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!