A Spring of Joy

This past year and a half has been a drain on our family… on Brian’s and my marriage, on the children, on my parents. It is exhausting to be constantly fighting for survival–survival of us, of our hearts. Sometimes it seems survival of our very faith, even though I know that He Who began a good work will complete it…

Years ago, I wrote of how my sweet Bear was struggling as his fear turned physical for him, and almost every night we found him coming to us or running to the bathroom with nausea and feeling as if he might throw up. Every time, he cried and begged us to pray for him, to ask God that he wouldn’t throw up because he hated it so much.

One time my mom was with him during one of his episodes. He said to her as he shook and swayed, his little body clammy and weak, “Oh, Grandma, I hope God answers yes and not no to our prayer.”

As heart-breaking as this all was for me, for him, for us to go through, I marveled at the wisdom of a 7-year-old boy. He got it. God doesn’t just answer our prayer when we get what we want, when the yes comes.

Even a no is an answer…

God chose yes that night for Bear and chose yes subsequent nights, although Bear’s misery was obvious. And each time we thanked God for His mercy that He would choose yes. But if the answer were no, we would thank Him as well. We would thank Him for strength to get through it and for hearing our prayers even when we didn’t like the answer.

God always… always answers prayer.

He is no less good and no less loving and no less God when the answer is no.

But, y’all, this week…this week has been a resounding YES.

My oncologist called me this week. “Your PET crossed my desk, and I know Brian often takes time from work to come with you to your appointments. I didn’t want him to have to miss time, so I thought I’d call you with the news.” (Can I just interject again how awesome she is?!) And y’all the news was good. This morning I met with her and we went over the scan.

Are y’all sitting down? If not, please do.

There is NO activity. NO hot spots. Nothing that would indicate active disease. My abdomen is clear. My chest and neck are clear.

Because of the nature of my cancer, there will never be a time when she will look at me and say that I am cancer free, because there could always be residual disease lurking that is too small for the scan to pick up, but for today, she said, “This is the best possible PET we could have asked for.”

Oh, y’all. OH, Y’ALL!

We are so overcome, so thankful, and yet still cautiously optimistic.

There are two spots on my bones (one one my hip and another in my spine) they are watching, but she cannot confirm one way or the other that it’s cancer. They’re are too small to be active on a PET.

So, where do we go from here?

I continue on the current course of treatment. I started my new chemo a week ago, and I have had minimal side effects so far. This is the week where I should start to anticipate more. My blood counts are lowering, so fatigue is hitting, and I have to be careful of infection. I’ll stay on my diet and supplement regimen. They will see how I tolerate this new chemo, do another PET in a few months to see if the cancer is still being suppressed, and then we will make decisions from there.

There are days where I question why I am doing this… feeling so miserable in order to live. When I know it’s working, it makes it a whole lot easier.

In staff meeting this week, we discussed Acts 27 and Paul’s shipwreck on his way to Rome. He knew he would make it to Rome. God had told him so. And as the ship shuddered and the men feared for their lives, Paul tells them in verse 25, “Therefore, keep up your courage, men, for I believe God that it will turn out exactly as I have been told.” It struck a deep chord with me and I shared it with them. We know. We know how it ends. We’ve been told in His Word, and it’s a glorious telling.

A co-worker spoke up, “Yes, and look at vs. 26,” she said, “Nevertheless, we must run aground…” Nevertheless. We know how it ends. We don’t know what life will look like in between. We will run aground here on earth, but we know it will turn out exactly as we have been told.

I do not understand God’s ways. I do not understand why I have been given a yes for now and other friends have been given a no. I beg God for them, that they will still receive a yes… but for all of us, I pray for grace to accept His will no matter what that will may be. And I know that it is the glory of God to conceal a matter. (Proverbs 25:2)

He is not unfaithful. He cannot be.

And His final answer, whether my cancer explodes again or not, is and will be yes for us. As I have studied the Psalms and Isaiah, I am struck by how many times God says, “I will…”

I will.

I will.

I will.

My final hour on this earth, whenever that may be is a final “I will.” I will bring you to glory… to no more pain, no more tears, no more sin, no more cancer. I will bring you to perfection, to ultimate peace and joy and love, to Christ, to HOME.

His promises are true, and one day I will hear it…

The final yes to all my prayers and longings…

Until then, may I have faith like my Bear, who asks God for anything and hopes for yeses and not noes, who accepts His will no matter what, and utters thanksgiving for either answer.

“When life is sweet, say thank you and celebrate. And when life is bitter, say thank you and grow.” (~Shauna Niequist)

“The world is indeed full of peril…”

The last week has been a roller coaster with as many twists and turns as it has had ups and downs. I have reeled afresh with the struggle that cancer brings, the unknowns, the changes to what had become normalcy, the physical suffering. I have had several phone conversations with staff from the cancer center as they work toward my new regimen. We have had encouraging news and we have had frustrating news, and I have good days and bad days.

I will begin a new chemo this week, only this will be an oral chemo. No more hours spent in the infusion center. Instead I’ll be dosing myself at home twice a day for two weeks, then a week break. Every few weeks, I’ll receive a shipment of pills in the mail, and I have a daily schedule for eating and dosing that I must keep. Even that seems overwhelming to me… how cancer runs my schedule. And I have fought against this kicking and screaming. It seems so silly, I know, to writhe against this small change, but I want to be in charge of my schedule!

On Friday, the oncology nurse from the company that ships my chemo called and spent 45 minutes on the phone with me going over expectations and regimen and dose and side effects, and I walked away completely and utterly overwhelmed. How? How am I going to do this all over again? I cried for a while, then realized how often through this I have been doing the “small things” in my own strength and living like only the big things are in God’s hands. But no. I need Him for every breath, every dose, every minute of my schedule.

“May Your mercy come quickly to meet us, for we are in desperate need.” (Psalm 79:8)

This has been my heart cry once again as I realize how self-sufficient I have become and how desperately I need my Jesus.

And His mercy is great. New every morning.

Today I saw my oncologist and brought pages of notes and questions with me. I know I’ve said this before, but she is amazing. She handled every question with a smile and made sure to fully answer not just what seemed like my intense interrogation of her, but she alleviated many of my fears as well. She helped me grasp what my chemo schedule will look like and how to give myself grace with approximations. As a person who tends to live in black and white, the gray of approximations was a lovely color today!

Her integrated medicine approach is encouraging, and I can bring my list of supplements and diet changes to her, and she says, “Go for it. No interactions. Keep your body strong.”

After my appointment, I went into the infusion center for blood work, and the oncology pharmacist came over to spend some time preparing me for the new chemo, too. He is a wonderful man and went over to-dos and what-not-to-dos in great detail. “Don’t be a hero.” he told me. “Call us anytime for anything that seems wrong or unmanageable.” Then he smiled gently, “God has placed you on my heart,” he said. “I’ve been praying for you, and I prayed over these pills, that God would use them to heal your body.” Yes, my friends, tears.

The new chemo will take some adjusting, and it may require some dosage changes as my body metabolizes it. I have lost even more weight, and she is concerned that the common dose may be too high for me. If I show severe side effects, we will revisit how much and how often I take them. It’s all an unknown still, but sounds somewhat manageable.

Unknowns. *sigh*

This morning I texted a dear friend these words from Charles Spurgeon’s Morning and Evening that I read today: “Be thou bold to believe for He has said, ‘I will never leave you nor forsake you.’ In this promise God gives His people everything. ‘I’ will never leave you…” She is walking through a fiery trial, too. One that has fostered many phone calls, weeping together, and sleepless nights of prayer for us both. There are so many unknowns…

But the truth is, no matter what any of this brings, He is with us. And truth doesn’t change.

Yes, “the world is indeed full of peril…”

“…and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater. (~J.R.R. Tolkien)”

This weekend I was able to go out to eat with my family and then a square dance at my church (and even danced a couple times!). A dear college friend came down for Saturday and Sunday, and we watched my Ash play basketball, then went to a JMU game while my younger two went skiing with friends. We shared hearts and struggles, and she didn’t balk at the chaos of a home undergoing renovation. It was a much needed weekend.

Tonight I am curled up with my boys. Ash-man has been home from school with a high fever and deep cough. Bear is battling a sore throat and cold, and we are hoping it won’t turn into more. My Bella-girl is out with her daddy. We have worked on homework and flash cards and maps and memorization. A friend brought us chili and fruit and corn bread. The fire warms. Texts and phone calls have reminded me of the truth above… that love is mingled with grief, but that love grows greater.

Your love. His love.

Yes, His mercy has been poured out in so many ways.

(I have a PET scan on Thursday morning and will begin taking the new chemo Thursday night. Will you pray for us? And pray for protection from so much sickness? Your love and prayers are a gift.)

Today I should be at work, but I am curled up under blankets next to a roaring fire… splitting headache, achy body, nausea, fatigue. Chemo.

Y’all, I don’t even know how to describe the wretchedness of chemo.

On Monday as I walked into the cancer center with my dad (best chemo buddy ever!), I told him how hard it was to enter those doors. Every time I go in, I know what awaits me when I leave. Days of misery, of curling up, of watching life happen around me, of stressing over things I think need to get done that I cannot do. I read some, write some, watch some tv, and sleep. My children spend time in my room, snuggling, sharing of their days, getting instructions for chores to take care of the home while I’m unable. Some days it’s really hard to see the gifts in this misery.

And then…

The phone rings late, and I see it’s the cancer center and my heart does a flip-flop.

“Angie, it’s Dr. U.” she sounded almost giddy, “Your lab work just crossed my desk and I had to call right away.”

Y’all, my tumor markers have dropped again. In fact, they’ve almost halved again!

I will have more details and answers to lots of questions that I have after I see the doctor again for my next treatment, but in the meantime, we are thankful for this gift for this day.

Chemo continues. It is hard. It is miserable.

Diet and supplements continue. It is hard. But it is wholesome.

And it is working!

Quiet celebration resounds in my heart… there will be time for noisy celebration when I feel better.

Thank y’all for walking this road with us… for encouraging us, for gritting your teeth in the pain with us, for praying for us, for not giving up on us, for weeping when we weep and rejoicing when we rejoice. It takes a village, and you are a wonderful village to “live” with.