When I read back through my blog entries, I think, "Oh, my goodness, the poor girl." For a split instant, it seems like I'm reading about someone else because I feel so distanced from it all. I wonder how I was possibly strong enough to endure it all, and come out on the other side, intact. And I am at a loss as to how someone with no faith in anything outside of themselves can possibly survive illness, death, or any other personal disaster, without bitterness taking root and eventually taking over their life. It is my faith that brought me smoothly through, and not just faith, but an actual relational experience with God, my Father.
There were a few times during my cancer journey where I was very sick - so sick I couldn't get out of bed. During those times, the bubble of my world would slowly begin to constrict, shrinking as I felt worse. As I lay in my bed, it seemed like my world ended at the walls of my house. I couldn't concern myself with anything outside of my own family, but I could still feel connected to them as they went about their business in our home. As my pain or nausea would intensify, my world would shrink to just my bedroom. I would become so focused on dealing with the horrible symptoms, that I no longer heard my children playing in the yard, or the phone ringing. But if those I loved came into my room, into that bubble, we could still touch and connect. My oldest daughter could sit on the bed and read with me (she, actually reading; I, holding an open book face down on my stomach as my eyes drifted shut). Or I could play a game in my bed with my little one - completely disregarding the rules because she was two, and I didn't have the energy to explain to her how to play. Or my husband could lean with me against the pillows, holding my hand, saying nothing.
But then, when I was hospitalized, removed from the familiarities of home, my world would diminish until it ended at my own skin. I remember lying in a hospital bed, eyes closed, in a fetal position, hearing people talk to me, or talk around me. But I just lay there, hearing a response in my own head, but unable to make my mouth move to actually reply to them. And in that moment, I would pull myself into the farthest corner of my mind, willing my bubble to shrink around me, insulating me from the physical agony. This only happened two or three times - at my worst moments. And inside that pinpoint of existence, I discovered something quite miraculous. The God of the universe, Creator God - larger than all physical existence, fit into that tiny space. I was not all alone - He and I were alone, together.
Recently on facebook, a man commented on a post and said this: "a 'god' has nothing to do with cancer or any disease. If 'god' is your strength? Then so be it. But for me and many others? Breast and other cancer is in the hands of early detection... and the Dr's." The fact that he feels this way is so sad to me. God has everything to do with cancer and disease ... if ... you put your faith in Him, and ... if ... you have relationship with Him. He is not the author of disease - please don't get me wrong. But He is there. There is no where that God isn't. I came to the end of myself, my very darkest moment, where my entire bubble was filled with pain, and infection, and cancer, and God was in it, wrapped around it, completely in control of it, having everything to do with it. His Word says, "Where can I go from Thy Spirit? Or where can I flee from Thy presence? If I ascend to heaven, Thou art there; if I make my bed in Sheol (the place of the dead), behold, Thou art there. If I take the wings of the dawn, if I dwell in the remotest part of the sea, even there Thy hand will lead me, and Thy right hand will lay hold of me."
God is there - in the most awful circumstance, if we will only see Him. He was there when I came out of surgery, having lost one of my implants to staph infection, and had an allergic reaction in the recovery room to the antibiotic in my I.V. He was there when I was sent home, and woke up one morning with my neck, chest and shoulders covered in hives - having an allergic reaction to antibiotic number two. My doctor told me only 2-8% of people who are allergic to one family of antibiotics, will be allergic to another family. And since I was already allergic to penicillin, I was now allergic to three families of antibiotics, which rarely happens.
God was there when my oncologist tried to explain to me how mind-boggling my pathology report was to all the doctors who'd seen it. Normally, breast cancer attains some size (roughly two centimeters in diameter) before it 'learns' to spread. This takes time. A woman can have a tumor growing for years even, and have lymph nodes that are free of cancer. In my case, the breast tissue removed during my cancer surgery had no infiltrating cancer cells in it. All the infiltrating cells, and a microscopically small amount at that, were removed during my breast biopsy four weeks earlier. My cancer should have been Stage 0; it was detected at the earliest possible moment. Yet I had an 8 mm tumor deposit in my sentinel lymph node.
In my naivety, I asked if maybe the cancer started in my lymph node, and was just spreading into the breast. Uhhh... No. Not possible. Three different pathologists had reviewed my slides from the O.R. because the results were so baffling. The Chief of Pathology had reviewed my slides to be sure no mistake was being made. They were sure of their results, bizarre as they were. I had no infiltrating cells remaining in the breast (only DCIS cells, which I explain in an earlier post), but I had infiltrating cells in my lymph nodes. In my 'cancer innocence' I still didn't get what this meant, so my doctor spelled it out for me. My cancer was moving like a brush fire, and I needed to start chemo without delay.
God was with me there. Instead of fear, I felt an absolute certainty that He had saved my life. If I had waited to go to my doctor until I myself had discovered my breast lump, it might have been too late.
He was with me when, a few days later, I noticed a red patch on my right breast and chose to have the second implant removed instead of risking an infection during chemo. Although it was not infected, the wound cavity was filled with fluid, called a seroma - a breeding ground for infection. And He was with me when I finally made it to the infusion room, for my first round of chemo. Even after the amazingly bumpy road I had traveled thus far, I felt only peace and optimism. The nurse took my blood pressure and started to laugh. I had the lowest blood pressure she had ever taken in the infusion room in eight years as an oncology nurse (119/72 for anyone interested). She told me a 'normal' pressure for them was 150/90, because patients facing chemo are scared, which raises the blood pressure. So I simply told her the truth. "I'm not afraid. Should I be?" No, no, no - it was great that I didn't feel scared. A good attitude will go a long way towards making you well, she told me. But it wasn't a good attitude. It was something called faith.
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