Happy 6 years to me!

Yesterday it was 6 years.  I let the tears flow as I trekked up an ice filled path on a solo hike.  I was listening to When Breath Becomes Air,  which is the memoir of the life of a neurosurgeon who died of lung cancer.   Listening to the book wasn’t intentionally planned on the anniversary of my entrance into the world of brain cancer, but I was grateful for the opportunity to feel deeply as I was forced to face my own mortality again.  The tears flowed for so many reasons.  

They flowed because I was so darn grateful for a body that has been through so much and can climb to to the top of a 3,400 ft.  peak in the middle of winter, alone.  I am grateful because I have had the last 6 years to live and so many people are not afforded that luxury.  I am grateful because my children were surprised that I could climb so high and that I was strong enough to complete the hike.  I was grateful because the trail was pure hell.  It was a sheet of ice, frozen mountain run off.  I had to break all of the rules of hiking.  I had to walk off of the path most of the time.  I used trees for supports.  I should have had crampons but I didn’t.  I didn’t even pack any water.  Despite the cold, despite the terrible path, I just kept going.  There were many times that I considered turning around.  It wasn’t a loop trail and there wasn’t anyone else on the path so no one would know the difference, but I wanted to see the view from the top.  I wanted to prove to myself that I was still alive. And so I kept going. 

It still feels surreal when I think back to those days, weeks, months, even years.  I have very few memories of the day my brain exploded.  I only remember  being in the ICU behind a glass wall at PENN wondering why I was there, thinking that those rooms were for sick people.  I remember the endless shots of heparin in my abdomen and I remember being completely surrounded by people that loved me every single second of the journey.  

I lived in a strange cloud of confusion for a very long time.  My brother shares that an area conference minister came to visit me.  I had never met him before, but when he showed up I sat up straight in my hospital bed and entered into ministry mode, greeting him with all of the formalities of my office.  It makes me laugh to think about it, but it reminds me of how deeply our identities are embedded in our souls.  How deeply my desire to serve my Lord is etched in my unconsciousness. 

To be in a posture of receiving was a foreign state for me.  To have no forum, no study, no authority, no ability to manage or organize.  It was all an uphill climb for me.  I was in unfamiliar territory, humbled, grasping for Paul and holding him tightly as my only sure thing.  I still cling to him.  He is my rooted oak, my steady guide.  

Oddly, Jesus was not the rooted oak I clung to.  No, instead, God was an omnipresence of solidarity.  God was the knowledge of love, the solid rock, the surety that I was never alone.  

God’s promises all came true for me.  Everything I had said, everything I had sung, everything I had preached was true in those dark days when I had to take an electric scooter through Target because I simply could not stand.  God’s people showered me, I mean drenched me in love.  I was covered in posters and cards and casseroles and childcare and prayer.  There was so much prayer all across the entire globe.  God made sure I was covered every single second and I felt all.  It was the biggest warmest blanket of community and care and hope that I never knew existed.   

I have come to learn that self sufficiency is my love language.  If you want to show me you love me, show me you can take care of things.  It’s a terrible mantra, but it is how I have survived. 

And so I learned to shower again, to cook again, to put words in order in sentences.  I wanted to graduate quickly from PT and OT.  My striving and my incessant desire to succeed served me well in recovery.  If anything, I was disheartened that I wasn’t one of the cancer patients that ran a marathon during chemo.  Yup, that’s how my thought process works.  I wanted to win at chemo workouts.  It’s a lot, but it’s true.  

After 6 years of clean scans, my mind is quiet more frequently than in the beginning, but I still find myself (as in just yesterday), googling life expectancy for a stage three malignant brain tumor patients.  There are never answers and the googling just invokes anxiety, but it is part of the journey, wanting to know how much future you’ll get, as if any of us have any guarantee for tomorrow.  

I often think that I am no different than anyone else.  We are all going to die and there are things that kill a bit of each of us every day.  I simply have a hatch in my skull for repeat craniotomies which brings the subject of death to my mind more frequently than the average person, or at least I think it does.  

I would be lying if I didn’t second guess every odd pulse in my left arm and fear that it is a seizure.  I  would be a fool if I denied that my frequent short term memory loss incidents don’t terrify me.  (I lost my keys in March inside the house. I still haven’t found them).  

I am still learning.  I am still learning that this impacts my whole family.  My children were terrified when Covid arrived because they heard that those with cancer were high risk.  My son was afraid to see anyone because he thought he could be the reason I would pass away.  I had a cold in October and joked that I would die.  Both of my beloveds froze in panic and fear, as if the unspoken weight that they carried every day was just unveiled by my joking.  

I thought I was the only one carrying the burden.  

I was wrong.  

We carry our burdens together. 

If that isn't the gospel, I don't know what is. 

And so I have made a commitment to myself and to my God and to those around me that I will keep going.  I will keep taking every step I can take, no matter what the weather.  Some steps will be hard and I will slip and fall, but I won’t give up.  

I won’t give up because there is joy to be had, even in the painful days.  I’ve been accused of being a joy junkie.  I love joy.  I really truly want everyone to sing kumbaya every day and dance in a circle and share their favorite Bible verses (this is in my dream land where everyone has a favorite Bible verse).  I want everyone to join me in the party that I feel so privileged to throw every single day. I want everyone to dance in the kitchen to Silly Songs with Larry.   I want everyone to feel that even if they are behind the locked glass doors of the ICU of not knowing what’s going on in your body or your life or you heart that there is a life on the other side of the pain and confusion and that even if it is hard, even if it is often hard, it doesn’t mean it isn’t good.  

And so in a cathartic and emotional moment, I climbed a mountain on a trail covered in ice and cried about the death of someone else because it reminded me of my own strength and my own journey and that there is a view waiting that is worth the effort.  

Happy 6 years to me.