July 23, 2010

I'll never forget sitting by myself in a clinic with the word "cancer" in it's title.  Sitting in front of a man whose specialty was hematology and oncology.  Thinking about how sad it is that so many people have a horrible cancer disease and how blessed I was.  Sad for the faces behind masks.  Sad for the scarved heads.  Maybe the clinic name, the abnormal blood work I already had, the bruises all over my body and the swollen ankles could have clued me in, but, instead, I sat there thankful that whatever was wrong with me, wasn't cancer.  I thought I was going to learn I had an autoimmune disease.  I thought I may be told the lab results were wrong because of a machine error.  

So, when the hematologist/oncologist sat there looking at my blood in a microscope, I joked with him laughing, "I start grad school in three weeks...don't interrupt my plans, please."  His response was not laughter.  It was not a smile.  He didn't even look up from the microscope to make eye contact with me.  He simply said, "you have a long road ahead of you, but you are going to be ok."  That's when it hit me.  I replied, "are you saying I have cancer?" He then looked me in my eyes.  I felt like I was shrinking.  His desk felt so high to me and the room started spinning.  He was talking, and I was telling myself to breathe.  I saw him write down the full name of my diagnosis on a piece of paper: Chronic Myeloid Leukemia.  He was giddy when describing my treatment options.  But, I heard nothing, except for "there is no cure."  He asked me over and over if I had any questions.  I didn't.  But, I  felt like I was supposed to ask a question.  So, I asked a question about something I really couldn't have cared less about at the time.  I asked if I was going to lose my hair and then was angry that I even asked that question, because I couldn't have cared less.  He was even more giddy to tell me I wouldn't lose my hair.  I didn't care.

I left that clinic with chemotherapy drugs, a lunch bag with the clinic's logo on it, and boatloads of fear. 

I sometimes want to keep cancer out of my story because I don't think people know how to respond to that part of my life.  It's not exactly ordinary to raise two children with special needs or to raise two children who were not born from your womb.  If people know cancer is also in the mix, I pridefully worry about what others will think of me.  Will they look at me with pity?  Will they think my life is limited?  Will they limit my God?  So, I've become quiet.  I've all but stopped blogging.  I've pulled back in putting myself out there.  I've tried to keep my platform to one:  the Father's heart for the orphan and the fatherless. 

Lately, though, I have felt convicted that God wants to use my story to encourage others.  To glorify Himself.  Since July 23, 2010, He has continued to make me a new person.  He has continued to reveal some spots in my heart which I have not fully surrendered to Him.  He has taught me that He will keep His promise to never leave me or forsake me.  He has given me the gift of being made more aware of my mortality.  Cancer or not, others need to hear those things.  They need to see God's faithfulness.  If I am quiet about what God is doing in my life, how can He use my story?  His story?

I never want to be ashamed of the journey God has me on.  I left that clinic with fear and doubt and anger.  I sit here today, unashamed of the God I serve, knowing without a doubt that He has a purpose in my story.  My whole story.  Even the cancer part of my story.