Several months ago, one of my old high school teachers emailed me to ask if I�d consider sharing my story with her moms' church group. (And by old I mean �former.� That woman hasn�t aged a minute. She�s lovely.)Her group had been focusing on the topic of �fearlessness in the face of adversity,� and she thought I might have, I don�t know, some insight on the subject.Hate when people say "I'm not afraid of anything" cuz, like, have you seen things? They're terrifying.� MehGyver (@AndrewNadeau0) August 23, 2017
Which bwahahahaha omgggg nooooo. I am the opposite of fearless. I�m scared of at least 23 bajillion things. Also, I don�t do public-speaking. Not voluntarily. When I feel compelled to share something, I perch myself behind the comfortable security of a computer screen.
I could hear the fraud police sounding their sirens.
In a momentary lapse of judgement I wrote back, "Why yes, of course. I�d be happy to speak to your group." It took maybe four seconds after clicking �send� on my reply before the gravity of what I'd just done set in and I was like Dear. God. What. Have. I. DONE?!
But I was stuck - no backing out. (In hindsight, I could�ve very easily backed out. Cancer card, remember? It came under consideration.)
So fearlessness, huh. What in the world could I say about fearlessness?
When I sat down and tried to formulate some intelligent thoughts on the topic, I came up short. Like way short. In fact, this whole ordeal had a way of highlighting how terrifically un-brave I actually am.
One rule I have for myself when I write is to be honest. Unapologetically so. If I can�t tell the truth about something, I shouldn�t bother writing about it. So that�s what I did. I told the truth.
I stood in front of a bunch of moms who were hoping to hear encouraging words on how to be powerful and strong and brave and I told them sorry I�m none of those things no joke I�m afraid of seesaws even. (It then occurred to me that I probably shouldn't pursue a career in motivational speaking.)
But c�mon. It's not like cancer came along and tapped me over the head with its magical wand of fearlessness. I didn�t get diagnosed and then poof - holy crap I�m not afraid of death or spiders hiding in my shower anymore this is the best I am INVINCIBLE.
That, uh, didn�t happen. (If you know someone this did happen to, let�s talk. I�d really like to stop being afraid of spiders hiding in my shower. It is so inconvenient.)
I am so NOT ALONE in my suffering. Afraid, yes. Alone, no.
Sidebar: I haven�t alluded directly to my Catholic faith much on this blog. So let�s just get that out in the open. I�m a Catholic, hi. A practicing one, for what it's worth. I believe in God and I pray to Mary and the Saints and I was raised by parents who met their children�s tears with the pragmatic response of: �offer it up.� Moving on.I can be massively dense sometimes, and I'm pretty sure God knows this about me, so He sends frequent reminders to say Listen up punk, I'm not gonna pull a fast one on ya. I�m not going anywhere.
He's all, "Liz, you insane little person you. I know you�re freaking out, but for Pete's sake, would you calm down for 5 bloody seconds?! I've got you. I'm with you. I can�t take away your suffering, but I can hold your hand through it." Which sounds like a pretty darn good premise for a country song. DON'T YOU DARE STEAL MY IDEA. (Also, I was on the fence about this entire paragraph because it sounds borderline blasphemous to invent ludicrous dialogue coming from God, but I'm also really lazy about editing so get over it already.)
Three years ago, Paul�s cancer returned after two years of him being cancer-free. That was a dark time. I can�t speak for Paul, but for me, it was the darkest time of my entire life. Darker than being diagnosed myself.
Moments before our universe imploded in on itself, I was cradling my four-week-old daughter, enjoying the fact that she preferred to spend the bulk of her time sleeping, which lent me the freedom to pursue lofty endeavors. (Breaking Bad. I spent my entire maternity leave watching all five seasons of Breaking Bad. I live my life with no regrets.)
Just as I was about to see how Walt�s attempt to poison deranged drug lord Tuco Salamanca would play out (no regrets!) my phone rang.
It was Paul, and I could tell by his voice that he had been crying. Not the reaction you want to hear from your husband after what was supposed to be a routine checkup with his oncologist.
�Something came up on the scan,� he told me. And I was all �Um no it didn�t because we just had a baby and I�m not even remotely equipped for this and it will ruin everything and how am I supposed to enjoy Tuco being brought to justice if you�re sick again?!� And he was all �I married a lunatic.� And I was all �YOU KNEW WHAT YOU WERE GETTING INTO. DON�T CHANGE THE SUBJECT.�
None of this is fabricated.
In a matter of weeks Paul would start chemo. But chemo wouldn't work.
Next, his surgeon would attempt a debulking operation. Strike two.
At that point, the alternative chemotherapies presented to us had somewhere around a 5-10% chance of working. Stats we weren�t keen to gamble Paul�s life with.
Fear consumed me. After Paul�s failed surgery, it hijacked the last shreds of hope I had held onto so tenuously during all those months of chemo. I remember thinking this was it. No way he survives this disease.
I was devastated. And afraid.
I was terrified of all the unknowns lurking in the shadows of the dim road before us. With Paul sick and out of work, how would I support my family when, at best, I had the emotional resilience of, say, a fragile teacup? A scared and timid teacup who gets overwhelmed to the point of paralysis when the grocery store is busy?
Here�s how:
God wouldn�t cure Paul. He also wasn�t going to make me especially brave or even normal enough to go grocery shopping without an emergency Ativan in my purse.
Instead, He would answer our prayers by placing all of these wonderful people in our life who would literally keep us going.
People who would organize a massive fundraiser the month after Paul�s surgery so that we didn�t need to be afraid of not having enough money.
People who would babysit Ingrid so that I didn�t have to miss work while Paul was in the hospital.
People who would point us to experts in the mesothelioma field so that we could approach this disease with less fear and slightly more courage.
God had not abandoned us. Our community was proof of that.
Two years later, the shock of my own cancer diagnosis would, unfortunately, send me back into a downward spiral of panic and despair. One sick spouse is more than most families can handle. How were we going to do this?
When fear attempts to hook its icy claws into me (a common occurrence lately) I like to recall the following passage from Matthew, which happened to be the Gospel reading just days before I started chemo:
Growing up, my mom had this huge painting displayed in our dining room. It featured a woman marooned on a perilous bit of earth during a flood, and I always thought it was COMPLETELY HORRIFYING. Please note the outstretched limb of a drowning person in the foreground.
Now before you get all �Catholics are CooCoo for Cocoa Puffs� on me, let me point out what an effective visual reminder this image is. It's hugely compelling. It certainly commands your attention. Particularly if you�re an easily frightened 8-year-old who cries when your mom is 5 minutes late picking you up from dance class (fragile teacup, remember?)
Early on in my treatment, my mom gifted me a smaller copy of this picture saying, �I don�t know if you like this painting, and you totally don�t have to hang it up in your house if you think it�s awful. You won�t hurt my feelings.�
And, really, it was so perfect. (Thanks, mom.)
Because in our weakest, most desperate moments where we can�t see the light through the storm, what can we do except cling to Christ?
Welp, Okaaaaay. I can think of a few other unsavory things we might turn to in our bleakest moments. I'd be breaking my own "write-with-honesty" rule if I failed to admit I've nursed my fair share of cheap wine bottles in (way too many) attempts to soften the edges of my suffering.
In the end, though, that approach led to more searing headaches than anything like clarity or acceptance.
I can�t make sense of our suffering, or the suffering of our broken world. It defies explanation. I can�t make my husband un-sick, I can�t tell my daughter she�ll always have her daddy around or that my cancer won�t ever return. At times, things become so bleak that I can�t see through the storm. This is when I need to cling to Christ until the darkness passes and the waters become still again.
Christ tells his disciples, �I will not leave you as orphans. I will come to you.� (John 14:18) One pretty rad promise, if you ask me. He loves you so much, and he is NOT going to abandon you.
When Cancer Struck (The 2nd Time), I Was Consumed By Fear
Three years ago, Paul�s cancer returned after two years of him being cancer-free. That was a dark time. I can�t speak for Paul, but for me, it was the darkest time of my entire life. Darker than being diagnosed myself.
Moments before our universe imploded in on itself, I was cradling my four-week-old daughter, enjoying the fact that she preferred to spend the bulk of her time sleeping, which lent me the freedom to pursue lofty endeavors. (Breaking Bad. I spent my entire maternity leave watching all five seasons of Breaking Bad. I live my life with no regrets.)
Just as I was about to see how Walt�s attempt to poison deranged drug lord Tuco Salamanca would play out (no regrets!) my phone rang.
It was Paul, and I could tell by his voice that he had been crying. Not the reaction you want to hear from your husband after what was supposed to be a routine checkup with his oncologist.
�Something came up on the scan,� he told me. And I was all �Um no it didn�t because we just had a baby and I�m not even remotely equipped for this and it will ruin everything and how am I supposed to enjoy Tuco being brought to justice if you�re sick again?!� And he was all �I married a lunatic.� And I was all �YOU KNEW WHAT YOU WERE GETTING INTO. DON�T CHANGE THE SUBJECT.�
None of this is fabricated.
 |
| Paul and Ingrid, 1-week before chemo. Taking it all in stride, as usual. |
In a matter of weeks Paul would start chemo. But chemo wouldn't work.
Next, his surgeon would attempt a debulking operation. Strike two.
At that point, the alternative chemotherapies presented to us had somewhere around a 5-10% chance of working. Stats we weren�t keen to gamble Paul�s life with.
Fear consumed me. After Paul�s failed surgery, it hijacked the last shreds of hope I had held onto so tenuously during all those months of chemo. I remember thinking this was it. No way he survives this disease.
I was devastated. And afraid.
I was terrified of all the unknowns lurking in the shadows of the dim road before us. With Paul sick and out of work, how would I support my family when, at best, I had the emotional resilience of, say, a fragile teacup? A scared and timid teacup who gets overwhelmed to the point of paralysis when the grocery store is busy?
Cancer Didn't Make Me Fearless, But It DID Remind Me I'll Never Be Abandoned
God wouldn�t cure Paul. He also wasn�t going to make me especially brave or even normal enough to go grocery shopping without an emergency Ativan in my purse.
Instead, He would answer our prayers by placing all of these wonderful people in our life who would literally keep us going.
People who would organize a massive fundraiser the month after Paul�s surgery so that we didn�t need to be afraid of not having enough money.
People who would babysit Ingrid so that I didn�t have to miss work while Paul was in the hospital.
People who would point us to experts in the mesothelioma field so that we could approach this disease with less fear and slightly more courage.
God had not abandoned us. Our community was proof of that.
"Do Not Worry About Your Life"
Two years later, the shock of my own cancer diagnosis would, unfortunately, send me back into a downward spiral of panic and despair. One sick spouse is more than most families can handle. How were we going to do this?
When fear attempts to hook its icy claws into me (a common occurrence lately) I like to recall the following passage from Matthew, which happened to be the Gospel reading just days before I started chemo:
�Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink, or about your body, what you will wear...look at the birds in the sky; they do not sow or reap, they gather nothing into barns, yet your Heavenly Father feeds them. Are not you more important than they? Can any of you by worrying add a single moment to your lifespan?...so do not worry and say �What are we to eat?� or �What are to drink?� or �what are we to wear?�...Your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given you besides.�
I mean even if you�re not particularly Churchy, those are some beautiful words. Beautiful enough to plunk them here for the SECOND time on this blog. (But who's paying attention?)-Matt 6:25-34
When The Storm Hits, Cling To The Cross
Growing up, my mom had this huge painting displayed in our dining room. It featured a woman marooned on a perilous bit of earth during a flood, and I always thought it was COMPLETELY HORRIFYING. Please note the outstretched limb of a drowning person in the foreground.
Now before you get all �Catholics are CooCoo for Cocoa Puffs� on me, let me point out what an effective visual reminder this image is. It's hugely compelling. It certainly commands your attention. Particularly if you�re an easily frightened 8-year-old who cries when your mom is 5 minutes late picking you up from dance class (fragile teacup, remember?)
Early on in my treatment, my mom gifted me a smaller copy of this picture saying, �I don�t know if you like this painting, and you totally don�t have to hang it up in your house if you think it�s awful. You won�t hurt my feelings.�
And, really, it was so perfect. (Thanks, mom.)
Because in our weakest, most desperate moments where we can�t see the light through the storm, what can we do except cling to Christ?
Welp, Okaaaaay. I can think of a few other unsavory things we might turn to in our bleakest moments. I'd be breaking my own "write-with-honesty" rule if I failed to admit I've nursed my fair share of cheap wine bottles in (way too many) attempts to soften the edges of my suffering.
In the end, though, that approach led to more searing headaches than anything like clarity or acceptance.
I can�t make sense of our suffering, or the suffering of our broken world. It defies explanation. I can�t make my husband un-sick, I can�t tell my daughter she�ll always have her daddy around or that my cancer won�t ever return. At times, things become so bleak that I can�t see through the storm. This is when I need to cling to Christ until the darkness passes and the waters become still again.
You will still suffer (that's the thing about Catholics, they're all about this thing called "redemptive suffering".) And, sorry, you�ll still experience fear. That doesn't really go away.
But in all of your hurt and through all of your anxieties - you�ll never, ever, ever be alone.
Because life isn't meant to be a one-man show.
xoxo, Liz
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| unsure of what I'm clasping in my ring finger, but HEY I'm a mom and moms always have garbage in their hands when they take family selfies |
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