Diagnosis moment; the first time we heard the "C" word
Jamison and I are continuing to plug away at getting our story, my cancer journey, down on paper for a book! It is much more of an emotional commitment than I initially realized it would be, to go back and relive and describe some of the hardest moments of my life.
Throughout our book, Jamison and I trade off writing chapters, storytelling from both his perspective and mine. This section is from me and takes place just after I had emergency surgery to remove a tumor from my colon and waiting for the biopsy results.:
The “C” Word (From Rachels perspective)
We spent the next two days trying our best to wait patiently for the biopsy results on the mass removed during my surgery. We had been told it could be up to a week to find out anything, but it was still so hard to stay focused on recovery from surgery without thinking about the potential of the future.
On the morning of the third day, the Physician's assistant was doing the rounds for the Doctor since he had immediately left on vacation after completing my surgery. She came into the room as she had every day since the surgery. This time it felt different. She was fidgeting with a piece of paper rolled up in her hand and seemed to be avoiding eye contact as she kept looking at the beeping machine next to my bed. We went through the normal topics, checking my vitals, how I was feeling. She paused. In the awkward silence, I finally asked “Are there any updates on the biopsy results?”
“Yes.”
She unrolled the paper she had been holding in her hand since she had walked into the room 10 minutes earlier. She held it up and then read aloud the words we thought were only spoken to the unfortunate main character in a Tragedy:
“The tumor was cancerous. Five out of seventeen lymph nodes we tested were also cancerous and the spot on your liver was also cancerous.”
The air in the room was instantly sucked out. My heart started pounding in my chest like someone was beating on it and simultaneously the rest of my body went limp in the hospital bed.
Jamison asked “So what does that mean? Like, what stage would this be?”
“Definitely stage IV.” She offered very bluntly.
“Is there a stage after that?”
“No.”
We sat stunned.
We could tell the Physician was incredibly uncomfortable, did not have anything else to offer and did not have an exit strategy. Jamison asked the doctor for a few moments alone.
I was hooked up to a heart monitor, and my heart rate jumped up to 120 bpm and did not come down for 4 hours. In fact, it stayed above 100 for the next 3 days except when I slept. In my weakened state with this crushing prognosis and the physical stress I was under, I immediately felt deep in my bones that I was ready for eternity. I felt submitted to the idea of God taking me home. Not in a “giving up” or fatalist way, but because I felt small and aware of how completely out of my hands this was. Whatever was coming next, even death. Which was apparently lurking much closer than I knew. There was an instant transition from worrying about what the results might be, to a peace that God was intimately involved.
I turned to Jamison and noticed he was breathing quickly, and his hands were shaking. His eyes were jumping all over the room as I could tell he was trying to process through the rubble from this grenade that had just landed. I grabbed his hand and said “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m okay.” And in that instant, somehow, I meant it.”
It is so surreal retelling these events but what is equally surreal is the all-surpassing grace of Jesus that was lavished on us in these dark days, that quickly comes back to mind almost 4 years later and still gives me a visceral feeling of comfort because Christ was there in the darkness.
When I recall what could be called “my worst trauma” through the eyes of my loving Saviour and how he provided for us spiritually and emotionally, what could be pain, fear and loss (don’t get me wrong I do struggle with these on occasion) instead is intertwined with the lyrics from the hymn When I Survey the Wondrous Cross
See from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingled down!
Did e’er such love and sorrow meet,
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?
Sorrow and love flow mingled down... such poetic imagery for such a painful truth. Life in Christ is often like this, wouldn’t you agree? Christ the redeemer takes all hurt, all pain and all suffering and gives purpose and meaning to loss, while intertwining it with blessing and hope. Because of Him there is hope for a brighter future. He does not promise an easy life on earth, but he does promise to walk the hardest roads with us, and he brings beauty with him, and restores our inner person, and in the retelling of our story that God is writing, our hearts ring out with this truth.