thankfulness – Page 2 – CHASE AWAY CANCER

Sufficient Grace

I sat on the floor, the exhaustion depressing like a physical weight on my heart and shoulders alike.

Chase curled close, sniffing and crying, “Mom, I’m ready to make it right. I’m so sorry for getting angry. I promise to never, ever do it again.”

My heart screamed but my eyes were blessedly calm despite the pressure of overwhelmed tears. “It’s okay, sweet boy. I forgave you even before you asked. Hey…look at me…look at my eyes. Do you know how much I love you?”

He nods, sniffs, and runs away, heart light once again. The anger leaves as quickly as it comes.

No matter what happens, he needs to understand grace at my hands. If I fail all else, please God, let me be your hands to him.

But oh, my hands…how they hurt. Before the peace comes, there’s often scratching and biting. For, in this outside-the-box life, this is emotion to Chase. And the primary thing is to keep him and everyone else in his direct vicinity safe. So sometimes that means taking one for the team; for the family…literally.

As I sat on the floor, I wanted to let loose ugly, deep tears, but there are some things that seem too heavy and weary.

“God. I’m tired of the struggle. I can’t do this. I mean, I did it, and I’ll do it again, but years and years of this? I can’t, I can’t, I. CAN’T…”

And then, in the desperate stillness, I -who rarely ever “hear”- I heard. Oh, I heard as clearly as if someone stood in the cloudy room with me:

“My grace is sufficient for you.”

That was it. No answers, no fixes, but one thing that transcends the hurt that’s been and all the hurts that are yet to come.

Even as I prayed to be grace to Chase, my Abba became the grace answer to me.

The road is not easy, but I know I will have what I need.

Moment by moment.

“…I begged the Lord to take it away. Each time he said, “My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.” So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me.” 2 Corinthians 12:8-9 (NLT)

Note: This picture story was published with Chase’s knowledge and permission and he even volunteered to take the picture. He is not proud or hurt, but understands that we share wisely to encourage others they are not alone. Please know that we do not take this particular challenge lightly, and that Chase’s case is lovingly monitored by social workers, neuro-psychologists, neurologists, neuro-oncologists, neurosurgeons, and behavior therapists. I hope this bit of raw openness on survivor challenges encourages you that you are not alone in your struggle. If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me privately at ellieewoldt@gmail.com. Blessings.

Past, Present, and Future

Dearest Dr. Lulla,

Thank you.

Thank you for giving us hope where there was none.

Thank you for reacting to our shattering news as if it was your own – even though you do it over and over again with each family.

Thank you for being a clinical advocate – taking on each and every problem with a precision and logic that cut through the fear.

Thank you for knowing when to scrap the clinical and look us in the eyes as suffering human beings, not just the nearest and dearest to a medical chart waiting to be updated.

Thank you for backing us up and encouraging us to trust our gut instincts.

Thank you for letting us cry.

Thank you for giving us permission to laugh.

Thank you for being an encourager – always pushing us to see the very best and beautiful in the hospital staff around us.

Thank you for learning our names, our lives, and remembering them.

Thank you for learning every nickname we ever gave Chase and what he was like as a person – all on the outside chance that he might not scream at you when you came into the room.

Thank you for learning the names of Chase’s siblings and pieces of their stories – a heart-wrenching acknowledgement that Chase was not in a void and there was a different life outside the cancer.

Thank you for fighting for our future.

Thank you for investing in our present.

Thank you for seeing Chase as a life to be lived.

Thank you for being our advocate.

Thank you for all the things you did that we’ll never fully know or understand.

You somehow make the unthinkable more bearable, and for that, you will always and forever be considered a trusted friend and a precious member of our family.

Love always,

The Ewoldt Family

Today, Wednesday, January 25, 2017 marked the end of an era. Chase has been off chemotherapy and the scans have overall been stable for so very long that it is time: Chase’s file is being transferred from the regular neuro-oncology clinic to a place called the STAR clinic. The “S” in “STAR” stands for “survivor”. Chase is now officially considered a survivor of his cancer. I can hardly breathe for writing those words! And while he will still see many of the same teams of doctors (and there will be many teams – as Chase still fights a great many things), there will be one very significant change: today was Chase’s last official appointment with Dr. Rishi Lulla, the attending neuro-oncologist who has overseen his case from the first moments of July 31, 2012. We consider it the highest honor to have had Dr. Lulla oversee Chase’s treatment and care and we hope to see him in the halls of the hospital some day soon!

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.

12.12.15

For years now, Chase has fought me on his age. On some level, the last year he remembers well is the one he turned two, right before the tumor. For years now, as I’ve told him the next numbers, he’s insisted that he was still only two. I finally got him to admit to five, but it’s usually a fight. But just last week, he came and plopped down next to me on the couch. “Mom, I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“I’m ready to be six. I know it’s six now and I’m okay with it. I’m ready.”

I smiled and kissed his fuzzy head. “That’s great, Chasey-bear.”

“And Mom, after that, can I be seven and then eight and then nine?”

Yes, a thousand times, YES . . . please.

Today, my precious, stubborn, tenacious, beat-the-odds, stare-it-down, never-say-die, don’t-mess, you-and-what-army Chase turns six with great joy.

And I’d love to reflect at greater length, but the present is waiting right next to me and the present has his birthday crown on and he’s begging me to open gifts. He asked me to share that he’s “thankful for Bapa and chicken and that he likes his birthday and his presents.”

We are so thankful for another year of life . . . moment by moment.

Tag: thankfulness