I had every intention of maintaining a monthly blog pre-Race, but I’ve clearly already missed the mark. To mentally recount all that has happened since the last post is overwhelming, to say the least. I kind of feel dazed, as though I’ve been staring at an inanimate object for too long, deep in thought. Deep in thought about all of these things that don’t quite feel real. And although my emotional state has revealed itself in solitude, a subtle numbness has kept me in this even keel state.
Why am I not more emotional about this?
I don’t have an answer. It hasn’t hit me yet? Because I “feel peace about it”? Maybe I’m not as sympathetic or empathetic as I thought? I don’t know, and it’s frustrating.
Ladies and gents, a quick recap of the past few months:
A few days ago, I was trying to reorganize my contacts in our instant message portal at work. I still have a group from the previous team I worked for. I hadn’t opened it in a while, so I clicked on it out of curiosity. I quickly started to scan the contacts, but just as quickly, my eyes stopped on a name. Tammy Schoenert. I literally whispered her name out loud in my cube, tears welling up in my eyes. She still has an out of office message, letting everyone know that she was on medical leave and wouldn’t be responding to any emails. My heart breaks as I write this, because it is still mind blowing to me know that I’ll never see her again on this side of life. The last time I saw her she was doing so well, cancer free, bright and vibrant. I was shocked. It all happened so fast from my vantage point. I remember sending a text to a couple of my old teammates sharing my blog link with them. I had just announced that I’d be going on the World Race. I received a delayed text that Tammy really wasn’t doing well. It had gotten worse. Within the next week I heard the news that she had passed away.
A whirlwind. A blunt reminder of the classic saying, “no one is guaranteed tomorrow”. A reminder to be bold. A reminder to not ignore what the Spirit is asking us to do, because we might not be here to “do it tomorrow”.
A couple months ago, my roommate began experiencing a sharp unexplainable pain in her lung, which was only caused by certain movements or breaths. And let me tell you, Karalea is not one to be dramatic. If she’s mentioning it, it’s because it hurts. The doctor told her it was something inflamed (I can’t remember the medical jargon they used), but they essentially just gave her meds and she was on her way. Fast forward a few weeks, maybe even a month and half or so (I’ve never been good with timelines), she started having the same intense pain. She thought it was the same thing, but her mom encouraged her to get it checked out. An E.R. visit later, she finds out there is a mass in her lung. A biopsy later, she finds out it’s not benign. A surgeon visit later, she finds out she’ll need to have at least one lobe removed, maybe two. An oncologist visit later, she learns more details about next steps post-surgery and recovery. A surgery later, she has one less lobe and part of her bronchial tube removed. And as I type, she is still in the hospital recovering. (Note: She is out of the hospital now, doing well. The post-op tests showed no signs of cancer. Praise God!)
A whirlwind. Yet, despite the last few weeks of chaos, I am in awe of her attitude. It has been a refreshing reminder that God is in control, and that any situation can and should be used for the glory of God. Her and her family’s faith has been revealed even more than it already had. God is being glorified and I have already heard stories of the seeds planted and watered. I can see God working in the suffering, and although it has been painful, it has been just as beautiful.
About a month ago, while all the above was happening, my sweet mom also started having a sharp unexplainable pain in her upper abdomen. So much pain that she was waking up in the middle of the night vomiting. It all seems somewhat of a blur, but I remember thinking how strange it was. Hoping that it wasn’t a huge deal. She eventually had some tests done, which showed that her gallbladder wasn’t functioning at the level it should have been. The obvious next step was to have it removed, which is exactly what they did. All was well the day after surgery. She seemed fine and we were thankful that the pain was gone.
All it took was the passing of another day, and the pain was back. The exact same pain. Didn’t they just remove what was causing the pain? What is this?
They started to make a game plan for next steps, but the pain beat my mom to the punch. It got to a point that forced her to go to the E.R in a different hospital than she was in before, because the pain was so bad that she couldn’t make it far enough to the doctor she originally saw. They ran more tests, checked for scar tissue (which made no sense considering it was the same exact pain), and ended up draining all the liquid in her stomach, assuming that would do the trick. They released her after a night or so (again, bad with timelines) with no answers. I think our whole family probably had an inkling, though, that this wasn’t the end of it. We figured the second she was off meds and back at home, the pain would be back. And we were right, which was completely disheartening. My family and I felt helpless.
Her doctor scheduled another procedure to see how liquid would flow through her stomach. It showed that there might be a slight blockage in her intestine, but it didn’t provide any definitive answer. The doctor scheduled another procedure for the following week. Before that day came, the doctor called my mom up to see if she’d be willing to go into surgery the next day. He didn’t think the procedure would show anything significant, and would only delay the process of having surgery, which he knew he’d probably have to do anyway. She agreed, and before we knew it, she was basically having exploratory surgery. The doctor removed about 6 or 7 inches of her small intestine due to a blockage he’d found. Again, we were so relieved, hopeful that this was the solution. And it was, for the pain at least. As my parents were leaving the hospital a couple days later, the doctor gave them news that no person ever wants to hear.
Cancer. The blockage was cancer.
My dad was so calm when he told me. He’s the best man for this type of job. He has a way of making something so dramatic, not feel so dramatic. I remember blurting SHUT UP the second he said the word cancer. It didn’t feel real. No. Not MY mom. That’s always some other family’s story, not OUR story. A wave of emotion took over me as he spoke. I muted the phone so he couldn’t hear my heavy breathing and deep sobs.
But, it’s a family of cancer that is one of the least aggressive. And they may have already removed it all. And we don’t have all the details yet, but this is probably the best-case scenario considering you’ve just been diagnosed with cancer.
Okay, so maybe it’s not that bad? A little bit a relief, but frankly, more so questioning God. If this is such an insignificant type of cancer, and it’s already gone before we even knew it was there, then why? Why the blip? What purpose did it serve? Please don’t misunderstand me here. I realize the above makes it seem like I wanted it to be worse. Definitively not the case. It just didn’t make sense. Just, why?
The following week my mom went in for a post-op appointment that would hopefully give more clarity on the cancer and next steps. I got a call from my sister, Korynne, right after they were finished, basically telling me that everything we initially thought, wasn’t the case anymore. The test showed that they were able to remove all of it. Again, praise God! However, there was a “but” in this case. The type of cancer is very aggressive, and if it comes back and spreads to certain organs, it’s incurable.
Clear Cell Sarcoma. Have you heard of it? Probably not, because there are literally only forty other people in the entire world that have been diagnosed with it. And of those forty, only eight had the cancer originate in their intestine. EIGHT. My mom is literally 1 in a billion, and that’s not a fun fact when you’re talking about cancer.
A whirlwind. A blunt reminder of the classic saying, “no one is guaranteed tomorrow”. A reminder to be bold. A reminder to not ignore what the Spirit is asking us to do, because we might not be here to “do it tomorrow”.
My heart aches for my mom. I want to take this from her. I would rather it be me. And no, I’m not just saying that. I wish it were that easy to volunteer my body to house this 6-letter word that no one ever wants to have. I have no idea what my mom is really thinking. I ask her frequently, but she’s always “good”. I have a hard time believing that, and I’m sure she is just trying to think about us more than herself. What a typical mom would do, right? I think I’d try and do that too. But I also want her to know that it’s okay to not be okay, and to tell us that transparently. I know she’s going to read this, and I have no idea what she’s going to think while she is.
Mom, I just want you to know that you are loved. You are loved by your family. You are loved by your friends. You are loved by your coworkers. But even if none of that were true, I want you to know more than anything else, that you are loved by God. And although I’m sure you (and everyone else, for that matter) are asking God why He’s doing this, please remember that He loves you so dearly, and He wants you to know Him intimately. Maybe that’s the why. So that we would all turn to God and rely on Him, because we can’t rely on ourselves. This situation for me has been nothing but a bold reminder of that.
Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.
2 Corinthians 1:3-4 NIV
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