In August 2018, my husband and I made a life-changing move. We left Markham, ON, where we had been working to plant a Chinese church, and re-settled in my hometown of Meadville, PA.
I think we'd known for a long time that someday we'd want to be near my parents as they aged. We left our baby church in the hands of a capable Chinese pastor, but the transition was still bittersweet: I felt excited to be going home, but sad to be leaving the place we'd called home for nine years.
One of the hardest things about leaving Canada was saying goodbye to the fantastic health care professionals who had walked with me through two bouts of breast cancer. Thankfully, God has provided a wonderful new osteopath and oncologist to monitor my health going forward.
But there were two things I had not counted on. I had not anticipated how difficult it would be to navigate the stateside insurance system, nor how emotional it would be to rehash my cancer journey with a whole new set of doctors and nurses. It was hard to think back over all that I've been through, and to stir up all the old questions of "why?"
Nevertheless, I have been very pleased with the quality of care I've received so far, and it has been calming to hear my new oncologist confirm that all of my past diagnoses and treatments have been right on track.
Last May, when my MRI prompted a biopsy (which came back benign), the radiologist in Canada recommended another MRI in six months. So we followed through on that here, and I was able to get it done on January 14.
The very next day, my oncologist called to say that the radiologist had seen the same area of "enhancement" which had shown up last year . . . and they wanted to do another biopsy and a mammogram. He said he wasn't suspicious ~ just doing their due diligence "given my history." (To be honest, I'm starting to get a little tired of that phrase!)
My first thought (to calm my racing heart) was, "No big deal. I've been here before."
My next thought was, "I have been here before! And I don't want to be here again!" (cue heart drop)
Sigh. Must I continue to face these "what ifs" over and over?
The next morning, I poured my heart out to God. I explained to Him that what bothers me about all this is the waiting. I just hate sitting in the doctor's office, holding my breath 'til I receive the verdict: cancer again? or not?
I told Him, "It's like January 31 is a giant brick wall, and I can't see what's on the other side of it."
And then I realized, I do know what's on the other side of that wall. God is on the other side ~ and no matter what happens, He will be there with me.
True to form, my Heavenly Father had me suspended in Psalm 73 on my way through the book. I just couldn't seem to get past verses 23-26:
Nevertheless, I am continually with you;
you hold my right hand.
You guide me with your counsel,
and afterward you will receive me to glory.
Whom have I in heaven but you?
And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. (ESV)
And now I knew why I was "stuck" there. What better counsel for the place where I (again) found myself? (These verses actually seemed strangely familiar: a friend had shared them on my FaceBook timeline in July 2016 when I was waiting for the pathology report from my second cancer surgery.)
I love how the psalmist, Asaph, says, "I am continually with you." (italics mine) Usually in Scripture we find God saying, "I will be with you." (That's Emmanuel, right? "God with us."¹) But if God is continually with me . . . then I am continually with Him. And he holds my hand.
The rest of this passage is the perfect antidote to pre-test-result jitters. It is a beautiful combination of now and eternity.
You guide me with your counsel
(showing me what to do now)
and afterward you will receive me to glory.
(no matter what happens, my future is secure)
Whom have I in heaven but you?
And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you.
(God is all that matters, in both this life and the next)
My flesh and my heart may fail,
(my flesh will fail someday)
but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.
(God strengthens my heart here . . . and my soul will go on forever)
Ahhhhh. Thank God for His Word, a rock I can stand on (as my soul-care coach recently prayed) in the face of a brewing storm.
¹Matthew 1:23
Wednesday, January 23, 2019
Saturday, January 12, 2019
Farewell, My Friend
Two
months ago, I lost a dear companion on this cancer journey. I haven’t found the
words to write about it . . . which has made it easier to not find the time to write about it. I still can’t
believe she’s gone. I don’t want to write this post. But I’m going to try.
In April 2012, my husband Greg and I were in Orlando where Suzanne happened to be living. Our main purpose for being there was to attend a church-planting conference; but we had brought our four children along and knew that we couldn’t leave Orlando without a trip to Disney. Suzanne, who loved Disney more than any other place on earth, offered to meet us there ~ at whichever park we chose. And so we spent a wonderful day at the Magic Kingdom, laughing and making classic memories.
Fast forward 8 months. I was facing some follow up on an abnormal mammogram, and I happened to notice a FaceBook post by Suzanne that indicated she was dealing with some medical issues, too. The next time we chatted by phone, we discovered that we were both scheduled for tests on the same day. And a few weeks later we were diagnosed with cancer just one day apart.
It didn’t matter that hers was a sarcoma on her knee and mine was breast cancer. They were both invasive and a bit rare ~ although hers was more rare than mine. Suddenly we were bonded as sisters for life.
From then on, our lives followed each other in an uncanny pattern, often with appointments on the same day. When one of us had a procedure or treatment before the other one, we talked each other through what to expect. It was like having the best kind of support group, even though we were over 1000 miles apart. I can’t count the times we talked by phone, or Skyped, or texted.
And then, we supported each other through the dreaded recurrence. Her cancer came back in February of 2016, and I was diagnosed with a second breast cancer just months later in May. Suzanne understood so well what I was going through, and was, I think, my biggest cheerleader that I would beat this thing ~ even though she didn’t have that same hope for herself.
Almost every time I talked with Suzanne, she sounded so strong, just like her pre-cancer self. Rare was the conversation where she sounded depressed. It seemed she was always positive, always encouraging me.
So I was startled by a text from her late one night last September, saying that she had been admitted to hospice. What???? It couldn’t be time for that yet. But a call to her mom and more texts from Suzanne confirmed that her time on this earth probably wasn’t long.
Ever since our simultaneous diagnoses in 2013, we had talked about another Disney trip, reliving our 2012 meeting there and celebrating that we had beat cancer. One thing and another had kept me from going, but I knew now was the time. The pathos of that trip is too deep for me to recount here. Because it wasn’t a celebration. It was good-bye. And I did spend a wonderful day at Epcot with Suzanne’s mom, with the anticipation that she would join us there for dinner that evening. But a brief text let us know that she just wasn’t up to coming. She would have to “live” that day with us through our stories.
I flew back home on October 1. We celebrated each other’s October birthdays with packages mailed back and forth. Then, on October 27, I received this cryptic text: “Hey Anne I’m in the hospital….” It was the last text I would have from her. But we would have one more phone conversation. On Monday, November 5, Suzanne called to tell me, “It won’t be long now.” We cried together, and wished each other well. Less than a week later, on November 11, she slipped into eternity, holding her mom’s hand. Yesterday marked the two-month date, but I still struggle to believe that she’s gone.
I wish I had a nice wrap-up to this eulogy. I wish I could write more! But it would take a book to recount all that Suzanne meant to me and the lessons we learned from each other. Maybe some of those things will come out in other posts. But for now, though I grieve her death and the fact that she had to go before me, I am eternally grateful that she walked beside me while she did. And I live with the hope of seeing her again in Heaven.
Suzanne
and I grew up together in Meadville, PA. Well, sort of. She was ten years
younger than me. But her grandma was my piano teacher, and my mom was her music
teacher, so our paths crossed a lot.
After
we both left Meadville, we continued to stay in touch sporadically ~ a phone
call here, an e-mail there. But neither one of us could have anticipated the
thing that would cause our lives to intersect forever.
In April 2012, my husband Greg and I were in Orlando where Suzanne happened to be living. Our main purpose for being there was to attend a church-planting conference; but we had brought our four children along and knew that we couldn’t leave Orlando without a trip to Disney. Suzanne, who loved Disney more than any other place on earth, offered to meet us there ~ at whichever park we chose. And so we spent a wonderful day at the Magic Kingdom, laughing and making classic memories.
Fast forward 8 months. I was facing some follow up on an abnormal mammogram, and I happened to notice a FaceBook post by Suzanne that indicated she was dealing with some medical issues, too. The next time we chatted by phone, we discovered that we were both scheduled for tests on the same day. And a few weeks later we were diagnosed with cancer just one day apart.
It didn’t matter that hers was a sarcoma on her knee and mine was breast cancer. They were both invasive and a bit rare ~ although hers was more rare than mine. Suddenly we were bonded as sisters for life.
From then on, our lives followed each other in an uncanny pattern, often with appointments on the same day. When one of us had a procedure or treatment before the other one, we talked each other through what to expect. It was like having the best kind of support group, even though we were over 1000 miles apart. I can’t count the times we talked by phone, or Skyped, or texted.
And then, we supported each other through the dreaded recurrence. Her cancer came back in February of 2016, and I was diagnosed with a second breast cancer just months later in May. Suzanne understood so well what I was going through, and was, I think, my biggest cheerleader that I would beat this thing ~ even though she didn’t have that same hope for herself.
Almost every time I talked with Suzanne, she sounded so strong, just like her pre-cancer self. Rare was the conversation where she sounded depressed. It seemed she was always positive, always encouraging me.
So I was startled by a text from her late one night last September, saying that she had been admitted to hospice. What???? It couldn’t be time for that yet. But a call to her mom and more texts from Suzanne confirmed that her time on this earth probably wasn’t long.
Ever since our simultaneous diagnoses in 2013, we had talked about another Disney trip, reliving our 2012 meeting there and celebrating that we had beat cancer. One thing and another had kept me from going, but I knew now was the time. The pathos of that trip is too deep for me to recount here. Because it wasn’t a celebration. It was good-bye. And I did spend a wonderful day at Epcot with Suzanne’s mom, with the anticipation that she would join us there for dinner that evening. But a brief text let us know that she just wasn’t up to coming. She would have to “live” that day with us through our stories.
I flew back home on October 1. We celebrated each other’s October birthdays with packages mailed back and forth. Then, on October 27, I received this cryptic text: “Hey Anne I’m in the hospital….” It was the last text I would have from her. But we would have one more phone conversation. On Monday, November 5, Suzanne called to tell me, “It won’t be long now.” We cried together, and wished each other well. Less than a week later, on November 11, she slipped into eternity, holding her mom’s hand. Yesterday marked the two-month date, but I still struggle to believe that she’s gone.
I wish I had a nice wrap-up to this eulogy. I wish I could write more! But it would take a book to recount all that Suzanne meant to me and the lessons we learned from each other. Maybe some of those things will come out in other posts. But for now, though I grieve her death and the fact that she had to go before me, I am eternally grateful that she walked beside me while she did. And I live with the hope of seeing her again in Heaven.
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