, apart from a greater intimacy with my family, has been the sense of being encompassed by prayer. Local people, good folk of Mennonite and Episcopal churches seemed to carpet the heavens in prayer for my recovery. Back in August I'd mentioned, in a list of suggested funeral preparations requested by my sister, that I'd like a plain wood coffin which, perhaps I could make with some of my friends. For some this sounds macabre, for others it has proved a community- building exercise, a tangible expression of solidarity with the dying. This notion passed from sister to one of my agemates, and spread until, by the night of my arrival, a group of five former classmates had gathered to build a coffin. As my itinerary has shifted for a return to UK, some have suggested I'd best tote it with me. I'm afraid, however, that, for the present, it remains in Reedley. During our first days in California, Robin and I felt that, given our difficult Westward flights, neither of us was up for a repeat: I would remain in Reedley to fill out what time remains in word and drawing. However, as days progressed, and Robin found himself in the undertow of small town America culture shock, we were both forced to reassess. It became clear that my 'community'--those who have a living sense of my life and ministry, and possibly have been effected by it--are not in the town of my birth. Today they are gathered nearer the Rift Valley than the San Joaquin Valley; and they are more concentrated in the United Kingdom than across the vast United States. Despite the challenges and anxieties we opted to return to UK. Leaving the home of my birth on Saturday, the 24th, we arrived back in London on Sunday. Our flight was blessedly smooth and uneventful. From the beginning I breathed oxygen from the two tanks we'd arranged, and I walked the isles every half hour to keep my swollen legs exercised. Now I am back in my own apartment at Venn House, Kent, well cared for by a battery of staff. This week I hope to have extended meetings with two Sudan colleagues, Andy Wheeler, and newly arrived, David Tower. By about Friday, the 5th of November I'll be off, some ten accumulated boxes and bags in tow, for Blackruthven House, the home of my friends of 18 years, Robin & Marianne Anker Petersen. Their 18th Century home and 300 acre property of forest and gardens, constitute a facility of the Acorn Healing Trust. The steadings (horse stalls) have been revamped as a self catering centre to receive Christian communities for retreat. I'll be part of the A-P family, my room within the old Manor House. But what of my journey of soul during these days? I'm pleased to say I find myself once more "in one place". Perhaps it was the little digital pump that shot chemo into my heart 24 hours a day; or the rapid evacuation from East Africa, or the psychological effects of chemotherapy that were the cause, but today I again sense myself as being one person in one place, soul and body. For this I give thanks. Some of the frantic inner intensity of past months has calmed. This too is a relief. What is unchanged is the sense of love that pervades, that 'seeps between the cracks' so to speak, of many friendships each day of these months. While I can be a bit crotchety and blunt with folk who say stupid things to this 'terminal patient', or who natter on about subjects I have no interest in, I find most relationships undergird with a new dimension of acceptance and love, and here there is much to be celebrated. Often, when I'm waiting in public places, say having pint in the old Pentiles district of Tunbridge Wells, I find fresh delight in watching people. Small children are more beautiful than ever . . . as are the aged. I confess I have an impulse to envy them their life. Tunbridge Wells is a place with many vigorous retired folk. How I've come to admire healthy old age . . . and long for it. I used to pray that I'd live to become a 'wise old man', not wealthy or powerful, possibly penniless, but wise. While I may not attain either, I remain profoundly thankful for the peculiar route I've been led to travel, frequently the long, circuitious route, the time- consuming pathway, the way of apparent desolation. What incomparable people, what richness of spirit I've encountered in such obscure places. There is virtually nothing I would change in the life I've lived, but perhaps wish that I'd packed still more into it, and produced what I have with yet greater intensity and higher quality. These are days of constant dialogue with my body, this large, 230 pound abode of flesh that's served me so well through these 48 years of independent living. For far too long I despised it, one of the destructive learnings of my youth. Only in adulthood have I claimed it with joy as my own possession, a gift of God to be cherished. Strange, that it is now, during a period when I'd gained a sort of loving satisfaction with my body, its daily exercises and food consumption, its dressing and grooming, that my body seems to have succumb to destructive forces hitherto undreamed of. I struggle with how to regard it when it no longer acts on command, when its anemic, or bleeding, or diarrhetic, thoroughly out of control. Never before have I experienced this kind of physical vulnerability and it is very difficult for me. There are those times when, weakened by anemia, I'd fall while putting on my underwear, and sit on the floor weeping, so foolish did it feel. Or when I thought I could scramble up a stone staircase, to slip and fall on my face, my belongings scattered. It is hard, not only to accept but to gauge my weakness. My body is limited, and it is sobering to count its limitations. How, now, can I love and embrace this embattled and withering gift of God, is a question on which I daily reflect. Nonetheless, I tell you a secret (most of you would've assumed from the start). Yesterday, the 28th of October I went to see my doctor at the Royal Marsden Hospital. A good, positive encounter, he quite surprised by my improved blood readings. On feeling my belly he found no obvious sign of the advance of cancer, and several times remarked on how good I looked (could this be reality or the effect of my first foray into tinting my graying hair?). Certainly, I'm aware of stomach pain, and the fact that my upper body is becoming thinner while my lower extremities remain swollen. From behind the dressing curtain I mentioned my dream of returning to East Africa to work out my farewells with friends from whom I was severed so abruptly. His response, "I see no reason why you shouldn't make the journey to Africa; so stable is your health just now." What wonderful encouragement for one who weeps little any more, but for my longing to see my kin and clan among the Jieng one last time. Possibly late November when exams are finished? This too, is a dream I commit to you for prayer, one more stage on this God given pilgrimage. Remember each day that, "all, in the end, is harvest." Nothing of my years is wasted, nor yours. Not one scrap, not the dust and ashes of broken friendships, once thought long burried. Every aspect of my life, our lives, has its meaning, and purpose, and some, as I find almost daily in recent weeks, are resurrected. Nothing wasted, but all enfolded in love. All, in the end, is Harvest. After 5th November, my address will be: Blackruthven House, Tibbermor, Perth PH1 1PY SCOTLAND Phone: 01738 583 238; e-mail, unchanged With thanksgiving and deep affection, Marc Nikkel - - - - - - - - - - - Distributed by Sudan Infonet An Information Service of the Sudan Working Group--USA SudanInfonet@compuserve.com Web Site: http://members.tripod.com/~SudanInfonet/ Funding provided by: Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) 11/5/98 9:28 AM