I will (choose to) see the goodness of God

Photo Credit: Amy Murgatroyd Photography

We're now on day 3 of inpatient chemo.  We've known about this tumor for 25 days, and our worlds have been completely turned upside down.  Our kids are melting and missing Daddy, and I am running between home and hospital, and torn between their grief and my own.  Our "normal" right now feels ill-fitting and uncomfortable - but it will be our normal for the next 5-6 months, so we have to get used to it.  

It's easy, sometimes, when your life turns upside down, and crisis hits, to feel like the world stops moving.  To feel like you're drowning under the weight of grief.  You walk past sunshine and people smiling, and it just seems rude.  Like, how can your life be so normal, you be so happy, when mine is so wrong right now. How can you not know?  How is my tsunami/earthquake/grief not rocking your world too? Other times, everything else seems like a blur outside of my tunnel vision centered on what's going on in our lives - passing by, irrelevant to our world, which has shrunk down dramatically in this post-tumor life.

I had a moment the other day, walking to get the boys from school, on a bright sunny day - way too many people smiling, me in tunnel vision mode - and I was stopped by two random people asking for money or signatures, for themselves, or for their cause.  I was polite, but frustrated - angry even.  In my mind, the dialogue was "How can you ask me to care for someone else's children/family?  I'm overwhelmed with caring for my own right now and I don't know how we'll make it through this."

Not a wrong thought.  Not an inaccurate thought, certainly an understandable thought.

But, as I kept walking, I had the very clear thought, like the voice of God gently whispering - "You have to make a choice now, whether you will be consumed by this, or whether you will lift up your head and see others, without judgment, wherever they are."

You have to make a choice.

Lift up your head.

You have to make a choice.

Here's the reality - my world right now is very small and it has to be.  I care deeply and passionately about issues of justice and compassion in the world - I love being able to care for others - but I simply don't have the bandwidth or emotional energy to invest heavily there right now.  My world is centered on caring for my husband and my kids, and occasionally myself.  And that's the way it needs to be right now, simply to make it through.  I am so thankful for the literally hundreds of people who are supporting us, praying for us, and caring for us, to enable me to do just that.  That is a debt of gratitude that I cannot ever repay.

BUT.

I have a choice on whether I am consumed by it, or whether I lift up my head to others.

Sometimes lifting up my head simply means raising tear-stained eyes to look into the face of another and receive grace and care from them, rather than drowning under the weight that we/I carry, alone.  

Other times, lifting up my head means seeing others where they are and rejoicing with them when they rejoice, and grieving with them when they grieve, without comparing sorrows or begrudging joys.  

Sorrow and joy, they are not incompatible.

In life, they both exist in the same places and spaces.   One moment, you're laughing at an 11 month olds drunken stagger walk - the next, you're awoken by the alarms from your husband's chemo drip and the panic that something is wrong.   One moment you're snickering at something your 4 year old rhymed with kitchen, the next you're wailing when he tells you out of the blue that "it will be okay if Daddy dies because you'll still be here with us, Mommy."  One moment you're laughing about how chemo is the most expensive haircut/vasectomy/couples getaway ever.  The next you're holding your 3 year old as he sobs because he misses you so much and you're undone by not being able to be everything to everyone.

It's not either or.  It never has been.  And when we are consumed by one, unable to see anyone else - our lives are simpler, but far less complexly beautiful.  And we miss so many opportunities to see the goodness of God and others.

Your joy - if you are in a season of joy - is worth celebrating, even if we are in a hard season.   Your babies are beautiful, and celebrating them, it adds to our joy.  Your accomplishments and triumphs and delights - when I look up at you - they add to my joy.

Your sorrow - no matter if it's large or small - is worth grieving, even if we are in a easier/harder season.  With tear-stained eyes, we can grieve them together.  In God's economy, grief is not weighted heavier or lighter - it is simply grief.  I might not have the bandwidth to carry you in your grief, but I can pray for you as you share, and I can weep with you as you weep.

And on days when I can bear no more weight, I always have a choice to lift up my eyes to you and make the choice to share it with you, rather than be consumed by it.  I might not share in depth - many times that's not the right decision or the right relationship to do so - but I can smile, or cry, and not simply walk by alone.  

"Ok God," I said.  "I will lift up my head.  I will make the choice not to let this consume me.  And I will trust you, that you see me in my grief and overwhelmed state."

I tell you this now as well, friend.  This cancer, chemo, and care - it will determine much of my life for the next 5-6 months.  But I will make the choice (daily, hourly, minute-ly?) not to let it suck me into a solitary pit.  I will look up, look to you, look at you, and embrace the complexity of joy and sorrow.  I will not do this alone, isolated with only what's happening to me/us in my view.

I got home that day to find three completely random checks in the mail, and a home-cooked meal from a friend who wanted to love us in our grief - more than covering all of our needs for that week.  And a message about delivering groceries for the week.

God laughed a little bit at me, and I wept with those tears of joy, knowing that my Father in Heaven sees me, and knows me - and our friends care for us, and carry us - and invites me into the complexity.

Lift up your head.  And you will see goodness [[and]] grief, and understand love.

T+13 days - thankful in the midst

To say that these last two weeks have been some of the hardest of our lives would not be an overstatement.  Our world has been turned upside down and still isn't upright.  We have no idea what comes next - although we have an inkling that it will likely not be easy - nor are we guaranteed that we will make it through it (although we are hoping, praying, and holding onto that with everything in our beings).  We are still a mess at the moment - and that's okay - cancer sucks and it knocks the ever-living wind out of you when you meet it face to face.  We're not glossing over things - we know that this is scary and a big deal - but neither are we devoid of hope in the slightest - and doctors agree that there is reason for optimism, for which we are grateful.  Even so, it feels like traversing a road that one never wished to travel.

Even in the midst of these hellish last two weeks, there are countless things that we are thankful for.  Jon suggested that we keep track of them, so here's my week 2 attempt to do so.  [I'm not writing thank you notes right now (I'm sorry!), and I'm sure I've forgotten some - but just know we are so thankful for all the love and encouragement we have received!]

We are thankful...

... that we didn't move out of area, as we thought we might this past summer.  Even though on paper it made far more sense to do so, all of our promising opportunities fell through, and so we found ourselves still here when this crisis hit.  Still here, with an easy PCP to call when minor symptoms persisted (had we moved, I doubt we would have had a PCP or even called because we'd still be in transition).  Still here with a wonderful community of friends and family who have literally fed and carried us these past two weeks.  Still here with neighbors who can and have babysat on the drop of a hat.  Still here with a job that has been incredibly gracious and basically said "do what you need to do to get well" and a full slate of vacation days and sick days - and coworkers who pray for us and feed us and pray with us.   Still here in one of the top medical epicenters in the country, with top cancer care facilities close to our home, should it prove to be cancer.   Minutes from the airport for any friends and family who fly in.  What felt like God's no - that we mourned significantly this summer - has turned into a place of profound gratitude.

...  that there was a last minute cancellation/opening for Jon to see his doctor that fateful Thursday night.  Otherwise, the next appointment would have been weeks from now in late October.

... for the countless people (including strangers) who have fed us, cried with us, sent money to us, prayed for us, held us, organized help for us, and watched our kids for us on the drop of a hat in the days since we first learned of this tumor.  Each one of you has made our load lighter and our days brighter.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

... for my sister-friend who has held me while I screamed, has taken time off of work to care for us and our kids, and expertly organized an army of people to feed and care for us - all while renovating her house and pregnant with her first baby.  When we decided to be roommates a decade ago, I never knew how profoundly blessed I/we would be by you - both in this crisis, and in the years prior to it.

... for the elevator doors opening at a divine moment, two weeks ago at church, so that we bumped into an oncology acquaintance who we don't see often - she has since networked us to the people who will most likely be our care team in the months to follow. For the oncologists and doctors we know who have offered to connect us to specialists and experts in the field, at the best hospitals, once we have a definite diagnosis.  Who have looked at our scans and talked us through procedures and big words and scary options and given us informed hope.

... for Jon's brother flying up here on short notice to be with us when he went in for the biopsy - and helped us as he healed and hiccuped - and the rest of our families who have also also volunteered to come any time and help in any way.  We know you want to be here, will be here on the drop of a hat, and we are so thankful for you.

... for the gregarious MFM doctor in the pre-op stall next to ours who was in for an emergency gallbladder removal.  She was enthralled by her engorged gallbladder and kept offering to show it to anyone who would look - and giggling about how she loved it so much she wanted to keep it.  She was mildly drunk on her pre-op meds and she kept us laughing through the curtains with her tales and antics - through what was a very long and anxious wait for the surgery.

...  for my friend who dropped everything and came and sat with me at the hospital while I waited for Jon to come out of surgery, and then went to pick up his meds so that I could just take him home.

... for our surgeon, Dr G, who, while no nonsense, personally took the time to answer all our questions and make sure that we were doing ok, even at the end of his long day.  He didn't have my phone number, so he walked two different floors of the building to locate me after the surgery, and then sat with me to patiently ensure that I understood and had my questions answered.

... for sunny days and cooler temperatures this past week.  They are small blessings, but they have made this week a little easier to bear.

While we have much to lament and plead for mercy in, we also have much to be thankful for.  We are not alone.  And we are so so very thankful.