joy – Page 7 – 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/ **

Fistful Of Band-Aids

How do you live out what you know? And how do you live out what you know when what you know is pain?

Chase has felt many needles. Needles for chemo, needles for blood draws, needles to keep him hydrated and pass life-saving medicines into his veins. So many times, his skin has been pricked and prodded – his hands, arms, chest, and even the heels of his feet. If you look closely, you can still see many of the scars.

And somehow, somewhere along the way, needles became synonymous with band-aids. This kid has accessorized with band-aids, played with band-aids, covered his arms with them in the hospital play room (which scared the living daylights out of his doctors who thought each of the ten band-aids up his arm were genuine) and competed against siblings for who has the most (spoiler alert: it was almost always Chase).

Band-aids have been a part of his life and a sign of his pain, and yet, this last week when his kindergarten class celebrated their “100th Day” of classes, Chase wanted to cover his “100 poster” with band-aids.

So, we sat at the kitchen table and covered a poster board in the little brown pieces of adhesive and we talked. We talked about gauze and flushes and old stories where he had screamed and been afraid. Sometimes just being around the familiar supplies is enough to trigger the memories. And then, just at the moment it all felt a little sad again, we decided to look at the things we were most thankful for in those memories. And you know what? There were quite a lot of things for which to be thankful.

These band-aids started as a picture of hardship and ended up on a poster full of memories. I can’t help but wonder if the moment pain crosses into beauty is the moment it forces us to be thankful.

And as he painstakingly wrote out “Chase 100” on the top of his poster, he paused for just a second to consider, and then added an exclamation point. As he finished, he turned to me and explained: “Chase. 100. Exclamation point, Mom. Do you know why?” He ran on before I could have answered if I’d wanted to. “It’s because this is happy. You put an exclamation point” his lips curled extra hard to form those words; “when things are happy.”

So there you have it . . . Lessons drawn from a band-aid, a poster, and a little boy who has been so brave.

Moment by moment.

Rejoicing In Your Scars

Recently, as I put the littlest boys into bed, Chase stripped his shirt as he often does, referring to his white chest as his “rockin’ body’. As he passed across the room towards his bed, Karsten came to stand in front of him, stopping him, and asking with quiet interest, “Hey, Chase, what are those lines?” His small, chubby hand raised energetically to point at the slashes of central line scars that cover Chase’s upper chest on both sides.

For one small second, I held my breath. I wanted to jump in and explain. I wanted to “make it better” and take it away as I watched Chase begin to recoil. He hates questions about his physical appearance. And some days, I hate that all the kids know these strange and awful cancer-y things. But then, Chase stood up a little straighter, pressing out of his curve and removed the hand he’d used to quickly cover the scars, bringing his chest into the light.

“Karsten, do you know what these are?

Karsten shook his head and waited patiently as Chase puffed himself up with the self-importance of a sibling about to teach a great lesson.

“These are from my needles and surgeries.”

“Surgeries?”

“Yes. They’re from my cancer and my chemo. Do you know what chemo is?”

“Yes! He’s in the closet!” Karsten ran to the closet and scooped up Chemo Duck, bringing him back and placing him in Chase’s outstretched arms. “Here, Chase. Here’s Chemo. He’s probably a duck.” To Karsten, who was only 8 months old on the fateful day in 2012, “chemo” is just the name of a stuffed animal, not a torturous experience. I waited. Knowing what to say next was best left to Chase. Sometimes the simple dialogue between brothers is a thousand times more useful than maternal wisdom could ever be.

He nodded gravely. “Thanks, Karsten, but there was more chemo. From the doctors. And now look…” he flexed his arm in the air, looking up at it proudly. “Look at my muscles. Chemo gave me good muscles.”

At which point, I felt the need to interject and redirect. Some days memory doesn’t come easily for him. “Chase, the chemo killed your cancer cells.”

He nodded as if he’d known all along. “Yep. And my hair too. But now it’s coming back. See, Karsten?”

He flexed again as Karsten watched the whole show in somewhat awed silence. And then Chase stopped and looked at me.

“Hey, Mom? The doctors didn’t make me. I forget…who made me?”

I ruffled his whispy-soft head. “God did, my sweet boy.”

He nodded yet again. “Oh, that’s right. Good. I’m glad.”

Karsten jumped up and down at my side. “Me too! Me too!”

And then the moment of deep attention was lost and the boys went back to getting ready for bed and intermittently wrestling, for that is what most small boys love to do.

But I saw this amazing moment unfold before my eyes. Our history and our scars can hurt, can be shameful, stressful, and sad, but in the rehearsing of them, the telling of them to others, the owning of them, they point us to God in such unique ways.

Rejoice in your scars . . . moment by moment.

Of Cells, Thermometers, and God-Purposes

“Okay, let’s just get your temperature and then you’ll be done.” The nurse turned from the blood pressure cuff attached to Aidan’s skinny arm and grabbed the thermometer, shoving it into a sanitary plastic sheath with a soft click.

“Open wide . . . under your tongue . . . now close.”

The room was still as Aidan sat tall, silent, and brave (despite his strep throat) on the end of the exam table.

With an unusual calm, Chase pulled himself out of the chair against the wall where he’d been sitting next to me, and he went to stand closer to the table – in his older brother’s field of vision.

“I’m here, Aidy,” his pet name for his near twin from the earliest days of learning speech. “I’m here if you need me. It isn’t scary, but if you get afraid, I’ll be right here.” Nearly the identical words a three-year-old Aidan had spoken countless times over a two-year-old Chase during myriad blood draws and hard hospital days. “I’m here.” I choose to put myself next to you and try to understand.

Cancer starts as these tiny microscopic cells that go terribly wrong and it wrecks so much life. It makes me angry to consider its senselessness. But in this moment of family practice and strep throat and a check for vital signs, there was yet another glimpse of beauty in the devastation they’d caused. The boys have been bent by it – we’ve all been bent by it – but in those times when it really counts, especially when it comes down to a doctor’s office, they bend toward each other. They reach with comfort and love for one another. And care for each other has come from the long years of fear and pain.

I believe there will always be something good that comes of it all and that the God-purposes far exceed the effect of microscopic cells. . . moment by moment.

“You intended to harm me, but God intended it all for good.” Genesis 50:20a

Being Still

“We have working hands.”

I grew up believing that the busy person is the most productive person and being still should not come until all the work is done. All of it.

How I love it … And how it kills me a little every day when I fall terribly far short of all that needs to be done.

One afternoon not long ago, I stood at the front window, looking out over the front yard. A small boy in his puffy blue winter coat and red Spider-Man hat methodically lifted chunks of snow and ice off the grass, stacking them neatly in a pile on the sidewalk.

My daily routine suggests that the kids should get off the school bus, unpack their back packs, do any necessary homework or house chores, and then we stop to take a breath. My joy is in the “getting it done”.

Whether it’s personality, brain injury, or both, Chase can’t always handle the constant movement and input that comes with my style of productivity. To him, it is a vicious bombardment. And in those times where his brain shuts down as my parental arrogance revs up, the two of us struggle over every single thing. My home becomes a battleground littered most pointedly with aborted teachable moments.

So, that afternoon, when he asked me if he could play outside after the bus pulled away, I could feel the struggle. I wanted him to come in and keep going. I wanted to be somewhere other than standing at the window watching to make sure he was safe and well. I didn’t want to be still. But I said yes.

This is one way Chase helps me.

Because of who he is and how he best functions, I am forced to weigh down the moments and consider each interaction so very carefully — even more than I do with my other children. (though in all fairness, I should do it with them as well)

Do I ask Chase to do something because it is right, or do I ask him to do something because it is right for me?

Productivity is wonderful, thoughtful dialogue and parent-child boundaries are so necessary, and there will always be moments when we’ll need to do battle, but that winter afternoon was not one. For my desire to say no stemmed not from his best interest, but from mine.

So I stood at the window with my tea, taking a deep breath and actually looking around me as I stepped out of the hurry for a time. And then he looked up at me and grinned and I could see that what had felt like a compromise to me had actually been a great victory.

Sometimes being still is the most active thing we can possibly do.