I was nervous; Jeremy was trying not to be. We listened to BBC radio report on the Republican Presidential Primary. All the insulting and debating sounds less annoying and much more dignified when it's done in a British accent, I thought.
The friendly valet greeted us and handed our claim ticket, Jeremy took my hand and led me toward the building. Even before entering I am assaulted by the sight, sounds and feeling of cancer. There are people sleeping in wheelchairs, too weak to walk as they are maneuvered outside looking for a breath of fresh air. Then there are those dependent on a tank of oxygen for the breath that gives them life. As we walk inside I see the women with scarves covering their balding heads in Starbucks. Putting on their brave faces they order their coffee believing the disease of cancer has not stripped them of their humanity and need for daily caffeine. I want to think I don't belong here.
We get off the elevator to find another patient with a bandage covering a wound left after a cancer was gouged out of her face. My mind races again of the hope I know in Jesus contrast with the despairing nature of cancer. Do these people know? Have they heard of the hope he brings? How am I supposed to remain hopeful in the midst of all this? I can see the effects of cancer. It is real to me. I see the suffering, the pain, the death. But where do I see this secret hope that lives inside of me? How can I see it? Again I feel like I don't belong.
Jeremy holds my hand, makes his usual jokes to lighten the mood and we enter the clinic. I am tense by this point. I know the hope that I have and yet the images of suffering and death seem too powerful. I am relieved to see the waiting room is empty. I bury my head in a book.
As I am checking in, the woman who I do not know says that she remembers seeing my name somewhere else in the clinic that morning. She gets up and comes back with a small book called "Puppy Love". As I open it, confused and searching for who could have left this for me I see a note. E, a woman who has been attending our homechurch for only a couple weeks, works at Moffitt and has left that book for me "knowing that I might need an extra smile for the day." I did smile. And I whispered a prayer of thanks to the one who really knows I needed that extra thoughtfulness today. I am seen.
Later, I see a nurse who I've not seen since the day I was told my cancer had returned. He was the coordinator of the first trial I was in at Moffitt. He remembered me and came to ask how I was doing. I felt cared for and whispered a prayer of thanks to the one who knew I needed to be remembered today. I am remembered.
After a while we signed the consent forms for the clinical trial. We worked out a schedule and even a start date. The staff and my team of doctors and nurses are wonderful. They are so flexible and considerate. I whispered another prayer of thanks to the one who cares intimately for me through such wonderful people. I am loved.
No surprises; we left feeling much relieved and hopeful- a great contrast to the feeling I entered with. God does see me. He is with me. It is evident through E who left a gift for me and through the nurse who remembered me and through my care team who makes me feel so cared for. God is reminding me of his presence in dark places. Even where it seems that cancer is winning among the images that death is real, God is present. His loving kindness surrounds me. If my cancer does return or I do receive bad news somewhere along the journey, I must remember these moments and remember that He is with me.
A few weeks ago I was at a birthday party for a classmate of one of my sons. The kids were all playing and having a blast. I started talking to another mom of a different classmate. I struck up a general conversation like I am fairly comfortable doing, asking her polite questions about her kids, where she lived, how she liked the school. But then I asked her where she worked. I was surprised and actually a little glad when she replied, "Moffitt". Yes! Instant connection. I told her I was a patient there and we talked a bit about what was going on with me. Then, I asked her what area she worked in. She told me that she used to work in patient care, but just recently she transfered to research. In particular, she is working with "Phase I vaccine and immune-response trials". My jaw dropped and a smile escaped my lips as I told her, "I am going to soon be one of your guinea pigs." What are the odds that a mom of my kid's classmate would be working on the trial I'm starting? I smile as I recognize God's fingerprints all over this new relationship, excited about the possibilities of doing his work. This is seen hope.
Last week I was pretty sick with side effects of the radiation. My throat was ulcerated. Swallowing was extremely painful, so much so that I preferred to spit in a cup rather than swallow my own saliva. The pain medication they gave me made me sick to my stomach also. I decided I would just rather not swallow or eat than have that feeling. But in the midst of a week of sickness I also found out that a new donor added to our support team. (Jeremy raises support, like a missionary, for his work for the Underground.) This donor had decided to give in the exact amount that we need to cover our yearly medical deductible! When I found out I was floored. God sees again. He provides again. He continually reaches down and places good gifts in my lap. Again and again. His mercies never cease.
A community that constantly checks up on us and loves us through gifts and by loving on our kids; Strangers who have heard of our situation and send me notes from out of state saying they are praying on my behalf; Old friends from college who organized and supplied a surprise trip to NYC for Jeremy and I next weekend; Meals, encouraging conversations, life lived with people who care. In the midst of suffering, there is a peace and a joy that comes to me through all these things. I must, I simply must allow myself to connect these gifts to the one who gives all good things.
For the one, who like me who is known by my Father in heaven it is true:
"For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal."
(2 Corinthians 4:17-18)
God, help me to fix my eyes on the unseen eternal things of your kingdom. Help me to learn to see the unseen.
