Cancer – Page 10 – CHASE AWAY CANCER

Free

Dear ones, this last month has been full of speaking and writing projects, but I wanted to go back in time just a little because I miss you and it’s been a long four weeks. I originally wrote this in the Easter season of 2013 while Chase was in treatment and I’d recently received some very critical feedback on desiring to find joy in suffering. A dozen times, I sat down to write out a “So there!” defense of where Bob and I stood, but there were no good words…until Easter. My freedom to write isn’t bound up in who I am (I need no argument or plea!), but rather, in who God is.

Free to write, free for joy, free in Christ because of the cross.

I hope you are free this weekend, this year, and this life too.

Our weeping is for a season, but joy comes in the morning (Psalm 30:5).

Waiting for the Eternal Morning!

~ E

As a Christian, Easter is one of the most important times of my year. It’s the season I set aside to celebrate what Jesus did for me, but this year is more precious as I consider how the events of Easter fit into our cancer world.

I believe with all my heart that Jesus is the son of God, that the Bible is true, and that the promises it contains are real and this is why I so often include verses in my blog posts–to remind myself of what I know to be true when my circumstances are overwhelming (which they often are). In those moments, I literally have the physical sensation of drowning. Believing as I do doesn’t change the pain of cancer or anything else in this life, but it can and does change how I face the drowning moments.

Often, like the thief on the cross next to Jesus–not the mocker, but the other–the weight of life and pain (some self-inflicted, some not) closes in and I cry out. And then comes the reply,

“Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

That’s it! This is the answer to the agony. The pain and suffering is only a season, because death is swallowed up in Jesus’ glorious victory and its sting is gone. One day soon I will be with Jesus in Heaven!

Because I know God made me, and I will be in Heaven with Him forever when this weary life is over, I am freed from the drowning to feel joy in sorrow and peace in chaos. Death may be sad, but it need not sting because this life is not the end, but the beginning.

In the midst of this cancer world, there can be incredible, inexplicable peace because my ultimate struggle has already been resolved. My sin was taken care of on the cross by God Himself! All that happens in my life is what He lovingly allows for His pleasure and glory. Someday I will be complete and lacking in nothing and with Him forever in fullness of joy.

This is my cancer foundation. This is my life foundation.

Moment by moment.

“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” Revelations 21:4

Amazing Easter thoughts that encouraged my heart today ~

Ann Voskamp writes from the perspective of the mother who watches her son die… How Good Friday Meets All Our Hard.

Greg Morse shows how A Savior Stepped Forward on the Desiring God blog.

Dear Sister-Mama

Dear Sister-Mama,

Welcome to the trenches.

I know I’ve said a lot of this before, but today, it needs to be said again: Each despairing, awful pit looks slightly different, but we’re all down here, in here together.

Your emotional and physical survival of everything from the next breath to the next decade will be almost as trial-and-error-ridden as your sweet baby’s treatment journey – just know that right now and know it’s okay too. It’s normal. Well, more “normal” really. Life circumstances just tried to cut you into tiny pieces with words alone – words like “cancer” – and continuing to breathe in these days is a victory not to be discounted.

Self-care when your baby’s in the ICU seems wrong and even selfish, but it’s not, I assure you. No matter how your inner voice wants to condemn you for anything short of laying yourself out next to them in the same pain they’re experiencing, please, please remember that your darling child’s care is only as strong as you are. You are the advocate and the voice, and 99 times out of 100, the responsibility of medications, schedules, feedings, sterilizations, etc, will fall to you. I’ve found it’s much easier to deal with it when I can see straight.

So, with that in mind…

Rest when you can. Trust me, there’s a reason sleep deprivation is used as an alternative questioning tactic in military protocol. When Chase was in treatment, I would have confessed to anything and actually had to stop driving because I was seeing wavy lines and shadows in the corners of my vision. Having a pediatric cancer patient is not unlike having a brand new baby in this way – please try and sleep when they sleep. You’ll need it.

Walk out of the hospital. For real. Even just down to the sidewalk in front of the building and then back. It sounds like the tiniest thing, but if you don’t make a conscious effort to incorporate the outside world in even minuscule ways, it will shrink and then go away entirely – leaving you with nothing but the cancer – which isn’t mentally healthy. And, let’s face it: who among us wants to give this awful terrorist of a disease that kind of credence in our lives? [hint: not me]

Seek a community. Church, friends, family, other cancer patients. Get involved on some level. Don’t let cancer take up all your mental and emotional energy. It doesn’t deserve that much from you. See also: my previous point on world-shrinkage.

See your dentist. Yes, I said it and meant it too. There’s a reason I don’t like to smile with my lips open. When you spend days being shuffled from room to room for appointments and rushing to emergency rooms, you’re just trying to remember to breathe, and maybe if you have an extra second; eat. There’s very little time for thoughts of flossing. So, from me to you: treatment will take it out of you on so many levels, but if at all possible, remember you have a dentist.

Have a mental safety net. Whether you see a counselor, talk to your spouse, or sit down with a dear friend, have someone there to keep you from feeling like you’re going crazy. Cancer is truly a war of it’s own kind. Your body responses will become conditioned to incredible long-term, high-stress scenarios and evidence points to this type of emotional and physical toll not being healthy for the brain. Some universities and medical institutions are even starting to pick up study links between traumatic pediatric care-giving situations and high rates of post traumatic stress – the same thing soldiers who’ve been to war face. This area is no joke, dear sister-mamas. Don’t be afraid to get help. You’re not going crazy. Your life is crazy. And no matter what you’re feeling, YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

There are so many other things I secretly want to throw out for you: go out with friends, have friends come to you, eat chocolate, read a book, cry, laugh, write, take a long walk… But the last thing you need right now is one more person telling you something you need to remember – yet one more alteration you’ll be making to your life. Psh… Chances are good you’ve already experienced enough alterations to last for three life times.

Whether you’re arms will one day be empty or atypically full, life is desperately short. No matter the kind of cancer story you’re called to, it will undoubtedly be a life-long marathon, not a sprint. So, stay the course, dear sister-mama. You are not alone.

All my love from the trenches,

Ellie

Light And Momentary

He stood in front of me, a grin splitting his face – an aging face covered by too white skin – the kind of skin that only comes from long days of chemotherapy. And then, even before I said my name, he took my hand in his and held it to his bald, stubbled head; the forever symbol of brain tumor treatment. His grin was huge. “God is good”, he said.

The last time I saw him, I was only 12 years old and I remember him in those treatment days, too thin and chemo white, his high, clear voice calling out loud and true in a quiet church sanctuary; proclaiming life and joy in something I couldn’t at that time imagine: deadly brain cancer.

This sweet, charismatic soul stood on the cutting edge of treatments long before they were ever standardized enough for children like Chase. He faced leaving a wife with two little children. And there were days this strong man of business and numbers was so weak that he was carried into the radiation room. But against all odds, he lived. Lived over twenty years after doctors first shook their heads, marveling at a miracle of clear scans where cancer had been.

He stands close as he tells me that he does not sleep much at night, and then a shadow crosses his face as he apologetically explains that he may not remember my name after we talk. “What happened long ago is clear, but these days, not so much…” he shrugs and grins again; “You see, I have short term memory loss.” A concept he doesn’t yet know that I understand too well… I simply smile, “Please don’t even think of it. I don’t care. It’s fine.”

As he stops to catch his train of thought and I reflect on his expression of joy that he’s down to six daily medications from sixty, I have to ask… “How do you do it? I am barely breathing after four years and I can’t even fathom twenty. How…just, how?”

His hands grow steady and his clear voice is especially strong, his gaze deeply focused as he puts forth a phrase that’s clearly been tattooed faithfully in the damaged brain tissues of memory: “You have to remember…’momentary light affliction’. All of this is momentary next to what Jesus did for us.” And then his hands came up to the sides of his eyes, like blinders on a horse, “You can’t look back, you can’t look at anything else, just Jesus.” And just like Chase, he repeated a few more times “It’s all ‘momentary light affliction…” and then a small laugh accompanies the most genuine of smiles; “Can you even imagine?”

I can’t. He breathes twenty years into hell and hardship and counts it nothing because Jesus is enough.

Can I? Will I? I believe…help my unbelief.

And then something flickers in his eyes. “Do you like coffee?” When I respond in the affirmative, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Starbuck’s gift card. “Here,” says the man whose damaged memory ensures he can’t work anymore. “Take this. It was a five-dollar bonus on my Chase card this month. I don’t need it. It’s yours.”

I have short term memory loss… Deeply damaged, yet joyful.

I don’t need it. It’s yours… Empty, yet giving.

It’s all momentary light affliction… Broken, yet pressing on.

And me? I don’t think I’ll ever be able to hold this green and white bit of plastic in my hand without remembering the guileless smile proclaiming that cancer is nothing compared to the cross.

Moment by moment.

“For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.” 2 Corinthians 4:17-18

Fighting For Love

Yeah, there’s coffee, and laughter in abundance, but there’s something else too. Something that only comes forged in pain. I don’t have a word for it, but it’s there to be cherished – oddly like a terrible battle wound. See this? We went to war and we survived. Isn’t it strange that the hard things often knit us as close (if not closer) than the happy moments? They say that “love changes everything“, but sometimes I think everything changes love: kids, illness, job changes…and often just the weight of years and the passing of time. Love is not a static, stoic concept, but it is deep, and it’s meant to be unshakeable as it mirrors Jesus love for us and in us.

So what happens when things like cancer come at a marriage? In the video below, we take a few minutes to share a little of what we’ve learned and are still learning today.

Because life is messy, love is going to be messy too – that’s the primary reason we sat in front of an iPhone on a Saturday morning with no make-up, no good angles, or fanciness of any kind.

This is us.

We are real.

We fail more times than either of us would like to admit to each other or you, but we will fight for our marriage. We must fight for our marriage.

And please don’t kid yourselves…this isn’t always self-generated or motivated by flowery love, but rather, determined commitment. We had people during Chase’s treatment actually holding us accountable to talking with each other, spending time with each other, even being intimate with each other…because honestly, truly, and messily…if we hadn’t had someone calling us out and reminding us of our marriage, we would have ignored it and ignored us. This is the nature of stress and real life.

The fact that we’re still together is the grace of God, but dear ones, if there’s anything we’ve learned, it’s that you’re going to fall. It’s a foregone conclusion – this is life. But will you fall away from each other, or towards each other?

Fight for each other. Fight to fall into each other’s arms. Things like cancer will seek to take many, many pieces of us, but fight to make sure marriage is not one of those pieces.

With love, messiness, and a deep-rooted longing for Perfect Love…

Moment by moment.

[Disclaimer: After you watch this, you’ll know why I write instead of talking…or why my spiritual gift will never be filming and editing a cell phone video. Just sayin’…go with your gifts.]

Sufficient Grace

I sat on the floor, the exhaustion depressing like a physical weight on my heart and shoulders alike.

Chase curled close, sniffing and crying, “Mom, I’m ready to make it right. I’m so sorry for getting angry. I promise to never, ever do it again.”

My heart screamed but my eyes were blessedly calm despite the pressure of overwhelmed tears. “It’s okay, sweet boy. I forgave you even before you asked. Hey…look at me…look at my eyes. Do you know how much I love you?”

He nods, sniffs, and runs away, heart light once again. The anger leaves as quickly as it comes.

No matter what happens, he needs to understand grace at my hands. If I fail all else, please God, let me be your hands to him.

But oh, my hands…how they hurt. Before the peace comes, there’s often scratching and biting. For, in this outside-the-box life, this is emotion to Chase. And the primary thing is to keep him and everyone else in his direct vicinity safe. So sometimes that means taking one for the team; for the family…literally.

As I sat on the floor, I wanted to let loose ugly, deep tears, but there are some things that seem too heavy and weary.

“God. I’m tired of the struggle. I can’t do this. I mean, I did it, and I’ll do it again, but years and years of this? I can’t, I can’t, I. CAN’T…”

And then, in the desperate stillness, I -who rarely ever “hear”- I heard. Oh, I heard as clearly as if someone stood in the cloudy room with me:

“My grace is sufficient for you.”

That was it. No answers, no fixes, but one thing that transcends the hurt that’s been and all the hurts that are yet to come.

Even as I prayed to be grace to Chase, my Abba became the grace answer to me.

The road is not easy, but I know I will have what I need.

Moment by moment.

“…I begged the Lord to take it away. Each time he said, “My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.” So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me.” 2 Corinthians 12:8-9 (NLT)

Note: This picture story was published with Chase’s knowledge and permission and he even volunteered to take the picture. He is not proud or hurt, but understands that we share wisely to encourage others they are not alone. Please know that we do not take this particular challenge lightly, and that Chase’s case is lovingly monitored by social workers, neuro-psychologists, neurologists, neuro-oncologists, neurosurgeons, and behavior therapists. I hope this bit of raw openness on survivor challenges encourages you that you are not alone in your struggle. If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me privately at ellieewoldt@gmail.com. Blessings.