BOOK - CHAPTER 3
Christmas
was nearly here and we had missed most of the seasonal banquets and church
function. It was traditional for our
friends from church to have a potluck dinner, but this year we were hesitant
about joining in. Since we had just been
informed that Ari was not a donor match for Andrew
our hearts felt too heavy to celebrate and we did not want to spoil the dinner
for others. But our good friends, Ed and Annette, refused to
take no for an answer and so we went.
Being with
close friends fed our spirits and when we had a time of prayer after the meal,
I felt myself lifted up into that quiet hiding place near to the heart of
God. I realized with a start that I
needed to talk less about Andrew's
situation and be more intent on waiting quietly on the Lord. All my rehashing of medical treatments and
statistics simply stirred up fear and anxiety within me. Through the fervent prayers of our friends,
God was applying His mercy to me by gently pulling my thoughts back to Jesus, the precious Lamb, slain from the beginning of
the earth. His sacrifice was the solace
to my pain, His victory over death the foundation of my hope, and His name my
tower of refuge in times of trouble.
Christmas Eve, as usual, was spent with my
parents opening gifts and celebrating the Christmas story in some special
way. All my siblings lived within 5
minutes of each other and though we attended different churches, we would all
hurry to Mom and Dad's after the Christmas Eve service every year. The house would be dressed in all its
Christmas splendor both inside and out.
Outside, the windows were festooned with tiny wooden Christmas trees
twinkling with mini-lights. The tables
in the kitchen and dining room were laden with food, and in every corner of the
family room there lay large piles of packages.
With a total of 18 family members the gifts amounted to the size of a
small department store. Before any
presents were opened though, we spent time dwelling on the true meaning of
Christmas. In the past the children had
dressed up and acted out the Christmas pageant with Rusty, my brother's pony,
making a guest appearance. On one
occasion we had visited the farm where my sister and her husband lived, to read the story amidst
fragrant bales of hay and watchful calves.
This year, however, no one had the heart to plan a special surprise; we
were too disturbed by the thought that this might be Andrew's last Christmas
with us. I was content just to be with
family and to watch Andrew's happy
face as he played with his cousins.
Once the
gifts had been opened the adults sat down around Mom's dining room table for a
late-night snack while the children ate and played in the family room. Looking around the table I was grateful for
my supportive family. My sister Liz with her unflappable, calm personality had
confessed that she spent the first few days of Andrew's
relapse in continuous tears. She and her
husband Dale as well as Ed, my hardworking brother, and his gentle wife Linda
generously took our other two sons into their home time and time again when we
were in the hospital. Ed and Linda’s
second daughter, Brittany, was Andrew's favorite cousin and always seemed happy
to spend long hours sitting beside Andrew when he was too listless to
play.
Rob, my
extroverted and lovable youngest brother, gave evidence of his anxious inner
feelings with an increased show of affection.
Theresa, a friend of the family, who was present at all our family
gatherings, often commented that our family had brought healing to her
fragmented life. Now, I could understand
the depths of her gratitude. A warm,
loving, Christian family was a safe harbor in the wild and stormy sea of
life. Every small gesture of love
refreshed our tattered souls and prepared us to venture out again into the
storm.
That night
Dad led us in a time of prayer and my spirit was lifted once again as each
member of the family prayed for us.
Knowing that we were loved and cared for truly helped ease our burden.
Christmas
Day was a disjointed day with Harry and me taking turns staying at home with
Andrew while also trying to attend an extended family gathering. We all managed to get some Christmas dinner
as well as more hugs and love from our many supportive relatives.
On Boxing Day we met with Harry's
family in Richmond, and although our visit was interrupted by a brief chemo
appointment at Children's Hospital, we were again encouraged by the love and
support we received from the family.
After my mother-in-law’s superb turkey dinner our brother-in-law,
Michael, suggested that we have a time of prayer together as a family. It was another powerful moment of peace for
us in the midst of the busy Christmas season.
Our visits
to the Hospital continued on unabated over the Christmas holidays. So far they had gone very well. Andrew's new VAD in his chest was the
greatest invention since scented felt markers.
Or so we thought until the needle, which was still inserted since
surgery, had to be replaced. With
trepidation we prepared Andrew for his
appointment.
"It
won't hurt, Mommy?" he kept asking anxiously.
"Well,
its not supposed to," I hedged.
"I
wish I didn't have to have pokes. I
know its going to hurt." We were
losing ground. As we parked the car I
could tell Andrew was near tears. Harry
and Andrew and I held hands as we
entered the elevator. Terror was written
all over his face. Inwardly, I struggled
with a hopeless feeling of anger. How
can I help him deal with this? I'm just
as scared as he is. This isn't
fair!
As the
elevator door closed us in I said the only thing I could think of doing in face
of our fears, "Let's pray one more time." Lifting up our son to the Lord we asked for
His mercy once again.
At the
clinic we spotted a new nurse with a familiar face. It was our friend, Carol,
from the oncology ward. She had been
transferred from the ward, downstairs to the clinic. Distracted for a few minutes from our
upcoming ordeal I chatted with her happily.
Then it was time to take Andrew
into the treatment room. He sat on my
lap clutching my hands with his cold ones.
Harry leaned against the wall
watching carefully as the nurse removed the dressing. It pulled a little and Andrew
cried out sharply. His skinny little
chest was still grossly swollen on one side with a black bruise covering the
entire site where the VAD lay hidden.
The two inch cut was a black gash tightly held together with large
stitches. As the nurse grasped the
plastic wings of the VAD needle, Andrew
again cried out in pain. With a tough
tug the needle was out. Slowly the pain
subsided only to be aroused afresh as the new needle went in. Andrew
screamed. The nurse looked anxious. Why wasn't the needle going in? She pulled it out. More screams!
"Please
not again," Andrew cried.
"Don't poke me again!"
My stomach started its familiar ascent into my throat. I prayed fiercely. The nurse readied the needle for another
assault. It went in part way and then
again reached an impasse. Opening the
valve on the attached tubing she tried flushing the needle to see if the saline
solution would enter Andrew's
body. Nothing happened. She could not draw blood out or push in a
flush. The needle had not found the
opening to the VAD. Meanwhile my heart
shrieked its anguished echoes to Andrew's
cries of pain.
Harry tried to calm Andrew
while throwing questions at the nurse.
She became more withdrawn and as I watched her face I couldn't decide if
it was determination or fear that formed the lines on her brow. Without a word to us she readied the needle
and plunged it a third time into the
bruised flesh. Missed again!
Andrew's hysterical screams rose a pitch higher and my heart fell into a
dark pit of utter hopelessness. God was
not answering. He was not there. He had turned His back on us and all the screaming
and pleading in the world was not making one speck of difference. I was betrayed.
"Take
it out!" barked my husband. "Andrew needs a break." The grim-faced nurse acquiesced and after
pulling out the offensive needle she quietly left the room. There was no calming Andrew. Hysterically he screamed, "Please don't poke me again! Please, Mommy, please!" Tenderly Harry
picked him up and held him. I stroked
his hair knowing that his pain was not yet over. Arms wrapped around each other we prayed for
our son until the cries and pleas subsided to heart-wrenching sobs. Feeling utterly alone in our misery we asked
God to send us relief.
Within
minutes the door opened and in walked -- Carol! We all sighed with relief. Carol
was our favorite nurse, partly because she was one of the few nurses we had
known from the beginning of Andrew's
treatments, but mostly because she was a Christian.
"Look,
Andrew," I rejoiced. "It's Carol. Now
everything will be fine."
"Don't
assume too much," replied Carol. "That other nurse is the expert on VAD's
so if she couldn't do it, I'm not sure that I'll be any better."
"Just
do your best," said Harry
encouragingly.
"We've
prayed about it," I added, "And God will help you." Carol
nodded and proceeded to scrub up.
As she
steadied the needle I sent up one more quick prayer while Andrew
began to whimper in frightened anticipation.
This time the needle plunged in quickly and surely, piercing the swollen
skin and finding its mark in the buried VAD.
Once blood had been drawn and the I.V. pole was connected Andrew's tears subsided. Although the crisis was over, all of us felt
weary and battle worn. We stepped out of
the treatment room and immediately sensed an unusual hush in the rest of the
clinic. No one moved or spoke. The usually busy nurses were quietly gathered
together in the nurses' station, while the waiting families sat silently with
their sick children. Every eye was on us
as we slowly made our way back to our seats.
Seeing their looks of sympathy and concern I smiled weakly, realizing
that Andrew's terrified screams had unsettled everyone. Later
on, as we travelled home my mind replayed the trauma we had experienced that
afternoon. I kept reliving the horror of
that fateful needle plunging over and over again into Andrew's
swollen chest while he screamed, "Please stop! Please take it out! No! No!
Not again! Please, not again!" The pain in my heart grew to overwhelming
proportions until at last the dam broke and my tears started to flow. At first I cried for our helplessness. Then I cried out of anger--anger at the nurse
for being so incompetent, anger at ourselves for standing by helplessly, and
finally, anger at God for letting us down.
We had prayed before the poke, we had prayed during the poke and it had
still gone awry.
Seeing my
quiet distress, Harry tried to
reassure me of his faith in God's ability to heal Andrew
but I was unconvinced. If God would not
answer my prayer over a lesser issue such as a poke, how could I be sure that
He would answer bigger prayers such as the healing of Andrew's cancer.
For the
first time in my life I felt that my faith had been shaken to the core of my
being. The Rock of Ages no longer seemed
sure and firm, but unpredictable and even elusive. As I allowed my feelings of betrayal to grow,
it seemed as though another burden had been added to my already laden
heart--the burden of doubt. Yes, God was
real, but was He in control of everything? Was He truly interested in the small details
of our lives? Why did He sometimes
clearly intervene in answer to our prayers and other times remain distant and
uninvolved?
For three
days my anger consumed me and then God in His fatherly way, laid His hand upon
me. Lovingly He convicted me of my anger
against Him as I read Psalm 51:
"Have
mercy on me, O God,
according
to your unfailing love;
according
to your great compassion blot out my transgressions.
Against
you, you only, have I sinned
and done
what is evil in your sight,
so that you
are proved right when you speak
and
justified when you judge.
Surely I
was sinful at birth,
sinful from
the time my mother conceived me."
I realized
that my anger was unwarranted. God is
good; He had already proved it by giving
his own son for my salvation when I had done nothing to deserve it. He had also proven it many times in the past
by answering other prayers. Just because my son was experiencing pain did not
mean that God did not love us. I had to
trust Him, just as Andrew had to trust me when I took him to the hospital. Somehow God would make everything work
together for good.
As I
confessed my sin of anger and self-righteousness to God He led me tenderly
through the rest of the psalm:
"Create
in me a pure heart, O God,
and renew a
steadfast spirit with me.
Do not cast
me from your presence or take your
Holy
Spirit from me.
Restore to
me the joy of your salvation
and grant
me a willing spirit to sustain me."
My burdens lifted and as peace once again filled me I was
suddenly reminded of Christ's words on the cross,
"My
God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" What a solace that was!
Christ himself had felt just like
me--abandoned by God in his darkest hour.
I resolved that in the darkness I would hold on and have faith. Little did I know that the darkness would
last several months and that my resolve would be tested many times.
Two days
later I got strep throat. I also
received my first book on health food alternatives from a concerned
friend. Feeling ill myself, I was
impressed with the book's claim that a juice fast could cure almost any
cancer. More health food literature
found its way into our home and I was stunned to read that the big
pharmaceutical companies were purposely withholding a cure to cancer for greedy
gain. Obviously a cancer cure would
eliminate the need for chemotherapies and other medications in the treatment of
cancer.
At the time
I found these magazines and books to be credible because, after all, I had
often used vitamins to alleviate my chronic strep throat. I read the fascinating story of ESSIAC--a
herbal tea originating in Canada--which
had gone through many legal battles for ownership because of its power to heal
cancer. As I read on I became convinced
that we needed to seriously consider other options besides conventional
medicine. Andrew
was already booked for minor radiation to his testicles and I was feeling very
uneasy about that decision. Radiation is
a big 'no-no' to health food experts because of the damage it does to cells and
its propensity to produce tumors. We
were also facing the possibility of total body radiation for a bone marrow
transplant and I felt that all this radiation was flying in the face of current
information I was receiving.
A visit
with another couple who had used only alternative treatments to bring their
terminally-ill daughter into remission became another argument in my mind
against conventional medicine. They had
spent weeks thoroughly researching her illness, and then had chosen to fly
across the continent to another city where a reknown naturopath treated her
with unconventional methods. Her diet
was immediately eliminated of all dairy products, white flour, refined sugar,
salt, meat, and any processed foods. She
was put on high dosages of vitamins and natural food supplements. As a result she regained her ability to walk
and seemed to be going into remission.
On a brief trip back home for the Christmas holidays she suddenly, and
mysteriously, passed away. Perhaps not
so mysteriously, for an autopsy showed that all internal organs were filled
with leukemia cells. The parents were
convinced though that although their chosen method of treatment had not prolonged her
life, it had improved the quality of her life.
Feeling
very confused, I discussed my indecision with my parents and close
friends. Although Harry remained
ambivalent on the issue of health remedies, my parents became strong advocates
of alternative therapies and urged us to avoid transplant at all costs.
Armed with
my new knowledge I decided to make a call to a well-known naturopath and get
some real answers. To my surprise he
returned my call the same day and seemed pleasant enough at first as we
discussed various health products. However
when he discovered that our son had cancer he became more reserved about his
ability to help us. He closed the conversation by saying, "I can't promise
you that I can do anything for your son.
Everybody has to die sooner or later.”
This left me feeling strangely uncomfortable. That
night as I read the story of Hagar and her dying son, Ishmael, in the desert, I
noticed God's prominent role in their lives.
First, He heard the boy crying.
Then He sent comfort to Hagar in the
form of an angel. Next, God opened
her eyes to see His answer to her dilemma--a well of water. And lastly, scripture states that God was
with Ishmael as he grew up. The story touched the deep inner part of my
heart that was still crying out for my
son. I still wasn't sure which treatment
would cure Andrew, but for the moment my inner confusion was held at bay as I
claimed this story for my comfort.
Surely God could hear Andrew's
cries and questions, and surely He would open our eyes to the right path.
