For months and months I've wanted to get back at writing.
I've missed it.
I need it.
It's how I process.
It's my memory bank.
It's a creative outlet for me.
I love writing.
because of two phone calls,
eleven days apart,
I've decided to put pen to paper -- or rather fingers to keyboard --
and share from my heart.
With Dad's blessing, he's letting me share.
December 19 | 3:50pm
I knew it was coming, I just didn't know when.
And in my heart of hearts,
I knew it wasn't going to be good.
Just had that sense.
We got the first call on December 8th.
At first glance the doctor was hopeful,
the cancer was contained in the lower colon,
and in 4-6 weeks he'd remove it.
But he wanted to do a full body scan,
just to make sure it hadn't spread.
So last Thursday, Mum and Dad braved
a brewing snowstorm, driving into Stratford's hospital
where the CT Scan would happen.
They made it there, but would then be stuck for
hours, killing time in McDonald's, a mall, and eventually
a friend's home, until the roads opened.
Through white out conditions they finally made it home.
Monday afternoon - the 19th - I was snuggled on the couch
with Jackson (home sick from school),
and the phone
rang and it was mum.
And I picked it up and instantly knew.
A weak hello.
And then quiet, consistent tears.
Over the decades I can't think of too many times where
I've seen or heard her cry.
But that day.
There were tears.
Slowly she shared the news.
It was the call that no one wants to receive.
In the liver, too.
No known cure.
Oncologist appointment will hopefully be scheduled
in a couple weeks.
my phone was almost out of juice so I was tethered to a wall with
my very short phone cord.
What I wanted to do was fall in a heap on the floor and sob.
Instead, I braced myself against the kitchen wall,
phone to ear,
trying to catch my breath amidst the tears.
I remember covering my mouth,
trying to hold in the gasps,
trying to hold in the vomit,
trying to hold in the groans.
At some point Dad got on the phone
and said, through tears,
"I'm doing okay. I'm at peace with this.
It's just hard having to tell the news."
I think at one point I whispered,
which was all I could do in the moment,
"How are you holding up?"
"Well, we now get to live out
what we say we've
believed all along about God."
And dad agreed.
We stand on God's promises.
We stand on God's goodness.
We stand on God's trustworthiness.
The road ahead is long.
But as I overheard Dad say on the phone today,
"We'll pray for a miracle or the strength we'll need if a
miracle doesn't happen."
Within a few minutes of getting the news on December 8th,
I found myself lost in Psalm 66.
The Psalms are my instant 'go to' when I need to feel God's nearness.
"You laid a crushing burden on our backs ...
yet you have brought us out to a place of abundance."
And I tell you what,
while there is most definitely
deep sadness that hits in waves and hits at random times,
I can honestly say God has given me an
abundance of His peace.
He's good like that.
So my prayer is that we will continue
to know that place of abundance that He promises.
I'm praying for an abundance of His peace.
And His joy.
And His hope.
And His wisdom as we begin talking with doctors.
And His crazy love for us,
even though this circumstance sucks.
"Blessed be God, because He has not
rejected my prayer
or removed His steadfast love from me!"
So we're officially on this road called cancer.
One that, sadly, all too many of you know all too well.
It's surreal, and I keep walking up in the middle of the night,
wondering if it's a dream, or if dad really does have
Stage IV cancer.
Hard to fathom.
But not despairing.
Psalm 33:22 "Let your steadfast love, O Lord, be upon us,
even as we hope in you."