The Final Chapters

My grandfather died at 28 years old, right at Christmastime—December 28, 1948. He was younger than my oldest son is now. His daughter (my mom) was five years old; his son (my uncle) was two.

His God-focus through terminal illness is astounding. He left a lasting impact on the flock he pastored. And his life intersected mine long after he was gone.

In June 2016, I faced my second breast cancer. My friend Tracy, who had survived a brain tumor, gifted me Rose From Briar, Amy Carmichael’s letters “from the ill to the ill (p. 13)” because it had meant so much to her in her own trial. It met me in my darkest place and carried me through the days before and after my surgery like no other book than the Psalms. Written from India in 1933, Brier’s poems and prayerful words are still so pertinent that I pass it along to others who need its peace.

In 2018 we moved to a new home and I unpacked a box of my grandparents’ books. Buried in the stack was an old blue volume with a water lily embossed on the cover. I turned it in my hands. On the spine, gold letters said Rose from Brier—Carmichael. I gasped. Opening it carefully, I read handwritten on the flyleaf: “Presented to Lloyd Smith by the Senior Class of Baptist Bible Seminary, 1942.” The next two pages were filled with signatures of his college classmates, some who had become well-known pastors or professors. Every one added a special Scripture verse. My heart overflowed. The very book that ministered to me had ministered to my grandfather in his own fight for life. I bowed myself and wept.

When my Mom battled uterine cancer in 2021, I gave the book to her, saying, “I think your daddy would want you to have this.” When I faced a total hysterectomy and possible uterine cancer in 2022, I asked to have the book back. Although I had my own paperback, underlined edition, I wanted to hold the hardback my grandpa had read. I kept one copy by my bed, and the other in my devotional basket so that whenever I needed it, it would be close.

As I read the familiar words again, I was struck with the profound insights Amy Carmichael had written almost 90 years before. They soothed my soul, brought me to the foot of the cross. Even after my own pathology came back benign, I kept reading. I wanted to preserve the raw emotions that had thrust me to the heart of God. I didn’t want the book to end.

It has sat unopened for months, the last two chapters unread. Today, as I ponder Grandpa Lloyd’s untimely passing, the last chapter titles seem especially fitting: “Thy Calvary Stills All Our Questions” and “A Door Opened in Heaven.” Even though he left this earth 75 years ago, his legacy lives on. And I’m ready to finish the book.

Birthdays Look Different

Birthdays look different after cancer.

Many years ago (before my diagnosis), I caught up with a writing mentor who had survived breast cancer twice. She was maybe sixty, which to me seemed pushing old age. “But isn’t every birthday just a joyful celebration?” I asked, thinking she must feel grateful for each year added to her life.

She agreed, but I sensed hesitation. Now I understand.

I turned 56 last week. I’m not happy with the changes and limitations that come with getting older. But I want to be old, because it means I didn’t die young.

And just in case you thought I did, I’ll follow up on my last cliffhanger post.

On March 14, 2023, two weeks after my radical hysterectomy, Greg and I sat in my gynecological oncologist’s office awaiting the pathology results. I knew all too well the fear that fills the sterile room as you wait for the knock on the door, and the words to follow. So I took my knitting and focused on each stitch. Busy hands, calm mind.

A knock. The physician’s assistant entered. I froze, eyes alert to every non-verbal. “Hi!” she said. “I have your results here,” tapping a manila folder. She sat down on a stool, wheeled herself over to me. Then “Oh!” She noticed what was in my hands. “I’m so glad you brought your knitting—or is it crochet?”

“No, it’s knitting.”

She laughed. “Well, I can’t do either.”

“I can knit, but I can’t crochet. My sister crochets, but doesn’t knit. I think maybe different peoples’ brains work differently.”

“One of these days, I’m going to have to learn,” she said.

I held my breath. Why are we talking about knitting? Do I keep this conversation going? She’s killing time, trying to soften the blow…

Then she turned to Greg. “I know Doctor told you he didn’t see anything suspicious.”

Here it comes.

“But it’s still really good news.”

Still?

“It’s all benign.” She opened the folder and painstakingly walked us through all the things they had found in me. My eyes skimmed the page, just in case it said “cancer.” Nothing. Definitely a huge fibroid, and other issues with my endometrium and ovaries, but NO CANCER. Relief came slowly; tears of joy were a bit delayed. A long, painful recovery still lay ahead, but no chemo or radiation. I was walking free! We celebrated with lunch at Cheesecake Factory, and I went home to rest. And knit.

Now, eight months later, I sometimes forget the gift I’ve been given. I take breath for granted. I struggle with life and wish I didn’t have to do hard things.

But I don’t want to forget what God brought me through. I don’t want my story to grow stale. May every birthday, every anniversary, every doctor’s visit, every new scare remind me of my blessings and the privilege of encouraging my fellow travelers on our journey Home.

Choosing Joy

Waiting makes me philosophical. 

Surgery two weeks ago went well. My total abdominal hysterectomy (or TAH) removed a melon-sized fibroid as well as uterus, cervix, tubes, and ovaries. The surgeon announced that he didn't think it looked like cancer. But a cancer diagnosis is pathology-based. Tomorrow we'll get those results.

Moments of intense peace and joy (almost euphoria) have overwhelmed me these past two weeks, brought on perhaps by medication or Divine intervention or both. Deep, cleansing breaths come more naturally, undoubtedly improved by the space my lungs have to expand now that that nasty fibroid (and other things) are gone. I accept these gifts.

But in the back of my mind, never far away, lurks the question, "Is it cancer?" 

I'm reading the devotional Rose From Brier, notes that Amy Carmichael wrote "from the ill to the ill" in 1933.¹ Amy, a missionary in India, was bedridden for months following a serious accident. Her thoughts and poems are brief but deep, easy to read when I feel like reading, and comforting to mull over while I rest.

She says in her introduction: "All these letters have been written . . . at the time the storm fell upon me, not after the coming of the calm."² This is what I hope my blog will be--comfort not just with good reports, but in the waiting, too.

A precious scripture to me in the uncertainty leading up to my surgery was "He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty."³ In the continued uncertainty since my surgery, I have clung to these additional words: "Because you have been my help, therefore in the shadow of Your wings I will rejoice."⁴

I've imagined a hundred times tomorrow's scene in the surgeon's office. What will he say? If he says "no cancer present" I may weep for joy. If he says "bad news" I may weep with fear. I cannot prepare to rejoice or crumple because I won't know until that moment.

But the truth is, I am under His wings. I keep seeing myself as a little chick, peeking my head out every so often to see if a storm is coming. But no matter what happens, I'm in the safest place. Nothing can touch me here. I can already rejoice.

 

 

¹Amy Carmichael, Rose from Brier, 2015 ed. (Fort Washington, PA: CLC Publications, 2015), 13.

²Carmichael, Rose from Brier, 14.

³Bible, Psalm 91:1 (NKJV)

⁴Bible, Psalm 63:7 (NKJV)

 

 

 

Ten Years

“It s been ten years. And I’m still breathing.”

I mentally composed this opening months ago in preparation for my 10 year anniversary. Ten years ago today, on February 20, 2013, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. You know, ten years after cancer, you’re considered a survivor. And you also know, if you’ve read my past posts, that I haven’t blogged in almost three years. I mean . . . pandemic. And now I'm busy living. I consider myself a survivor.

Perhaps prematurely.

Last month, a serious sinus infection turned into pinkeye which required a round of Augmentin, steroids, and eye drops. When stomach pain flared a week later, I figured it was a reaction to the meds, or maybe the probiotics I was taking to counteract the meds. But the pain persisted, and I felt lumps in my abdomen that concerned me, so I saw my doctor. She sent me for a CT scan. We went looking for diverticulitis, but found a large fibroid instead.  

I’ve known for years I had fibroids. Fibroids are usually benign. But I have variables that put me at risk for uterine cancer, one of them being that in 2021 I walked my mom through uterine cancer, chemo, radiation, and recovery. She’s doing well. Now our doctor is worried about me.

This feels surreal, this worry about cancer again. My total hysterectomy is scheduled for February 27, one day shy of ten years after my breast cancer surgery on February 28, 2013. Back then, they knew the tumor was cancerous. This time, they won’t know ‘til after surgery.

Our emotions come in waves, depending on the day—or the hour. Our daughter Nicola asked, “Is this going to be my life? This fear of impending loss?” Sometimes it feels like that has been life for the past 10 years. For how many biopsies have we awaited the outcome, convinced that death was certain, only to be told that all was well, everything was benign?

We grow weary. We long for open seas, smooth sailing. Bur storm clouds gather, and we wonder if they’ll pass or send us to the depths. Then Jesus comes, just like He did to the disciples caught in a storm on Galilee. Nicola texted: “Was reading in Mark this morning about Jesus calming the storm. The words ‘great calm’ stuck out to me. Praying that over you today.”

God’s Word brings calm. Friends send scriptures that minister. My devotions or a worship song line up, confirming the truth of God’s sovereign care, of His never-ending love.

This is what I know from my times in the valley of the shadow—He is with me. Fear hovers, but I have a choice. My dear husband Greg, who feels each waiting period deeply, put it so well: “Do you find your mind going down into a hole, but you tell yourself, ‘Don’t go there’? And then you come back to a place where you think, 'Everything's ok' . . . but you're not sure that's true, either?”

That’s exactly what I feel. It’s a trick to keep your mind perfectly balanced between fearing the worst and expecting the best. There’s tension as you wait, keeping your mind fixed on what you know is true at this moment.

This afternoon, Greg and I gazed at each other across the table and pondered the fact that it has been ten years since we first heard the words, “It is cancer.” I thought my life was over then, but a decade later we're still here, having watched our kids grow up, having lived so many dreams. I am grateful.

No matter what happens, whether next Monday leads us through the portal marked “benign” or the one marked “cancer,” behind either door is Heaven.