grace – Page 3 – CHASE AWAY CANCER

Of Eye Patches And Glimpses of God

The year I turned eight was the year my mom was pregnant with my last little sister. I was old enough to understand and be excited and each new and frosty December morning, I would run to my bedroom window to see if Miss Becky’s car was in the driveway. If her car was there, it meant my parents had gone to the hospital and my new baby sister had arrived.

Miss Becky went to church with us. I remember that her husband -Mr. Tim- was very, very tall to us, that one time, we went over to her apartment to help her get a cake in the shape of lamb for a baby shower, and that she had a huge smile and an infectious laugh. She also loved to talk about Jesus. But not how most people I knew talked about Jesus. She talked about him as if he was a precious friend, someone she really knew and loved and interacted with – much the same way I would talk about the friends I played with after school.

It was around the same time that I first have memories of her that Miss Becky got sick. She had something I had never heard of before, but I knew it must have been serious because I could see great concern on the faces of the adults when they spoke about it. They said my Miss Becky had something called cancer.

I remember that her hair looked different for a while but nobody ever told me that it was a wig. Kids don’t always get told those kind of things. And of course, I had no knowledge of things like procedures or chemotherapies, but almost every night, during our family times, we’d pray for Miss Becky to be healed from this strange thing called cancer.

11055389_10206747551101849_2026147304667398479_o — Me with my precious “Miss Becky”

Our precious Miss Becky won her battle with what I now know was breast cancer while I was still very young. The years passed and she had children of her own and our families ended up at different churches. It would be years before I’d see her again.

When Chase was diagnosed with cancer, Becky was on the front lines of those who prayed for us and encouraged us. Cancer can make things very personal and re-knit friendships just in the shared experience. She knew what it was like for my Chasey to have the chemo taste in his mouth, the chemo-induced neuropathy that made his hands and feet tingle like they were asleep, and the hard, long days in the hospital. She knew and she prayed for us.

When Chase finished treatment, we saw each other at a party and I watched her watch Chase as he ran up and down the length of the gymnasium. Her, with the beautiful, big smile and marvel of his energy and life. And we talked about how she’d been free herself for twenty-six years.

We saw each other again last summer at the ball park and we picked up right where we’d left off. She always encouraged Chase in such a beautiful way, making a big deal about his battle even though she’d fought her own. And her smile was as big as ever and her love for Jesus was as real as ever.

Chase, Becky, Darcy and Karsten at the ball park

But not so very long ago, after twenty-eight full years, there were tests, and confirmation, and then a quiet picture of a beloved and dog-eared page of her bible –

“…that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead. He has delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us. On him we have set our hope that he will continue to deliver us, as you help us by your prayers. Then many will give thanks on our behalf for the gracious favor granted us in answer to the prayers of many.” 2 Corinthians 1:9-11

Next to these words were written two dates – “11/87” and “10/15”. The implication was clear: the reprieve was over and Becky’s cancer was back.

Even as I write, she is in the middle of this second fight, but as it has unfolded and she’s let us have a glimpse into this second journey with her, it’s been an amazing honor to witness. She’s honest about the tears and weakness, but she’s also honest about her joys and her love for Jesus is clear throughout her words. After I posted a picture of Chase going to his hospital dressed as pirate last week, she sent me this picture in return…

Inspired by Chase’s fun, she’d found a fun way to show her courage and strength as well. And this beautiful woman clearly rocks a head scarf like none other.

All these seemingly flailing string ends, pieces of lives and stories so senselessly hit with diseases like cancer; I believe they’re being braided and woven into a tapestry we just can’t see or understand yet and it includes tiny bits like pirate costumes.

Because sometimes, it takes an eye patch to get just a hinted glimpse of the goodness of God in weaving our lives together – even in the pain.

Becky’s twice-proved courage, Chase’s strength, and God’s grace . . . moment by moment.

“That which tears open our souls, those holes that splatter our sight, may actually become the thin, open places to see through the mess of this place to the heart-aching beauty beyond. To Him. To the God whom we endlessly crave.” Ann Voskamp

** For more on Becky’s life and faith, visit: https://byfaithbecky.wordpress.com/ **

Too Many Shirts

He scrunched up his nose, the stronger side of his face muscles causing lips to curl angrily on one side. “Bof of them!” This did not bode well.

Some days, Chase is an old soul with wisdom that brings me to tears. Other days, he has the logic and reasoning of a three-year-old, trapped in a body the size of a four-year-old, with the most of the physical abilities of a six-year-old. This means that discussions of any kind are often like trying to hit a moving target. At any given moment, he might need a pat on the head, a “quiet time”, or a higher-level discourse.

On Sunday morning, I laid out his clothes for him and went to iron Bob a shirt. Moments later, I returned to find Chase standing in the middle of the living room, his pants bustled and messed across the back where he’d failed to pull them up properly, and on his torso, he wore an undershirt, the shirt I’d laid out for him, another equally heavy long-sleeved shirt, and as I encountered him, he was attempting to frustratedly stuff his bulky arms into a navy zippered sweatshirt.

His forehead was already beginning to glisten under the furnace of clothing he’d heaped on his body and he was so mad at not being able to get his arm in the sweatshirt that I could tell he was seconds from pitching it across the room with a scream. And now, here I was gearing up to come at him with the sad truth that he couldn’t wear all the shirts in his drawer.

I hate when I know I’m right and for his own good, I need to intervene. Before I even start, nearly every time, there is the pricking sensation that it’s going to be an A++, super guaranteed, completely pitched, blood and guts battle. And on a Sunday morning too . . . because nothing says “getting ready for church” like a family fight.

Kneeling down, I started in, “Chase, honey, what happened? Why do you have all those shirts on?”

Sometimes it’s easier if I don’t assume and let him tell me in his own words, but this part takes time. And how I hate to take time.

He looked up at me simply. “Because I like them all.”

Fair enough. “Well then, why don’t you save one for school tomorrow? You may not wear both this morning. So, which is best for church? The gray one with the green sleeves, or the brown one?”

His voice grew insistent as he sensed my purpose. He would have to sacrifice at least one shirt. “Bof of them.”

“I’m sorry, Chase. That wasn’t a choice. You can wear one or the other, but not both.”

“Bof! Of! Them!” His voice raised to a scream and he played his trump card (which is only ever true about 50% of the time). “Daddy says bof of them!”

Bob’s voice came from the kitchen. “Chase, that isn’t true.”

“Bof of them! Bof of them! BOF OF THEM!!” His voice was a scream, his face red as his lips curled oddly around the “f” he substituted for “th”.

In moments like these, I want to get down on his level, and down in his face and say the four words that are always on the edge of my mind: “Because I’m the mom.” How I want to force obedience out of him as if it’s waiting to pop through just below the stubborn surface.

But at its core, the argument isn’t ultimately about his shirt, though he would have to remove at least two. At it’s heart, the argument is about all of us. Damage or not, our need to be right – to get our own way. As I looked at the “tiny” bald boy stomping his foot in anger, I found that I secretly wished him to respond better than I would have in the much the same scenario.

So often God confronts me much as I stood before Chase: Ellie , will you follow what I’ve laid out for you? I see the harm in this scenario that you do not. You can’t love me and these other things too . . . you must choose one or the other. There is sacrifice, yes, but my way is greater than you can wrap your mind around right now.

[mental angry foot stomp] No God, I want both of them! All of them! Why can’t I have everything? If you really loved me, you’d let me have what I think I want.

In the end, Chase only wore one shirt to church, the argument was diffused, and we all survived, but sometimes, in the myriad of daily battles, I find these rare moments of backing away to see my own heart in Chase’s stubborn stance. Many times, so many more than I’d like to consider, I fail miserably, but in those brief flashes of heart, I grasp just a hint of God’s loving patience with me…

…moment by moment.

For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope. Jeremiah 29:11

Scars and Justice

He walked into the room and sighed loud and long, his little way of reminding me that he was here and waiting to be noticed.

Turning from making the bed, I acknowledged him.

“Hey, Chasey-bear, what’s up?”

With hands at his sides and head lowered, he spoke the words, “Today on the bus.”

I waited for a second and when nothing followed, I bent into his pattern, pieces of a sentence stated, pieces of a sentence repeated. This is his way. “Today on the bus?”

“Yes. Ian and Aden.”

“Ian and Aden?”

They said I was short and they made fun of me for being so tiny.”

I stopped still.

How do you react when you want to be justice for your children and it’s already too late?

The words were already said and heard. “Oh sweet boy . . . what did you do? What did you say?

He hung his head, but his voice was steady. “I did not yell and I did not scream.”

“Not even a bit?” I tried to see his face.

“Nope. No screaming.” He put a hand to his chest. “But my heart.”

“Your heart?”

His dropped again. The single word burning as he spoke: “Hurts.”

Some days the truth is not spoken lovingly, but hurled like a weapon and it stings.

How do you prepare a child to stand strong when all that makes him beautiful stands out differently from the children around him?

It will take a great deal of strength to meet these thrown words with grace. And he will need to do it often, I’m sure. I’ve seen how the other children look at him on the playground, and I hear them ask simple and honest “Why doesn’t he have hair like us?” They cannot know that their simplicity is painful because it’s complicated for us.

It’s funny how we want to be proud of our scars, but we’re still keenly aware of their unique quality and it bothers us. It’s too easy to compare, come up short, and sometimes even lash out as we feel our own differences.

This day, Chase succeeded. He did not scream – a huge victory for my small boy, I know. There will be times to speak up, but this day, it was better to be quiet.

And at the end of it, I don’t care how far off the ground his head stands; he can hold it high because he did the right thing.

Moment by moment.

The Story of 2014

Once there was a family of six: a handsome father, a redhead mother, a sole princess girl, and three little wrestling and running boys.

The handsome father, he worked in two places – one a large company, the other a church. In both places, he worked with numbers… lots and lots of numbers. In the free moments, you would find him completing a half marathon, quiet with a book, or very lately, working in his new garage.

The redhead mother spent the days holding the pieces together… pieces of laundry and food and school and sometimes, yes sometimes, even silence.

The sole princess girl, just a second ago a babe in arms, was suddenly eight and tall, and already a fast runner. She was never so happy as when she was running… just like her father.

The oldest of the wrestling boys was five, nearly six, and started wearing glasses to see, which made him look wise. He began the school journey and stretched his legs at running to try and beat his sister, and if he could, would choose to be buried under a gigantic mound of Legos forever.

The middle boy, with his lightning scar and white head, also began his school journey, but with special help and the fulfillment of his special wish… to ride a bus. He continued, at every turn, to live up to his name and found his way through life in a never-stopping, never-settling way.

The baby boy, a baby no more, stood nearly as tall as the middle boy, with wide shoulders and stance that spoke of having older brothers and being ready and willing to throw the first punch. And yet, he would sit quietly with a book for the longest time and everywhere he went, he looked for horses.

This family of six were wanderers. They left their tiny space when the word “cancer” was first spoken and lived with grandparents for help as two years came and went. They decided to sell their tiny space and pray for more room close to everything held dear, and the tiny space almost sold three times and they prayed for wisdom to know… and then the tiny space, their first little home, sold and they were led to the perfect little blue house near everything held dear and so, wanderers no more, they moved and settled in the early Fall as the leaves began to change.

And in the first hours of owning the little blue house, the call came that something was growing again under the lightning scar in the white head… and the family stopped and prayed for moment-by-moment grace to find the joy in the every day as they waited six weeks and checked again, and then six more and again.

And by the time this story rests in your hands, another check will have come and gone and a course of action will stand in front of the family. But they put aside the fear and in grace, choose faith and yes, even joy for their family and their boy, and the root of it is found in this season and in another little boy, born thousands of years earlier. This stable-born boy would grow to be the Savior and Lord and, bloodied arms stretched wide, would triumph over sin forever and ever, and make a way for death to have no victory or sting, and in this boy-turned-forever-King, there was and is hope and joy, and in this the family of six, in their little blue house, rests secure. They hope and pray the same for you.

[This is the text of the Ewoldt Family Christmas letter that was mailed in early December, 2014 – Thank you for walking this year with us…moment by moment.]

Stable

In pre op waiting for the MRI to be available so Chase could proceed with anesthesia

After a very long day that included an inner ear procedure, waiting over an hour for the MRI, almost three hours under anesthesia, and a painful peripheral IV in the arm (instead of accessing Chase’s port), we received an early, unofficial word from the hospital last night: Chase’s MRI results were still being read, but there was no evidence of new tumor growth. However, there was still a question about the areas of fluid retention and cavernomas (effects of surgery and radiation)…

This morning, we received the second and final call. The official word is “stable” on all fronts!

There may have been some very minor changes to the cavernomas, but nothing of concern at this point and the areas of fluid are virtually unchanged. We will have the chance to view the MRI and discuss all of this more in depth next week with Chase’s neuro-oncologist and his neurosurgeon in his routine follow ups.

Taking vitals in post op recovery - and getting to eat for the first time in 9 hours! — Taking vitals in post op recovery – and getting to eat for the first time in 9 hours!

Praising God in awe. Some days, I still can’t believe Chase has survived 21 months after an advanced AT/RT diagnosis.

Thank you again for your prayer and encouragement as we take this…