There will be a day.....

I had appointments yesterday.

I sat in the almost empty waiting room just after noon, and planted myself in front of the noon news tv.  When the Columbus news team wound up their broadcast, I asked for the channel changer from the front desk girl, and made her laugh when I told her sideways that "life was too short to waste it watching soaps".... no, I think it much better to waste it watching HGTV.

They appreciate my dark sense of humor there at times....

I was called back for my port flush, and chatted a bit with the lab lady, who, because we were in the middle of Ohio's most thriving metropolis, thought she could surprise me of all people by telling me that she used to show dairy heifers at county fairs.

I told her I used to work in a large animal dairy veterinarian practice.  She laughed.

I know, it's amazing how my conversations can turn to the craziest things at times.

I was sent back out to sit in the waiting room, which was close to empty compared to what it usually looks like, and found someone sitting close to my seat, blandly watching HGTV as well.  She had a husband with her, who looked like a lot of the husbands I see there - loving, tender, tempered with the "shadow of the valley" over them.

I smiled and said "hi" to her.

We chatted a bit and I found we shared the same oncologist, so in the back of my mind, I knew one of us would be waiting longer than our shared appointment time.

She had all of her hair, and I saw her port tube hanging out, so I asked her if she was just starting chemo.  She smiled and said "no, I'm just finishing".  She told me she was a "recur", was stage 4, and "it was just a matter of time".

She was doing a 'maintenance' chemo.

I looked at her husband, who nodded and smiled sadly, I looked back at her, and the tears just showed up on my cheeks.  

I told her I was sorry, then she was called back.

Two more ladies showed up and planted themselves in front of the tv.  The younger one had on a scarf, no eyelashes, no eyebrows.  Without wanting to, I could hear she was talking to her kids on the phone.

She was called back to the lab and I talked with the other lady that turned out to be her mother.  She told me her daughter had started with breast cancer, then found out she had uterine cancer, then found cancer in her spleen, liver and bones.

Her mom said "she knows what she's looking at.  She's the bravest person I know".

I looked at her mom, and the tears were on my face again.

I told her I was so sorry, and then her daughter showed up in the doorway and waved her to come back with her.

Quiet again.  And it's good, because my mind is leaning towards overload.

Three ladies walk in, all with solid heads of hair, so I think I am safe, finally.  The middle lady starts to talk with me and tells me she is from Findlay, Ohio.  She tells me she has come here for a second opinion.

She tells me her doctor had told her she was end stage four, and there was nothing else he could do for her.

My brain is screaming by now - WHAT ARE THE CHANCES??!!

She had beat breast cancer, went in for reconstruction, and at the reconstruction site developed thick hard tissue, that one doctor had told her not to worry about.

I listened to her story, gave her a piece of advice, something like "if they offer you a study, jump in", then she was called back.

I sat out there alone again, crumpled.  I always thought it odd that with the dozens of times I have sat in that large, open waiting room, that I had never met anyone stage 4.

Apparently, they schedule them all on Monday afternoons.

Now I had met three, and heard all of their stories.

They were all "recurs".

I sat there and opened my grieving room door, and grieved for these ladies that had so much life to live, lives that were going to be ended soon unless the Lord intervened with a miraculous healing.  I thought about my high chances of recurrence, and grieved.  I thought about the woman who had been talking to her kids on the phone, giving them instructions on snacks.

While sitting in those waiting rooms I have encountered so much courage, so much hope, so much grief, so much laughter in the  midst of it all.

I was thinking about them on my drive home last night.  I wish there was more I could have said to them.  I wished them, prayed them, encouragement and light and love and courage to face their battles.

A song came on the radio, and I cried as I sang the chorus:

    There will be a day
    With no more tears
    No more pain
    No more fears

    There will be a day
    When the burdens of this place
    Will be no more
    And we will see Jesus
    Face to face.

This is what I wished them to know most of all, and what I wished I had said to them.

http://youtu.be/k8gkDiTvloc
   
***

It seems everyone has a cancer story.  When my blood counts climbed up a little after chemo and I started getting out again, I was obviously a chemo patient to anyone seeing me - no eyelashes, no eyebrows, heavy warm hat, and of course a skin color that did not look altogether alive.

Some people would see me and look away.  Some had a look of grave astonishment.  Some would smile and I would wonder how they knew.

When my son was doing some work in our house for us, he asked me if I could go to Home Depot to pick up some items so he wouldn't have to stop working.  I called ahead and asked them if I could pick up these items at the back door as I was still avoiding germs and they complied.

I went inside and waited with the cashier.  She told me about her boyfriend's mother that had died of cancer last year.  And of her third cousin once removed that had died of cancer.  And she started to tell me of another one, but my supplies finally showed up.  I paid for them, then she kindly requested someone to carry them out for me.

He was a young man who told me his father had fought cancer for ten years, and then died.  I stood out there in the parking lot, in the rain, which hid the tears on my cheeks for him, and told him how sorry I was for his loss.

He told me not to be sorry, his family was immensely grateful for the "ten extra years".

I smiled at him, thanked him and he told me he would be praying for me.

Sadly, these stories are a dime a dozen.  I cannot tell you how  many people have approached me with their cancer stories and their losses, and it appears they usually tell me because they need someone to understand their sorrow and grief.

Cancer truly does exactly what the experts say - it starts small, then completely takes over the lives of those it invades with ugly cells and tumors and dying tissue, and it seems to have the same effect on everyone around those inside the battle.  It is painful to the patient, and from the stories I've been hearing from those needing to tell them, maybe more painful for the ones watching.

And although I treasured the fact that they felt they could tell me their deepest sorrows, I wanted to put up my hand and stop them - I was still in the battle, and while in the battle you cannot, or at least I know I could not, count the losses just yet.

My coach-husband said it's similar to the teams that used to want to share meals with visiting teams before a ball game - he felt that was impossible.  You have to get a game face on and get ready for the battle.  You have to get a mindset "on", and keep it going.

It's not that I did not want to hear those stories, it was more that they brought me to a point of realization that I could not be at in that particular time - sometimes you lose the game.

Any coach will tell you that you cannot enter into that thinking while in the game.

A delivery man that found me outside one cold December day, told me too many details about his grandmother who had died of cancer, then said "ma'am, heaven is really something to look forward to".

I could not agree more, but not the words I needed to hear the day before my bone scan looking for new lesions.

But then, someone carries out some supplies for you because they see you could barely carry a pencil, and tells you that they were so grateful that their loved one fought, and that they were so grateful for the extra years, and you are glad and sorrow with them but also rejoice with them.

***

When I was taken back for my appointment, it's just like running into family I had not seen for several weeks.  They all smiled at me and said how good I looked, and they all wanted to know how I was feeling.  When the nurse in the exam room sat down in front of the computer to "chart me" and asked me how I was doing, I told the her I was feeling "lucky" after just talking to three stage 4 women in the waiting room.

I then saw Dr. Mrowzik's new fellow.  We chatted for a while as he dug a little deeper.  I asked him about my brain function and told him I was getting a little tired of ending up on the wrong exits, even if by doing so, I was re-learning most of the state of Ohio.

He laughed and said I had had quite a "one-two punch" and to just give it time.

Then Dr. Mrowzik walked in, and I just leaned over and hugged her.

I hug her every time I see her because I know that she is the reason I am sitting on her exam table one and a half years after my diagnosis.

Her heart seemed a little heavy, and I guessed maybe more than one of those waiting room ladies were her patients.  She shared her concerns with me, gave me three weeks to "lose some pain" before more scans, then told me to cut down on sugar.  She knew I had not had hardly any carbs for so long, and I told her that I had been on quite a "binge" lately, so I need to cut a lot of it out.

Then I told her I was still craving beef, and she recommended that to be cut down to once a week.  When I relayed this information to Scott, he asked me why.  And I felt ridiculous because I never even thought to ask.

Dr.Mrowzik told me my brain function would probably continue to improve, to just give it time.  She then laid her hand on me, and said in her sweet Polish accent, "you went through so much dear Karen, just give yourself time".

I felt the tears again, and smiled at her.

***

I unexpectedly showed up at home last night.  My brain had my schedule quite confused, so when I thought I was going to be gone for a couple of days, I ended up instead driving north between the orange barrels once again with an unopened suitcase in my back seat.

While I was driving, I thought about the stage 4 ladies; I thought about the dear granddaughters I had spent a lot of time with recently; I thought about Dr. Mrowzik and how God had granted me more life.  I thought about other stories that had been shared with me, and how this horrible disease has taken so much from so many people.

I made a conscience decision on the way home - that I would continue to wake up and bless God for each day I am given.  I would continue to hold each moment close for the blessing it brings.  I would continue to push, and re-learn, and manipulate my brain to come back around with some things.  I would continue to pray that God would remove each black ugly cell of cancer from my body, just I am begging Him to remove each dark, ugly, angry root of bitterness that sprouts up time after time.

I, more than most, know that the time is short.  Six weeks is a short time.  Ten years is a short time.  Eighty years is a short time.

But as I thought about all of that on the way home, I thought about how good it was to be pulling down my street, how good it was to hear the gravel under my tires in our driveway, and how awesome it was to see Scott open the front door in surprise and pleasure when he saw me heading up the sidewalk.

It was so good to go home after that day.  It was so good to get a warm welcoming smile and warmer hug.

And I pray that those ladies I met yesterday along with all others, know that pleasure - not only here on this earth, but beyond.  I pray they can visualize a heavenly door opening, and someone greeting them *home* - a place where they know they can feel completely loved, completely peaceful, completely hugged and cherished.

A couple of weeks ago a friend read to us the verse from Hebrews, stating that we are a "peculiar people", and I connected to that on so many levels.  I feel especially peculiar as of late - I feel like I have one foot still in recovery, one foot still in the land of fears, and yet one foot stepping into sunshine and warmth outside on our patio-morning-coffee-area that is full of green and blooms now.

I feel a peculiar "not of this place", alien feeling, and yet knowing I am still of this place.  I can't describe it - but the "surface-living" that we all reside in here on earth out of need, hasn't come back yet, and I feel like an outsider watching life.

And yet in feeling peculiar, there is such depth of feeling, depth of faith, depth of hope, depth of fear of evil.  But most of all, feeling "chosen of God and precious"....

⁴ Coming to Him as unto a living stone, disallowed indeed by men, but chosen by God and precious,

⁵ ye also as living stones are built up a spiritual house, a holy priesthood, to offer up spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God by Jesus Christ.

⁶ Therefore it is also contained in the Scripture: “Behold, I lay in Zion a chief cornerstone, elect, precious; and he that believeth in Him shall not be confounded.”

⁷ Unto you therefore who believe, He is precious; but unto those who are disobedient, “The stone which the builders disallowed, the same is made the head of the corner,”

⁸ and, “A stone of stumbling and a rock of offense,” even to those who stumble at the Word, being disobedient, unto which also they were appointed.

⁹ But ye are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a peculiar people, that ye should show forth the praises of Him who hath called you out of darkness into His marvelous light.

¹⁰ In times past ye were not a people, but are now the people of God; who had not obtained mercy, but now have obtained mercy.