I just figured out today that I was born in a leap year. It wasn’t much worth noting because I wasn’t born until June. It made a little more difference when my oldest child was born in a leap year. Her due date was six days after the 29th, but she decided to make her appearance five days before. Even there, it didn’t really affect anything.
The time it most closely affected my life was in the early days of this new century. On February 29, 2000, I was diagnosed with cancer. Even then I could see some comedy in it—I would have an anniversary to mark it only every four years. That’s the way it’s been, and that’s been fine with me.
How does one celebrate an anniversary like that? I suppose that depends on what has happened in the years between. In my case, I can only rejoice and praise God that I’ve had no more recurrence. I’m taking a number of medications (including for atrial fibrillation and Graves disease), but nothing related to cancer. I do some things right in my eating habits, and that’s good, but I could do a lot more. I’m making some fresh attempts this year.
If I were dealing with a return of the dread disease, I’m sure it would be different, but I’m not going to think about that. And that’s not head in the sand; it’s reality. When I was waiting for the final diagnosis (and on a few other occasions in my life), I said I was preparing myself for the worse. That wasn’t a lack of faith. I said, “If I get good news, I’ll know how to handle that without special preparation.”
I feel the same way about my current situation and blessing. Yes, I realize the analogy is the opposite, but I still believe the same. That’s because I have faith and confidence that if I should have to deal with it again, my Heavenly Father who saw me through it the first time would be right there with me again.
I did have a thought this new year that I’m quite sure I’ve never had before. Having passed the three-quarter century mark during the past year, it occurs to me to wonder …
When Leap Year rolls around again, will I still be here?
The next thought I had surprised me. You know, that really is possible and not that far a stretch in these days.
“My times are in Thy hands” is as true today as it was thousands of years ago when first spoken.
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Storms and an Anchor
Lots of thoughts are whirling in my head and my heart this week. It’s nice to be home after so much traveling, and I have caught up on a few things. But we can’t find a pair of Fred’s jeans from our June trip—hey! jeans are too big to lose in a little house like this, and I can’t find some very important papers related to my writing. Things like that are so distracting.
Much more distracting are things happening in the lives of some of our friends. The doctors detected several months ago that the baby my writing friend was expecting had a serious heart problem. Baby Annabelle was born two days ago, and the doctors were right. She’ll be having her first surgery this weekend. As far as we know, her mommy hasn’t had a chance to hold her yet. All we in the writing group can do is stand by, pray, feel helpless, and pray some more.
Last month one of our children’s school mates at the mission school in South America lost her battle to an aggressive cancer. This week another one has gotten word that her cancer prognosis is not as good as they at first thought. The word “aggressive” has been used again. We long ago lost track of how many of us who lived and worked together at our beloved Lomalinda have ended up with cancer. Several have lost their battles, and a few of us—for whatever reasons God has—can, for now, be termed “survivors.” Could it have been something in the locale itself? Is there any common denominator? I don’t think it would help to know.
I learned last weekend that a sweet friend at church was so upset back in May over her dear friends who lost so much in the flood that she couldn’t help anyone because she was crying so hard. A few are getting back into their homes after much hard work and financial expenditure, but a number of houses along the roads sit vacant and haunted, with windows gone and dregs of their lives still scattered across the yards.
An agent and his “reader” are taking a second look at the proposal and sample chapters for my novel. I’m very conflicted about all of it right now—but I did work my way through the whole of it this week and reduced the chapters from ninety-nine to sixty-two. Many of them were way too short before. But that’s of least importance in light of all these other things, as well as some things too close to the heart even to talk about. I’m glad that this week I was reminded of a song about anchors and storms, Ray Boltz’s “The Anchor Holds.”
The anchor holds though the ship is battered.
The anchor holds though the sails are torn.
I have fallen on my knees as I face the raging seas.
My anchor holds in spite of the storm.
Much more distracting are things happening in the lives of some of our friends. The doctors detected several months ago that the baby my writing friend was expecting had a serious heart problem. Baby Annabelle was born two days ago, and the doctors were right. She’ll be having her first surgery this weekend. As far as we know, her mommy hasn’t had a chance to hold her yet. All we in the writing group can do is stand by, pray, feel helpless, and pray some more.
Last month one of our children’s school mates at the mission school in South America lost her battle to an aggressive cancer. This week another one has gotten word that her cancer prognosis is not as good as they at first thought. The word “aggressive” has been used again. We long ago lost track of how many of us who lived and worked together at our beloved Lomalinda have ended up with cancer. Several have lost their battles, and a few of us—for whatever reasons God has—can, for now, be termed “survivors.” Could it have been something in the locale itself? Is there any common denominator? I don’t think it would help to know.
I learned last weekend that a sweet friend at church was so upset back in May over her dear friends who lost so much in the flood that she couldn’t help anyone because she was crying so hard. A few are getting back into their homes after much hard work and financial expenditure, but a number of houses along the roads sit vacant and haunted, with windows gone and dregs of their lives still scattered across the yards.
An agent and his “reader” are taking a second look at the proposal and sample chapters for my novel. I’m very conflicted about all of it right now—but I did work my way through the whole of it this week and reduced the chapters from ninety-nine to sixty-two. Many of them were way too short before. But that’s of least importance in light of all these other things, as well as some things too close to the heart even to talk about. I’m glad that this week I was reminded of a song about anchors and storms, Ray Boltz’s “The Anchor Holds.”
The anchor holds though the ship is battered.
The anchor holds though the sails are torn.
I have fallen on my knees as I face the raging seas.
My anchor holds in spite of the storm.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Cancer
We just got the news that another friend and coworker has gone into hospice care. I say another because just two days ago another friend we’ve been following closely slipped away to Jesus in her sleep.
These two events strike close to my heart because they both started their fight with cancer about the time I did ten years ago. Since then, they’ve had good times and bad, up times and down. They’ve both gone through extensive and sometimes severe treatments, and yet they’ve lost their battles with cancer. Another friend who started dealing with her cancer back when I did already died a couple of years ago, and her husband has remarried.
Lots of people when they are struck with diseases and prognoses like this are prone to ask Why? Why did it happen to me? My question these days is on the other side of that coin—why have they had to struggle so long, only to succumb in the end, yet I have had no further trouble since I underwent treatment? This month marks the tenth anniversary of my diagnosis. I had surgery and radiation but didn't have to go through chemo (something for which I become more grateful with each passing year).
I know God has His purposes and perfect plan for each of us. I can truthfully say I’m not questioning His will, but I do have to put down occasional twinges of guilt that I’m doing so well. I read an interesting truth recently. People talk a lot these days about being “cancer survivors,” but one lady pointed out that you will never know for sure if you are a cancer survivor until you die of something else.
The lady who made that statement in a secular magazine did not sound to me like a person of faith. I could be wrong, and—faith or no faith—what she said is true. But my perspective is a bit different. It doesn't matter whether I turn out to be a cancer survivor or not. I want every day God gives me life to count for Him—whether I have to fight cancer again or not.
My very personal perspective is that anyone who has had cancer shouldn't be squeamish about their age. Every added year is a gift. I don't mind folks knowing that I will be 74 this year. That will make me just two years younger than my mother was when she died. I still have lots of things I want to accomplish in my life, but God will have the last word on all that, and that’s just fine with me. My confidence that He never makes any mistakes is as strong as ever—even though Helen has to go on hospice care.
In our Sunday school class we just worked out a schedule to help supplement hospice care for one of our own members. Seems like I keep being reminded that cancer could come back. If it does, I know God will be just as much with me as He was the first time, no matter the outcome—and just as He will be with Helen in the days ahead.
These two events strike close to my heart because they both started their fight with cancer about the time I did ten years ago. Since then, they’ve had good times and bad, up times and down. They’ve both gone through extensive and sometimes severe treatments, and yet they’ve lost their battles with cancer. Another friend who started dealing with her cancer back when I did already died a couple of years ago, and her husband has remarried.
Lots of people when they are struck with diseases and prognoses like this are prone to ask Why? Why did it happen to me? My question these days is on the other side of that coin—why have they had to struggle so long, only to succumb in the end, yet I have had no further trouble since I underwent treatment? This month marks the tenth anniversary of my diagnosis. I had surgery and radiation but didn't have to go through chemo (something for which I become more grateful with each passing year).
I know God has His purposes and perfect plan for each of us. I can truthfully say I’m not questioning His will, but I do have to put down occasional twinges of guilt that I’m doing so well. I read an interesting truth recently. People talk a lot these days about being “cancer survivors,” but one lady pointed out that you will never know for sure if you are a cancer survivor until you die of something else.
The lady who made that statement in a secular magazine did not sound to me like a person of faith. I could be wrong, and—faith or no faith—what she said is true. But my perspective is a bit different. It doesn't matter whether I turn out to be a cancer survivor or not. I want every day God gives me life to count for Him—whether I have to fight cancer again or not.
My very personal perspective is that anyone who has had cancer shouldn't be squeamish about their age. Every added year is a gift. I don't mind folks knowing that I will be 74 this year. That will make me just two years younger than my mother was when she died. I still have lots of things I want to accomplish in my life, but God will have the last word on all that, and that’s just fine with me. My confidence that He never makes any mistakes is as strong as ever—even though Helen has to go on hospice care.
In our Sunday school class we just worked out a schedule to help supplement hospice care for one of our own members. Seems like I keep being reminded that cancer could come back. If it does, I know God will be just as much with me as He was the first time, no matter the outcome—and just as He will be with Helen in the days ahead.
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