When Mama Has Cancer

Less than six weeks after the scans showed no signs of cancer, the monstrous beast returned with a vengeance, raging through my body.  It has infiltrated the bones in my leg, has taken over the lymph nodes in my neck, has spread to my stomach, and has extended from the back of my shoulder all the way down my rib cage.  The pain is excruciating.  Food doesn’t stay down.  I now sleep most of the day.  From zero to completely invasive in less than 6 weeks.

When I was first diagnoses with stage 4 metastatic cancer a little over one year ago, I knew it was terminal, but I held on to hope that I could fight it.  At least for a little while.  And because I had no idea how long the journey would take, I haven’t shared too many details with my two youngest children.  I didn’t want to scare them.  I told them that Mama has cancer, but all that has meant to them up until now is that I went to a lot of doctors’ appointments, that I had lots of medicine, that I took long naps, that many of our friends helped us with meals and babysitting, and that I cried every day.

And to them, cancer meant that in just a few short months, my appearance completely changed.  Watching me become bald (due to the chemo), watching me lose so much weight that I look skeletal, and watching me lose the use of my arm and hand and leg (due to nerve damage caused by the tumors) has been especially frightening for them.   Every day my heart rips into pieces when I hear them pray, Dear God, please help Mama’s cancer to go away.

A few days ago, when I found my 11-year old son sobbing, something he never ever does, I held him close and asked him what was wrong.  Through his tears, he tried to catch his breath long enough to look at me and say, I just want you to be healthy again!  I knew then that it was time to tell them the truth.  My hospice team has predicted that I most likely have just a few weeks left, and now my kids need to know that as well.  I need to prepare them for what will be happening to me.  For what will be happening to them.  It was time for them to understand what Mama has cancer  really means.

I said as gently and tenderly as I could, Honey, my cancer isn’t going to go away. I’m not going to be healthy again.  I explained that I am going to die.  And that means I am going to leave and not be able to come back again.  My 5-year old daughter, who had joined our conversation by then, asked if we could maybe FaceTime, and through my own sobbing, I told her I’m so sorry, Sweetheart, but no, we can’t do that.  After I leave, you won’t see me again.

I tried my best to pull myself together long enough to let them know that God loves me, and He promises that if I believe that Jesus died on the cross to forgive my sins, I can go to heaven and live with Him.  And heaven is such a really great place to live!  There is no cancer there.  There is no pain, no medicine, no doctor’s appointments.  And there is also no tears.  Right now I am so incredibly and deeply sad that I will be leaving my precious children – the older ones as well as the younger ones - that I can hardly bear it!  I don’t understand how this is even possible, but when I am in heaven, I will no longer be sad.  I won’t need tissues anymore.

And when I go to heaven, I will get to see Jesus, the One who is my very best friend!  The One who has never stopped loving me.  The One who has been with me during the darkest of nights and has, despite my doubts and faltering faith, never given up on me.  On that day when I go to heaven, He is going to put His hands on my face and touch what I imagine will once again be my long brown hair.  He will look into my eyes and say to me, Hello Beautiful!

I assured my kids, as best as I could, that not only would I be ok, but that they would be ok too.  That they have an extraordinary dad, one who loves them so, so much, who will still be here to take good care of them.  That they have older siblings, extended relatives, and close family friends who will make sure they have everything they need.  They may be sad, but they can know with certainty that they will be safe.

There have been a lot of changes in our home and in our family over the past few years.  Foster children have come and gone, older siblings have moved out on their own, and mama has cancer that is quickly causing her to become a very different mama than the one they’ve always known.  One who is always in pain, who is frequently sleeping, who can no longer brush hair into a ponytail or pour a glass of apple juice.  But through it all, through all the changes they have witnessed and experienced, I want them to know that the one thing that will never ever change is how much I love them.  Even when I am gone and they can’t see me anymore, I will never ever stop loving them.

That was a really hard day.  A really tough conversation to have with two innocent children who are just trying to understand what is happening to their mom.  But I want them to know the truth.  I want them to know that it’s ok to talk about these things, to ask questions, to need more explanations, to try and find the words to describe our feelings.  

We probably used up an entire box of tissues that day, but even that is a good thing.  Emotions aren’t bad, and whatever we are feeling – sad, confused, scared, maybe even angry – its ok to feel those things.  No matter what we are feeling, God is right here with us.  The same God who is with me now, who is comforting me and loving me through this physical pain and emotional grief, is the very same God who will be with them, who will comfort them and love them through their sadness and their fears in the weeks and months to come.

Since then, in the few days since talking about what it means for mama to have cancer, our family’s prayers have changed.  We can continue to pray that God would help my cancer go away, and He could certainly choose to do that.  He is, after all, a God of miracles.  But if that day comes in the next few weeks when my body can no longer fight, on that day when I go to heaven, I don’t want my kids to be angry at God for not answering their prayers.  Instead, I want them to seek God in their grief.  To experience His strength and peace and comfort as He carries them through.  

And so, now our family’s prayers are full of gratitude and confidence.  Prayers that my children can continue even after I am gone.  We thank Him for His love and His goodness towards us.  We are so grateful that He is always with us, that He promises to never leave us.  We thank Him for giving us courage when we feel afraid, for shining His light into our hearts when we feel sad.  Last night, my 5-year old daughter prayed, Dear God, thank you that Jesus died on the cross so that we can go to heaven.   Oh, how it thrilled my heart to hear her articulate that!  Instead of Mama’s cancer causing her to turn away from God, it is causing her to draw close to God.  It is helping her understand the gospel!

Their mama has cancer, and sometime within the next few weeks, on that day when I go to heaven, their lives will be forever changed.  During their season of mourning, during their sadness and confusion and fears, it is my hope and prayer that they experience first-hand these unchanging truths in their hearts and in their lives: 

The forever love of their mama.  

The protective care of their dad.  

The collective support of those we call “our people.”  

The powerful presence of a good and loving God.

Mama has cancer.  Three little words that my children should never have to hear.  

God is good.  Three little words that I hope they will remember and believe and declare for the rest of their lives.

Know that the Lord, He is God!
    It is He who made us, and we are His;

    Give thanks to Him; 

For the Lord is good;
    His steadfast love endures forever,
    and His faithfulness to all generations.

 - from Psalm 100

Your Name

To our son, the boy who was born with no name.  

No child deserves to live the first year of life without a name.  And yet, that is how your story began.  With nothing to identify you.  We are not sure why your birth mother did not name you.  Perhaps she was trying to distance her heart, not wanting to become too attached to the baby she knew she would not keep.  Or maybe she understood what a great honor it is to name a child, and was saving that as a gift for us, the ones who would adopt you.

Whatever her reasons, she could not have possibly foreseen that the adoption process would take so long.  That for nearly a year, “Baby Boy” was officially recorded on your birth certificate, social security card, and medical insurance card.  Every time I took you to the pediatrician, the nurse would open the door to the lobby, look around at the parents and children waiting there, and call out, loud enough for everyone to hear:  Baby Boy?  Sure, those two little words were benign, seemingly harmless by themselves.  But the message they communicated?  You do not belong to a family.  You are not significant enough to have a name.  You are indistinguishable from every other orphaned child in the world.  Unnamed.  Unwanted.  Unimportant.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have been further from the truth!  When that happened, I wanted to hold you close and protect you from those words and everything they meant.  I wanted to announce to everyone in that waiting room that you do have a name.  That you are wanted.  Chosen.  Loved.  It’s just that we were waiting for the legal system to catch up to what we already knew with certainty:  that you were our son.

Good News and Bad News

Wouldn’t it be great if good news could just be announced all by itself?  You know, just a spot of sunshine to brighten your day and lift your spirits, giving you a moment to celebrate without waiting for the inevitable bad news that always seems to tag along not far behind?

A few weeks ago, I received some good news while sitting in the oncologist’s office.  The chemo was very successful.  The scans show no sign of cancer.  My colleagues and I have never seen anyone with your kind of cancer respond so well!

Oh, how I wish that the doctor could have just given us that good news all by itself.  That my husband and I could have taken even a brief moment to celebrate this positive report.  Unfortunately, however, the bad news came just a few seconds later, dampening any possibility we might have had to just pause and give thanks for this obvious answer to so many prayers.  

The chemo was successful . . . but you need to have another round.  And this one will be 12 weeks instead of the 8 weeks you just endured.  And this time it will be just as harsh, the side effects just as miserable.  And this time, you will be facing treatment with your body already weakened, your immune system already depleted.  I will be honest, it’s going to be really tough.

The scans show no sign of cancer.  My colleagues and I have never seen anyone with your kind of cancer respond so well! . . . But the response is only temporary.  You have terminal cancer, and it’s only a matter of time before it comes back.  Possibly within a few weeks or maybe, if you’re lucky, in a few months.  But it will come back, every bit as aggressive and every bit as painful as before.

The good news is that we did not have to make an immediate decision.  But we did leave that appointment that day stunned, both of us silent on the drive home as we processed what we had just heard.  It was good news, right?  That the chemo worked and the cancer was gone?  Shouldn’t we be happy?  It’s just that the . . . but  that came afterwards was so brutally honest, so hard to hear, that it made the good news almost irrelevant.

Losing Her Mother

We are enjoying ourselves, my young daughter and me, soaking in the sunshine, breathing in the fresh air, and savoring this rare opportunity for just the two of us to be together.  I turn my back for just a second to grab something just out of reach, and when I turn around again, she is not there.  I turn every way, thinking surely she is just a few steps away, but I do not see her anywhere.  I start calling her name, not caring if other people are staring, and try not to panic.

After a few unsuccessful moments of being unable to find her, I locate a security guard to help me.  I describe her as best as I can:  4-years old, long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, pink sparkly dress (did it have a unicorn or a rainbow on it? I suddenly can’t remember!), flip-flops on her little feet.  He goes one way, speaking into his walkie-talkie with his colleagues, and I go the other way, calling her name, more loudly now, looking frantically in every space, around every corner, under every surface.

Ten fear-filled minutes later, I finally spot her, huddled into a heap, sobbing into her arms, crying Mommy!  I want my Mommy!  over and over again.  This young child has just endured, for ten fear-filled minutes, her worst nightmare: losing her mother.  I run to her and scoop her into my arms, where she continues weeping into my shoulder, her tears staining my shirt.  It takes a long time to console her, to assure her, Mommy’s here now.  I love you so much!  You are safe!

Supporting Our Rock

I call him our Rock, because every day he carries our family.  Each one of us depends on him and his solid, unwavering strength.  But a Rock can only stay strong for so long.

After my last blog post, describing how even the strongest Rock can become weary, we were overwhelmed by an outpouring of love!  Many of our friends are asking, What can we do?

It’s not an easy question to answer, because in general, men are hesitant to ask for help.  Even Moses, a Rock for an entire nation, needed someone to help him recognize, You cannot do this by yourself!

We see the story in Exodus 18.  It took Moses from morning until evening to carry out his many responsibilities.  When his father-in-law saw all that he was doing for the people, he said to Moses, What are you doing?  Why are you doing all this alone?  This is not good!  You are wearing yourself out!  This is too heavy for you.  You are not able to do it alone.  Look for able men, men who fear God, men who are trustworthy, and let them help you. They will bear the burden with you, and you will be able to endure.

In the same way, the Rock in our family has been wearing himself out, supporting me while I battle cancer, taking on many of my responsibilities at home, caring for our children, all while holding down a full-time job.  The words that Moses needed to hear are the same words my husband needs to hear today:  What are you doing?  Why are you doing all this alone?  This is not good!  You are wearing yourself out!  This is too heavy for you.  You are not able to do it alone.  Look for able men, men who fear God, men who are trustworthy, and let them help you.  They will bear the burden with you, and you will be able to endure.

So, who are these able men, men who fear God, men who are trustworthy?  And how can they help?  Here are just a few ideas, although the possibilities are endless!

Our Rock

I call him the Rock in our family.  Through the many tumultuous years of foster parenting, through the endless challenges of raising children with complicated needs, through deep heartache and pain and loss, and most recently through my vicious battle with Stage 4 cancer . . . through it all he is the one who has remained strong and courageous.  Resolute and steadfast.  Endlessly optimistic and confident.  The one who has never stopped believing in the goodness of God.

I call him our Rock, because every day he carries our family.  He works diligently at his job so that we can have an income, and so that we are provided with much-needed medical insurance.  Every day he faces a stressful job where many people depend on him for direction and decisions.  Decisions worth billions of dollars for his organization.  

After a long and stress-filled day, he comes home to a wife who may or may not be feeling well, who may or may not be crying, who may or may not have enough faith to make it through one more day.  After helping the kids through dinner and their bedtime routine, washing all the dishes, folding the pile of laundry left on the couch, and opening the mail (tasks I struggle to do because of painful and debilitating nerve damage that the cancer has caused in my arm and hand), he then has video-conference meetings with his colleagues who work in different time zones on the other side of the world.  He is the last one to go to bed at night, long after everyone else is asleep.

Believe For Me

The oncologist has said from the beginning, a year ago now, that because the type of cancer I have is so aggressive and so “angry,” that chemotherapy may not work.  And that because the chemotherapy would be so brutal, so powerful and so toxic, that I may not survive it.

So when I find myself sending urgent messages to her in the middle of the night, practically begging her to please start chemo as soon as possible, it’s because I have become completely desperate.  As the cancer spreads like a raging wildfire throughout my body, the searing pain has become so excruciating, so totally consuming, that I cannot bear it for one more second.  For several weeks I think, surely this the last day.  And I cry out to God, begging Him, please let this be the last day!

Thankfully, the oncologist prescribes pain meds, and when I send her a message again in the middle of the night, begging for something stronger, she responds without delay.  For the past year, she has been my enemy, the voice of doom and gloom and no good options, but suddenly, with one quick stroke of her pen, I love her! 

The next few days after my urgent message to the oncologist, there is a flurry of activity:  bloodwork and scans, getting a port surgically implanted (because the chemo drugs are too toxic to go into my veins), checking my heart to see if it is strong enough to withstand the powerful chemo drugs, verifying insurance information and signing consent forms.  The days are a blur of pain, mental fog and drowsiness from the narcotics, and sleep-deprivation.  I barely remember any of it.

The first chemo infusion is on a Friday, and by Sunday, the terrible side effects I had been warned about kick in fill-force.  Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, mouth sores, difficulty breathing, insomnia, and long strands of hair falling out every time I brush my hair.  And still, I am begging God, please let this be the last day!   

I had wanted so badly to face this with courage.  I had hoped that my faith would be so strong, so unwavering, that nothing, not even this, could weaken it.  That my hope and my joy would withstand these terrible, awful circumstances, and that everyone who sees me would be amazed and inspired to put their hope in God too.  That somehow, God would be glorified in this.

But it’s not like that.  Not at all!  With each new day of increasing and unrelenting pain, I am frustrated and angry that God is ignoring my prayers.  In the middle of the night when even a few minutes of sleep is totally elusive, I just sit in the chair that I have barely moved from for weeks, sobbing and moaning, crying out into the darkness, God where are you?  If you are good, why are allowing this to happen to me?  This just feels cruel.  Why aren’t you doing anything?  Hello?  God?  Are you even listening at all?  The faith that I had hoped would get me through this is completely gone.  Empty.  Not one drop left.

There is a story in Luke 5 of a man just like me.  He was just lying there on his stretcher, unable to help himself, unable to get to Jesus.  His situation was impossible.  He was without hope, most likely wondering why a good God would allow this to happen to him.  Thankfully, though, he was not alone.  His friends were right there with him, carrying his stretcher, seeking creative ways to bring him in and lay him before Jesus.  

And when Jesus saw their faith . . . he said to the man who was paralyzed, “I say to you, rise, pick up your bed and go home.”  And immediately he rose up before them and picked up what he had been lying on and went home, glorifying God.   And amazement seized them all, and they glorified God and were filled with awe, saying, “We have seen extraordinary things today!”

The amazing thing about this story, is that it has nothing to do with this man’s faith.  He didn’t necessarily believe that Jesus would heal him.  He wasn’t particularly strong or brave or full of unwavering hope. Any faith that he had at the beginning was most likely completely gone. Empty.  Not one drop left. 

But did you notice?  Jesus saw, not his faith, but he saw their faith, the faith of his friends.  The ones who were bearing his stretcher, the ones who were carrying him.  And when Jesus saw their faith, He chose to act.  He chose to speak.  He chose to heal.  It was because of their faith that everyone who saw was amazed and glorified God and was filled with awe.

And it’s the same with me.  During the past few weeks, it is my friends and my family and my neighbors and my church family who are bearing my stretcher, carrying me to Jesus when I am incapable of getting there myself. Every time someone prepares a meal for my family or drives me to an appointment or takes care of my children, that person has become my stretcher bearer.  

When my long-time friend of more than 20 years spends the night on my couch, knowing full well that she will be woken dozens of times to help me find some momentary comfort.  When my sisters travel all the way across the country to love and support and encourage me.  When my close friend from my Small Group stops by to check on me nearly every day, helping brush my daughter’s hair or fold a load of laundry or peel oranges – things I can no longer do by myself.  When people from near and from the other side of the world donate funds to pay for someone to clean my house.  When a friend who is drowning in her own deep grief stops by to see me after she gets off of work, bringing me fizzy drinks or making me smoothies.  With every act of kindness, with every volunteer sign-up, with every personal sacrifice, these are the ones who are bearing my stretcher.

And during the past few weeks, it is my friends and my family and my neighbors and my church family who are believing for me, Believing when I am unable to believe for myself.  Every time someone prays for me and my family, texts me a promise from God’s Word, sends me an encouraging sermon or podcast to listen to (since I can no longer attend worship services at church), or shares a song that reminds me to press on, he or she is believing for me.  

When the pastors and the elders at my church lay hands on me with oil.  When church friends gather outside my house on a Sunday afternoon to pray that I would find healing.  When I receive an email from a friend, saying, I have prayed for your [prodigal] son many times over the years.  And I want you to know that I will continue to do so in your absence from this life.  With every heart-felt prayer, with every word of Truth spoken over my life, with every expression of faith in the goodness and power of God to act, these are the ones who are carrying me to Jesus.  The ones who are believing on my behalf.

Just like the story of the man in the Bible, the amazing thing about my story is that it has nothing to do with my faith.  I don’t necessarily believe that Jesus will heal me.  I am most certainly not strong or brave or full of unwavering hope. In fact, my faith is mostly depleted.  I have nothing left. 

Thankfully, though, God sees, not my faith, but He sees your  faith, the faith of my friends.  The ones who are bearing my stretcher, the ones who are carrying me.  And when God seesyour  faith, He may choose to act.  He may choose to speak.  He may choose to heal.  It will be because of your  faith that everyone who sees will be amazed and will glorify God and will be filled with awe.

To my friends and my family and my neighbors and my church family… please do not give up on me!  Although the worst of the pain began to subside a few days after chemo started, the side effects of the chemo are every bit as “brutal” as the oncologist said they would be.  (She is my enemy once again.)  The chemo will continue, not for weeks, but for months!  And even if the cancer goes away, it has been so invasive that it may have caused some long-term or permanent nerve damage.  This journey towards healing will most certainly be a very long and slow one.  

And there is absolutely no way I will be able to endure it alone. I am pleading with you:  please keep loving and supporting and serving our family.  Please keep being right here with me, carrying my stretcher, seeking creative ways to bring me in and lay me before Jesus.

And most importantly, please have faith for me.  Pray for me when I cannot pray for myself.  When I am unable to believe, I need you to believe for me.