Author: Ellie

If you had asked me on the morning of January 8th – MRI morning – if I thought I still lived a cancerous life, I would have known it wasn’t as bad as it had been once upon a time, but after a pause to weigh it all, I would have most likely said yes. Yes, our collective family life is still very much filled with the indirect weight of cancer.

However, the last four weeks have proven that I have indeed forgotten more than I remembered.

I forgot what it was like to live in a place where I take one step without seeing the step after or even knowing when the movement will be required of me.

I forgot what it was like to have people feed me practicality and logic when I just need a hug and the acknowledgment that life is hard, but this won’t break me.

I forgot the near hourly feeling of not being enough for children who want me to process something for them that even I don’t understand.

I forgot the weight of their sobs – how much I hate that they hurt when I gave birth to protect them from, not direct them through, the nightmares at their door.

I forgot what it feels like to live a life half in and out of the hospital, feeling the dread of landing there again even as I relax into the second home – the love-hate relationship with a building filled to the brim with stories of pain and hope.

I forgot all the suggestions that get given.

I forgot how much the well-meaning can can sometimes hurt.

I forgot how much I still want to hear from people even if hurts like hell itself because there is nothing worse than silence in a struggle like this.

I forgot how quickly the days pass when I’m focused on keeping everyone breathing.

I forgot how that breath is a gift.

I forgot that every moment is so excruciatingly precious that it should never be taken for granted.

I forgot that God is enough and wants to be enough. Even though I write those very words all the time, I did not remember the feel of it in truth.

I forgot that sometimes I need blood and pain to remember the things I should never forget – the things in life that truly matter. And I hate myself for that a little bit. Surely, there’s an easier way.

I forgot that remembrance in seasons is actually a gift because these days in their awfulness still manage to showcase the most precious aspects of life on this earth.

I’m not sure if having it all dulled by a long season with more “normal” was worth the pain of it creeping back in (because with a diagnosis like this, it is a slow creep and not an epic crash – it’s an unfolding and not an exploding – but it still hurts – perhaps more so because it is the second and not the first), but for every piece I’m forced to remember, for every new nuance that appears, I claim it for the story it will become, the tool it can be – and in so doing, the moment can wound, but not hold me forever, because there will be a purpose to it.

I forget… but for better or worse, continuing Chase’s cancer journey ensures that I will remember again. And then comes hope…

Moment by moment.

“Is his unfailing love gone forever?
Have his promises permanently failed?
Has God forgotten to be gracious?
Has he slammed the door on his compassion? And I said, “This is my fate;
the Most High has turned his hand against me.”
But then I recall all you have done, O Lord;
I remember your wonderful deeds of long ago.
They are constantly in my thoughts.
I cannot stop thinking about your mighty works.” Psalm 77:8-12

He lay there silent, head tilted back to the ceiling with the near cerulean wall behind him reflecting a comforting light over the space.

“See, Mom? I’m just going rest here now. I can do this,” he says quietly while the tech’s hand jiggles at the movement his words cause and she asks him not to speak for a while.

He sighs and gets quiet and brave; ever the conundrum. His bones are young, his brain is possibly younger, but his heart is oh, so old. 

And when it’s over and quiet in the space, he clutches his brand new pillow – the softest – and snuggles it close. “Maybe I will name him Nemo,” he tells my heart friend and hospital help as she huddles close.

Hours later, we sit in the soaring pavilion, the awful, long day done with more peace than we expected; perhaps even more than we deserved. And while he sits close and tight, I talk to him about things that shouldn’t be. Cancer things. He listens and he asks, his damaged body growing tight in my lap as I hug him close to me, and then he relaxes into the hug, looking lost as he lay his stubbly, baby soft head against me. “It’ll be okay. I’ll be okay.”

He slept and when he woke, he tightened his hold on the plush orange pillow, the day’s symbol of soft rest in a harsh reality, and he spoke wisdom older than his bones. “I think his name should be ‘lost-and-found’. Because Nemo was lost and then he was found and sometimes that happens in the hospital too.”

“For the Lord your God is living among you. He is a mighty savior. He will take delight in you with gladness. With his love, he will calm all your fears. He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.” Zephaniah 3:17 (NLT)

Sometimes we get lost when the world tips a bit. But then we find and are found once again – because the axis and anchor never really moved beneath us. And the knowledge that the anchor of Jesus never changes or leaves us lost means that pain will not define us. It can draw us, but it cannot shape us. It can make us, but it cannot break us – because pain is never the whole story, but only just a part.

Please sing over us, Abba, that we might never be lost, but always found…in you. 

Moment by moment