Our family in May, 2018
Last winter, I was asked to write an article titled, "My Unfinished Story" for the spring issue of Daughters of Promise magazine. When I reread this article now, I see how the ensuing months have brought more chapters of hard things (cancer recurrence, a second surgery, seizures). But our story has many pages of laughter, grace, and answered prayer in the midst of the pain.
For those of you who have followed our story in the last year, none of this will be news, but I thought I'd share it here on the blog.
My
Unfinished Story
May
10, 2017 began the worse chapter of my life. On that day, my husband
Ed had several tests to find the cause of his intense headaches and
mental confusion. That night the doctor called, apologizing that the
emergency forced him to give the MRI results by phone. I jotted down
"Brain tumor. Probably cancer.”
I sat
on the bed and tried to tell Ed the doctor's report. His head was
buried in the pillow, and he didn't verbally respond, leaving me
alone to tell our six children that their dad has a brain tumor. I
struggled to answer my eight-year-old when she asked, “Is cancer
something that makes you sick or makes you die?” I put my
one-year-old to bed, knowing she might never remember her dad. I
didn't know the script, but neither did I have time to figure out how
to do it right. Within days Ed was recovering from brain surgery; and
by the next week, we had the pathology report that confirmed the
doctor's fears. Ed had glioblastoma (GBM), an aggressive brain cancer
with a median life expectancy of fifteen months.
If
life was a book, then our first fifteen years of marriage had been a
quiet romance. We had a few challenging pages—fussy babies, a
miscarriage, and Ed's minister ordination. But on May 10 our idyllic
story turned dark and brooding. If this diagnosis had been a book, I
would have hurled it across the room. How dare the author pull such a
mean trick? I like when a writer weaves a tale that makes me fall in
love with the characters. I don't mind a surprise twist if it is
right for the story, but I refuse to read the dark, hopeless tales
where the author kills off my favorite character.
With
this sudden twist of plot, could I trust the Author of my story? God
crafted a saga set in a perfect garden, but sin ravished the earth
and creation groaned. (Romans 8:22) Pain, grief, and cancer splashed
across the page. Jesus stepped out of heaven to write a new chapter
of hope and restoration, but he didn't ban the effects of sin on
earth. Weeds sprout in my garden, my children succumb to the stomach
bug, and microscopic cancer cells multiply to a tennis-ball sized
tumor in my husband's head.
I had expected to grow old
with Ed, imagining he would follow his grandfather's legacy of
pruning grapes when he was ninety. Dreams
vanished of taking our children on a canoe trip or watching our
daughters walk down the aisle on their wedding day. But
if our time together was short, I didn't want to waste a minute in
bitterness or worry. But every time I thought of a chapter titled
“Widowhood,” I shuddered. I couldn't imagine mothering six
children alone—not when I barely kept my sanity each afternoon
until Ed came home from work.
Ed began a rigorous
treatment program of chemo, radiation, and a strict diet. He lost his
hair, his forehead sported a radiation burn, and he daily swallowed
anti-nausea medicine. But hundreds of people were praying for us,
some even fasted, and God answered. Ed regained strength and was able
to return to work. After an anointing service, I learned there were
miracles besides healing. I felt peace as tangible as warm socks;
instead of seeing every hour on the clock, I enjoyed restful sleep.
For
weeks after Ed's surgery and diagnosis, I couldn't concentrate on
reading the Bible. Tears lurked on the surface, and my brain (though
I couldn't blame it on surgery trauma) plodded through simple tasks.
I was grateful for friends who shared Scripture verses and hymns,
along with casseroles and cookies.
A few words trickled in, and I
began to recall stories from Scripture. Joseph. Job. Mary Magdalene.
John the Baptist—these men and women of faith had faced deep
suffering. They too felt fear, confusion, and doubt. But
in the middle of their unfinished story they journeyed in faith and
raised their hands in worship. Joseph rejected bitterness while
serving in prison. Mary Magdalene visited the tomb to show honor to
her Lord even after His disciples had fled. Job refused to curse God
and proclaimed that his “Redeemer liveth” despite no evidence of
God's presence. John the Baptist took his doubting questions to
Jesus, the only one who could give reassurance.
In November our family
vacationed in the Virginia mountains. On a cold, windy afternoon, I
hiked alone to the top of the mountain. I worried that Ed's next MRI
would find his tumor growing, a monster on the march. Gazing out over
the mountain ranges, I reviewed what I knew of God—that He is good,
He is big, He is wise. I knew I had a choice—either grasp and fight
for Ed's healing and my happiness, or relinquish the pen to God. On
that mountain I held out my empty hands like Abraham, yielding Ed and
my future to God. I would confront the mountain of surrender again,
but for now, peace had returned.
Sometimes, in the middle of
a novel, I begin to doubt if the book is worth reading. I'm tempted
to flip to the end of the book and read the last chapter to decide if
the book is worth the time investment. Reading the end of a novel
might ruin the plot, but our Author invites us to discover the end of
His story. In Revelation, we find white-robed saints, who have
experienced the worst of earth's misery, worshiping their Savior. We
read of an eternal home, an incorruptible inheritance, a place with
glory that cannot be compared to any of earth's suffering. (1 Peter
1:4, Romans 8:18)
I write this in January 2018, eight months
after Ed's diagnosis. His hair has grown back to cover the long
surgery scar; I wish I could as easily forget that GBM lurks in his
brain. His December MRI showed a stable tumor. Though Ed is currently
feeling well, we are reminded of GBM's aggressiveness when we
attended the funeral of a friend, only 25 years old, who had the same
disease. I ache for her family—and my own—while trying to grasp
the truth that for the redeemed, “to die is gain.” (Philippians
1:21)
Our next chapter may contain
a worse day than May 10, but I can't focus on future fears. Grace can
and will carry us through the unfamiliar pages. I have hope that
these hard chapters will showcase the fingerprint of the Author and
foreshadow a glorious climax.
God's
past faithfulness gives me courage to live my unfinished story.