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?  

The Long Road of Healing

Don’t cry little one.  Take my hand.  Let us walk against the wind together.  Let me be the hand that guides you back to hope.  Back to love. – source unknown

Sometimes I forget.  I forget the years of his life that he spent alone.  Trapped in a crib that was less like a bed and more like a cage.  No matter how much he cried, there was no one to comfort him or hold him or rock him to sleep.  And sleep was rare for him, not only because of the constant pain caused by his medical condition, but because of the strangers who came in his room, coming in at all hours of the day and night.  Strangers who would do painful, excruciating things to his frail body.  He would scream and wail, begging them to stop, but they only restrained him more firmly, pinning down his arms and legs so that he could not escape their torment.  Sometimes I forget the horrible trauma that this child has experienced.

He may have no specific memories of those early years.  He would never be able to articulate now what happened to him, or describe why, even though it’s been several years, he continues to have frequent nightmares and unexplained anxiety.  Why he doesn’t want his Mama out of his sight for even a second.  Why hasn’t he gotten over it yet?  He has been rescued from that former life, and theoretically he should be living happily every in the safety and security of his loving family. 

Unfortunately, it’s not that simple.  His body remembers.  His cells have not forgotten.  His soul bears the invisible scars of being abandoned.  The excruciating physical pain.  The utter helplessness.

Is it any wonder that he is plagued by fear?  That unfamiliar situations cause him stress? That he is hyper-alert to his surroundings at all times and doesn’t tolerate surprises or unexpected changes to his routine?   Even being hugged too tightly or being pinned during a tickle fight causes terrified shrieking.  The uncertainty and insecurity, the hidden wounds that are still healing, have taken a terrible toll on his behavior.  The behavior that everyone can see.

A Broken Vessel

He was a precious, perfectly formed baby, entering the world with a full head of dark hair and deep brown eyes that seemed to display a sort of maturity and wisdom.  His sweet innocence didn’t remain long, however.  As he observed and listened and experienced what was happening around him, he soon understood that the world in which he lived was a dangerous, unreliable place.

Because his home was chaotic, and he never knew for sure what would happen next, he learned that life is unpredictable, and he shouldn’t get his hopes up.  It’s best to never, ever have any expectations. 

When he was sad or hurt, it wasn’t sympathy or comfort he received; the adults in his life became impatient and angry with his display of tears.  He learned to never, ever cry. 

At nighttime, he knew that his father did terrifying, unmentionable things to his sister in the room next door.  His mother did nothing to stop it from happening; she was unable or unwilling to protect her daughter.  The boy learned to never, ever trust adults.  Somehow, even in his young mind, he realized that it was up to him to be strong and in control if he hoped to survive.