Miracles

I was feeling weary from the fight and in need of a pick-me-up, so I told Carl he would make my Halloween if he dressed up as David S. Pumpkins, from a recent SNL skit featuring Tom Hanks. I watched this video every day of Halloween week, to distract me from the ongoing monotony of my fight. 

Impressively, Carl found a perfect costume with 2 days to spare.  We had a great Halloween in our festive neighborhood, as friends, neighbors, and even strangers saluted him as David Pumpkins. Carleigh went as Rey from "Star Wars" and Carissa went as Evie from "Descendants."  We spent the evening with our parents, sister-in-law, Shanna, and some new friends we had met from Carleigh's soccer team.

It was a great and memorable holiday, but these days, nothing good can last, and I had to wake up bright and early to do my labs, a 2-hour PT scan, and 3 hours of chemotherapy.  I woke up exhausted, and slept through both my scan and my chemotherapy.  If sleeping through my life as much as possible was what I needed to do to survive for now, then sleep I would.

On Thursday we had a an appointment with my new oncologist to review the results of  Tuesday's scan.  I sat in the waiting room with stooped shoulders and with my face in my hands.  Carl told me I needed to perk up so that my doctor would feel confident about putting me on the best treatment plan possible. I knew I needed to stay in the fight for the sake of Carl and the girls, and all who love me, but I felt so depleted physically and emotionally. I especially did not want to face another surgery.  The mere thought made me cringe, but this is what we would likely discuss today.  These appointments always tended to emotionally drain me.  

We were escorted to the doctor's office.  While we waited, I started on my pile of Thank-you notes I can never seem to finish.  When the doctor finally walked into the room, I was surprised to see a big smile on her face.  

"Have you seen the results of your scan?" she asked.

"No," I replied.  "That's why were are here today, to review them." 

"There is nothing there!" she said, beaming.

"What?" I asked.  "What do you mean there is nothing there?  I just had a CT scan last week which showed 1, possibly 2 tumors."

She explained that there were masses there, but that the deeper PT scan revealed that nothing had lit them up, meaning there was no metabolic life in the tumors, meaning that they were dead.  The PT scan record declared me as now having No Evidence of Disease (NED). 

"I know the result is surprising, so I verified this with 4 different radiologists, just to be sure," she said, her smile widening.  

What????!!!! How could this even be true?  Our former oncologist had told us back in August that chemo or any type of therapy would never eradicate a tumor; that at most it could shrink it to either get it surgically removed or to simply keep it at bay for as long as possible.  This outcome was quite rare, as it only occurs in about 2 percent of cases. 

The doctor said that I did need to stay on the erbitux and the 5FU for 8 months to a year for maximum effectiveness, but that surgery was completely unecessary at this time!  Then she told me that even though I needed to continue my chemo regime that I should "go on holiday."  She has a lovely British accent which makes the word, "holiday" that much more inviting.  

Halleluah!!!  As we sat there, she emailed our surgeon a friendly note that the PT scan revealed only dead tumors, that she did not recommend surgery, and "the patient was shocked."  My mouth was hanging wide open, and Carl was jumping up and down while simultaneously texting everyone in our immediate family.  

We took the weekend to celebrate with the girls.  We went up to Palomar Mountain to view the Fall colors and to shout the good news from the mountaintops:

When we had a moment to catch our breath, we reflected on how the events of the past several months had lead us up to this point.  Carl reminded me that he had blessed me many times in prayer that the "chemotherapy would have an astonishing effect in eradicating the tumor, so much so, that even the doctors would be surprised."  

Because my platelets had been too low to receive the standard chemo, I had started the erbitux during the first week of September.  Apparently, this was the drug that connected with my genetic makeup just enough to kill the tumor.  Because my oncologist showed such poor bedside manner during our October appointment that I had to quit him, I was lead to a new one, who had ordered the scan which prevented me from having an unnecessary surgery, and gave me the hopeful news that I so needed to hear to keep going.

 I had found my new doctor from a friend of my dad's who had beaten colon cancer a few years ago and loved her oncologist. She wasn't sure if her former doctor was currently affliliated with UCSD.   I met with her and asked tips for continuing on the fight and if she would pass along her former oncologist's contact info.  When I looked up the contact in her phone, I was surprised to find that the address coincidentally matched the very location I received chemotherapy. I had recently moved from Moores Cancer Center to Encinitas.  The oncologist I wanted was with UCSD, and she was seeing new patients!

As I have reflected on recent events, I have realized that these were not coincidences, but small miracles which blended together to lead me to this grand, course-altering one that so many in my circle had hoped and prayed for.  The term, "miracle" has been defined by religious scholar, Daniel S. Ludlow as “a beneficial event brought about through divine power that mortals do not understand and of themselves cannot duplicate.” 

This reminds me of the movie, "Miracles from Heaven" starring Jennifer Garner, which portrays the true story of the miraculous healing of Annabel Beam and the spiritual journey of her mother, Christy Beam. 

Jennifer Garner's character describes miracles as:

• showing up in the strangest of ways through people who are just passing through our lives.
• dear friends who are there for us no matter what.   
• love
• pure goodness
• God's way of letting us know...he's here."

The ancient prophet, Mormon queries:  "Has the day of miracles ceased? Behold I say unto you, Nay; for it is by faith that miracles are wrought."

I'm not sure if my own faith has been that strong; there were moments when it has really faltered.  But I have kept one foot in front of the other, and have been sustained by the faith of so many loved ones. As Jennifer Garner's character Christy flashes back to all the people and events which lead them to their miracle, I think of my own journey.  Equally miraculous as my unexpected remission is the pure love of Christ I see in others.  I have written previously about the countless acts of service done on my behalf, and now I continue to see "pure goodness" as I share this glorious news with friends and they throw their arms around me shedding tears of joy.  I am amazed that others would care so much to both mourn and to rejoice with me.  This is love that approaches divinity. 

Mormon also proclaimed, "But behold, I will show unto you a God of miracles"

There is a beautiful song, "Miracles" which perfectly expresses the recent miraculous events in my own life.

Jesus is a God of Miracles

Nothing is at all impossible to Him.

But I know this, of all His miracles,

The most incredible must be

The miracle that rescues me

.  
Once a person has Stage IV cancer, the threat of recurrence is always lurking.  I don't know where my journey will take me, but for now, I can rejoice that my miracle of "No Evidence of Disease" came when I needed it the most.  No matter what happens in the future, I can testify that in my life, miracles have not ceased. 

My Song in the Night

Since my cancer diagnosis 15 months ago, I have become a true insomniac.  On many occasions, I’ve reached for the aid of Ativan, Ambien, and Benadryl to get me through the night.  Someday I will take up more natural sleep aids like meditation, but I haven’t had time for that yet.

There has always been something on the horizon.  An upcoming scan, a dreaded chemotherapy infusion, worry about potential irreversible side effects of surgery, the anxiety of trying to dissect an oncologist’s meaning, and on and on.  Insomnia had been especially bad since that dismal October 5 th appointment with my ex-oncologist.  I had “broken up” with him, and did not wish to give him any credibility by hanging onto his words, but they were still  haunting me between the unearthly hours of 3:00 and 5:00 am. 

• Had I really exhausted my best chance at a cure when my 2 stage surgery failed to eradicate all the cancer? 
• Would another potential surgery do me more harm than good or could it actually prolong my life?
• What if there were any shred of truth to what he said about my 3 year prognosis?  
• Should I be investing all my energy in fighting a losing battle, or should I just enjoy the possibly short time I had left with my family? 
• Should I be planning some great vacations for "bucket list" last hurrahs?
• Should I put all my energy into radically changing my diet, because some claim to be cured this way.
•  Should I be traveling to various cancer centers in the US seeking  get 2^nd, 3^rd, and 4^th opinions ?
• How was I possibly to balance the task of staying alive versus living my life, especially when my calendar was so full of lab draws, chemo infusions and follow-up oncology consults?  
• What if I was mis-using my precious time?

How I wished I could just turn off my brain and get a good night’s sleep!   Like the song, “Silent Lucidity” by Queensryche, which gave me a lot of comfort in my early teens when I went through a difficult bout with some mean girls, I wished I could just escape into a “dream domain” which would free my soul from this incessant worry. 

As I cried out in prayer for some peace, I remembered a Music & the Spoken Word by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir which Carl and I attended on an anniversary trip to Salt Lake to celebrate our 10-year 2 years ago.  

 The following Spoken Word message from that program has always stuck with me:

 James and Sarah Ferguson were Irish immigrants with dreams of making a new home and building a better life for their family in the American West. In the spring of 1850, they started across the vast American plains as members of a large wagon train of pioneers with similar dreams.Tragedy struck the family soon after they began. James contracted the dreaded disease cholera and died within 24 hours. He was buried in the trackless prairie on the banks of the Platte River. That evening, Sarah settled the children into their beds and then, with an aching heart and tired feet, went down to the river to wash off the dust of a terrible day. As she put her bare feet into the cool water, Sarah felt “the strong current of the river, and the thought came to her, in her grief, of how easy it would be to slide into the water,” sink into the depths, and join her dear husband in death.[1] But just then one of her young children called out to her, and she knew she had to carry on for them. She dried her feet, put on her shoes, and went back to the wagon. The next day, Sarah paused one last time at the grave of her  husband. Then, looking west, she and her children walked on.Sarah eventually established her family in the Rocky Mountains. She lived a long and productive life, and her posterity—which now number in the thousands—are grateful for the faith, hope, and perseverance of their pioneer grandmotherThe courageous example of Sarah Ferguson McDonald and many, many others like her inspires us all, especially when our hearts ache, our feet are tired, or we face a fearful future. Even then, we can remember inspiring examples from the past and walk on.

After this story was told, the choir followed with this beautiful rendition, “My Song in the Night”

The music and lyrics of this song perfectly captured my sentiments as I tossed and turned with my doubts and fears:

O why should I wander, an alien from Thee,
Or cry in the desert Thy face to see?
My comfort and joy, my soul’s delight,
O Jesus my Savior, my song in the night.

One October Monday, after an unkind night of troubled thoughts and itchy skin from my erbitux rash, I wondered how I could walk on.  It wasn’t that I was ready to sink into a moving current and end my life consciously in a suicidal act, but simply that I was tired of everything that was required of me to stay alive.  I didn’t want to face another surgery, another chemo infusion, the antiseptic smell of the cancer center, another oncologist, or even another needle in my arm.  I just couldn’t keep doing all this.  I was physically exhausted and emotionally drained.  I just wanted to stay in my room in the fetal position and cry, which I did, just for a little while.  I knew that I had to keep fighting for my girls, and I would.  But how would I even get up again to do it?  I thought about the account of Peter, trying to walk toward Jesus on the water in the account of Matthew 14:26-31 in the New Testament:

 26 And when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were troubled, saying, It is a spirit; and they cried out for fear.

 27 But straightway Jesus spake unto them, saying, Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid.

 28 And Peter answered him and said, Lord, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water.

 29 And he said, Come. And when Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus.

 30 But when he saw the wind boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried, saying, Lord, save me.

 31 And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him, and said unto him, O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?

This scriptural account gave me some comfort because if Peter, the great apostle could falter in his faith, then so could I.  Like Peter, I was afraid of “boisterous winds” of uncertainty of my seemingly bleak prognosis, and I was sinking with exhaustion.  My sweet friend Sarah had given me this portrait of the Savior with His outstretched hand after my first surgery.  As I internalized the the message of Christ lifting Peter up in his moment of faltering, maybe  I could begin to walk again and at least move toward the water.