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.