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)
*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.
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