It was 1996 when I received a phone call. "Is your husband at home with you?" asked my surgeon. Instinctively I knew the results from my recent biopsy weren't good. Outside our two children were playing in the backyard. Jeremy, who had just turned four years old and had recently been diagnosed with autism, was swinging on the teeter-totter and Megan, our bright & chatty five year old, was actively scooping sand into little buckets for sand house construction. Although it was the second week in January, the weather was balmy and unseasonably warm ~~ like the past few days in Kansas City this year.
Immediately I knew that the news my surgeon was going to deliver wasn't good. Instinctively I grabbed for the back of a chair to lean upon (for support). "Yes, he is," I stammered. "The report came back positive for cancer, didn't it?" Short pause. "I won't discuss this on the phone, Kathy. If you want the results, you and Rick will need to come to my office this afternoon." It was a Saturday.
It's amazing the way our brains handle information like this. Looking back, I can only tell you that it felt like free-falling into a dark crevice. In total shock, I called out to Rick and hastily told him what my surgeon had said. We moved quickly like automated robots. First, call my parents. Second, call my sister who lives in St. Louis. Gather our children together and explain how much fun they were going to have at their grandparent's house. Shortly after, Rick and I stood outside the door waving "good-bye" to them as my parents drive away. Time for a good cry, "What if it's cancer, Rick," I wailed. "I'm too young to die! This can't be happening to me! What will we do?"
It was 1996 and I was 36 years old. To my knowledge no one in my family has had cancer except for a couple distant relatives. A few weeks earlier, I had detected the thick lump. Radiographic images showed nothing, but a biopsy that we had lobbied for revealed otherwise.
Over the next several months I would undergo major surgery followed by four months of chemotherapy. It was grueling to say the least. With each successful treatment I grew more despondent and frail. I only allowed three pictures to be taken of me while bald. One was me with a scarf and hat sitting outside with Jeremy on a fairly warm March day, one was me sitting on our front porch with a wrap-around scarf covering my head, and the last one was with me wearing my "Texas Big" human hair wig. I grew more pale with each treatment. There were very dark circles beneath my eyes. My recovery from each chemotherapy injection could be measured by looking at my tongue. It would turn a ghastly white by the second day, then slowly return to pink when my body began it's attempt to rebuild cells before the next round of medicine assaulted, again. Food tasted dull. I felt ugly and less human. Although Rick told me that I was beautiful even without hair, it was embarrassing to go out in public knowing that others looked at me with pity.
Upon reflection I realized that this season in life may have been very difficult, but it was also strangely rewarding. For years I had worked my life away ~~ as a wife, mother, worker and so on. I was one of those people who gained self-worth by doing things and accomplishing tasks. During my time of treatment I did very little besides rest in bed, watch TV and take lots of hot baths when the restlessness grew extreme. Oh sure, there were weeks when my energy returned, but I was never able to fully take on the demands of taking care of my family by myself. And that is where I learned two valuable lessons...
... First, I learned that God often works through others when we're not able to care for ourselves. It was amazing! People just seemed to step-in to help our family. Our family received four meals a week for almost five months. (Thank you, Janet.) My parents hired a wonderful woman who cleaned our little ranch home like it was her own. (Thank you, Mom & Dad.) People brought me gifts, helped run errands, took Jeremy to his special preschool, had Megan over to play (often) ... prayed with me, sang for me (thank you, Lisa), massaged my feet, and the list goes on and on.
One special friendship developed as a result of my cancer ~~ both of us young cancer survivors. We forged a deep and abiding friendship that remains to this day. While many others in similar circumstances have died, Miriam and I lived to tell others about our incredible journey & to encourage others. (Miriam, I love you like a sister.) My younger sister, Judy, and I also grew closer while weathering this experience. Together, my sister, Miriam and I, we share the kind of love that appreciates life just a little more fully knowing that our lives are not to be taken for granted... and that binds us together for life.
Second, I learned that God really did love me. I guess I learned this as I was receiving love from others. A very dear friend of ours offered this bible verse to me to reflect upon: "(God) who comforts us in all our suffering, so that we may be able to comfort others in all their suffering ... as we, ourselves, were comforted by God." (II Corinthians 1:4) I began thinking that maybe there were reasons why God allowed my body to develop this cancer. Early on I vowed to dedicate my life to encouraging and loving others up in support whenever the need arose ~~ if I lived beyond this diagnosis of cancer. It seemed to me that God was asking me to be strong and lean into Him so that I could later help others walk through their own 'valleys of despair'. This verse gave me hope and encouragement.
I would struggle through this episode of cancer for many years. It wasn't easy to move beyond the pain & uncertainty of life. But I did learn that we have a higher purpose in life than simply living comfortably and enjoying the bounties of our hard work. Sixteen years later I am still awed that God would allow me to live. Perhaps He knew how much more work was to be done in my life. As yet, I am still 'unfinished business' trying to learn & grow through life as a Christian.
No comments:
Post a Comment