has the wrong information. That’s probably not even my folder in his hand. Dr. Caldwell said, just yesterday, that I have symptoms of cancer. But, Dr. Fisher…he’s a specialist. I didn’t expect this.
Only a few days prior to Dr. Fisher’s diagnosis, I had read an article in a popular magazine by a doctor in Europe who was a proponent of unconventional methods of curing cancer. I told Dr. Fisher that I remembered something about apricot seeds proving successful in the early treatment of malignant tumors. The doctor abruptly interrupted. Slightly built and in his early 70s, Dr. Fisher stood as he pushed back his chair; he leaned over his large mahogany desk, pointing a finger at me to emphasize the importance of what he said. He did not mince words or try to soften the blow; he cleared his throat and looked me squarely in the eyes, slowly pronouncing a death sentence: “Lady, please listen to me. You will not be here for Christmas if there’s not a turnaround in your condition. There are no options. Once again, it’s very late for you.”
I sat motionless and listened to words I could not begin to comprehend. My trembling fingers counted on the surface of my purse.
October...November...December.
Three months to live. The words shocked me like a bolt of lightning. The prognosis could not be clearer. Dr. Fisher finally had my attention.
Oh, how I would like to say that I was totally engulfed by feelings of euphoric victory at that moment; that no prognosis could have a negative effect on me, but the truth was very different.
Many years ago, my father-in-law was knocked off a ladder by 440 volts of electricity and landed on his feet. Outwardly, Dad Dewey appeared to be fine, but he bore the inner effects of that trauma for the duration of his life. Hearing that I had terminal cancer, I looked okay from the outside, but inside I was emotionally ripped apart.
As Cindy, Levoy and I left the doctor’s office, my eyes lingered for a moment on other patients. One scene captured my attention: a young woman was softly crying as she sat next to an older gentleman of Asian descent. “Probably his daughter,” I thought. “I wonder what news they received.”
You are probably not as bad as me. The doctor said I have three months. How much time do you have?
My world was suddenly upside down. Only yesterday the sky was perfectly clear. Something cruel, far beyond my control, had just robbed me of a future. I was still trying to wrap my brain around the horrific information that had bombarded me. One hour ago, there was so much to look forward to...now this.
The audacity! The pronouncement of my fate was spoken by someone I had just met. What right did that doctor have? My words were spent. There was no more energy for an argument. In my attempt to make the case that I was just fine, my emotional reserves were depleted. Somewhere deep within I knew the prognosis was established. Denial had to give way to reality.
Cindy dealt with the initial blow in her unique way. She believes the Bible, including the part that says a merry heart is like a medicine. The 20-minute drive home was probably not typical. My daughter instinctively reached for a new recording of a comedian, popped it in the machine, and cranked up the volume. That guy would make anybody laugh; even someone who had just been told she had three months to live! Cindy drove while we all laughed. A belly-laugh rolled out of me, like a rushing waterfall, and every other thought was drowned. It is proven that laughter produces endorphins that relieve stress and promote well being. Every one of those endorphins was put to good use that day.
When I got out of the car my legs felt weak. I could hardly stand. The ground seemed unsteady beneath me. Everything looked and felt surreal.
Surely, I would wake up and this nightmare would be over.
Mother, Suzanne, Nathan and little Rachel were waiting for us, holding a solemn vigil in the house. They made valiant attempts to be upbeat, but sadness, anguish, and unanswered questions were written on their faces. They were still reeling from the report they had heard on the telephone, only moments before we arrived. The atmosphere was charged with unfamiliar tension. For a brief moment, I wanted to bolt out the door. All eyes were fastened on me as I labored up the stairs.
If I could only get away from them, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much. I am the cause of all this trouble. If I hadn’t gone to the doctor...things would be normal.
In spite of those fitful thoughts, an uncanny knowing dominated my senses. Mother’s pressure on me to call the doctor had probably saved my life. Even so, I was conflicted. It was Rachel’s first day of school. I was sorry that my health issues overshadowed this happy day for our first grandchild.
Would I be there to see her graduate…or go to the second grade?
The privilege of planning anything for the future was stripped away in one cruel moment. Life seemed so fragile...so unfair. “Three months” screamed in my head and made me hot with anger. Only yesterday, Levoy and I had exciting plans. We were booking services and making projections for the ministry. I had always considered myself a healthy woman. When I was sick, God healed me.
Would He heal me this time?
A killer cancer was stalking. This was very different from any other challenge Levoy and I had faced. I knew that the greatest test of my faith was upon me. I felt vulnerable, like an open target with no defense; one upon whom fate had turned its back. At the same time, I was confident that it would be okay. I knew that God could not fail.
More than anything, I wanted to be alone. I did not have a grip on the news I had received. I slipped into our bedroom and shut the door behind me. My emotions rode a roller coaster. I heard a scream. It was me! The pillow muffled the uncontrollable sobs and absorbed the tears. I could not block out the mocking of a strange hiss in my head.
“Three months…Three months…Three months.”
I was exhausted. I cried out to God, “Why me… why this…why now?” I wept until there were no more tears. My throat ached from screaming. I listened to my own uneven breath and stared into nothingness.
I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing: I am come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me. I am weary of my crying: my throat is dried: mine eyes fail while I wait for my God.
(Psalm 69:2-3 - KJV)
Out of nowhere, a strong feeling of guilt smothered me. Raw emotions washed over me like waves of acid. Crazy thoughts invaded my mind like an army.
I must be a bad person, or this would not have happened. It is my fault! I have probably eaten the wrong foods or exposed myself unknowingly to toxic materials.
I felt stupid and ashamed, but I didn’t understand why. After wallowing in a mire of self-pity and confusion, for what seemed like a very long time, I rebounded.
If I have only three months to live, I refuse to live them like this.
Sound thinking gradually returned. My resolve to get out of the pit of deprivation was powerful and I started moving. There was a Bible on my nightstand. It’s not my style to randomly pick a verse, but this was not a time for the norm. I flipped open the Bible on the bed and watched as the pages settled. My eyes fell instantly upon a verse I had read before. Now I saw it much differently...with my heart.
Uphold me according unto thy word that I may live: and not be ashamed of my hope.
(Psalm 119:116 - KJV)
That was it! The Lord would heal me. He would protect me from evil. Yes, He would prepare
