Walking through the valley - personal narrative of Diane Modglin who died from cancer caused by smoking

Vibrant Life, Sept-Oct, 1993 by Curtis E. Smith, Diane Modglin

The doctors had little to offer Diane Modglin. At most, a chance for remission with chemotherapy and medication providing only temporary relief. She was recovering from her first chemotherapy treatment in Brea Community Hospital, Brea, California, where I serve as staff chaplain, when I met her that warm August day. The future looked dismal. For her the first chemotherapy treatment had been a nightmare. It was like nothing she had ever experienced. First there was the nausea, recurrent wracking vomiting every 15 minutes for hours. Then terrible loneliness. Just she and the drug fighting it out. For the first time she realized how deadly cancer is. This is her story.'

My name is Diane Modglin. I was born October 5, 1932, in Long Beach, California, to Roberta and Albert Grant. Both were heavy smokers. Since 1 was an only child, 1 don't remember ever wanting for anything. l had loving parents who were very good to me. I idolized them, and looked up to them as role models.

Although my parents didn't insist, I worked odd jobs during summer break and after school during my high school years. Deciding not to go to college right after I graduated, I took a job in a supermarket. I soon discovered that I was surrounded by many persons who smoked. I was, according to them, the only "square." The peer pressure was overwhelming. I gave in and started smoking when I was 20. Although both of my parents smoked, they tried to tell me that smoking was a bad habit and could harm my health. My dad said he had emphysema from smoking. I still didn't listen. My grandmother cried when she first saw me smoking. Until the day she died she tried to get me to quit. She would say, "Diane, when you abuse your body, you're going to kill yourself." Again, I didn't listen.

While working at the supermarket, I met a young man who stole my heart. I fell madly in love and married Ray Randall(*) when I was 21. One year later I gave birth to my oldest daughter, Carrie. At about this same time my marriage started to fall apart. I didn't understand why until years later. Ray was a devout follower of his faith and religion. Having been reared in mainstream fundamental Christendom, I didn't agree with his church's teachings. This difference was the cause for many of our disagreements; we ultimately separated and divorced after only four years of marriage.

I then met Jerry. Four years later we were married. We were perfectly matched. It seemed as though our marriage was not only blessed in heaven but made there. We had been married for three years when I got pregnant with our second daughter, Tawnya.

Time passed. I started going to church again. Although I had been in and out of church all my life, I never became a Christian until I started studying the Bible. I was blessed abundantly. I had a wonderful family, a loving husband, and a happy marriage.

I felt guilty. Active in church again, I spent hours reading the Bible and eventually started feeling guilty about smoking, yet I didn't stop; this made me feel even more guilty. I came across a pamphlet written to encourage people to quit smoking. It said, "If others can stop smoking, YOU can! If others can quit, YOU can TOO!" I felt even more guilty. I finally quit.

I stopped smoking for three years, but I was not prepared for the struggle I would go through. During a low time in my life I fell away from the church. Jerry was away from home often. The long evenings and loneliness progressed. Every magazine and newspaper screamed at me with advertisements about low-tar cigarettes that were new on the market. "Low-tar and nicotine cigarettes with filters that greatly reduce the harmful effects of smoking." With that stamp of approval I was hooked again. Just a few cigarettes in the evening at first, then before l realized it I was back to one pack, then two packs a day.

As I look back, it wasn't the lonely nights, or Jerry being away, or even the cigarette advertising that had been responsible for my starting to smoke again. I had used those reasons as "crutches." My crazed desire for nicotine had won out. My value judgment was faulty. I was the one to blame.

My body changed. I started feeling physical changes in my body. I began to have great difficulty breathing and my energy was very low. I coughed uncontrollably at night.

About this time my daughter Tawnya was having her twenty-sixth birthday. As I did for every family birthday, I prepared for a party that would include dozens of balloons that I would have to blow up by mouth. But this time, however, I discovered I couldn't blow up even one balloon. I didn't think too much about these changes. I didn't consider it a health condition. I excused my inability to blow up the balloons by blaming the balloons for being smaller and stronger. My difficulty breathing and low energy level are just because I'm getting older, I thought. I didn't believe anything was wrong with me--except the cough. It persisted and worsened. My husband insisted that I go to the doctor. I reluctantly made and kept an appointment.