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Thursday, August 30, 2007

I see life through childhood cancer colored glasses...

I have a confession to make; I tend to see the glass as half empty. Now please do NOT call me a pessimist. I am not a dooms day type person. I am not a kill joy. What I am is a REALIST. There is a difference. A realist sees life in its reality…the good and the bad. I think I’ve always been a realist and that is why I married an optimist. It must be a universal law or something. After all, can you imagine an optimist married to an optimist? That would be like Job in the Bible saying to his wife, “Oh, honey what a beautiful day it is!” while he lies in an ash heap scraping his boils with a pottery shard. His wife would happily reply, with a sweet smile,
“Yes, it is a great day Job, even though we’ve lost everything we’ve ever owned, not to mention all 10 of our precious children and you are covered from head to foot with painful, ugly boils.”

What about a realist married to a realist? Each night they would argue about their favorite topic over dinner, how the world was going to end. It might go something like this…
“Honey, I’m sure we’ll all be blown to kingdom come from the nuclear weapons out there. Might even happen tomorrow. “
“Oh, no honey, I’m just sure the sun will burn out and we’ll all freeze to death. After all, the scientists say…”

But in reality (pun intended) I’m not saying realists aren’t happy or fun or full of joy. I’m not saying one is better than the other. I’m just saying realists need to be surrounded by optimists and optimists need to be surrounded by realists. It’s about balance.

But I have a problem. As a realist, I now see life through cancer colored glasses. I see life through the lens of childhood cancer. Sometimes they are somewhat rosy and some days they are grey or even black. I see children’s lives marked with a greater uncertainty, their futures less sure. I sometimes think I spot recurrence in the corner of my left lens. I see physical damage done to a young innocent body. I remember the toxins pumped through my son’s blood system, so I’m often looking for possible future damage. I try to see my son’s life before living with a tracheotomy, g-tube feeds and thyroid medicines, but it’s pretty hazy with the lenses I now wear. I try to see a future for my son without sedations and esophageal dilations every 6 weeks. All of this, the collateral damage of cancer treatment.

There are days I find myself sliding to the pessimistic side. I’ve seen a little cynicism creep in too maybe even a little less joy as I wear these new spectacles. I don’t want to wear glasses. I’ve always had 20/20 vision, but not anymore. Unfortunately, it is impossible to take off these new glasses. And even more frightening is seeing my optimistic husband sometimes slipping to the pessimistic side.

So how do I keep myself from becoming a pessimist instead of a realist?

I must trust God, know His nature, being sure of His goodness and hold onto HOPE...

There is no end in sight except heaven...

Saturday, August 25, 2007

There is no end in sight except heaven...

Years ago, twenty to be exact, when I began having children and all that includes, I chose a Bible verse to help focus me through the challenging times with young babies. Galatians 6:9 says “Do not grow weary in well doing for in due season you will reap a harvest.” With four beautiful, smart, little girls, I enjoyed every second of my time with them. I loved nursing, the challenge of potty training, the toddler years during which I was usually pregnant with one of them and very cumbersome as I chased after those chubby little legs that were faster than I was. I loved the tea parties, their creativity with paints, paper, scissors and glue. I loved the hours and hours of reading a classic book aloud under a tree in the backyard. I loved the time we spent home schooling, choosing a topic that excited us all, discovering and learning together. If I was going through a particularly difficult childhood phase, I would remind myself that “This too shall pass,” another great word from the Bible reminding us nothing lasts forever. I remember being utterly exhausted each night as I collapsed on the couch after I’d finally gotten them all tucked in their beds, but I was content and happy.

Now, twenty years later, I am reaping a harvest of much fruit as I send my two oldest off to college. I look at them, knowing their hearts are full of life and a love for God. I see their maturity, way beyond mine when I was their age, but I also see their questions and wondering with a little hesitancy as they head off on their own. I release them into God’s hands now, more than ever before, trusting Him to guide them, watch over them, and care for them. I’m excited for them, but I will miss them dearly. Long gone are those precious years of childhood.

Then I remember my three still at home. I have felt the weariness set in, deeper and harsher than ever before. I am older now, but with three long years of battling childhood cancer I feel ancient. I am mentally, spiritually and emotionally spent, but I am not broken. I long to give up, give in, or check out as a mom, but I cannot…I will not. So I ask God each day to build me up. I ask for His grace to help me not grow even more weary, to be able to keep pouring myself out to the three young lives He’s given me at home. They are priceless. They need me. They deserve my devotion just as my older two did.

The battle is tougher now. Childhood cancer does not just “pass” as potty training did. It seems to always be hanging there in the background, waiting like an enemy ready to destroy us. But now I know something I didn’t know as a young mom, God is fighting for us and I can relax in His power and might. I can let the weariness slip away into His hands. I know there will be a harvest for these three as well. One day I will be sending them out the door with a smile on my face and tears in my heart. But when that day comes for Joshua, I will fall on my knees with my hands lifted up in thanksgiving. What if that day does not come for him? Each of our lives is so tentative. Then I remember the ultimate harvest, which will come for all seven of us someday…

There is no end in sight except heaven.

Monday, August 20, 2007

Healing...

I wrote this a while ago when a dear friend of mine took me to the beach for a weekend get-a-way. She’s a very nurturing person and I was wonderfully pampered. She loves to shop and I love to walk along the beach, so one afternoon I found myself alone on the sand and this is what happened…

One day, as I walked down the sun soaked beach of Gerhardt, OR, I noticed how the light shimmered on the ocean waves making the water look like liquid silver. The sky was alive with light and color bursting through the texture of clouds. As I drank in the beauty of God’s creation I surprised myself by suddenly bursting into heart felt sobs. It had been a long and arduous 18 months since our youngest, our only son, had been diagnosed with cancer at the age of 4 years. With tears falling down my cheeks, I found myself saying, “Lord, my soul hurts. My soul is bruised and battered. Lord, heal my soul. Heal my soul.” I repeated this mantra over and over. And then I noticed for the first time, the pieces of sand dollars littering the sandy beach. They were white calcium, the bones of a sea creature torn apart and shattered by the tumultuous waves, strewn over the beach like white scraps of scattered paper. These poor sand dollars had no control over their simple lives. The ferocity of the ocean waves pulled by the moon to create the ebbs and flows of the daily tides had shattered them. They were helpless. They were battered and bruised…they were lifeless. This was how I felt.

As my heart expressed its brokenness… suddenly, I saw it… the first whole sand dollar! It was lying there complete and perfect. I slowly picked it up in disbelief; it was flawless, intact, a full circle, no damage despite being at the mercy of what the environment had placed upon it. My heart beat faster and I could feel myself growing excited. Surely, this was a miracle! But no, there was another and another and after walking hurriedly for 2 hours I had accumulated a sweatshirt pouch full to bursting of these precious gems. Each glorious sand dollar was a message from my God, giving me hope and filling my heart with the promise of His healing. I knew my soul would be renewed. Though I was battered and bruised …healing would come. This was God’s promise to me. A miracle!

Sunday, August 19, 2007

I know what hell is like...and I've seen glimpses of heaven too...

Hell is watching your child suffer terribly and NOT being able to do anything about it. Hell is hearing the words "round blue cell sarcoma" in the same sentence with your 4 year old son's name. It's pale, skinny, baldheaded children with little energy trying to play in the waiting room of a pediatric oncology clinic. Hell is hearing all about the damaging side effects of chemotherapy and radiation, both long and short term, from the doctors and knowing you have no choice. It's wanting to pick your baby up and run...but where? To whom? It's not being able to watch that first dose of toxins being pumped into your baby’s body. Hell is holding your screaming child down for needle pokes and IVs. It's fighting insurance companies for every penny and mixed up communication with hospital staff and children with feeding tubes and yellow plastic tubs for vomiting. It's crying for eight months straight and knowing your life and your child's life will never be the same. It's finishing treatment, and then grieving the damage done to your little boy's body, but being grateful he is alive. Hell is watching some of the other childhood cancer children around you die and being thankful it isn't your child...yet grieving the loss deeply...and feeling guilty...

I've seen glimpses of heaven too...

Heaven is the love and care poured out by neighbors, friends, the church, strangers and the community so much so it could never be repaid. Heaven is kind shoulders to cry on, ears that are listening, hands that show up to grocery shop or clean the house or drop off a meal or drive your other children somewhere. Its people coming together creating fundraisers to help with medical costs and foundations created through loss that help pay the bills. Heaven is free family camps, doctors who cry when a child they’ve treated dies and nurses with a gentle touch. It’s that special childlife worker who goes out of her way to help your son make a Spider Man costume. It's the smile on your son’s face when he's given a toy even though he's too sick to play with it. It's the chemo pals and the art therapists and all the children and their families who show up for the "end of chemo" party! Heaven is the people who encourage your child to dream big, and then actually make that dream come true! Heaven is the love that is shown to a suffering child and his family over and over again, day after day, week after week, month after month and year after year...