D-Day

I didn't really know if I were going to wake up. This was one of those decisive days, where life or death depended on the training, skill, and dedication of others. Not to mention the will of God.

It felt like a test, although it wasn't really a test of faith. Honestly, it wasn't a test of courage either...I had no choice. No options were good. What exactly was tested in following through I don't know, but that's the feeling I had.

I'm told the odds of making it through the 10 hour surgery ran around 20%. I didn't know that at the time. Fortunately, I had some divine help...significantly raising those odds :). I had a fantastic hope that the surgeons would find nothing wrong, as they did for Dodie Osteen which I recently read about in her novella Healed of Cancer. I suppose that was partly true, as the surgery proved less difficult than they feared...only lasting 6 hours or so. The liver specialist told me they didn't have to remove every organ in the abdominal cavity and replace them...only some. But they were ready to.

Obviously I woke up. About a week later, I'm told. It's that time in-between that I'm fascinated with.

Julie tells me that I woke up many times during that week. Mostly, my behavior was rude and voilent. Evidently when they pulled the ventilator tube out, I thrashed around and tore apart everything I could get ahold of...until the nurses rushed back and sedated me again. Sometimes I would wake up groaning for water, only to snap at the nurses or my wife when they tried to help. Julie would often be reading some verses to me and I would wake and bark at her, making her stop. All very embarrassing and definately not acting like myself. Ah well.

What I DO recall is something wild and different. Yes, there were those feverish glimses of the ICU and a face or two along the way, but those were like dreams from long ago. I remembered something a little more intense, something I'd completely forgotten about since my childhood.

I was a sickly child, often in the hospital and once or twice under heavy sedation while they performed some procedure. Something about a chemical imbalance in my blood. But there's a place you become aware of, somewhere between chemical dreams and reality. You drift around barely able to think, but you CAN feel. You can feel the effects of the drug waning after some time, and become aware of your body. I came back to that place, and it was a place of intense pain. Discomfort so abrupt and disturbing that, if I could, I would've screamed and cried out for help. There's no getting away from it. That fog of sedation wouldn't let me wake up, would barely let me think, but it's effects no longer kept the pain, nausea, thirst, and general feeling of wrongness away.

I wollowed in that place for what seemed like an eternity. Mentally, I was screaming and crying out over and over again, but I doubt if my lips even moved. The fog would overtake me from time to time, taking me back to blissful unconsciousness, but I always returned. It's in this place that something interesting happened.

I couldn't think very well in this state, mind you. I know I wanted to cry out to Jesus, to ask him please help me!. But I just couldn't think of his name. In my feverish state, I reasoned that if I couldn't think of his name...I could try to spell it. It didn't occur to me that spelling was even harder, that's just what I came up with. In-between mental whimpers I would try and put together letters, over and over again, to try and spell Jesus' name. Of course I couldn't, as I couldn't remember his name anyway. But I kept trying. The fog would take me, and I'd return back at square one again trying to spell JESUS. I know...pathetic...but that's where I was.

And then I hit a major milestone. I knew, somehow, that I got one letter right. I was thrilled, and what followed was even more amazing. Immediately, I was calmed. A warmth began somewhere in my midsection and spread throughout me. My mind was eased, the pain would vanish, and I could drift back to sleep again. I could sense the effect of my medication, hovering between me and consciousness, and it had nothing to do with this phenomena. It was something entirely different.

I'd wake in that bad place again, and I'd fixate on that letter "J" I remembered...trying to come up with the next letter. Again, the warmth and blissful peace would return. Over and over I'd face the pain, only to have it taken away when I tried spelling Jesus' name. When I did the only thing I could possibly come up with to try and cry out to Him.

It makes me tear up just remembering it. Hope I'm expressing the urgency and desperation I faced.

I must have cried out to Jesus a hundred or more times during that week. Always subconsciously, pathetically even. But every time, the pain was taken away and I could cope. A fantastic memory.

Eventually they waned me off of the meds. I came through the fog and pain into awareness, was able to open my eyes, and begin answering questions they threw at me.

The nurses would smile and keep asking me silly questions. "Do you know where you are? Remember what year it is? Why you're here?" After awhile, I got irratated with the repeat questions and yes, got a little grumpy. On purpose this time. I'd make stuff up and croak it out, and I think they caught on. They quit asking me things.

Eventually they moved me into a regular hospital room. Sometime in that first day, I remembered to be thankful to God...not just for letting me live through the surgery (honestly, it didn't feel like a blessing at all to wake up after that), but for being there and taking away the pain when I cried out to him. When I was exactly helpless.

Well, I was still helpless. Tubes into my neck and both hands, with my belly stapled up all over. Not much I could do on my own, awake or not. At least I could talk and groan alot.

And I could listen. I think it was my second day awake...my wife left to go back home, take care of the kids, but promised to come back in a couple of days. I didn't know it, but after the verbal abuse I'd given her while unconscious...she needed a break from me and from her day and night vigil over the past week. My mom also stayed with her during that time...and I hear Darrell came and prayed the whole time during surgery. What amazing people.

But for awhile, there was nobody I knew with me. The nurses would often come in doing various things. They'd talk to me to as if talking to themselves. Maybe they didn't think I could hear or understand them. I remember a time two nurses came in, and they were discussing me right there in the room. One was telling the other what they'd done...completely removing my IVC and sewing up the veins running to my legs. Removal of a kidney and some other things. She told the other nurse that I would have a rude awakening when I got better. I wouldn't be able to work, run, or do just about anything a normal man expects to do. Even walking would always be painful and hard to do. Etc, etc. Then they left.

For some reason that got to me. The more I thought about it, the more my hope for the future and my composure slipped away. On cue, I had a visit from some really cool people. First, Jim and Sharon Furb came in, sharing their recent cruise experience and trying their best to keep up a conversation with me. Then Peggy and Steve came in...Paula and her kids...all about the same time. While there was a reunion of sorts amongst them outside the room, I completely broke down and lost my composure. Began crying like a little baby.

Jim and Sharon were fabulous. They immediately began praying for me. What they did, in effect, was remind me who I am and what I believed in. How could I forget what Jesus had just recently done for me? My God beats all the odds, he's greater than the gossip of some nurses.
Their prayers snapped me back to who I was, after awhile. What caring, precious people. Later, I realized that they were there with me exactly when I needed them...probably for that reason. God is truly amazing when I think about Him.

Unfortunately, the whole crowd probably witnessed me losing it. Ah well, they all left soon enough...damage done. Evidently Peggy called home and told Julie and my mom I wasn't doing very well, which may have been helpful. Next thing I knew, my mother was back and she camped out in my room the remainder of my stay. Julie had the kids to worry about, so she wasn't there much that week.

I really, really tried NOT to irritate my mother during that time. I realized that my composure wasn't very gracious, and I would grump about things often. But I tried not to. She was so dedicated, a real trooper.

It was pretty cool that my friend Eric would stop by almost every day. He worked nearby, and usually made the time to stay awhile during his lunch, I suppose. I tried to maintain my composure and engage in normal conversations with him, as I was extremely grateful he took the time to visit. Maybe I did...I sure hope so.

I talked with Darrell a few times and my wife often on the phone. Eventually I recovered well enough to begin sitting up, performing the usual functions, and even begin walking again.

Even today, my gut hurts when I walk. But it's alot more bearable than those first couple of weeks. Ick.

Eventually, thanks to dozens of people, I finally made it home. Julie diligently changes my disgusting dressings twice daily, and I gimp about trying to do things around the house. It's been slowly getting better. I can drive now, and do most things so long as I don't lift or push heavy weights.

I can certainly be thankful. And I can pray. Praise God who shows grace and mercy, even to me!

And thanks for taking the time to read this novella. I've done my best.

Mauna Loa

One doesn't normally hear from God. Not saying that I've been doing so, but two days before going to surgery I had something odd happen. A dream:

I’m traveling down a path, somewhat of a gravel road. This path winds around one of the Hawaiian Islands, the center of which looms a huge volcano. In my dream, I labeled it as Mauna Loa.

Coming around one bend, the path divided into two. One continued to wind around the edge of the island, while the other took off at a steep angle on my right toward the volcano. Perhaps a shortcut through the center of the island. I didn’t have a destination in mind, really. I was just traveling down the path.

Also, in this section of the path, it wasn’t gravel anymore. It was more of a checkerboard of tiles, black and white, maybe 12” square. Still surrounded by lush greenery and bordered by the beautiful ocean, however, the path was in disrepair and many of the tiles were broken or overgrown.

Suddenly the volcano erupted. Plumes of steam and smoke filled the air overhead while the ground shook. Rocks began to fall, and by the time the dust settled all paths were covered in tons of rock and debris. Either fork before me was completely impassable, and I didn’t know what to do. Here I was, stuck, cut off from everyone else, and glancing back I noticed even the path behind me was piled over with rock.

Somehow I realized a rescue effort was underway. My friends, family, and other people were banding together to clear a path for me. They were making their way from the path behind me, and would be here soon.

I began to wonder what I would do. I couldn’t go forward anymore, only back from where I came. Somehow it seemed significant that I would be making no further progress, and going back wouldn’t benefit anyone. And within my dream a vision occurred to me: perhaps I couldn’t make any progress anymore, but everywhere I went I could carry my Bible. As well, in this mini-vision I was constantly praying for everything and every one around me, carrying this Bible around.

I woke as the rescuers were clearing the last hurdle behind me, shouting for me to come. Glancing back up the path, I could see the broken, frayed tiles (up to the piles of rock over my two forks) were suddenly in full repair, gleaming and shining as if brand new.

Perhaps not a message from God, but perhaps it was. The timing was perfect, and the message seemed very appropriate in my specific situation. I'm not a dream interpreter, but this dream was very encouraging. Those around me were instrumental in sparing me from an unexpected and devestating fate...and not just physically. In essence, the hope of surviving arose by the earnest prayers of many, many people. Overwhelming!

The next day, about a hundred people prayed with Pastor Steve after our church service-right onstage. I could almost smell the island. Standing there grasping hands with Mike Gross (whose son was also diagnosed with cancer), we all prayed with a passion I haven't been exposed to in...quite awhile. Rick Murray touched a chord-a grown man rarely cries like that. Lots of tears that afternoon.

I sometimes wonder how God sees us when we pray like that. There's a passion unlike anything else I can imagine. Like right out of a movie, larger than life.

Regrettably, it had to end. Julie and I went home to pack, and I spent an hour writing notes to my family. Looking around, savoring my home and the precious memories, it finally came time for us to leave. We had to be at UWMC before 7am Monday, so we were driving up the night before and staying with Julie's aunt Peggy and uncle Steve, who live nearby.

The trip was uneventful, but I enjoyed the time with my wife and mother. Peggy and Steve gave us their own bedroom and had a nice BBQ steak dinner for us shortly after we arrived. They're such a cool couple, and we were blessed.

Up and showered by 6am, the morning went without a hitch. After checking in, they wasted no time in getting me to a prep room. My wife and I shared some tears before the anesthesia hit, and the world went black.

The Saints Strike Back

Cancer turns your world upside down. Once a doctor uses the "c" word and your name in the same sentence, you are suddenly and unexpectedly transported into a world that is unfamiliar and overwhelming. Unless you're a medical professional, you have to quickly learn a whole new language. You have to figure out how to navigate the maze of medical appointments and tests you can' t pronounce. You have to watch your family and friends react to the news with sadness and concern that you are powerless to prevent or minimize. You face your mortality and deepest fears; the painful realization that you're not in control of your own life. You're vulnerable, weak, and frightened. -"Everyday Strength" foreward by Dave Dravecky

They sent me home for three weeks with a pending death sentence. That's the way it impacted me. Hmm, what does one do with the time?

I remember clearly the day I left the UW. It was a scorcher outside, upper '90's at least. What would've been a pleasant trip home turned into something else. First, my parting meds were held up for 3+ hours by the UW pharmacy (bureaucracy, remember?) and so we departed at exactly rush hour on a Friday. Plus, my wife, mother, kids, and Lori were all packed into the Jeep with me. Three hours later the trip was no longer fun.

Not that I minded the company. They all basically camped in Seattle, visiting me most of the day while at the UW Medical center. Lori was in from Oklahoma for the duration, being Julie's childhood best friend. Dave and Shonna also came by, which was also pretty far away by anyone's standards. Between my visitors, phone calls, and doctor encounters...the UW was an action packed adventure for me.

After getting home, I had to wear these wierd stockings on my legs for circulation. I also had to get two shots per day of a blood-thinner called 'Lovenox'. Julie had to learn how to do it, and we both hated it. I hate shots in general, and shots in the stomach are worse than most places. Plus, it felt like getting both punched and burned each time. Not fun.

I found out later that this "weren't nothin".

The shock took a couple of days to wear off, thankfully back in my comfortable environment. Then one night it hit me. I could no longer provide for my family. They were all going to suffer, not just because I couldn't provide for them, but also to try and take care of me. Assuming I survived the surgery, it would take months of time, care, and expense to nurse me back to usefulness. All with virtually no income.

On cue, the fear of not making it through the surgery returned. The fear wasn't for me, no...it was for my family. Losing the house would come quickly, followed shortly by losing our only vehicle and then a forced bankruptcy for Julie. Our savings had long been depleted by our last baby two years ago, and we'd yet to recover. Visions of my homeless family, a grieving wife who couldn't cope, and an uncaring community who'd turn their backs...

This struck me like a ton of bricks. I was the PROVIDER for our family, a serious responsibility I'd assumed since our marriage vows. One of the few necessities I accomplished, actually. To see my family fall apart, to imagine it, to play it over and over in my head...was torment to me.

I usually saved the bitter tears until the darkest of night. Nobody could see or hear. After awhile, the torment ebbed and I could see it for what it was. Anything that torments a person is unhealthy, either by itself as a stronghold in our lives or with help by the Enemy. I'm not the "provider" for my family...I'm a steward and steward only. People will care and will help. God will not abandon us. I KNEW these things, studied them intently in the Bible and committed dozens of verses to memory explaining how God sees a man in this.

So I had to pick my brain apart and analyze my fears. One by one, I had to address them and bounce them off reality. Boil down the 'what ifs' and throw out the meaningless. A week of 2am discussions with the Almighty certainly had merit, and I could face the future with the calm assurance I needed. I'd chosen the hard path...I wanted not only to survive the surgery, I was willing to face the painful, humiliating, and messy recovery. I told God that I wanted to be with my family, good or bad. I didn't want to take the easy way out. With a clear goal, I could pray with the earnestness I needed.

Which was good, because pray I did. Every day I had visitors willing to pray for me and our family. We were placed on two, four, eight, a dozen prayer chains spanning many parts of the U.S. I got to meet new pastors from other churches as they came to our home to pray. My friends from CLF were amazing: Not only did many of them stop by to talk, but a large part of our church decided to fast and pray over me. They packed our house and spent an intense hour praying en masse. Julie received hundreds of phone calls by people who wanted to express their compassion and offer some kind of help. Meals started showing up, groceries were being delivered, anonymous gifts began to appear, cards and prayers came in the mail.

It was beautiful. Extremely humbling, and a huge blessing. At work, my co-workers got together and started finding ways to help. Leave was being donated, gifts from various places came in. Totally unexpected, and it blew me away. It dawned on me that we may not become homeless after all.

More importantly, I was awed by the flood of compassion we were receiving. Totally amazing that so many people would rise up to help us, and in so many ways I wouldn't have even thought of. My high-school friends Eric and Chuck got together and hosted a party in my honor, a cool evening of gaming and storytelling that invokes a certain kind of fondness in me. I spent some time with my friend Sam, my brother Bruce, and got to know Darrell in a profound way. Even Pastor Rick spent an afternoon with me.

A special word over my life was also fulfilled. Once upon a time, Fran told me with a boldness that my parents would come to know Christ. Oh, I prayed and prayed for that over the years. On cue, after my mother asked if there was ANYthing she could do, I wanted her and Darcy (my step dad) to come to church with me. They did!! In fact, I've realized that Darcy has been more my dad than anyone else, and I'm happy to say we enjoy each-others company in church every weekend since. It's wonderful to see them come out, enjoy the acceptance and realization of Christ in their lives, and get to know others who've done the same.

In fact, I'm awed more and more by the realization of what happened. I was being loved on by dozens, hundreds of people. Exactly fulfilling Christ's second commandment! My bitter tears at night were replaced by tears of joy, a joy that my God was being honored not just with words, but with the very sweat and actions of people around me. Always with a compassion for us, even if people couldn't understand what it's like to face an uncertain future with cancer.

Deep down, I began to realize that it may be God's plan that I live. I could almost feel Him working all around me. I was definately 'prayed up', humbled, and doing my best to sanctify.

Instead of grimly facing the likelihood of death, I was lifted up so high by those around me that panic couldn't grab hold. I didn't have that eerie calm that people talk about, or some kind of supernatural certainty that things would be alright. Wish I did. It's just that there were SO many prayers, SO many people making sure I knew they were for me, that I couldn't focus on those bad things. My mind wasn't in it. Every thought danced around the people in my life who were showing compassion; the cool things that were happening, the way God was working in and around my situation. I couldn't come down from it.

And all too quickly, my three week reprieve came to a close. Time to head back to Seattle and that dreaded hospital.