I fumbled for a tissue and forced myself to look about the waiting room. A surgeon in green operating room coveralls strode in and began talking in muted tones to the string of family members that quickly knotted around him. One of them was obviously the mother: tall, finely chiseled, with silver hair. She swayed against one of the two young men on either side of her, then straightened and began walking unassisted toward an empty cluster of chairs near me. Her family followed.
I grabbed an outdated magazine and shrank back into my chair. I would not intrude on their sorrow; I did not want them to trespass on mine.
Hidden behind my magazine, I let the painful memories come back. First Byzie had tests; then came the diagnosis, and one of the ugliest words in Webster’s entered our lives.
Through the early stages, faith and assurance were strong. The major word in our household was when: when Dad would go fishing with Alan, when Dad would fix Kristen’s bike. I tried remembering the exact moment that when had become if. Summer... autumn and icy winter had disappeared. Now pink and white dogwood blossoms trembled on their branches. A neighbor had fixed Kristen’s bike; friends took Alan fishing. If was changing to never in my mind.
My magazine slipped to the floor and I buried my face in my hands, forgetting the family next to me. Father, I prayed silently, I don’t want to be like Job’s wife, but everything seems so hopeless. Please help me.
A clean linen handkerchief was pressed into my hand. “Here, honey, some cries take more than a tissue.”
Startled, then embarrassed, I couldn’t stop sobbing. The handkerchief was as wilted as I was when I finally looked up into a sea of black faces and concerned brown-velvet eyes. Six young adults—three women and three men—and their mother had positioned their chairs in a semicircle around me. One of the men handed me a steaming cup of coffee. Introductions were made. They were the Turner family.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I lost control for a moment. I’ll be all right.”
“I know you will.” Mrs. Turner smiled sympathetically. “Sounds like you’re to the point of having to get by on evidence now.”
I must have looked confused.
“She doesn’t know what you mean, Mama,” one of the daughters said, “Not many people know Papa’s way of believing.”
A ripple of laughter ran through their midst. As they explained, I was drawn into their family circle.
John, the Turners’ father, had been reared on a dusty cotton plantation in Mississippi. He wanted to leave and go to the city, but it all seemed hopeless until the night he attended a “shouting and singing brush-arbor revival meeting.” The sweating evangelist had heated the ancient definition of faith to a red-hot pitch—“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1)—and those words seared his heart and mind.
After John loped home that summer evening, he rummaged around and found an empty fruit jar. He placed it by his bed. This would be the “evidence” of his faith. Little by little he would place money in that jar. God would help him fill it as many times as it took to start his journey to a new opportunity. And so, dozens of odd jobs and acres of farm work later, the jar was filled enough times for him to move to the city, to find a job with the railroad, to meet and marry the woman who was talking to me now.
“He bought a picture frame with a cardboard backing and hung it on our apartment wall, over the crack in the plaster. He said the deed for our home would hang in it someday.” Mrs. Turner’s voice broke. A daughter picked up the story.
“And after each of us was born, he hung up two empty frames—one for our high school and one for our college diploma.” She chuckled. “We’re probably the only family in the world that decorated our walls with empty frames. We had 13 of them as ‘evidence of things not seen.’”
Now the oldest-looking son spoke up. “But Papa kept saying that during hard times, when your spirits might slip, that’s when you needed to look at some evidence that proved your faith hadn’t.”
Nine frames had been filled so far, the young man said, “and Annie and Kate are in college and Terrence is a senior in high school.”
Mrs. Turner’s voice was as soft as her expression. “I’m no Bible scholar but my husband is right. God doesn’t always send signs; sometimes you have to put them up yourself. He sees them and knows that you believe, even when you can’t see around the curve in the road. And He honors that. A lot of John’s signs are visible, but a lot more are in here.” She pointed to her heart.
A buzzer sounded. Visiting time had arrived. Mrs. Turner and I walked to the receptionist’s desk to collect our passes. I began walking away, then turned and looked at Mrs. Turner. I couldn’t speak.
She opened her arms and I clung to her strength—for just a moment. Then I hurried down the hall to Byzie’s room. Tubes dangled from his chest and other parts of his body. His eyes were closed. I sat down carefully at his bedside.
In the waiting silence, I thought of Noah standing in swirling dust, pounding away on a gopher-wood ark. And Abraham piling up giant altar stones in a strange new land. And John Turner filling an empty fruit jar and hanging empty frames.
Currents of excitement tingled through me. All of these men displayed visible evidence of an invisible faith force. This same force was inside the very core of my life, right where the “substance of things hoped for” was stored. A force that nothing—nothing—could destroy.
Byzie’s eyes opened. “Are you okay?” he asked. I could tell it hurt him to talk.
“Honey, I’m more okay than I’ve been in ages.”
Byzie smiled and shut his eyes again. The 15 minutes were up; I tiptoed away.
After leaving intensive care, I rushed to a pay phone and called long distance to our home. Karen answered. “Tell Alan and Kristen to paint a ‘Welcome Home’ sign,” I burst out. “And have Kathey buy some big balloons and crêpe paper streamers. I don’t know when, but your dad is coming home!”
“Oh, Mom,” Karen said, her voice choking. “I was almost afraid to get my hopes up.”
“I was too,” I admitted. “But I’ll never be afraid to hope again.” I promised to write a long letter that evening, explaining my change of heart.
I hung up the phone and went to the hospital gift shop where, by good luck, I found what I was looking for—a small ceramic figure of a girl graduate with “Class of 81” embossed at the base. On my next visit to Byzie that evening, I placed it on the window ledge.
On May 10th Byzie sat at my side in the auditorium. He wore a snowy carnation, a gift from Karen, in his lapel. As the strains of “Pomp and Circumstance” rang out, we watched our daughter enter, smiling more brightly than any of us.
I knew we had rough days ahead, but I also knew that my faith would always be more contagious than any disease that could strike our family. I would keep it in my heart and I would display it by my actions. Evidence for God—and everyone—to see.
Jeanette Doyle Parr
I Said a Prayer for You Today
I said a prayer for you today
And know God must have heard—
I felt the answer in my heart
Although He spoke no word!
I didn’t ask for wealth or fame
(I knew you wouldn’t mind)—
I asked Him to send treasures
Of a far more lasting kind!
I asked that He’d be near you
At the start of each new day
To grant you health and blessings
And friends to share your way!
I asked for happiness for you
In all things great and small—
But it was for His loving care
I prayed the most of all!
Source Unknown
Don’t Worry—Be Happy
Why is it when we talk to God we are said to be praying, and when God talks to us we’re said to be schizophrenic?
Lily Tomlin
In December 1991, I was diagnosed with rectal cance
r, which had grown from its earlier stages because of my initial reluctance to have it examined by a doctor. By mid-January 1992 I was operated on for a colon re-section.
During the spring and summer I concentrated on healing, but things inside just weren’t right and I knew it. I experienced pain and too many bowel movements each day. A medical procedure searched for the cause, and another procedure opened my rectum. The doctors decided a colostomy was in order. By this time I was pretty tired of being a hospital “bird,” and wanted to get it all over with and get on with my life. A third operation was scheduled.
By March 1993, I had my new colostomy and also some bad news. During my operation, the doctor saw cancerous looking tissue but couldn’t deal with it and do my colostomy too, so he took some biopsies and closed me up. The biopsies revealed the cancer had returned to the same place (the rectal area) and was spreading. I was depressed beyond belief. It was a rainy, dreary March morning and I watched the feeble light of dawn from my rain-streaked windows. I was depressed and in despair. Lying in the hospital, my doctor’s words rang in my ears. “It’s a can of worms down there, Paul—you’ll need another operation by a skilled team of surgeons who just do this kind of pelvic surgery. I can’t do it.”
I had always shunned religion and was forever trying to prove a Godless universe to anyone who took the positive view. I was an empiricist and was proud of my intellectual detachment. But lying there that morning full of hopelessness and sick of it all, I asked for God’s help.
In a moment, I drifted back into that twilight sleep and I was suddenly surprised to find myself standing on a downtown street complete with sidewalks and curbs. “This is no dream,” I thought. “I am really here on this typical American street corner looking around.” Just then three people appeared from across the street, walking my way. It was two men and a woman. As they got closer to me, the men sat down on the curb and began talking with each other. The woman came right up to me, smiling and giving out such a force of joy and love that I was completely taken by her presence. She put her arm around me and I felt heavenly bliss. An intense concern and love emanated from her body, completely enthralling me. She was beautiful. Her eyes were brown and her dark hair was cut short, reminding me of Prince Valiant. With her arm around me she looked into my eyes and said, “You’re going to be all right now, no more medical problems. Be happy, don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay. Please be happy and don’t worry.” Then, as we stood there, it was clear that my time was over and they were going to leave. The two men stood up and all three began walking away. I remember how earnestly I implored them to stay. The woman was the last to leave and she turned to me again and said, “Don’t worry, be happy. Everything’s going to be all right.”
Eight months and a series of chemo treatments later, a team of three surgeons at a medical center in Portland, Oregon opened me up (my fourth operation) and found not a trace of cancer—even though only months before both CAT scans and MRI’s had found the cancer reaching for my prostate, my bladder and the whole pelvic area. All three doctors were extremely surprised and delighted by what they didn’t find. I was absolutely clean—the biopsies that were taken then all came back negative.
Paul Santaro
Peanuts ©1996. United Feature Syndicate. Reprinted by permission.
All the Necessary Supplies
Very early on Sunday morning, March 29, 1992, I was up again with our nine-year-old son, Nicholas. I spent a couple hours trying to stop yet another bloody nose. We had been going through this routine now for about six weeks. Doctors had diagnosed the trouble as a sinus infection, which we had been treating since February. Just the Friday before, we had been to the doctor’s office again.
By 7:30 A.M. that Sunday, my husband and I decided to drive Nicholas to the hospital emergency room about 25 miles from our home. With some difficulty, the emergency room doctor cauterized the area to stop the bleeding. He was ready to send us home when I felt an urging to request a blood test. Nicholas had been losing quite a bit of blood and was so tired and listless I thought he might be anemic. After the blood was drawn, we were told we could go home, and the lab would notify us if anything showed up. We decided we would just wait for the results.
The waiting was much longer than we anticipated. Finally, the emergency room doctor came in and said he was calling in the pediatrician on call because something had shown up in the blood work. Immediately I knew it must be leukemia, but didn’t say anything to my husband. Soon the pediatrician came in and confirmed my fears. In a state of shock we drove home, packed some clothes, made a few phone calls to family and friends, and were on our way to Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City, Utah. Though it is about a four-and-a-half hour trip from our southern Idaho home, that trip seemed to last days.
Nicholas was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia and spent four days in intensive care and two more days on the floor. He received wonderful care and the doctors assured us that the odds were in his favor, even though they initially thought he had a poor prognosis. They outlined the three-year treatment consisting of brain radiation and chemotherapy.
At home again, I tried to get back into some kind of routine and semblance of normalcy. I turned the page of a meditation calendar a dear friend had given me for Christmas. It was open to March 29, the day Nicholas was diagnosed. The message for that day: “All the necessary supplies have already been planned and provided for this journey.” I found great comfort and reassurance. I felt God had provided this message.
It has been over three years now and Nicholas just finished treatment. There have been many ups and downs along the way and many wonderful acts of kindness. Always I come back to that message—”All the necessary supplies have already been planned and provided for this journey.” And they have been!
Dianne Clark
5
ON LOVE
There is no difficulty that enough love will not conquer; no disease that enough love will not heal; no door that enough love will not open; no gulf that enough love will not bridge; no wall that enough love will not throw down; no sin that enough love will not redeem....
It makes no difference how deeply seated may be the trouble; how hopeless the outlook; how muddled the tangle; how great the mistake. A sufficient realization of love will dissolve it all. If only you could love enough you would be the happiest and most powerful being in the world.
Emmet Fox
Eileen Brown’s Story
I can still remember the day I found out. I called my doctor. It was 4:15 on a Thursday afternoon. I had just finished my last bite of a Hostess cupcake when the receptionist answered the phone. “Doctor’s office, can I help you?”
“Yes, this is Eileen Brown. I’m calling for the results of my tests.”
“Hold on a minute. The doctor is with a patient.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, as I was put on hold, “I don’t have to talk to the doctor. You can give me my results.” I’m going to be late for class and I’ll never find a place to park, I thought. Idon’t see why the nurse can’t say everything’s negative. After all, I took the mammography last week. If anything was wrong, the doctor would have called me by now.
“Hi, Eileen.”
“Hi, Doc, so what’s the good word? I’m in a hurry to get to school, so tell me everything is fine, and I can get going.”
“Not so fast, Eileen. I’ve been trying to reach you for three days. There’s a growth on your right breast.” I felt the bottom of my stomach drop out. In shock, all I could think was, Oh, please God, don’t let me need an operation. I’m so terrified of being put to sleep. What if I slip into a coma?
“Eileen, did you hear me?” the doctor’s voice brought me back to earth.
“Yes, but it’s nothing, right? I don’t need an operation, right?” I said.
“Eileen, the lump has to come out.”
I heard myself begging. “Please, you’re not telling me cancer, are you?” Please,God,not my breast,Ican
’t lose my breast.
“I’m not pulling any punches with you, Eileen. From the looks of the X rays and the written report, there is a malignancy at 12 o’clock on your right breast. I’ve scheduled an appointment for Saturday morning with Dr. Johnson*, a breast surgeon at NYU.”
Numb, I hung up the phone, ran downstairs to the basement, sat on the cold cement floor and cried. I felt as if I was having an out-of-body experience. I must be watching someone else. This could not be happening to me, not now. My husband, Bob, and I were still newlyweds (only married for 16 months). I had three beautiful children from my first marriage, a family I loved very much, and a great new job teaching. I clutched my breast through my tear-stained blouse. I don’t want to leave my family, not now. I’m not ready to die, I thought.
In the days that followed, my family and close friends tried to convince themselves and me that the growth was nothing and the doctors were wrong. Thoughts of death raced through our minds, but we were all too afraid to verbalize them. The week was a total blur as we went about our lives and waited for the appointment with Dr. Johnson. When the day finally arrived, my family accompanied me to his office. Dr. Johnson confirmed the report and told us he would perform an aspiration, a procedure in which a needle is inserted into the breast and fluid and tissue are taken from the lump.
The 20 minutes it would take to get the results back seemed like an eternity. I paced the floor of the cafeteria where we went to spend the time.
“Eileen, sit down and have a cold drink. All we can do now is wait,” said my father.
“I don’t have to wait to be told I have cancer. We all know that now. What we’re waiting for is a tiny thread of hope. I can’t drink or put anything in my mouth. I just want to run away, but...I guess I can’t run from myself,“ I said.
After about 25 minutes of sheer agony, we went back to Dr. Johnson’s office. I wasn’t prepared for the reception I got there. “Where were you?” he asked, brusquely. “You know, some people would like to get out of here and go home.”
Chicken Soup for the Cancer Survivor's Soul Page 13
