With the support of kind and generous new friends, I settled into their bed and breakfast in San Diego, while Kent returned to Colorado. Having prayed, discussed every option and possibility available to us, we said good-bye. And while Kent waited and worked things out in the Springs, I rested and wrestled with the final treatment decision.
Such a complex disease as cancer can lead to overwhelming fears and doubts, as well as the highest hopes and expectations for healing. Decisions about cancer treatment are excruciating, as are the choices of how to live life with this new intruding consideration. There are no simple answers, no simple remedies. I agonize with great respect and empathy for all who must make these kinds of choices.
We realized that I had to make a decision based on what I'd been able to gather in those two weeks. There would always be new research and my knowledge would still be incomplete, but we had enough information to make a fully informed decision. We would always be inadequate for this, but God, always adequate. And so this decision was made to the best of our ability IN FAITH, completely dependent upon God.
Within two weeks, and over two thousand miles of travel, after consulting ten health practitioners and specialists from a broad spectrum of disciplines, after several dozen books and lectures, and hours of researching reputable online resources, our choices were settled. And my loving mother reminded me of the consolations of Isaiah 26:3 "You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you."
Then came the waiting... which turned into a blessed time of preparation. I thought I'd be able to check in immediately for the in-patient treatment program, but found I would be delayed for two weeks. Not without a bit of distress and urgency, I went immediately to my transition plan. Having no place to call home, I checked myself in for two weeks at a reputable Christian health institute to cleanse and nourish my body, mind and spirit. I needed a place of respite to strengthen myself for all that lie ahead, and there could be no better solution. What a gift, as I would soon discover...
To be continued...
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Friday, January 13, 2012
New Realities
It's one thing to singularly approach this disease in a clinical and intellectual way, set in an office, a lab, a medical examining room. I can walk out of there and life can appear normal. I can blend in. No one knows the disease at work inside my face, inside my head. I don't feel sorry for myself right now. But oh, the pain of knowing that my loving God has chosen to afflict me in this staggering way. I hold ever before me the knowledge that He sets all the boundaries of my suffering and yet, I really haven't accepted this.
We attend a lecture given by the physician we have chosen for consideration. The room is full of cancer patients undergoing treatment. As I listen to the discussion, engaging with the others, all I can do is respond according to my nature, and as a holistic health practitioner. I have a hard time seeing myself as a fellow patient. Shouldn't I be there to help them? I wrestle both with pride and compassion.
We share lunch with some of these courageous people. Hearing their stories, and being asked to share mine, sharpen my focus and confirm the reality of my condition. I'm inspired and saddened by the journeys of these folks. I admire their perseverance, their persistence, their resolve. They feel the same about me. But I haven't been down this road so far as they, their suffering incomparable.
My heart is both distressed and heartened. There is both the spirit of faith and the swirling airs of death. Some of these folks are fighting valiantly, some to the tragic end. Others bitterly endure for their loved ones. I want to know other stories, like the ones I'd heard just weeks before about brighter, happier lives. Cancer free. This hospital is an incubator of hope, with intense healing work for the suffering. Everyone looking for what comes after.
I want to be a part of this kind and healing place. But not as a cancer patient. Nor as a cancer survivor. I will not call myself that when I heal. Do I say I'm a flu survivor? A malaria survivor? I'm treating this disease with all the deadly respect it deserves, and treating my body with the loving respect it deserves. I will give my body every advantage and opportunity to strengthen and fight it out. Entrusting my soul to its Creator, I take my next bold steps up from the treacherous valley floor. I look around and see everything around me that would throw me down jagged, bone-breaking rock faces and sheer cliffs. Every story, every statistic, every fear magnified by the Accuser, every twist and truth. And oh, the doubts and uncertainty.
Yet I know His gaze upon me and the offering of His hand, that in this moment just as Jesus has said to me many times before, as He did to Peter: "What is that to you? Follow me." And so I do.
To be continued...
We attend a lecture given by the physician we have chosen for consideration. The room is full of cancer patients undergoing treatment. As I listen to the discussion, engaging with the others, all I can do is respond according to my nature, and as a holistic health practitioner. I have a hard time seeing myself as a fellow patient. Shouldn't I be there to help them? I wrestle both with pride and compassion.
We share lunch with some of these courageous people. Hearing their stories, and being asked to share mine, sharpen my focus and confirm the reality of my condition. I'm inspired and saddened by the journeys of these folks. I admire their perseverance, their persistence, their resolve. They feel the same about me. But I haven't been down this road so far as they, their suffering incomparable.
My heart is both distressed and heartened. There is both the spirit of faith and the swirling airs of death. Some of these folks are fighting valiantly, some to the tragic end. Others bitterly endure for their loved ones. I want to know other stories, like the ones I'd heard just weeks before about brighter, happier lives. Cancer free. This hospital is an incubator of hope, with intense healing work for the suffering. Everyone looking for what comes after.
I want to be a part of this kind and healing place. But not as a cancer patient. Nor as a cancer survivor. I will not call myself that when I heal. Do I say I'm a flu survivor? A malaria survivor? I'm treating this disease with all the deadly respect it deserves, and treating my body with the loving respect it deserves. I will give my body every advantage and opportunity to strengthen and fight it out. Entrusting my soul to its Creator, I take my next bold steps up from the treacherous valley floor. I look around and see everything around me that would throw me down jagged, bone-breaking rock faces and sheer cliffs. Every story, every statistic, every fear magnified by the Accuser, every twist and truth. And oh, the doubts and uncertainty.
Yet I know His gaze upon me and the offering of His hand, that in this moment just as Jesus has said to me many times before, as He did to Peter: "What is that to you? Follow me." And so I do.
To be continued...
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Mercy in the Medicine
And as we made our way up the coast of California, God blessed us with moments of spectacular beauty, glimmering joy and opportunities to worship Him. Fighting for faith in my own forlorn landscape of fear and despair, I could only cast my hope in Christ, trusting that my soul would survive the fury of the dashing waves of affliction.
The closer we got to Portland, the more certain we became that the Northwest would not become our place of healing. There had been a possibility for Kent to take an assignment in Salem, but we knew that wasn't right in a matter of moments. Some things come easier than others. We were grateful we could remove even one consideration from the list.
Fires burned and agricultural activities spread a dirty cloud that reached my spirit, agitating my doubts and stirring up unbelief. Not a happy place to be. It was all I could do to walk into the surgeon's office on that bright September afternoon.
I looked around at the disfigured, scarred people who were so marked by disease and could barely take my eyes off the carpeting. I did not want to see such frightful suffering. I wrestled with anger too, as I saw a young smoker with a fresh surgical wound, continuing still his deadly habit. And yet here I was, numbered among them. Severe mercy.
Nausea and fear, as well as resolve, were welling up. It was all I could do not to run out of the room, back down the highway, back to the beach far from these horrors. Then came the assurances that we were making the right decisions, seeing the right people, investigating all our options properly and thoroughly.
Again, this oral surgeon recommended a modified neck dissection, with the possibility of radiation to ensure remission. However, he was willing to remove just the tongue tumor if I insisted upon that. So we left there leaving the doors open to surgery if needed. We had decisions to make.
We had hoped to take a few days to rest in Bend, Oregon, and to spend time with my youngest brother and his family. But the fires were fierce along the route we would take and so instead, we routed ourselves down the Oregon and California coasts for more spectacular beauty... and fears.
Now to condense and synthesize all the information and research. Now to continue the press for a new military assignment, and yet to where? We were facing treatment decisions, locations, healing/recovery time, safe housing, and financing the whole endeavor. So many concerns, so many possibilities. So many hopes. And for a time, scant admonishment and comfort, as I cast about for the good Lord's help to my anguishing questions and unanswered cries.
We decided to again visit a doctor in Santa Barbara, before determining that we needed to return to San Diego to make our final decisions. Kent needed to get back to Colorado so we could prepare for a new assignment. How grateful we were for the time that had been provided for Kent to be with me while we processed all of this together. Even though I was prepared to do all these things alone, while he deployed, how grateful I was for the blessing of his loving presence and help.
He reminded me that in this confusing mess of pain and uncertainty we must still obey the truth of Ephesians, that we must be thankful and that whatever we do and say, all be done in the name of Jesus. That in every test, every thought, every task, we give thanks to God through our interposing, compassionate Christ. Oh, what bitter medicine must be applied to wretch up bitterness and cleanse my cloudy soul! Was there no other remedy than this? How simple, how excruciating, how critical, how fortifying. And oh, how wearying...
To be continued...
The closer we got to Portland, the more certain we became that the Northwest would not become our place of healing. There had been a possibility for Kent to take an assignment in Salem, but we knew that wasn't right in a matter of moments. Some things come easier than others. We were grateful we could remove even one consideration from the list.
Fires burned and agricultural activities spread a dirty cloud that reached my spirit, agitating my doubts and stirring up unbelief. Not a happy place to be. It was all I could do to walk into the surgeon's office on that bright September afternoon.
I looked around at the disfigured, scarred people who were so marked by disease and could barely take my eyes off the carpeting. I did not want to see such frightful suffering. I wrestled with anger too, as I saw a young smoker with a fresh surgical wound, continuing still his deadly habit. And yet here I was, numbered among them. Severe mercy.
Nausea and fear, as well as resolve, were welling up. It was all I could do not to run out of the room, back down the highway, back to the beach far from these horrors. Then came the assurances that we were making the right decisions, seeing the right people, investigating all our options properly and thoroughly.
Again, this oral surgeon recommended a modified neck dissection, with the possibility of radiation to ensure remission. However, he was willing to remove just the tongue tumor if I insisted upon that. So we left there leaving the doors open to surgery if needed. We had decisions to make.
We had hoped to take a few days to rest in Bend, Oregon, and to spend time with my youngest brother and his family. But the fires were fierce along the route we would take and so instead, we routed ourselves down the Oregon and California coasts for more spectacular beauty... and fears.
Now to condense and synthesize all the information and research. Now to continue the press for a new military assignment, and yet to where? We were facing treatment decisions, locations, healing/recovery time, safe housing, and financing the whole endeavor. So many concerns, so many possibilities. So many hopes. And for a time, scant admonishment and comfort, as I cast about for the good Lord's help to my anguishing questions and unanswered cries.
We decided to again visit a doctor in Santa Barbara, before determining that we needed to return to San Diego to make our final decisions. Kent needed to get back to Colorado so we could prepare for a new assignment. How grateful we were for the time that had been provided for Kent to be with me while we processed all of this together. Even though I was prepared to do all these things alone, while he deployed, how grateful I was for the blessing of his loving presence and help.
He reminded me that in this confusing mess of pain and uncertainty we must still obey the truth of Ephesians, that we must be thankful and that whatever we do and say, all be done in the name of Jesus. That in every test, every thought, every task, we give thanks to God through our interposing, compassionate Christ. Oh, what bitter medicine must be applied to wretch up bitterness and cleanse my cloudy soul! Was there no other remedy than this? How simple, how excruciating, how critical, how fortifying. And oh, how wearying...
To be continued...
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