It's late and I can't sleep...so I write. This is not a new phenomenon. As a matter of fact, it's painfully old. But tonight is one of those nights when I'm dealing with a body that is aching and tired, and a mind that just won't quit. It's not just any ordinary summer night though, it's the "Night Before Oncology". Part of the story of "us". Part of the "new normal", whatever that is. I don't think I'll ever get used to it. When I think back over the past few years, or read our Caringbridge Journal or this blog, several things jump out at me. Where we were. How far we've come. How things have changed. How some things will never change.
I've had the opportunity to speak on a couple of different occasions in the past year and to tell our story. I'm still surprised when I look out into the audience and see tears...and when people come up to me at a break or after the program and tell me how inspiring the story is, and that they could not do what I've done. (Yes you could, because you don't have a choice. There. I've always wanted to say that!) I have been so blessed by the words of the women I've spoken to. Then there's the other end of the spectrum...and no one has ever voiced this, but I sense it sometimes. I guess it's understandable that some would feel that we've weathered the storm and all is well. After all, Russell has been in remission, Caleigh had successful VNS surgery, and Conner manages his pain well the majority of the time. So it's over. Right? No. It's never over.
Please don't get me wrong. I don't sit around waiting for bad news or expect the worst. And when you get right down to it, any one of us is just one scan, one blood test, one phone call away from __________. (Enter your own life-changing event here) For us it was a triple dose of health issues. For others, well, you name it. All you have to do is watch the news. Or read blogs. I recently read a blog which included a list of prayer requests. There are A LOT of hurting people out there. A lot. I told myself early in Russell's fight with cancer that if I made it through that time, I would NOT fail to reach out to others in a similar situation. I think I have in some ways, though I still need to do more. I don't know what holds me back, but I suspect that it might be my lack of "answers". That could be interpreted a lot of different ways and I don't even know exactly where I'm going with this. But I know this--as I sit here tonight, the only thing I know for sure is that I have more questions than answers.
Some things I do know about going through serious illness/pain/etc.: Is it difficult? Yes. Has it destroyed us? No. Did it change us? More than you can imagine. Sometimes I don't even know who I am. Have I learned some things? Undoubtedly. And I hope that I can be a blessing to others along the way because I HAVE learned some things. Oh, have I learned some things. Will I ever, the night before an oncology visit, go to bed and fall peacefully and quickly to sleep? Probably not. Does this make me a bad person? I don't think so. Is there a finite moment where you can say, "This trial is over and God's work on me is done."? I'm doubting that one as well. I think as long as there is breath in us, we're subject to the Refiner's fire.There are some questions that I can't even articulate. I think sometimes about the woman whose husband had the exact same lymphoma diagnosis. Someone directed me to her blog as a resource and I was crushed to read that her husband passed away within days of his diagnosis, leaving her with a young child and an unborn baby. That definitely leaves a question...even if I can't put it into words.
And there are so many more questions--some that I refuse to linger on, some that are there all the time. But maybe a better place to end is with this, just this. I am not in control--and the one who IS in control, does not need my help. So maybe I should just try to rest.
