i really have no title for this one. how could i?

I’m going to start this off with something we didn’t have as we entered into what I’m about to tell you, and that is this: “It’s not as bad as we feared”. You know those phone calls that start with “Everyone is OK, but…” then you hear the story about the horrible car accident? This, is like that.

Wednesday, December 20th started like any other day. Except my husband had a colonoscopy scheduled. Just a follow up to some strange symptoms he’d been having.

Our son was with us, because why wouldn’t he be? This wasn’t a big thing. The three of us chatted while we waited for my husband to be wheeled off. We joked and hung out, and then when it was time to go in, our son and I went to grab some pizza in the dining area.

We came back after a quick slice, and shortly after we were called in. The procedure was finished.

We waited for the doctor, it seemed to take a while, but, what did we know about this sort of thing?

He walked by us twice.

Did he look upset? Is that how he always looks?

He walked into the bay with another doctor by his side. That didn’t seem right… He asked my husband if he wanted privacy for his results. THAT definitely didn’t seem right … my husband still groggy from the anesthesia, growing concerned, replied “no”.

The doctor looked at our son, and asked if he was a family member. Numbly, fear setting in, we replied “yes”.

We listened, completely stunned, there, but, not really there...... as the doctor explained that he had found a “massive tumor” in my husband’s colon. I felt like I was out of my body as I listened to both doctors talk about the possibilities of what this could mean. I heard things like “survival rate” and “five years”, chemo, surgery…

I turned away from their grim faces that were full of sympathy.

Heat, numbness, terror, nausea.

Devastation.

Walls closing in. I was gone. I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t breathe. I wasn’t there. I couldn’t be there. This couldn’t be happening. Not to my husband. Not to us. Not to our marriage… and not to the 10-year-old boy sitting in the chair behind me who was trying to escape into his iPad. He was hearing. He was knowing.

Cancer.

Survival rate.

The love of my life. Our world. Our life. Our future.

Everything. All of it.

The world around me came crashing down, smashing me under its weight.

Not us. This cannot be how our story ends.

No.

The rest of the day, numbness was only interrupted by raw fear.

The next morning, we met with the surgeon (who was the second doctor). We were given the plan for the surgery, went to the lab for bloodwork, went to get a CAT scan, went to the pharmacy.

This wasn’t us. Who were these people walking through the hospital with their checklist of things to do, listening to the doctor give her plan of attack?

We were told that if the tumor had gone through the colon wall, it would likely be in the liver or lungs, because that’s where colon cancer likes to go. It also likes to go in to the lymph nodes. The CAT scan would look for this.

Survival rates.

Time.

There is not enough time.

How much time do we have?

I reminded all of us that God knew this day before we did. That He was here before we were. That He is good. He is faithful. No matter what, He is here and no matter what, He loves us and is there with us. He knew. He loves us. He knew………

Reading my Bible that morning I was reminded of the miracles Jesus did when He walked this earth, of people’s faith, and of their lack of faith.

Reading my devotional I was reminded that even in the deepest, darkest, ugliest of ugly…. God uses everything for His good, for HIS glory, for OUR best for those who love Him.

HE KNEW.

He is here.

No matter what – our best.

The doctor told us she would call us the second she had the results. That she would run down between surgeries to get them if necessary.

And run she did.

She called us at 1:20 on Friday. The CAT scan was “exactly what we were hoping for”. The liver looks good. The lungs look good. The lymph nodes look good, but, she won’t know for sure they are good-good until she goes in to remove the tumor, and a good portion of the colon. (January 5th)

Hope.

Oxygen filled our lungs and the weight that we were crushed under, lifted.

My husband and I hugged, our bodies shaking, we had hope. Hope for more time. More days. More years.

More.

Life.

Time.

We know the road ahead will not be easy, but, we also know that God will be glorified in the journey. He already is. He is here today, and He is there tomorrow.

And He is so, so good.

Even knowing this, even after the good news, while walking through this strange space where time is not time as we normally know it, it’s… longer. Much longer. Much… slower. One day feels like one month… I feel something that feels like an aftershock. And fear rears its ugly head. I can see it’s many black arms reaching out, trying to wrap around me like one of those snap bracelets children wear…… Then I see Him. Jesus, walking on the stormy waters, towards us, in this storm.

The waves calm, the black arms disappear.

Breath.

I also know this. Whether God ordained this, or whether He allowed it, He will be glorified in it.

Listening to the familiar story of Christmas, I am reminded specifically of Mary. Young, unmarried, and suddenly pregnant. In a time when that alone could result in her execution. A long journey away from home to give birth, away from her whole support network, tired, scared. Having to give birth in a stable, with animals, on the ground. Nowhere to even put her newborn baby. ALL OF THAT was God ordained. His good and perfect, amazing and wonderful will. Ugly and scary – turned into beautiful and life changing. Life SAVING.

Mary definitely had storms ahead, and so did Jesus. The story didn’t end there.

Nor does it for us… as each phone call comes in, with different results and different news we go from elation to that familiar fear, and we have to just lay it all down and give it all to God…. We received good news about well-differentiated cells, and then a reminder that they still don’t know if the tumor has gone through the colon wall, a reminder that they will not know that until surgery.

I picture myself on Friday, sitting in that waiting room and the love of my life being operated on, and for the life of me, I still don’t know how we got to this place. HOW on earth this is suddenly us.

One thing I do know is God is here with us.

And.

The story doesn’t end here.

xo
K.