HANG ON SLOOPY?

THE MONDAY FOLLOWING the MRI, I received a call from the nurse at the cancer research center. The radiologist’s report, the nurse said, confirmed what the earlier CT scan had shown: one small, Jelly-Belly sized tumor that could easily be removed.

ON WEDNESDAY MORNING I met with the surgeon. His money was still on melanoma, he confided. In his experience, the tumor was behaving too little like ductal carcinoma. Tom and I would know by Friday. He would tell Tom before I was even out of recovery.

HE LED ME TO A WOMAN who matches the surgeon’s schedule with available operating rooms. How did the following morning sound, she asked with a smile that seemed far too pleasant. I mean, this is SURGERY! Someone is going to put me to sleep. Someone else is going to cut me with a knife. Does anyone know anyone well enough to feel good about that? I mean really.

WE SETTLED ON FRIDAY morning, and I, with knees that had developed the trick of knocking together, headed to the opposite end of the Baylor complex so that I could register for “elective” surgery . . . as if removal of a cancerous tumor could be considered a choice. (The nurse in admissions explained that if the patient hasn’t come in on a gurney and can nod in assent, surgery is elective! Another name needs to be found. Like courageous surgery.)

FRIDAY CAME FAR TOO QUICKLY, but it brought good news. (It doesn’t take a lot to make me happy these days.) The surgeon had been right. The pathologist who read the needle biopsy had been wrong, and the radiologist who read the mammogram and the sonogram had been mistaken too. It was melanoma.

THERE MUST BE A LESSON in all this. Mistakes happen? “Today’s trouble is enough for today (Matt 6:34b)?” “Hang on Sloopy” (from the song written by Rick Derringer)?

I DON’T KNOW, but I do know what I prayed when my brain cleared itself of enough anesthesia to let me understand that I’d managed to remain on the clinical trial AND I wasn’t facing more than one type of cancer—my very favorite prayer—“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” (Feel free to chime right in.)

You’re blessed. Be a blessing.

LEMONADE, ANYONE?

“WHY DO SO MANY BAD THINGS HAPPEN?” It’s a question I hear asked all the time. I doubt anyone who asks it expects an answer, but the answer is simple—very, very simple.

WE LIVE IN A FALLEN WORLD. God created this really great place. For six days He put things together in such a pleasing manner that He paused several times just to exclaim that it was good. And, after it was just the way He wanted it, things began to go downhill. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, like an avalanche on one of those National Geographic films where the snow slides a little tiny bit, and, before long, a perfectly nice village is buried while it sleeps.

THAT MEANS, BASICALLY, WE’RE STUCK in a world that isn’t going according to the original plan. So, what’s to be done? I don’t know what you do, but I make lemonade. Lots and lots of lemonade . . . because, frankly, I don’t know what else to do.

ABOUT A WEEK AGO I was told my most recent biopsy showed ductal carcinoma (one of breast cancers), which, I was repeatedly assured, had, in a woman my age (a comment which could have been left out), a ninety percent cure rate. A simple lumpectomy, lasting perhaps thirty minutes, and I’d be playing golf the next day . . . if I played golf.

THE SURGEON ORDERED A FOLLOW-UP MAMMOGRAM. The only appointment I could get was at 7:15 in the morning. That meant pre-breakfast, which I hope explains why I fainted while in the machine and then further distinguished myself by depositing what I hadn’t eaten in the technician’s trash can. Because, just to be clear, I wasn’t a bit nervous . . .

AFTER MY DRAMA-QUEEN MOMENTS, the radiologist grabbed her sonogram wand and began making that “hmmm” sound that I’ve heard so many times from cancer specialists. After twenty-five minutes, she let me know she didn’t like what she saw. She felt, if the breast were to be saved, I needed an MRI as soon as possible. Whoa! This was not going the way I’d envisioned. What about the lumpectomy? What about the round of golf? I got on the phone.

BY THREE THAT SAME AFTERNOON the MRI tech was taping Vitamin E tablets to me. I finished all the exams they needed in one day.

BUT THE NEXT DAY, which was a Friday, no one had time to read the scans. That meant it would be Monday before I could get any word. Two very, very long days loomed before me. If you’ve ever wondered why cancer patients seem possessed, this is why.

I BEGAN MAKING MY MENTAL In-a-Perfect-World-This-Would-Never-Happen list, but I reminded myself—before I became too crazy—that this is a FALLEN world. No point in making the list.

IT WAS TIME FOR lemonade—Advent style.

TOM AND I DRAGGED THE CHRISTMAS TREE out of the garage, I found the stash of red candles, and we set up the tiny crèche I love so much.

IT REMINDED ME WHY CHRISTIANS remain hopeful—radically hopeful—when life’s lemons abound. Our God is not just looking down on the little people. He knows what it’s like to live ON earth. Our God knows what it’s like to suffer.

AND WHILE I UNTANGLED the lights (the Hansons are still in the twentieth century), I remembered the ultimate, words of hope . . . Christ is risen. Christ is risen, indeed. And that is more than enough for me.

HAVE A MERRY Christmas.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

GOOD NEWS, BAD NEWS

TRYING TO MAINTAIN MY REPUTATION as a twenty-first century Pollyanna has just become increasing difficult. I seem to be caught in a good-news-bad-news story, and I’m hard pressed to find the humor.

AFTER SEVERAL MONTHS’ STRUGGLE I managed to talk my way into a gene-therapy clinical trial at the Mary Crowley Medical Research Center on the Dallas Baylor campus. This was a major victory and definitely on the good-news side of the ledger.

THE SMALL PRINT in the “Informed Consent” document put me in the hospital for three-and-a-half days of isolation as a Class 2 Biohazard. I was to remain until it could be proven to the FDA that direct contact with the injection site would not infect someone else with any gene-altered cold sores. Considering the location of the tumors that were treated, including all the doctors and nurses involved, I can count on one hand the number of people I know who would be allowed even a peek, much less a touch!

NEVERTHELESS, I SUBMITTED to hospital food and a face mask and caught up on the Reading-through-the-Bible plan I had committed to last January. So that was good news. I guess.

I’D MADE ANOTHER STEP toward avoiding permanent residence on Melanoma Lane . . . a cause for celebration. But, there was bad news as well.

IN THE PROCESS OF QUALIFYING for this clinical trial, a biopsy was run, and it came back positive for breast cancer.

ARGH. YET ANOTHER TYPE OF CANCER? I always thought that cancer was a one-to-a-customer disease. And I have two? How can anyone, even Pollyanna, put a positive spin on THIS?

WELL, OF COURSE, the tumor was found early. And, in a delightful change of pace, it IS something medical science knows how to treat. It’s very small—about the size of a Jelly Belly. And then there’s all those contributions I’ve made to the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation over the years. Those have got to count for something. And finally, once it’s removed, there will be one less tumor to deal with. So that’s good. I think . . .

I’VE HAD MY SCREAMING FIT. I’ll admit I shook my fist at God—enough is enough, already. It took about a half-hour before I came to my senses. God didn’t give me melanoma, and He hasn’t given me breast cancer either. These things just happen in a world that doesn’t conform to His original plans for it.

TRUTH IS, I don’t think God is overly concerned about what type of illness He cures. At the end of the day, this is the best of the good news: God is more powerful than any disease. All I need to do is remain patient and faithful—even if the healing I want isn’t manifested on my terms.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!