This activity is a strange thing. I love it so much, yet I've only done it once since September 2014 when Ben received his Stage IV cancer diagnosis. Before today, it's simply been beyond me to do it, such a simple task.
But, today was a day to hang out clothes. It was a day to reach into the past and pull an activity that screams "normal life" into the present. It's gorgeous. The sky is a beautiful blue, no clouds. The air is cool but not cold, warm but not hot. In short, it's just a perfect day.
I watched the light breeze blow the towels gently. I listened for birds but heard none. The hawk must be nearby. He likes to hang out in the pine tree in our front yard. I could hear children screaming, laughing, crying at the nearby private school. Shadows still covered the clothes line, but the sun was peeking through the newly growing leaves of the trees. The ground was damp. And, nearby, was a rose in full bloom, a plant placed lovingly by my gardening son just for me, just to see while I hung clothes up.
So, it felt amazingly good to stand outside. It felt like I had a breath of the normal that "once was but is no longer." And I needed that breath. Badly.
I've not blogged since November. I think I mentioned I don't like blogging, mainly because I don't like talking about myself and my family. But, I've blogged because the LORD seems to impress something on me and I give in and start typing. If I have something to encourage someone, I mustn't keep it to myself.
This blog entry, though, is different from past entries.
Since January, we've been aware that Ben's CEA tumor marker is trending upward. We didn't see the value every time we visited the Cancer Center, but when we did see it, we noted that it was, unfortunately, steadily rising.
In January, he tried Vectibix in conjunction with an antibiotic called Doxycycline. Three doses in (around 6weeks), it because very obvious that Ben was reacting to something, and it was pretty severe. His hands all the way to his upper arms swelled enormously. He was first taken off the Doxycycline, then the Vectibix. The decision was made to return to full dose Folfiri following a P.E.T. scan on February 23rd.
The scan confirmed what the CEA marker indicated -- the tumors were larger. So, we proceeded with the Folfiri and Neulasta 3-day regimen, expecting that this chemotherapy would do like it had in the past -- reign in the growth while Ben recovered from the Vectibix. After he recovered, he would try the Vectibix again at a 1/2 dose.
That was the plan.
But there is a reality.
On March 18, at a seemingly regular office visit, the oncologist delivered the news we'd been fearing we'd hear. His CEA marker was almost back to his post-op value in September 2014. It had nearly quadrupled from a low of 7 in January to a high of 26 on March 18.
In short, the chemotherapy is no longer working.
Ben's discussion with the oncologist took on a strange, surreal feel. I couldn't contribute, or speak. I just listened. And in the end, Ben made his decision.
No more chemotherapy.
The number of bad days far outweighs the number of good days. Out of every 14 day cycle, Ben might have 4 good days. So, he chose to have more good days without chemotherapy, rather than have so many bad days with a therapy that's not providing him very much.
I never dreamed it would come to this, yet deep deep inside -- knowing that Ben's care has always been palliative instead of curative -- I knew this day would have to be faced.
We are planning to seek a second opinion from Winship Cancer Institute at Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia. Our appointment is April 5th. Ben is very stoic and pragmatic regarding the trip. I am more hopeful and optimistic.
So, where do we go from here? In the time being, Ben is still using the Vectibix. He's taking it alone -- which is not how it's intended to be administered -- because it might still be a ray of hope. Or, it may be part of the human nature of "do something".
Outside of that, I'm treasuring moments.
I recall one day, long past, when I was sitting at the Cancer Center watching Ben sleep during a chemotherapy session. I recall thinking how much I disliked being there, hearing the whirring of the machines, watching the bustle of the nurses. And, in the midst of my pity party, I had a stunning thought.
"What if I look back on THIS day and wish I could be here?"
And I switched my attitude, starting being thankful for the machines, the medicines, the hectic movements of the facility.
How prophetic.
In the garden of Gethsemane, we see the LORD Jesus praying fervently to the LORD regarding the upcoming crucifixion. He spoke to His Father, alone, three times.
39 And He went a little beyond them, and fell on His face and prayed, saying, “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from Me; yet not as I will, but as You will.” Matthew 26:39 NASB
42 He went away again a second time and prayed, saying, “My Father, if this cannot pass away unless I drink it, Your will be done.” Matthew 26:42 NASB
44 And He left them again, and went away and prayed a third time, saying the same thing once more. Matthew 26:44 NASB
According to the commentary, Jesus was facing the "cup" of God's wrath. He was seeking confirmation of God's will that this was the only way to bring salvation to all mankind. (Reference)
As I try to imagine the setting, the pain, the sorrow, the plea, I come to a startling conclusion -- Jesus took on sin for all of mankind and, for whatever moment, God didn't look at that sin. Such pain, to be separated, if only for a moment, from the presence of God.
Jesus knows sorrow.
He knows my pain right now.
This blog probably leaves more questions than answers. How long does Ben have without treatment? We don't know. What will this journey look like? We don't know. Will Winship at Emory have a treatment we've not tried? We don't know.
This is a journey on the path of life as placed by the LORD of all creation, on which there is just enough light for the step we are on. And slowly, step-by-step, we walk along that path, trusting God's timing, God's provision, and seeking God's strength. I know this -- I'm holding my Abba Father's hand.
That's what we do know.
We know that all things work together for good to those who love God and are called according to His purpose (Romans 8:28). We know that God has a plan for us, not for calamity but for a future and a hope, and that when we pray, He will hear us. (Jeremiah 29:11-13). We know that God loves us so much, He sent Jesus so that we can believe and have an assurance of eternity (John 3:16). We know that God cares for the birds of the air, and that we are worth more than they (Matthew 6:26).
Please don't take this blog in the sense that I have it together. I don't. I'm an emotional time-bomb. But, when I lean all over God and His promises in the Bible, I find peace. It flees under my human nature, but returns when I call out in tears.
I think it's been on my Facebook feed before, but I'll just reiterate it here -- you don't know how much you need Jesus until Jesus is all you have. Jesus is all that stands between me and utter terror. I think I'll stand with Jesus, no matter how hard the journey.
For those who have been praying, please continue your prayers. I truly am unsure what exactly to pray for, but the Holy Spirit will intercede for us with groanings too deep for words (Romans 8:26). He knows. God knows.
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.
*Graphic at beginning of page is from the website The Graphics Fairy. All credit for the lovely image belongs to them.
No comments:
Post a Comment