I do not have cancer nor am I a cancer survivor. But I, like many of you, have had intimate contact with those who have survived, with those who have not and with those whose lives are a battle against an enemy who wants to steal, kill and destroy; who wants to limit the lives of those so filled with value, promise, hope, dreams and destiny. What follows is a small portion of my journey with them.
Part 1
Waiting . . .
Waiting can be tortuous and even tormenting. We had been waiting; trying to be patient, trusting, keeping it all together. But here, now, the waiting became so heavy, feeling so unbearable, that it invoked the desire to run . . . run away, but . . . no, you couldn’t do that because the waiting for the resolution of the dilemma required you to be there, in person, through every agonizing moment. And with the waiting there gradually evolved the exhaustion that comes from trying to keep hope alive when someone you love, who has their entire life in front of them, for whom you have dreamed and prayed, faces life or death. We were waiting for a miracle to happen.
While growing up, the idea of miracles had never really taken up residence in my thinking in any way. Whether they were real or not or even the object of thought or scrutiny, was never an issue with me. Of course, I had heard exclamations from various and diverse sources to the effect that a miracle had taken place or rather there was no logical or empirical explanation that could account for these occurrences. Again, while hearing of these events, there would be nothing that would challenge me to undertake further investigation and they were soon lost to the black hole of discarded information. That is, until Bible college in the 1970’s where I thoroughly read a Book that was filled with miracles. And it was here, where I sat at the feet of those who believed and taught that the way that those miracles took place then, was not for today.
My personal take away from those years, during which I received my degree, was not so much about whether miracles were for today much less through human instrumentation, but the character and integrity of the God Who, . . . well, did He still perform miracles or not? More importantly, what was He like? If I needed a miracle, would He do one for me?
In answering those questions I failed miserably. He seemed a fickle, schizophrenic, mysterious, angry, slave-driving entity that we prayed to, hoping that we could somehow catch him on a, not so angry, not so demanding day. If our words were just right and convincing enough we might be able to manipulate Him (if that were even possible) to grant our wish. And our chances of that seemed to increase in direct proportion to our hard work, dedication and adherence to a litany of prescribed activities that demanded a high degree of execution and excellence.
This, then, is the backdrop that best describes my grid, my understanding, my attitude, my posture as we sat in the doctor’s office and heard the words no one ever wants to hear: that your loved one, your two and a half year old daughter has cancer.
The next eleven months hosted an initial three-week stay in the hospital for surgery, radiation and chemotherapy. There were numerous trips back and forth to the hospital for more outpatient chemotherapy, beautiful blonde hair falling out until there was none, sick reactions to the medications, sleepless nights, and . . . fear. Lots of fear. And there was more wrestling with whether God was in a good enough mood or whether we asked, begged, petitioned, prayed, intervened and interceded on her behalf enough to sway a, maybe, reluctant God to see things our way, to be in our corner. . . to give us our miracle.
After 11 months of giving her the maximum amount of chemo that her body could take, a cat scan revealed two remaining tumors. . . . Not at all what we had hoped, prayed, dreamed, wished for. Not at all what we had expected. Another surgery was scheduled. It was thought to be quite routine, maybe forty-five minutes at the extreme, and then . . .
We sat in the chapel-like surgical waiting room, hoping . . . and waiting. Forty-five minutes came and went and after two hours we felt like dying. There were other pairs of parents, some grandparents, and small family groups in the waiting room with us. Most of them somber, saying little; some trying to break the pall of fear with chatter and feeble attempts at levity; but all wondering . . . and waiting.
Sitting starkly solitary on the top of a desk in the corner was an old rotary phone. It would ring, someone in our tiny community in the waiting room would answer, and the voice of someone somewhere in the hospital would ask to speak with one of the parents by their last name. It seemed as though we were lost in time as forty-five minutes yielded to an hour which then yielded to two, and almost everyone seemed to be called before us. It’s one of those things in life you never forget. The waiting . . . nervously waiting with anticipation and what little hope was left that the fear and the days and weeks and months of uncertainty had not taken. Sitting there running it through your mind for the millionth time, trying to make some sense of it all, just wanting it to be over. And then our call came.