Ending Well

It was one year ago, on Christmas Day, when I first felt this weird tingling sensation in my neck, which quickly turned into a lump, and then several lumps, which tests and scans and biopsies subsequently confirmed as being Stage 4 metastatic cancer.  It has been a year of fighting hard for my health.  Fighting hard for my life.

The thing about cancer is that it is a vicious, aggressive, ruthless enemy.  But unlike other enemies, when you are fighting cancer, you can never, ever, not for one second, retreat.  There is no withdrawing from the battle, no R&R weekends where you can just be a normal person for a few days before putting your armor back on to fight another day.  No, cancer is in you, and if you have any hope of winning the battle, you can never stop fighting.

But I have discovered, surprisingly, that there is an even bigger enemy inside me, one that is even more brutal and unrelenting: the enemy of fear.  Not just fear of dying or fear of the unknown future, which is huge, but fear in every decision that I make. 

When I have time in the afternoon, should I fight my fatigue by taking a nap?  After all, sleep is restorative, the only time when cells regenerate.  Or should I use that time to go outside?  I mean, I need that oxygen-rich air and vitamin D from the sun to help fight this cancer.  

Should I press fresh organic fruits and vegetables through a juicer for those essential nutrients that my body needs, or should I stay away from fruit altogether, since cancer cells thrive on glucose?  

When the pain becomes unbearable, should I apply a heat pack, since cancer cells cannot survive heat, or should I go for the cold pack, which may reduce some of the inflammation?  

Every day, with every decision, I fight the enemy of fear, knowing that my very life depends on choosing wisely.  Always aware of the lethal consequences I will face if I don’t.

Where are All the Stockings?

The day after Thanksgiving, I’m pulling out the boxes of Christmas decorations, my young children, husband and I having braved the crowds at the corner lot to buy a Christmas tree.  I string lights on the tree and hang a wreath on my front door, but even though there is festive music playing in the background, my mood is not festive.  I am sort of going through the motions, my heart not really in the Christmas spirit.  I am mentally counting down the days until December 25, wondering how I will make it through until then.  Wondering how I can possibly make this season into a happy, magical one for my kids.

My far away thoughts are brought to a screeching halt as my attention is drawn to the mantle of our fireplace.  Or more specifically, to the conspicuous absence of stockings hung on the mantle of our fireplace.  Not too long ago, our mantle was crammed full of stockings – for our young adult children, for the significant people in their lives, for the foster children who were living with us, for the youngest members of our family.  There were so many stockings, they almost didn’t fit!  I remember staring at all those stocking one evening, when the house was quiet and filled with the smell of fresh pine, and thinking to myself, my heart is full!

That isn’t my story this season.  This time, my heart doesn’t feel full at all.  I am asking myself this year, Where are all the stockings?  The nearly empty mantle is taunting me, representing loneliness and great loss, the changes that can happen in a person’s life when he or she least expects it.  

I am not alone in feeling this way.  Some of my dearest friends and I have had, quite frankly, a year that has been full of heartache and pain.  Struggles that we never thought would happen to nice people like us.  Altogether we have been irreparably impacted by overwhelming circumstances, like a gigantic tidal wave of grief and sorrow.  We have faced debilitating mental illness that keeps our families in a perpetual state of high alert; powerful addictions that seem impossible to break; the long hard road of unemployment, wondering how to provide for our families;  the sudden, unexplainable loss of a beloved child; the shame and dark despair of incarceration; shocking suicide attempts; a failed business venture; the abandonment of a spouse who had once vowed to be faithful; domestic violence so dangerous, so out of control that we had no choice but to call the police; a prodigal child who may or may not ever come home; a precious grandchild who, due to broken family relationships, we may never know; the terrifying diagnosis of a terminal illness.

As we face such tragic and devastating circumstances, how can we enter this season with joy?  In the midst of all of that grief and suffering, how can we be thankful?  When our hearts are so heavy that, in spite of our brave faces, the tears keep overflowing long into the night, is it even possible to find peace, that elusive peace that the birth of Jesus promised to bring?  When I stand in front of the fireplace and ask myself, Where are all the stockings?, how can this still be a happy, magical season?

Whatever It Takes

My husband and I have been asking ourselves, what would mean for us to give the first and best of our time, of our talent, and of our treasure.  

For more than 20 years, we had an unspoken motto:  We were fully committed to doing whatever it takes to care for any foster child in our home. We sacrificed hundreds, maybe thousands of hours of free time, hobbies, friendships, date nights, even family vacations for one child.   And then for the next child, and then for the one after that.  This is what it meant for us to give the first and best of our time.

Caring for these children was our passion, the joy of our heart.  It was such an honor to care for the sickest, the weakest, the most broken and frail, and then to experience the thrill of watching them grow and thrive.  Of course, having a child who was frequently in the hospital, or who was connected to life-saving equipment at home, or who struggled with unpredictable and destructive behaviors meant that we were unable to serve in church ministries or teach Sunday School classes or lead Bible studies.  But it did mean that we were doing what God had called us and uniquely gifted us to do.  This is what it meant for us to give the first and best of our talent.

Earlier this year, when I was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer, our motto suddenly, by necessity, switch directions.  Now instead of doing whatever it takes to care for a foster child, we became committed to doing whatever it takes for me to fight cancer.  For me to find healing and wholeness.

Reluctant Warrior

There are many roles I have chosen for myself.  Roles I love.  I am a Christ-follower, a wife, a long-time foster and adoptive mother, a friend, a sister, a daughter, a homeschool teacher, a neighbor, a sign-language interpreter and a blogger.  But now, for the past few months, I have had another role thrown at me: a warrior.  Being a warrior is not a role I would have chosen for myself.  I did not voluntarily sign up for this.  I am unskilled, ill-equipped, and insecure at times, but a reluctant warrior nonetheless.

When I first heard the words cancer, rare, aggressive, incurable, stage 4, I naturally felt deep fear.  Terrified at the unknown future.  How long do I have left to live?  And how long will I still feel like me?  How long will I feel well and be able to take care of myself and take care of the two youngest children that God has brought into our family through adoption?  What will the symptoms be like as they worsen and progress?  What will it feel like when I am no longer able to speak or to swallow or to breathe on my own?  What if the pain becomes excruciating?  How will I bear it?

Suddenly, it felt like this little village that is my body was being attacked, under siege by a powerful enemy, and even if I could somehow defend myself from its progression, it would only be a matter of time before this evil conqueror would eventually prevail.

Sitting in the oncologist’s office that day, I felt weak and helpless, utterly at the mercy of the cold, clinical medical technology and what it would do to me.  I felt like a victim.  No choice, no voice, no power over the limited treatment options I was being offered, nor the dreadful side effects – both temporary and permanent – that would be left in their wake.  I felt a deep emptiness inside, knowing that my season of advocating for orphaned and vulnerable children, of caring for them and loving them in my home, was over.  Now, instead of foster mom, adoptive mom, speaker, advocate, mentor – roles I was passionate about - I was forced to become “cancer patient.”  And with every bone in my body, I hated it, grieving the loss of all that I had lost.

For several weeks after receiving my diagnosis, my heart was filled with fear and dread.  Uncertainty about which direction to take.  My husband and I spent countless hours researching and discussing options, praying for wisdom, weeping in grief and worry, seeking counsel.  For weeks I lost sleep, was unable to think of anything else, and was almost completely paralyzed with anxiety.  Not only did I have a physical enemy that was attacking my bodily health, but I had a mental enemy, every bit as detrimental, that was attacking my emotional health.  I couldn’t go on like this.

Building the Bridge

Even before I turn the corner to the hallway leading to my daughter’s preschool classroom, I can hear the cries coming from that direction.  And a moment later, I can see where the cries are coming from.  A little girl, clinging frantically onto her daddy’s leg, begging him not to leave.  

This is a fairly common scene on a weekday morning at preschools everywhere, but for some reason, on this particular morning, this particular little girl catches my attention.  Her sobs and the tears running down her face touch my heart in almost a physical way.  I can practically feel her pain.

I don’t know this girl, and I don’t know why she is crying.  Maybe she cries every time he leaves, and she hasn’t yet learned how to say goodbye.  Maybe she needs an extra moment of connection with him before they separate for the next few hours.  An extra reassurance from him, as she faces the terrifying world of social and academic expectations, that Sweetheart, everything is going to be ok.  

She clearly has some big emotions, and hasn’t yet learned how to talk about them or how to handle them in any other way, so she is expressing those big emotions the only way she knows how.  By crying and clinging onto her daddy.

Her daddy speaks harshly to his little girl, telling her to Stop crying!  He peels her arms away from his leg, and pushes her away towards the classroom door.  He pushes her away!  

Teaching Him

Please, God.  Please don’t make me do this!  Surely there is some other way.  Surely there is a solution I haven’t thought of yet.  You know me!  You know I am weak and exhausted and ill-equipped for this path.  You know I have cancer, for heaven’s sake!  God, you know I can’t do this!

And yet, despite my tear-filled tantrum, despite my reminding God of all the things He already knows, this is precisely what He is asking me to do.  He is asking me to teach my son.  At home.  We tried sending him to school where he might be able to receive the special education that he needs.  But that was not the answer.  We tried hiring a private teacher at home where his fragile health will be protected.  But that was not the answer either.  

No, I know in the depths of my heart that there is no other option for his education.  For this season, anyway, God is calling me to this task.  He is calling me to rely on, not the experts or the professionals or the “multitudes.” There is certainly a time and a place and season for those resources. But for this season, He wants me to rely on the Holy One of Israel.  He wants me to seek help from Him as I walk this path.  (Isaiah 31:1)

And the path, for me, is daunting. Since the day I met him nearly ten years ago, I have poured myself wholeheartedly into protecting him and keeping him healthy.  I have researched his complicated physical conditions and have found the very best specialists who can help him to thrive.  And it has been such a tremendous joy to see him thrive!  Every day, his vibrant personality and zeal for life simply amazes me! The fact that he is alive simply amazes me!

But his learning difficulties? His neuro-developmental disabilities? Those are way beyond me.  They defy my ability to understand.  How can I possibly teach him to read, much less to comprehend and apply what he is reading?  How can I help him memorize math facts when numbers make no sense to him? But even more frightening than the academics is the life-skills that are so essential for him to learn.  How can I possibly teach him everything he needs to know to live a productive and independent life some day?  The very thought of it overwhelms and almost paralyzes me.

When Your Bucket List Overflows

It’s cancer.  Malignant. Stage 4.  Angry and aggressive.  Rare.  Incurable.

The oncologist is speaking, and she is saying words that surely I must have heard before.  But never have I realized what ugly, vile words they are.  These words?  Describing me?  Unbelievable!

The oncologist goes on, almost apologetically, explaining that medical science doesn’t know what could have caused this terrible disease, especially since I do not have any of the usual risk factors. I am young-ish, not overweight, non-smoker, no family history.  Not even any genetic mutations or elevated tumor markers.  Well, medical science may not have clinical evidence to prove it, but secretly, I suspect the real cause.  In fact, I have suspected it for years.

I mean, the human body can only endure so much anxiety and trauma and grief and heartache, before something has got to give. Honestly, during our 20+ years of caring for some of our community’s most broken and most fragile and most needy children in our home, I have given my finite body an Olympic-worthy workout. I have demanded of my little adrenal glands, day after day, year after year that they keep producing an almost constant stream of adrenaline and cortisol, those hormones that the body needs during times of extreme stress.  How can that not eventually have an adverse effect?

Those thousands of nights when I should have been sleeping, that vital time when the body’s cells restore and rejuvenate, but instead I was keeping vigil at a child’s bedside, wondering if he or she would survive until morning.  The thousands of nights when I cried into my pillow, wondered if I  would survive until morning.  Managing countless moments of destructive behaviors, calming violent outbursts and tantrums, trying desperately to understand the hidden fears and hurts behind the rage.  Grabbing a quick granola bar or skipping meals altogether on my way out the door to yet another appointment or meeting or visit or court hearing.  The frequent worry and desperate prayers for a child’s uncertain and precarious future.  The dozens and dozens of times that I was overcome by grief, weeping for days when a flawed court system suddenly decided that a precious child who had been a part of my heart and a beloved member of our family for months or years, would not be able to stay, and I knew that life would never again be the same.

How could many years of, quite literally, laying down my life (John 15:13) for the least of these (Matthew 25:45) not eventually have an impact?  How could a lifetime of “being poured out as a drink offering” (2 Timothy 4:6) not eventually take its toll?  

That Time We Said No

This is the new foster placement coordinator 

(I don’t think we have met yet).  I see from our 

records that you have space available in your 

home, and I was wondering if you might be 

interested in taking a new foster placement.

We would be willing to consider it, sure!

Can you give me some more details?

There is a 3-year old little boy who is in the

hospital and ready to be discharged soon.

Oh, wow!  Do you know why he is in the 

hospital? Does he have a lot of medical 

needs?  Will he need special care?

I just got the paperwork from the investigator, 

so I am unfamiliar with the case.  Let’s see . . .

It looks like he has a feeding tube and he has 

a trach.  And possibly some endocrine issues.  

He is being taken into protective custody due 

to medical neglect.

Oh, no!  That poor child!  My heart goes out 

to him.  However, we have had several 

children with trachs over the years, and they 

are SO hard!  They need full-time, 24-hour 

care, and we just cannot commit to that.  We 

are going to have to say no. I’m so sorry!

Ok, well, let me see if I can get some more

information and then get back with you.

That’s fine if you want to find out more 

information, but we are unable to take a child 

with a trach.  We really need to say no.

Thank you for your honesty.  I understand 

that this would be a big commitment.  Let me 

put you in touch with his medical team at the 

hospital.  They may be able to give you more 

details about his care, and answer any 

questions you may have.

Ok, sure.  It never hurts to get more 

information and ask some questions, right?

.

Who He Was Created to Be

After waiting for a few minutes in the waiting room, we hear our name being called and follow the click-clack of the woman’s heels down the hall towards her office.  She motions for us to take a seat on the other side of her desk, offering us coffee.  Commenting on the weather.  Asking if we were able to find a spot in the parking deck across the street without too much trouble.  She is obviously trying to be polite and make us feel comfortable, but I am impatient and ready to get down to business.  We are here for answers, not small talk.

Finally, she sits behind her desk and hands us a thick stack of papers, neatly bound together with a large binder clip.  It my first hint that this meeting is not going to be quick.  Or that the news inside these documents is not going to be good.  I had been secretly hoping that she would give us a single sheet of paper, one that said something simple like, Your child’s test scores all came back in the “normal” range, and you have absolutely nothing to worry about.  Have a nice day!  But of course my secret hopes were entirely unrealistic.  We wouldn’t have requested these evaluations in the first place unless we had suspected that something was seriously wrong.  The thick stack of papers is a professional’s report, confirming and articulating in technical terminology what we already know to be true.

She starts talking about the report, explaining some of the details and diagnoses.  You know how, when Charlie Brown’s teacher talks, all you can hear is Wah wah, wah wah, wah wah wah instead of the actual words?  That is exactly what this feel like.  I can hear this woman’s voice, and I know she is saying actual words, but I am unable to understand any of it through the fog of shock.  How can these words be describing our child?

Seeing our child’s weaknesses and struggles right here in black and white, complete with specific codes from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5), is sobering and heart-breaking.  What parents want to read a document that officially declares that their child is deficient? What parents want to admit that their child is fundamentally flawed? Abnormal?  Broken?

What They Did Not Know

His parents just stand there helplessly, pleading with their son to please, please reconsider.  To please make a better, wiser, more sensible choice.  His father prays silent, fervent prayers, asking God to give him just the right words to say that would change their son’s mind.  His mother tries desperately to hold back the tears, begging God to please let this not be true.  How did they get to this point?  Where had everything gone so terribly wrong?

It hadn’t always been like this.  They remember, as if were yesterday, the years and years that they had waited and prayed and longed for a child.  How they had struggled to remain brave and hopeful as the families all around them seemed to be flourishing and growing, and their own womb remained empty.

And then the day, that wonderful day, the happiest day of their life, when God answered their prayers and gave them a beautiful, perfect baby boy.  Their son.  Oh, how they rejoiced!  And their lips praised, again and again, the One who works wonders.  And their hearts overflowed with thanksgiving for His goodness and His mercy and for giving them this precious, priceless gift. 

They committed their son fully, completely, wholeheartedly to God.  They knelt down before the Lord, falling on their faces to the ground, and pleaded with God to give them wisdom to raise their child.  To teach them what to do.  To show them the kind of life God wanted their son to have.  To use them, despite their inexperience and inadequacies, to prepare this boy for the mission, the grand purpose for which God had created him.  

Now that God had so generously answered their prayers for a child, they took their parenting role very seriously, and they knew that they would need God’s help every step of the way.  They obeyed God completely.  They observed every command. They raised their son to be strong and courageous.  They taught him God’s word at every opportunity.  They modeled for him what it means to live a life with the utmost respect and reverence for God’s holiness.  

And now?  Now their son is grown, independent, old enough to make his own decisions.  And his parents are deeply grieved, not only at the foolish choices that he is making, but at the dangerous direction his life is taking.  At the angry young man he is becoming.  His life is full of fighting, violence, destruction, and revenge.  He is reckless and impulsive.  He is promiscuous and – they can barely bear the deep shame of it – he actually sleeps with prostitutes!  Could this really be the same person that they had dedicated to God all those years ago?  It hardly seems possible.

When God Calls You to the Impossible

You look at the path ahead, the journey that God has called you to, and you can barely comprehend the enormity of what you are facing.  The obstacles are immense.  The challenges, unimaginable.  The destination, thoroughly unobtainable.  You think, No way, God! I can’t do this.  This path you have called me to?  It is insane.  It is impossible!

This is not the path you wanted.  Well, not exactly.  You love God, of course.  With all your heart you love God, and throughout the years that you have walked with Him, you have been blessed in so many ways.  Back in the day, you even had the great privilege of witnessing the amazing miracles that only He could do.  Oh, the stories you could tell of His faithfulness and power and goodness!

But this?  This isn’t exactly what you signed up for.  You thought by now, now that you are this far down the path, that the journey would be getting easier, not harder!  And certainly not impossible!  You start to doubt, thinking, maybe you misunderstood what He is asking you to do.  Perhaps you took a wrong turn somewhere along the journey, and if you could just find your way back to the right path, the one He must have intended for you to take, then everything will work out.  Then you can breathe easy again. 

But no.  There is no other path.  There is no way around it.  This is the place He has led you to.  This is the journey forward He is asking you to take.  This is the impossible He is calling you to.  

Are We Willing?

“We will adopt your baby!”  We have seen the posts and read the comments.  We have seen the pictures of individuals and couples holding signs with this printed message, standing outside the clinics and at the pro-life rallies.  And while this is a well-meaning response to the recent abortion legislation and subsequent media attention, is offering to adopt her baby the right answer?  The intent is good!  Big-hearted and noble even!  But offering to adopt her baby is an overly simplistic answer to a complex and much deeper issue.

The offer itself, if anyone chooses to be so brave, will need to be an offer that is made unconditionally.  It is an offer that cannot be made with any exceptions. Not a single “if.“   Offering to adopt a child who has not yet been born is a serious consideration, a game-changing decision that could significantly affect us and the other members of our family for the rest of our lives!  

Can we honestly say that we would be willing to adopt a baby with a different ethnicity than our own?  One with special needs or who may be born with serious birth defects?  One whose birthmother has AIDS or other communicable diseases?  A baby who has already been exposed to dangerous substances that most assuredly has negatively impacted his or her brain development?  If we are unable or unwilling to adopt a child with no questions asked, then perhaps we should not be offering at all. 

Please hear me . . . I am not saying that a baby with significant special needs is ever a valid reason to have an abortion! Not at all!  But if we ourselves are unwilling or unable to raise a child with significant special needs, perhaps we should not be so quick to criticize the expectant mother who is unwilling or unable to do so either.

And let’s take a step back for a moment, so we can look at the bigger picture. While offering to adopt her baby – unconditionally and without exceptions - is certainly a valid alternative to abortion, adoption is not the only alternative.  Nor is adoption necessarily the best alternative.  Adoption can be a beautiful thing, a moment when an orphaned child and a loving family find each other, joining their hearts together for the rest of their lives.  Many of us have a story that includes adoption, and we are so, so thankful that it does!  

But adoption only tells half of the story. What we often miss is that adoption is, or at least should be, the last resort.  Adoption is the solution for when all other options have failed.   If our response to abortion is to stand up and say, “We will adopt your baby!” we are inadvertently skipping to the last resort. And when we do so, we miss entirely the other piece of the equation.  We completely overlook the mother who is carrying the baby.

The Silent Ones

We are a community of mothers who love our children powerfully and passionately. Who want and dream and envision only the best for them and their future.  And together, when we see first-hand how difficult this job of parenting can sometimes be, we stick together.  We are a tribe of warrior mamas who defend each other in the fiercest battles.  Sisters who support one another with practical resources during the most difficult seasons.  Kindred spirits who refuse to let another one fall.  We encourage one another, as often as necessary, to keep pressing on. 

Some of us have children with chronic or life-threatening health issues. The ones whose children are facing such a terrifying medical diagnosis, that we know, intuitively, that there is no way we can do this by ourselves.  And when we openly ask our community of mothers for help, the response is almost always immediate and powerful.  Neighbors bring meals.  Church leaders and family members gather to pray.  Friends wear the special t-shirt that symbolizes their esprit de corps . . . their camaraderie.  Mothers who are further along in the journey, those of us who have traveled this way before, share our experiences and hard-earned wisdom, extending a hand up to those of us who are just starting out.  We are reminded in so many ways that we are not alone.

Some of us call ourselves the lucky ones, the mamas of children with genetic disorders or developmental delays or heart defects. The ones who have the incomparable privilege of watching God’s plan unfold in unexpected and miraculous ways. (1)

Some of us have intentionally chosen the hard and rocky path.  We have stepped into the brokenness of foster care and adoption, opening our arms and our homes to welcome children who have been traumatized, neglected, abused, forgotten. Children with immense emotional and behavioral challenges that wreak havoc in our families.  

At the beginning, we were excited about where this journey would take us, knowing that we, too, were the lucky ones.  We just knew that we would have the incomparable privilege of watching God’s plan unfold in unexpected and miraculous ways. But now, years later, our blog posts have become fewer and fewer.  Our posts and pictures on social media are pretty much non-existent.  Once upon a time we were the most vocal, the most passionate, the biggest advocates for orphaned and vulnerable children!  But now?  Now we have become the silent ones.