It's been a little while since I last posted. We did receive Ben's P.E.T. scan results, and while they weren't "bad", they were also not necessarily "good". They were, in a boring word: progress. One tumor gone, one unchanged but no longer active, and two more spots to watch. Diagnosis: six more sessions of chemo over three months, starting December 30th.
It took me a LONG time to process that information, and accept that God's answers to my prayers were not "yes". I've had to remind myself that this is His plan, it's always good for those who love Him, and it's not for calamity. But, I'm human, and it doesn't look like not-calamity. So, I am hanging onto faith. God's got this, and I need to believe that with all my heart.
Unsurprisingly, I dropped pretty far into the blues. We quietly remembered the delivery date of our stillborn baby girl on 1995 December 22. And I realized one afternoon that all the plans I'd set up for Christmas back in July were decimated by the way our lives had changed. It made me feel very weepy, down, and blue.
Plans up in flames. Diagnosis not what I'd prayed fervently for. Weather gray and cold.
Yes, the blues found a home in me. I struggled to find joy in anything, felt paralyzed by everything, and basically just didn't want to function. It's a silly way for a mom to be cause my family needs all of me, but I wasn't really there to be had. I was kinda there, kinda functioning, kinda moving, kinda doing. But, all of mom wasn't present.
And then it happened.
Christmas 2014.
It happened in multiple parts. So, I'm going to share each piece, and keep it brief enough so your eyes don't glaze over.
First, I wrapped presents. Now, I'm a chronic procrastinator. I was shopping as late as the night of the 23rd for ideas. Like I said, my well-laid plans went kaboom, so I had to fall back into panic mode. But here's the thing -- it wasn't panic. I just calmly picked up each and every item that the LORD laid on my heart.
And then I wrapped them. I printed my own gift tags, bought lots of snowflake paper, some ribbon and bows, and just buried myself in the task. And it felt GOOD. I mean, really REALLY GOOD. I love love LOVE giving things to people. And if you ever hint that you like blue, or flowers, or anything you'll get something from me eventually that matches that thing. And that brings me joy.
Wrapping presents for my family brought me immense joy. I felt the darkness lifting from my aching soul, and I found joy.
Next, we had Christmas with my family on the 25th. It was silly, there was tons of food and lots of laughter. I loved watching my kids open their gifts from my mom and dad, and my brother and his wife. There were exclamations of surprise and thankfulness, and I was immersed in the moment. I had been a little weepy earlier in the day, but that had no place in this moment. This moment was the enjoyment of love and family and sadness had no place there. More darkness lifted.
That night I received something from the LORD I did not expect. As usual, I was crying to Him about our circumstances and He gave me this song over K-Love Radio. Ben and I both went to look it up on Youtube, so we could see the lyrics. I really encourage you to listen if you have time.
Here For a Reason by Ashes Remain
The lyrics for this song reached deep inside of me and reminded me -- all things work for good because God makes that promise in the Bible and His word is always true.
"Every time that you wake up breathing
Every night when you close your eyes
Every day that your heart keeps beating
There's purpose for your life
So don't give up
Don't lay down
Just hold on
Don't quit now
Every breath that you take has meaning
You are here for a reason"
Yes, that's what His word promises. There is a reason for this journey. It's not something He haphazardly tossed in the general direction of our family. He *chose* us for this journey. He has a *purpose*. Still hard, this journey, but He *chose* us for this not because He wants to harm us, but because He wants to make us stronger. I can't see that yet. I can't imagine how that will play out. So, to faith I must cling, and He's reminding me that He's here, ever-present.
The final icing on the cake was the family reunion for Ben's side of the family. He seemed really poor feeling Friday, and I was fearful we'd not be able to go. However, on Saturday he arose looking and feeling good. He even wanted to drive us there! I was hesitant to let him drive the 2.5 hours, but I pushed that aside and said nothing.
And, for 2.5 hours, life felt normal again. It was just like our old normal, and it was comfortable. I melted into the world that represented, even though I knew deep inside that the old normal wasn't for us anymore. God gave us something new.
The reunion was wonderful. Like Christmas day, it injected us with a feeling of love and joy. As I sit here typing this, utterly exhausted by the drive back (since I drove the home route), I don't feel those blues anymore. I feel joy. Oh, I know the blues are waiting for me, like a predator stalking prey for an ambush, but when that happens again, I'm going to read this and remember -- we are here for a reason.
Romans 8:23 (NASB)28 And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.
*Graphics at beginning of page is from the creator of the website Free Vintage Art. All credit for the lovely image of Jesus in the manger belongs to them.
Tomorrow, Ben and I will receive the results of last Thursday's P.E.T. scan. Happily, I've not been losing sleep over this incoming information. At least, sleep has not been lost yet. There is still tonight to get through. I'm pretty tired as I've been dealing with an antsy child this weekend, so I'm hoping I'll crash and sleep through until at least dawn.
But, this is the "light" on our next step. What is seen on the scan will direct us to Ben's next procedure. I want full remission, and I'm praying for that whole-heartedly. However, God has a plan greater than mine, and I must also be prepared to accept His plan. The Bible promises that His plans are always good. I may not agree with God's plan, but I must trust that He has my best at heart. I'm not going to lie -- it's hard.
I love Ben very much. Before the surgery, he'd beat me to the door by 5 feet. Now? I'm slowing my pace to keep pace with him. He's lost quite a lot of weight, which is something he was already working on, but he's much lower than he'd intended to aim for. He has days that go something like this -- feel good, feel good, feel good, CRASH. Exhaustion hits swiftly and unexpectedly. Standing for long periods of time is not possible, nor is being out and about amongst lots of people. These things I want to see gone from his life. I want him to feel good. I want him to feel well.
But, God's plan is in here somewhere. If we close our eyes, and get very still and quiet, He might share that plan, or direct our steps. But, I've not really been able to be still and quiet. My mind races into the Never-Never Land of What-Ifs which is populated by phrases like "terminal", "surgery", and "stage 4". Phrases that threaten to drag you out behind the woodshed and exact some strange, twisted justice on your fragile emotional state. And too often, I fall prey to them.
But God is greater than that. God promises Heaven. Heaven is populated by phrases like "no more illness", "glorified body", and "eternal praises". God is the Great Healer -- Jehovah Rophe(1). God is my Peace -- Jehovah Shalom(1). God is my Strength -- Jehovah Uzzi(1). Why am I fleeing wildly through my dark Never-Never Land of What-Ifs when I have the LORD of all creation promising me good? I suspect I am struggling with trust.
I choose to trust my LORD. But, it's very hard. He may be giving us light for our next step tomorrow, but like the temporal person I am, I'll likely stumble over the thing forgetting that He's holding His outstretched hand to me, gently calling my name.
Therefore, I choose to give Monday, 2014 December 15 to the LORD. I pray that I don't snatch it back out of His strong hands.
FLASHBACK
It is Sunday, 2014 August 24. My life the past few days has been nothing but a sleep-deprived fog. I'm vaguely aware of my responsibilities, and many are falling off the table and into the "can't deal with it" box. I walk through my day struggling to maintain a steady face for the children so that I'm someone worth interacting with. Truth is -- I cry myself to sleep every night, either into my pillow or as I sit on my knees trying to pray.
And trying is a good word for my prayers. I can't find words, or don't know what to ask, so I just cry and whimper until my exhausted body finally begs to sleep. I'm not sure if I'm eating well or not. Time passes, and I'm just floating along moving from task to task like a robot.
The ICU at the hospital has extremely limited visiting hours. Four times a day, I can visit Ben for just one hour. So, I drive to the hospital, visit for an hour, and then go home. Rinse and repeat that three more times. This goes on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. By Friday, I've stopped crying when I walk from the hospital to the car. Reality is sinking in, and I'm finally realizing that crying isn't my solution to my situation. I need to be stronger.
On Saturday, Ben is moved into a regular room. I can now come and go as I please from 8am until 9pm. It's liberating to know that I can come when I'm not so sleepy as to stumble when I walk. Saturday night I feel the LORD calling me to church. I don't really want to go because I'm a bundle of emotion ready to burst wide open, but I feel He has a message for me. Ben gives me the blessing to go, so I do.
Well, of course, I burst into tears in Sunday School. But, I have the best class in the universe. I get hugged, and loved on, and prayed over. It massages the aches in my soul, which is something I really needed. As I head to the sanctuary for the worship service, I am stopped multiple times. Folks want to bring us food. They want to pray. They want to hug.
I'm feeling the very tender edges of heaven as I'm loved on unconditionally by people who love the LORD. In my vast pain, no one cares if I cry. They just love on me.
I finally walk into the sanctuary just as the first song begins. I'm barely in my seat when I realize that God has indeed given me a personal invitation to church.
They are singing "How Great Thou Art".
I burst into tears. The God of the universe extended a personal invitation to little ole me. How many times this past week did I sing that song? While driving? While washing clothes? While trying desperately to sleep? 10? 15? 50? I have no idea, but it was my pillar for the week, and here it is again. It was God's way of saying, "yes, Kimberly, I really want you here today."
Music ministers to me in a way I cannot put into words. It touches deep into my being, bringing up the feelings of love, admiration, and wonder I have the LORD. It lifts me into the presence of the King, sitting at His feet, looking up at Him with the awestruck wonder of a child.
From the second song, "The LORD Our God", I received a message of promise, a message of His provision and goodness. I received a message that all is for His glory, which is what I want.
The third song, "This I Believe (The Creed)", drew me into the depth of my belief. I'm not a seasoned, grizzled believer. I'm still learning. This song reminded me of my beliefs, of His power, and that no matter what happens, His children *will* rise again into glorified bodies. This isn't all there is. There's more, there's hope, there's Heaven.
The final song, "My Heart is Yours", truly felt like it drew me into the presence of the King. I was reminded that I gave my heart to King Jesus. I must trust Him. "My heart is Yours, my heart is Yours, take it all, take it all, my life in Your hands."
Just the music alone ministered to me deeply. The sermon was amazing. But the best was the end of the service, and was not uttered by the pastor. It was, instead, spoken by a child.
As the service closed with the song "I Have Decided", I chose to walk to the front for prayer. I knew I'd lose it, but I had to have someone pray for us. I had to hear another person speak peace over us. My 10yo daughter followed me to the stage, and held onto my skirt as I sobbed into a prayer warrior. He prayed over us, and I returned to my seat. Once there, my daughter touched me so I looked at her. She spoke these beautiful, gentle words:
"Don't cry mama. God is going to heal daddy."
Oh the pure faith of a child. Beautiful. Just beautiful. How I love the LORD! He's amazing. He called me to church, and spoke directly to my need through music and message.
Matthew 5:4 (NASB)
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
(1) Reference: Praying Through the Names of God by Tony Evans, copyright 2014, published by Harvest House Publishers
*Graphics at beginning of page is from the creator of the website The Old Design Shop. All credit for the lovely image of mother and child belongs to them.
So, Ben's P.E.T. scan is scheduled for Thursday. It's such a long, boring process. We go to the Imaging Center, sit and wait, Ben gets an IV, we sit and wait, Ben is injected with radioactive material, we sit and wait, and then the scan takes 5 minutes.
It's interesting how much technology helps with our lives and health. The machines that make you freak out, often give doctors the best guidance for paving the road to continued life and health.
Last Sunday we did not make it to church. I pulled a muscle badly in my neck, and Ben didn't feel worth a hoot, so I was at my "not up to talking to people" moment. But, the previous week when I was at church, I was busy crying to God (yet again) and I had a very calming experience.
As we stood and sang a song -- I don't recall which one -- I felt peace wash over me. It felt like it dropped over me from head to toe, until my breathing became calm and even, and my teary eyes felt clear. I can't explain it. But I'm so glad that the LORD of all creation took a moment to wash me with His peace.
His peace is amazing, and I could probably recount so many times in my life when I was in a state of emotional frenzy that His peace rolled over me.
So, in advance of this P.E.T. scan, I am at peace. It's a scan. It's supposed to help us take the next step in this journey of recovery. God gave me His peace, so I'm going to take His peace with me into the center Thursday.
Now to build up the courage for my own scan -- a mammogram. Ick.
No flashback tonight. I spent most of the day at the local college with one of my older children, so I'm whipped. I pray God's blessings on those of you reading my blog. :) He loves you!
John 14:27 (NASB)
27 Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Do not let your heart be troubled, nor let it be fearful.
*Graphics at beginning of page is from the creator of the website Antique Images. All credit for the beautiful Christmas graphic with the doves belongs to them.
It is the eve of Ben's final chemo session for this round of chemotherapy for his colon cancer. He will have had 6 rounds when Thursday ends. On December 11th, he will have another scan to see what exactly has taken place, and then the next step will be revealed. The next step could be surgery or ... something else. Something else is undefined.
Every Wednesday night before his chemo treatments, he pretty much says the same thing.
"Time to go have more poison put into my body."
Poison used to fight cancer. Well, it's not exactly poison, but it's not really "good" for you either. It's just not as bad as cancer. And it targets cancer somewhat, but not really. It seems complicated to think about, that the chemo is for the cancer, but gets the good stuff along the way, so whilst fighting the "bad guys" you kill good gut cells, kill or stunt fast growing cells (hair, nails), endure nausea, diarrhea, and constipation, and attempt to fight back the growing malaise of pure exhaustion.
Interestingly, you can look at Ben's fingernails to see the "tree rings" -- points where he had chemo. It's strange and surreal.
On the Friday after Thanksgiving, we were given a chart of his cancer marker, a value called CEA. It has dropped from a high of 39 (the week after his first chemo treatment) to a low of 20. This is our only indicator that the chemo is doing *something*. This is the value I cling to like Linus to his blanket. This is my "lovey", my pathway back to seeing my family "normal".
I know it's probably kinda nutsy to read that, but from where I stand so many things in my world have become uncertain that anything that looks bright, I am drawn to. I *KNOW* God has a plan in this. I feel certain He has a new normal and a plan. I have an inkling of what it is, but I'm afraid to take the first step. I'm not outgoing. I'm an introvert. He's asking me to do things so far out of my comfort zone, I might as well be standing on a new planet.
Perhaps this is His plan? Oh how I wish He'd call my name, quietly. "Kimberly, come to Me." And I'd run from my place of darkness, fear, and stress into the Light of His throne. He'd pat His knee. "Kimberly, sit on my knee." And, like a child, I'd clamber up to the place He's indicated. He'd then pull out His book and say, "Look here, My child, this is My plan for you." I'd look at the book in His hands and see my life rolling out and understand how it all clicks together, all the pain and tears, all the joys and laughter, all of it. I'd look up at Him, and He'd smile and say, "See, My child, just hold tight to My Word for My promises are true, and I never forget My children."
And you know? I have His Word right beside me. And He can speak to me through it. Fear and stress do not belong to Him. His yoke is light. Oh, easy words, hard action. And yet, it's worth striving for because He sent His Son to die for someone like me, and there's no way that was easy either.
Oh, I may not love my circumstances, but how I love my Savior.
FLASHBACK:
It is the year of our LORD 2014 and the date is 20 August 2014. After a horrible, sleepless night punctuated with a trip to the all-night Walgreens for a children's dissolving pain reliever, we are awake. Ben was in pain all night, and I'm walking in a pure fog. Between my internal sorrow and his restlessness, I don't think I slept.
He finally wants to know what the results were, so I tell him. I pull up every bit of strength I have to be stoic and positive. He seems unmoved by the news, but then again Ben isn't exactly a "moody" person. I can't read his expression, and fear prevents me from asking. I suggest that perhaps he should not eat anything or drink much. He feels so bad, he wants nothing, so I guess it works.
The gastroenterologist calls, is concerned about the pain, and makes us an appointment with a surgeon. At 1 pm, we arrive at the surgeon's office and are pretty much ushered immediately back.
This is the first time we learn that, during the colonoscopy, there was an attempt to manipulate the tumor in the colon, and because it'd breached the colon wall it is possible that something was ejected into the abdominal cavity. That's why Ben is in continuing pain, because he is infected. Diagnosis: surgery immediately.
So, fear of cancer is now overshadowed by fear of surgery. Ben is in enough pain he's all for surgery. It's called a colon resection, and may result in a temporary colostomy. I optimistically believe all will be normal soon, so I ask how many days will Ben be in the hospital.
Seven to 10 days.
Suddenly, I feel terribly vulnerable and alone. But, it has to be done. One look at Ben's pained face, and his tender movements tells me that this is a "must". So, I must endure, accept, and be strong. Feelings firmly tucked away, we proceed from the doctor's office in a wheelchair to the hospital across the street.
Things are blurry for me now. I try to answer the questions at the admission office while Ben is rushed upstairs to surgery prep. It's beginning to be obvious that this is very serious, perhaps more so than the surgeon led us to believe. Maybe he masked it because he could see the worry on my face.
At some point after 2:30pm, Ben is taken from the prep and I'm ushered into the surgery waiting room. There are not many people here, so I find a corner, drop my belongings on a chair (same crochet item again), and cry. I cry so hard, I'm sure the people around the corner in the room heard me over the TV. I finally sit down, take a breath, and sing a song.
"Oh LORD my God,
when I in awesome wonder,
consider all the works Thy hand have made.
I see the stars,
I hear the rolling thunder,
Thy power throughout the universe displayed.
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee,
How great Thou art!
How great Thou art!"
It's the only verse I know, and I'm not even sure I know it right. But, for the moment, it brings me peace and comfort and enough presence of mind to call people I love -- my oldest two boys, my mom and dad, my mother-in-law, and my church. They come to my side, all of them, and bring me more comfort, plus the ability to hold my hand and hug my shaking shoulders.
Surgery seemed to take forever, and when the surgeon came out he gave me the first bit of good news I'd heard in over 24 hours.
"We removed all of the tumor, the resection is smaller than we thought, and there's no need for a colostomy."
I let that soak deep, deep inside. It was a directly answered prayer. I asked God to let them remove it all, and God said, "Yes, My child." Oh, the warmth that His presence gave me.
He further shared that they'd probed about a bit, and found little evidence of other tumors. They did see some evidence of tumor in some fatty tissue, and they took some lymph nodes. So, those were the unknown players. I didn't care about those players. I was thrilled that one giant hurdle had already been crossed.
Ben was moved to ICU, and I didn't see him until special ICU hours allowed it. At 8pm, I finally saw my husband. He was pale, in obvious pain, with too many things attached to him. Beeping machines reminded me that someone was watching him constantly, to care for him in his weakened state. It felt so good to see him, that my mother-in-law pointed out that I was "petting" his hand. And I was! I just had to touch him.
We only had an hour with Ben. It was much too short for my liking, but rules are rules. I can no longer remember who walked me to my van. I can't remember what was said to me. All I can remember is thinking how much life for us had changed so radically in just 24 hours. It was a startling reminder of the fragility of life, and just how much we all take for granted.
As I drove home, I started singing again. Same song. Same verse. And to this day, as I write this, this song is my calm in the storm. When it rages and threatens to consume me, I sing to my Savior.
Mark 4: 35-41 (NASB)
35 On that day, when evening came, He said to them, “Let us go over to the other side.” 36 Leaving the crowd, they took Him along with them in the boat, just as He was; and other boats were with Him. 37 And there arose a fierce gale of wind, and the waves were breaking over the boat so much that the boat was already filling up. 38 Jesus
Himself was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke Him and said to Him, “Teacher, do You not care that we are perishing?” 39 And He got up and rebuked the wind and said to the sea, “Hush, be still.” And the wind died down and it became perfectly calm. 40 And He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Do you still have no faith?” 41 They became very much afraid and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey Him?”
*Graphics at beginning of page is from the creator of the website The Old Design Shop. All credit for the beautiful poinsettias belongs to them.
Thanksgiving was a balm. It soothed the tiredness of my soul, lifted my aching spirits, and taught me that I worry more about how Ben's feeling than I need to.
We have only seen my side of the family so far. Soon, we will spend time with Ben's side. Family, in my case, is like a warm blanket wrapped around my shoulders on a cool night, placed gently by loving hands. As I wrap in the warmth of this blanket (the love of my family), I feel the gentle squeeze on my shoulder of the one who placed it there. It's all simply relief.
It felt good being at my brother and sister-in-law's home. They have the sweetest pets, which have already been shown to reduce stress. Then they have super cooking skills -- a smoked turkey plus a honey baked ham turned into massive yum yum overload. Those, combined with my mother's additions made the day very warm, comfortable, and sweet.
Listening to the happy laughter of the family, talking about silly little things, petting sweet cats, and watching happy dogs -- it's all simply balm for a tired and worn spirit. It's a reminder that cancer doesn't rule our lives, and that there's a normalcy following this cancer diagnosis that's just as good as what was before. It's just a little different.
Ben's visit on Friday was a lift and a drag. The lift came in the further reduction of his cancer marker. The drag came in the declaration and finally appointment for the next P.E.T. scan. The last P.E.T. scan results were not good. We have one data point. I'm stuck on fear.
But I have the best prayer warrior family and friends in the world. Well, maybe that's debatable by people who aren't me, but I sure feel like I do. Notes, private messages, cards, sweet words -- they all serve to rest my soul. When all I can do is cry out "Jesus!" and words fail me, my family and friends are making entreaties to the King of kings and the LORD of lords. When I can't speak, they can.
No Flashback tonight as I'm quite tired from moving furniture, cleaning the pool, and cleaning the floor in front of the fireplace on my hands and knees. Next time, though! It's a tough Flashback.
2 Timothy 1:17 (NASB)
7 For God has not given us a spirit of timidity, but of power and love and discipline.
*Graphics at beginning of page is from the creator of the website The Graphics Fairy. All credit for the lovely bird on the branch belongs to her.
We've made it to Thanksgiving Eve and Ben is a far cry better than he was on Sunday, when I posted last. Though, he's vocalized that he thought he'd feel better tonight than he is right now, and it puzzles him. I made him some green tea with ginger to bring him calm to the nausea. It smells terrible to me, but apparently it helped in some way.
I am completely stressed out. Somehow, I managed to forget all about the power bill. I guess it was buried under all the medical sheets we get from our insurance company telling us what they'll pay and what we pay. Looking through those sheets is stressful in and of itself because so much of it is completely confusing. Then trying to match sheets to visits is like wandering through a maze without a compass. Sometimes I like the challenge of puzzling them out; right now, no thanks.
I am thankful, though. I am thankful that the God of all creation is in charge of all that happens. I am thankful that He gave me such a wonderful, amazing family in all directions. I am thankful that we have food, shelter, and transportation. I am thankful for the Montgomery Cancer Center and the amazing people working there. I could go on and on, but I've learned something lately -- there's no better way to adjust perspective than to start giving the LORD thanks for everything, even the hard stuff.
FLASHBACK:
The date is August 19 and the year is 2014. It's very strange coming to the surgery center with Ben knowing that I'll be the one waiting as he goes through the procedure. I'm very familiar with this place. It came into being about 5 years after my ulcerative colitis diagnosis, when all my colonoscopy appointments moved here from the hospital. The staff is wonderful and caring, in my experience.
We arrive at 12, but it's not until 2:30pm that they finally take Ben back for his two procedures. Instead of sending me back out front, I'm ushered to the recovery area. There I start a new crochet project -- one of a million works in progress -- and try to relax. As with any procedure, there is danger. I'm not unaware, so I'm a little focused on the what-ifs.
Around 4pm, I start to get worried. Each procedure is only supposed to take about 20 minutes, for a total of 40. I've been here 1 1/2 hours. There is a bit of a wait outside the examination rooms, so maybe that accounts for the other 50 minutes. I reason away worry, and wait.
At 4:30pm, the doctor comes out. I'm pretty much the only person there now. It's very dark and lonely as the rain has rolled in outside. One tiny window at the top of wall lets me know the day is dreary. The doctor, whom I've know for 10 years, looks like he always does. He sits beside me.
"Well, it's not an ulcer." My mind immediately races to ulcerative colitis. He doesn't give me time to settle there. "We found a mass. It looks like cancer."
It looks like cancer.
I never dreamed or even envisioned such a statement being uttered to me. I am not prepared for news of that magnitude. I have absolutely no recollection of what I said. It was probably some garbled variation of "how bad" while realizing that he won't speculate on that at all. Tears sprung up into my eyes, and I had to swallow back my strongest emotions struggling to erupt from the cage of my self-control.
He told me that Ben would need surgery within the day, and he needed to rest, take pain relievers, and avoid eating. He then led me to my sedated husband, who was lying on his side in the recovery room, still out cold. The nurse pointed to a chair where I deposited my belongings, and I touched Ben.
As I did, it really hit me. The man I loved has cancer. And, there, my emotions raged in full control and I lost it. I started sobbing. The sweet nurse came to my side, helped me sit down, and held me while I cried. I finally awkwardly reached for my faith and plainly stated, "God is in control."
She whispered sweetly in return. "Yes He is, and He loves you."
Our exchange was interrupted by Ben's awakening. But not only did he awake, but he was wild-eyed with pain. So, I took the crushing blow to my emotions, crammed them in a box, sealed it with mental packing tape, and took the caregiver position which I am still maintaining today. The box leaks every single day, and every single day I seal it back up with more mental packing tape.
It took a good hour to get Ben into a state he could leave. Generally the answer to colonoscopy gut pain is "fart", but that wasn't the pain relief answer to this pain question. Nothing relieved this pain. But he got to a point he could ride, so I took him home. Once there, he fell into bed, I gave him pain relievers and water, and he rested.
He never asked of the outcome, so I didn't share that day. I spent the night awake, looking at Ben with a knowledge that felt like a load of bricks sitting on my back. The one person I always cried on was the one I was crying about. And I spent the entire night, turned away from Ben, crying.
Psalm 56:8 (NASB)
8 You have taken account of my wanderings;
Put my tears in Your bottle.
Are they not in Your book?
*Graphics at beginning of page is from the creator of the website Lilac & Lavendar. All credit for the lovely carnation belongs to her.
It's Sunday night of Thanksgiving week, 2014. My husband is sleeping soundly in the rocker in the bedroom, propped on a pillow and buried under a blanket. I can hear him softly breathing as he sleeps. The color of his face is closer to normal, a far cry for the flushed appearance he had most of the day as he struggled with the side-effects of the chemotherapy from Thursday and the Nuelasta shot from Saturday morning.
Thanksgiving is this week, as is my mother's birthday which happens to fall on the holiday as well. My family lives in town, so it's possible to go to a meal with them easily as Ben doesn't believe he wants to travel far. In fact, he has an appointment on Friday anyway; we need to stay in town.
Problem is, we have no idea how he'll feel this week. Will the nausea subside in time to enjoy Thanksgiving? Or will the holiday be spent with him lying miserably on the bed?
As I type this, he awakens and he feels terrible. The little dark storm cloud that has come to be my constant companion is in full force, making me feel like I can barely function, barely take another step. But, by the grace of the LORD, I do take those steps. He is capable; I am not. I can't do this on my own strength, but only by the power of the LORD.
Still, it's hard to watch a loved one hurt so much, be so miserable.
FLASHBACK:
It's the year of our LORD 2014, and the date is 18 August. I'm upset with Ben because he took Friday off from work and now he's taking Monday. To my eye, he looks fine, so I'm upset. Just or unjust, I'm upset. I decide to take matters into my own hands and call my gastroenterologist who treats me for ulcerative colitis. If Ben is that miserable, he needs real care. And if he's not, I reason, a colonoscopy will discourage him from doing this again. That's my reasoning. Silly stuff in hindsight. Ridiculous thoughts, honestly.
When I describe the situation to the nurse, and she gives us a Wednesday appointment for an EGD and a colonoscopy. She's concerned about his visit to the ER back in the spring, but thinks that date is fine.
The night of the ER was strange. I suppose men and women are different in their approach to illness. I go quicker than Ben, anyway. Maybe it's just he and I. Maybe I'm a wimp and he's stoic. Who knows? He started out at PriMed, then they sent him to the ER. The doctor there sent him home with a diagnosis ("looks like an ulcer"), medicine to reduce stomach acid, and directions -- go see an gastroenterologist.
But here we are, six months later, and only just now seeing the gastroenterologist. He had so many bad nights of feeling terrible. I begged him to see someone else, to get more information. "We pay too much money for insurance for you to suffer like this," I'd plead. But alas, he would feel better and see no real need. I can half-way understand his thoughts. Doctor office visits involve tons of paperwork, lots of waiting, and intrusive tests and exams. It's not fun. It's not meant to be. It's just necessary sometimes.
The phone rings and the gastroenterologist's assistant has changed the appointment. It's best to do this sooner, so the date is now set to Tuesday, 19 August, and the birthday of Ben's mother. I cringe a little at the thought of the disruption, but I really think he should handle this soon. And when I tell Ben, he surprises me by agreeing that the time has come for a visit.
So, off we go into a afternoon of colonoscopy prep and general hungry misery. I know the feeling. I have a colonoscopy every other year and have had them for 10 years. Not something I'd classify as fun, just necessary. When we go to bed that night, it's blissful. How could we know that the next day, as we take a step from one moment to another, life would change forever?
Jeremiah 29:11 NASB 11 For I know the plans that I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans for welfare and not for calamity to give you a future and a hope.
*Graphics at beginning of page is from the creator of the website The Graphics Fairy. All credit for the detailed sepia acorn belongs to her.
Hello! Welcome to my blog about our family's journey with cancer. I have a blog that's about crafting and homeschooling, but chose to journal our experience with cancer in a separate blog. I thought that perhaps those seeking crafts might not be so interested in our cancer journey! So, keeping them separate seemed a good idea.
I've been married 24 1/2 years to a wonderful man named Ben. We have four wonderful blessings from the LORD, ages 19 (boy), 17 (boy), 13 (boy), and 10 (girl) and one blessing in heaven, delivered 1995 December 22. She was a perfect little girl who is now waiting for us in heaven. Sometimes, I'll say I have 5 children, sometimes I'll say I have 4. People get a little uncomfortable when you start talking about children who have passed away, so I try to be sensitive to those feelings. I don't want someone to tune me out! :)
Now before you get very deep in our blog, I will tell you that our faith in the LORD is an important part of our lives, and therefore our journey. I will often mention Scripture, or something the LORD did directly, because of who I am and how our family is conducted. While you are welcome to disagree with my faith, you are not welcome to become ugly in comments regarding our faith. If you need to rant about that, create a blog and then post there!
With all that said, welcome to our blog!
Blessings,
Kimberly
*Graphics at beginning of page is from the creator of the website Just Something I Made. All credit for the lovely vintage postcard belongs to her.
