On Being a Patient Patient

Yes,  I'm talking about both the people and the "Puritanically coined" virtue. [sidenote 1: both patience and patients stem ultimately from the Latin word(s), "pati" and/or "patior" meaning "to suffer" or "forebear."] [sidenote 2: I like words.]

Last week I had the privilege and excrutiatingly painful experience of walking through the doors of McKinney Regional Cancer Center for the first and the last time as a patient. And I think that, for the first time, my mind grasped that we view some life-encounters quite differently when we are truly written into the narrative, unlike when we are merely readers of the story. Before, as much as I supported and loved Kevin, my husband, when he was enduring chemotherapy and radiation, I wasn't the patient. Don't misunderstand me, the life of a care-giver is truly anxiety-filled, among other things. But no matter how many knots I grew in my stomach, mine weren't the eyes that nervously counted the ceiling tiles in the Nuclear medicine chamber as the machines hum-whizzed back and forth to bring hoped-for results. My skin did not burn with the countless xrays of eventual healing. My veins did not traffic the poison that ironically, yet slowly, would bring new life. Kevin lived it. It was his story. I loved, but I watched. Last week, I looked at Kevin and smiled as we walked through the cancer center doors once again. Then we switched roles.

For anyone who has ever encountered the McKinney Regional Cancer Center, you know what I mean when I say, "It's family, and you're part of it." Almost every employee of MRCC knows my family, all of us who have entered, by our first names (with the exception of Dr. W who lovingly referrs to Kevin by his middle name, Von).  :)  When you walk through the strong, hand crafted, wooden double-doors, extensive collections of oils on canvas greet you to sit and relax. There is no "office furniture." While you wait, which is never for an extended amount of time, you rest on over-sized couches and chairs that hug your body. You are not called back to an examination room Your nurse comes out to meet you, to sit with you and then escorts you to your doctor's room. The exam room is pleasant, uncluttered and clean. Your nurse inquires of your daughter who has just begun college, asking about her by name. Your doctor asks you for a reference for a good "off-season" basketball program for his own daughter! You laugh, you smile, you share good news, desperate news, and you hug. As much as you dread having to be treated, you're glad to be helped by family. As you leave the center, you know they remember you in their prayers and frequently ask for you to remember them in yours. Family intercedes for one another.

This visit, which I classified as my first and my last as a cancer patient at MRCC, proved ceremonious. (Not knowing where to cast the blame, I will simply say that after having loved numerous cancer patients and victims for close to 30 years, MRCC was forced to close its doors this month.) Kevin and I walked the hallways one last time, relaxing with the art we have so come to know and love. We took our own photos, like we could ever forget what is locked away in the recesses of our memories. We hugged our "family" and took our medical records to hold them until our doctor and his nurses have found a place to light. Patience.

What I have gathered, in this span of just over three years with MRCC, is that I have learned grace and strength. I have received and given compassion. I have seen hope transferred through the eyes of my family. Yet I believe the greatest of all my lessons learned, is the patience you take with those you love. My memories flood... I studied patience as a young man held an elderly woman close to his chest, as if she were his grandma, wiping her brow with a cold rag, waiting for her bus transportation to take her back, undoubtedly, to an empty apartment. The young man, Shawn, was her radiologist; not her grandson. I listened to Nurse Marlene patiently reassure the frantic woman on the other end of the phone, who needed desperately to see her doctor. He will be unavailable for a short while, but here is what we can do for you in the meantime...  I breathed a sigh of relief as, patiently, Dr. Wyszynski took Kevin by his shoulders and said, "You're gonna' live, Von. Isn't that great news?" Love and Patience.

Our doctor, Dr. Whiz, as we lovingly call him, has provided a path for me "in the meantime." Until I see him again, which he confidently informed me would be in no more than three weeks, I am to gain strength, be hopeful and be thankful. My scans (PET, MRI, CT, full body) were clear. "Isn't that great news, Christine?" Now we wait (patiently) for treatment plans which will come with the next test results.  Be strong. Be hopeful. Be thankful. Be patient.

Romans 8:24b-28 "(If we already have something, we don't need to hope for it. But if we look forward to something we don't have yet, we must wait patiently and confidently.) The Holy Spirit helps us in our weakness. Like when we don't know what God wants us to pray for. The Holy Spirit prays for us with groanings that cannot be expressed in words. And the Father already knows our hearts and He knows what the Spirit is saying, for the Spirit pleads for us in harmony with God's own will. We know that God causes all things to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purpose for them." NLT version

Donald Miller - What a Timely Reminder

Nothing here is from me, guys. I'm simply reposting from a great writer, Donald Miller, something that is refreshing to hear. Please go and enjoy

A Reminder that Beauty Comes from Pain | Donald Miller's Blog

http://donmilleris.com/2011/09/26/the-be...

Swim

    Have you read Donald Miller? Kevin introduced me to his work several years ago. I have enjoyed every book I've read from Miller and now I enjoy his blog. The following quote is from one of Donald Miller's posts .... "Jesus is very comfortable with us not understanding Him. This seems like an injustice in an age where every Sunday we have things explained to us and have our control increased over whatever dynamic we face. But “understanding” is not a character trait that Jesus seems to value. He’s not praising the smarties. Instead, he’s pleased with the faithful, those who will follow when there seems to be no reason to follow, and when it looks like they are going to have to do a hard thing and there’s no way out." 
    This reminds me of a story Kevin has told me many times over; but each time he tells it, it's still fresh. That's because it's about life lessons. He tells the story of growing up with very little in the way of material things. Yet his parents were resourceful and Kevin says, as a child, he never remembers worrying about what he needed. He just always knew what he needed would be provided. In this particular story, Kevin and his dad were fishing in "homemeade" boats - basically inner tubes, sewn together denim "boat-seats", and...that's it. They floated Atoka Lake for hours, catching catfish, stringing them and trailing it behind their individual water vessels. About 3 strung catfish into the trip, Kevin heard a distinct "hissing." When he inquired of his dad, the "hissing" was quickly explained away with the best description possibly being that one of the catfish's inner floats had probably been punctured. To a 12 year old boy, that was good enough. After all, Dad said it; it had to be true. In a few moments, Kevin's "boat" began to sink. What his dad quickly realized was that there was no punctured catfish's float. Their own "floats" had been punctured by one of these whiskered bottom-feeders!  There they were, sinking in the lake, at least a quarter of a mile from shore. There really wasn't anything to do but swim. Kevin recalls that his dad calmly told him that they were going to see how far they could swim. So that's what they began to do. With his father behind him, giving him a push after every other stroke when Kevin got tired, the two of them gradually did make it to shore. Kevin doesn't remember being scared or really being that tired after the "adventure," as he fondly remembers it. He only realized the seriousness of their plight when he saw his dad stretched out on the shore for quite awhile, coughing, gasping for air, trying to catch his breath, and I'm sure, thanking God for protection. Later, his dad shared with Kevin that he thought they were going to drown that day.  But Kevin was never even concerned. All Kevin said was, "I was with my dad. I knew I was going to be alright."
    Kevin didn't have to understand how far they were from shore. He didn't have to question his dad about his swimming abilities.  He never felt compelled to ask if there "was a better way" of getting to safety. He simply trusted his father. That's it. I think this fits so well with the part of Donald Miller's post above. Jesus wasn't concerned with how much his disciples knew, who their parents were or how many credentials they had. What pleased him was their belief in Him. They were with Jesus, doing hard things. Because they believed in Jesus, giving up wasn't an option.
    These stories give me reason to pause and reflect. When I encounter trials, like the cancer diagnosis and pending treatment I am in the midst of now, do I "consider it joy" knowing that my perseverance is about to increase? Do I look forward to enduring the trial knowing that God has given me an incredible faith that pleases Him? Do I realize that it's okay because my Father is with me and He'll give me a push when I'm tired and think I can't go on? With all the glory going to God, I believe I do.


Here I've shared a music video with you from Jacks Mannequin, " Swim." Kevin shared this with me about three years ago. It's a song that meant a lot to him when he fought his own battle with cancer. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

In the Meantime

First, I will begin by giving thanks to my God. I truly believe it's where we all need to begin, by being thankful. He allowed me a great report from my surgeon this past Monday. My surgeon said he will remove sutures this Thursday and to keep "doing what I'm doing" so my wounds would heal. I've been "doing" almost nothing, compared to a normal day. After the appointment with my surgeon, I then visited my oncologist who said, "We will call when we've scheduled your scans. In the meantime, be sure to get a lot of rest," which translates to, "wait and do more of nothing."

I'm not a good waiter. Not that I couldn't work in a restaurant (actually that was a childhood aspiration). I am not good at the task of waiting. This is no surprise to me; I've known this for awhile. But as you know, talking about something because you know "of it" and actually "doing it" are worlds apart. While you're "doing nothing," you have lots of time to think, to ponder, to rethink, to re-ponder. By this time, it's about mid-morning, and now what?

As most of you know, I am a high school counselor. I absolutely love my job! That's because it's really not just a job for me; it's one of my callings. There are no normal days as a school counselor and usually I'm on the go for seven or eight straight hours each day. My duties vary from actually getting to talk to kids who need guidance, to scheduling, to testing, to setting up college & career plans with seniors. One thing I do know about myself - I attack whatever endeavor is on the agenda for the day. I don't like to quit until I'm finished; but you can't do that very often in my line of work. Every now and then, I become overwhelmed with the simultaneous goings-on. It's then that I slow down long enough to ask for advice and clarity as to my list of priorities. Last year during one of "those times," my superintendent, who also happens to be a dear friend, suggested, "Have you ever thought about making a 'Not To Do List?'" (pause-nod head as if I understand) But I have to admit, at first I thought he was being a little condescending. "How dare he think that anything I'm doing is not important enough TO DO?" (Sorry. I now see that my perspective was really self-absorbed.) Lately with all this time to ponder, in this "meantime," I think I'm finally getting the meaning of a "not-to-do list."

In the meantime actually means, "the time in between" or "the time span between two events." I'm kind of in a waiting room. But I think it's all a matter of perspective - the waiting room, that is. For the "unsure," waiting can be treacherous. For the "faint of heart," the meantime is draining. But for the "seeker," this time is for ripening, for learning, for listening. It's a time to reflect, renew, rewrite the "not-to-do-list."

We can fill our schedules with lots of "stuff." Stopping ocassionally to prioritize is a necessity; and when we prioritize, invariably some "stuff" is going to sink to the bottom of the list. Either the item really isn't  important or someone else may need to add it to his/her "To Do List." Right now, I am actually making a list. A friend of mine is standing in the gap for me while I'm in the waiting room. All I want her to do is what is MOST important, so I'm not giving her my "not-to-do-list."

I'd like to end this blog with thoughts I read from a blog I've just begun to follow. This is from Daniel Darling's blog. He's a pastor, speaker and author. Here's what he said about waiting (my paraphrase):

"What To Do While You Wait"

1. Recognize that God is in control, even when it seems at times like He has forgotten you. Often when it seems like nothing is happening, a lot is happening behind the scenes; you just can't always see it.

2. Renew your faith in God and in His guidance. Many major figures in the Bible had to wait on God to bring them to the moment they were waiting for - Abraham, Moses, Joseph, David. Even Jesus said, "My time has not yet come." Jesus knew how to wait.

3. Redeem the time while you wait. James 1:2-4 says, "Consider it a gift, friends, when tests and challenges come at you from all sides. You know that under pressure, your faith-life is forced into the open and shows its true colors. So don't try to get out of anything prematurely. Let it do its work so you become mature and well-developed, not deficient in any way." (That's from The Message - I love that translation.)

Until next time, I'll be here, in the waiting room.

Here I Raise My Ebenezer

About an hour ago I waved good-bye to my 90-year old grandma and my uncle. My grandma, one of my heroes, cooked beef stew, buttery cornbread and her famous vanilla pound cake for Kevin and me, and then she drove one and a half hours to bring it to us. My uncle is probably more like my brother because he is only nine years older than me. We grew up together for much of my childhood. He now lives with his mom, my grandma, helping to take care of her. But truth be told, they really take care of each other. My uncle has always been pretty quiet, reserved and non-emotional. I think I might have only seen my uncle cry three times in my life - when his dad, Papaw, died about 12 years ago. The first time was at Papaw's funeral. The second time was when his baby girl died of a heart defect when she was only two. The third time was today when I hugged him and said good-bye. I was so taken aback; I didn't know how to respond. What does it say about us that we are shaken when those closest to us express deep emotion? I had to ask myself, "What is it about ME that I am unnerved when people cry over me?" No fancy words for it. Pretty much, something was out of the norm and I think I was just plain scared.

It was just the other day that I talked to both of my daughters about being afraid. I shared with them what God spoke to my heart about Paul's letter to Timothy (2 Tim 1:7) "For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind." I told Kati and Callie I believe God provides peace against things that can cause us to be afraid, that He gives discernment to us so we can know what is from Him and what is not, so that we can separate ourselves from things that would pull us away from His desires for us. Sometimes, when I catch my mind wandering toward the dank, dark vaccum of fear, I compose a list of how God has blessed me. Some might see this as running from my fears or avoiding the issues of my anxiety. It's not. This is simply strengthening the foundation of my faith.

Besides the scrumptious spread of food Grandma made for us, my uncle handed me a gift that my Aunt Bev had sent for me. It was a rock. But more than a rock, it was a monument. This rock took me back - to times God has rescued me, to moments when He lifted me out of the mire of my bad decisions and washed me clean. Here's the picture :

Ebenezer (Stone of Help) "Thus far has the Lord helped us," 1 Samuel 7:12

The story, as you can see above, is told in 1 Samuel and you can read it for yourself. This scripture speaks peace to me. Even though I've never had a Philistine army chasing me. Even though I've never had a time when God brought thunder to chase away my enemies. This scripture reminds me of a God who, in addition to being my Heavenly Father, provided an earthly father for me when I had none. I remember a God who called me to be His own ten years later.  I remember a God who healed a broken family and mended a marriage. I remember a God who walked beside me while my husband and best friend endured a surgery and a year of treatment to remove a life-stealing cancer. I remember a God who put a song in my mouth, who put hope in my heart, who renewed my strength after I was told, "I'm afraid it is malignant."

So "here I raise my Ebenezer." Here I say, "I remember, God. You've helped me all the way to here. So I trust that You won't stop now."

Out of the Mouths of (My) Babes

Today I read some more in a book I've been enjoying, The Hole in Our Gospel, by Richard Stearns. My daughter, Kati, turned me on to this book when I saw the life change she experienced, first by reading it and then by acting upon what she read. This summer, Kati joined a group of people on mission with a heart for the people of Pietermaritzburg in South Africa. For ten days she served the broken, fed the hungry and clothed the naked. I watched her face as she told me about kids who wanted their pictures taken because they never get to see their own countenances. I felt through her tears the heartbreak for the young women of this village who are led into prostitution to provide food for their families and then, maybe only a couple of meager meals a week. I heard disgust in her voice as she spoke of her own comfort in comparison to those she had come to love in Pietermaritzburg.

You know, as a parent, I have always dreamed of how I was going to teach my children all of the lessons of life. I imagined how they would look to me, in awe, as I taught them to ride their bikes and tie their Nikes. I wanted to be the source of information, the fount of knowledge. But as I have aged, God has shown me that one of the reasons He blessed me with children was to teach ME. Child-like faith seems to evade us as we age, along with child-like dreams. Instead of the positive change we should be seeing in our visions, we tend to focus on the impossibilities in our paths, the hurdles we will have to leap. That usually zaps most of our energy. Kati had no reservations that God wanted her to be in South Africa in July of 2011. She wasted no energy in doubting that God would provide any financial support and physical protection to make this trip that would change her heart and life. In fact, the only surprise she discovered was that God blessed her heart so much more in comparison than the blessing she intended to bring to those to whom she ministered. Funny how God works, huh? So here I sat, the mom, at the feet of the daughter, to learn of the God I was supposed to be teaching my daughter about. All I can say is, "Cool. What child-like faith."

Today I began in chapter four of The Hole in Our Gospel, and was faced with the question, "Are you willing to be open to God's will for your life?" I don't know about you, but for most of my life, the people I've gone to church with acted like that was a mystical question. When they talked about God's will, it was almost as if you had to be the "chosen one" to find the answer. Maybe I have to go to Africa? Maybe I had to marry a preacher? I don't believe that anymore. Something I have learned is that if I am open, if I am in touch with His Spirit, I can be used wherever I am, whenever He chooses, with whatever I have. "He has showed you, O man, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God," Micah 6:8. Stearns teaches in this chapter that God does expect our lives to be chacterized by these "signs of our own transformation: compassion, mercy, justice, and love - demonstrated tangibly." This is God's will for my life.

They Desire A Better Place

     On July 12, 2011,  I made a check-up trip with Kevin to his oncologist for his semi-annual cancer scans. Back in 2008 when he was first diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma, I grew to be close friends with the "miracle workers" of the McKinney Regional Cancer Center (now renamed Texas Health Oncology Center). Throughout Kevin's treatment and recovery, he blogged. Now blogging isn't unfamiliar to me; as a school counselor I have encouraged my students to journal their thoughts, release their fears, take power in words. That's what Kevin began doing and I have to admit, I became an avid follower. And although I encouraged him to "write more so I can read," I had not been "practicing what I had been preaching." I had not taken time to record my thoughts, to admit my fears. So on that day, BlackBerry in hand, sitting alone in a crowded waiting room, I commenced to face my fears and nausea  head-on through the power of words in a little Memo Application. Here's what I wrote:

There's really no lonelier place for me than here in the cancer center. No matter how strong I think I am or how prepared I feel, emotions rush, learned fears overwhelm. I speak my anxiety to no one because I don't want pity. It's not ME who has cancer. When I ask God to take "me" out of the equation because I am not the focus, I realize - this should not be my request. In my "equation," much like an experiment, God is the constant. My situation is the variable. In my mind, I know that visible faith should be the outcome - but what is visible faith? Visible faith cannot be emotion-less, or else it would not involve humanity. Is visible faith the conquering of fear? Is it strength against the unknown news lurking to pounce in the not-so-distant future? Total surrender? None of these concepts equate with innate character. Who really embodies visible faith?

I cynically remember friends, acquaintances rather, who calmly advise, almost in a sing-song chant, "God is in control. Just have faith." Unwavering smiles, relaxed countenances. I return a fake smile. I yearn to angrily rant, "I KNOW He is in control. He wouldn't be GOD if HE weren't in control!" I think my "friends" aren't living in the gamut of human emotion they WILL face, not IF He chooses to allow disease or death, but WHEN He chooses to allow it. Is visible faith really found in the words, "God is in control?" "Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things NOT seen," Hebrews 11:1. How can I bring visibility to my little faith?

Faith is visible when I believe strongly enough that I do what is only in my wldest imagination, like Noah's building an ark before ever seeing or knowing of a raindrop. Visible faith could be going, not knowing. It could be believing in impossible odds. Maybe visible faith is freely giving up what I have come to treasure. For what? "For people who speak thus make it clear that they seek a homeland. If they had been thinking of this world, they could have easily returned to it. But they desire a better place, a heavenly one. God is not ashamed to be called their God and He has prepared a place for them," Hebrews 11:14-16.

What I feel here, in this place, in this cancer center, is the reverse of what my "home" will one day be. Completion instead of loneliness. Calm replacing anxiety. Sadness turned to joy. Light illuminating darkness. Reunion restored after separation. I imagine John's exhilaration while in exile on the island of Patmos, beholding the revelation of God. The sea stood as barrier keeping him from his home, his loved ones. But God showed John, "...and the sea was no more." Revelation 21:1.

On Monday, August 29, 2011, I received news that I am now a fellow cancer patient with my husband. Surprisingly, I don't feel as though I'm on the island. I don't feel the way I felt that day in the cancer center. I believe God was preparing my heart that day as I searched for a way to explain what I thought cancer looked like from the outside looking in. But as I stepped through that barrier on Monday, I didn't go alone. God stepped through with me. He has told me that I will begin a journey, but that He will walk beside me. And He assured me that He really IS in control (and not in a sing-song voice).  :) 
<p<ahref="http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/view_ photog.php?photogid=1256">Image: Evgeni Dinev / FreeDigitalPhotos.net</a></p>