Good News!

I have an appointment with the oncologist today.  Jessi is going with me--I can never tell when I am going to get more bad news, so I want someone with me.  So I get my blood drawn and they do "labs" on me.  And then I go for a dexa scan which analyzes bone density.  Cancer makes me more vulnerable to fractures, so this test helps predict where this might happen.  It's a 10-minute procedure, totally painless and uncomplicated. 

Then I wait for the oncologist.  He just looks at me for awhile, assessing me, I think.  "So tell me about your pain," he says.  So I tell him about the PMR (polymyalgia rheumatica) which causes a lot of pain and how it's hard to tell the difference between this and cancer pain.  (I know now that it's when the pain is consistent and increasing that I have to worry about it.)  And I tell him about the pain in my neck.

He gets quiet and I feel like I have to lead the conversation.  What I want to know is, what's next.  What is the next course of treatment that I have to endure, and what are the side-effects?  This is where the good news starts.  He wants to put me on this intravenous medicine that strengthens bones and helps with bone pain.  It's also well-tolerated, meaning that I shouldn't have bad side-effects.  Okay, that sounds good--strengthens bones, no side-effects.  "What else?"

"Nothing else right now." 

"Well, the radiologist mentioned maybe chemo in the form of a pill."

"No, that's down the road.  We'll run this medicine for all it's worth, and then there are several others we can try after that."

"Okay.  That's great!"  I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.  "So how long would you say I have to live?  The radiologist said maybe one or two years."

He frowns, "Oh, I think he underestimated how long you have.  I've treated people with metastatic bone cancer for several years."

"Oh!"  Really?  Thank you, God.

I feel a huge weight lift that I didn't even know I was carrying.  I still have terminal cancer.  But I don't have to smash the rest of my life into one year.  The doctor also tells me that when cancer metastasizes to the bones, it doesn't usually go anywhere else--just to other bones.  This is a relief to me because I envisioned the cancer spreading at any moment to other organs, which could be fatal.  The downside is that bone cancer is very painful.  I already know this.  Hmmm.  I won't think about that yet.

This is all good news.  There is no bad news in it.  Finally...some good news.

It seems like every time I've blogged, it's been all bad news and melodrama.  Those are the things that have moved me and disturbed me.  Troubling things that I've had to work through.  But I don't "live" there.  I grieve but I don't stay there.  I "live" in joy and I "live" in peace.  Those are the things that characterize my life and I intend that they always will.

So I rejoice in this--maybe I have more time to live!  Praise the Lord who hears and answers the prayers of his people!  Praise the Lord who gives joy in the middle of trials!  Praise the Lord who gives and takes away!  Blessed be the name of the Lord.

Do not grieve, for the joy of the LORD is your strength.

Nehemiah 8:10b

Open Wide Your Hearts

On March 30th Dr. Oakes, the president of Central Christian College of the Bible, sent this email to Central's staff, and on April 5th, he repeated a portion of it to the student body at the end of chapel.  Here is a part of his letter as well as my resignation letter:

Through earlier prayer requests, you knew that Regina Green's cancer had returned. Initially the doctor thought the spot that was discovered was treatable and curable. Unfortunately, through further diagnosis and tests, the doctor recognized the cancer had spread into her hips and bones. Though treatments will help with the pain, the current situation is not curable and the doctor has given Regina 1 - 2 years to live.
As a result, Regina will complete this academic year and then return to Cincinnati to be with her family. Please take a few moments right now, as well as each day, to lift Regina before our Lord in prayer. She has an exceptionally strong faith in God and she wants to be a witness to others of that faith that she has. Pray that God's compassion and strength will be abundantly poured out upon her as she faces each day.

We love and respect Regina. We love her ministry here and the significant contribution she has made to the Kingdom, as well as to Central Christian College of the Bible. She has touched all of us in one way or another, and we thank God for her....

Regina sent a resignation letter to Dr. Fincher and I am including it here so you can "hear" it in her own words:

Dear Fellow-Laborers,

So many memories and feelings run through my mind as I write this letter of resignation...the honor of being called to work here--and with MY teachers, David [Fincher] listening to me with kindness and compassion, Ben Williams praying for me with tears, Richard [Rexrode] doing "the right thing" even when it was so challenging, Rory [Christensen] stopping by my office to ask how I was doing and getting an earful, Dan Donaldson asking how he could pray for me, Stuart [Liegey] encouraging me even when I felt I had failed, Lori [Peter] and Anne [Menear] doing an "intervention" with me, working with all of you to make the College better, inspiration from your preaching and from your lives, finding a best friend in Rhonda [Dunham], the thrill of teaching and having the light come on for students, students becoming friends. All of these and so many more are treasures I have stored up in my heart. How I will miss this place!

But now I have to go home. When I first learned I had cancer I considered it, but when I learned I only had one to two years to live, I knew I had to go and live near my children, my grandchildren, and my mother. So I am resigning as of the end of the contract year. My heart weeps over this decision because I have enjoyed every minute of my ministry here and at [Timber Lake Christian Church]. I love Central and will continue to support her in any way I can.

I covet your prayers as I will "thank my God every time I remember you" and hold you up before the Father pleading for all the good things he has to give you.

Much love,
Regina

----------------------------------------

 

After Dr. Oakes repeated some of his letter to the students, they gave me a standing ovation and he invited me to say a few words.  I don't remember all of what I said, but this is what was in my heart:
 
"I want you to know that God is Sovereign.  He can do whatever he wants with me.  He and I settled that a long time ago.  And that will be okay with me, whether he chooses to heal me or to take me home to be with him.  It will all result in His praise and glory and that is what I want. 
 
"Six years ago when I left Cincinnati to come here I was worried about leaving my daughters.  I cried out to God about this and he assured me that he would be a Father to them.  I was also distressed about leaving "home" and being homesick for my family and friends.  But then he gave me the scripture from Psalm 90:1, "Lord, through all the generations, you have been our home."  I realized again that no matter where I am, as long as he is with me, I am already home.  So, this will be all right too.  Every bit of this will eventually work out for our good."
 
Now here is the good part--Dr. Oakes then invited the students to come forward and surround me and lay hands on me while he prayed for me.  I don't remember a word of his prayer, but I remember a mass of students moving forward and surrounding me.  Touching me and touching each other as a way of reaching me.  Tears ran down my face in rivers.  Then the students came one by one to hug me and thank me and assure me of their love.  My heart swelled to bursting from the love, kindness and tenderness they showed me. 
 
This is a memory that I will always carry with me.  I will take it out again and again to look at it whenever I am down or discouraged.  Memories...of people...with whom I shared my life.
 

Just as a nursing mother cares for her children, so we cared for you. Because we loved you so much, we were delighted to share with you not only the gospel of God but our lives as well.

I Thessalonians 2:7b, 8

Nothingness

I'm lying on a thinly padded, narrow table.  Three ladies are working over me, tugging me this way and that, lining me up just right.  They are making crosses on me with permanent markers...x marks the spot.  Then for the first time in my life, I get tattoos--nine tiny dot tattoos.  It scratches and burns, but not for long.  Three dot tattoos for each place they will do radiation.

My back hurts and it's very hard to hold still for so long on this very first day.  It sinks in that my life is on the line, so I don't move.  The arm moves out above me to take "films."  Then it retracts.  Then another larger mechanical arm moves over me with a two-foot diameter head on it.  I see beams of laser lights on the ceiling, and I hear the noise that means my body is being penetrated by a destructive, and possibly life-giving, stream.

It doesn't hurt.  I don't feel a thing.  I don't feel a thing inside either.  In fact, I am uncommonly good at not thinking, too.  At some level I know this is not normal and it's not going to last, but for right now, not thinking and not feeling is the best course.  Nothing-ness is preferable.  I have no idea what is beyond the nothingness and I don't want to know. 

Later, I look at my body and think, "What a disaster!"  Black marks all over, scars and mutilation from previous surgeries, pudginess (I'm being very polite to myself here) from self-indulgence and medication, age spots and wrinkles and sags.  For some reason my mind flits to the scripture, "I bear on my body the marks of Jesus" (Gal. 6:17b).  I wish I could say that, but I can only think that I bear on my body the marks of sin and disease and decay.  But I'm still detached.  It doesn't really bother me; I'm just thinking objectively.

When I go to bed that night, I pray about my lack of feeling.  There's no pain in it, but there's no joy in it either.  "God, I don't feel anything.  Is that okay?  I think I should be feeling something here.  Please help me."  And the words come to my heart, "By his stripes we are healed" (Isa. 53:5), and I imagine Jesus taking the stripes for me, taking the pain for me, feeling the pain for me.  I realize that I don't have to feel right now.  Jesus has already done that for me too.

And then I cry.

In all their suffering he also suffered, and he personally rescued them.

In his love and mercy he redeemed them. He lifted them up and carried them through all the years.

Isaiah 63:9

I Just Want to Go Home

During the fall of 2010 I began grieving over what I would lose if I left Moberly, my church, and my job as professor and Dean of Women at Central Christian College of the Bible.  The funny thing is that I wasn't even considering leaving.  If I ever got back together with my husband, I would move back to Cincinnati, but that was very unlikely.

Then I went to a women's conference with a group of ladies from my church.  It was a weird conference for me because of my unusually troubled spirit, but I couldn't put a finger on why I was upset.  One evening I was so disturbed that I just started reading scripture all alone in a dark corner on the floor outside our hotel room.  I was reading and crying, reading and crying, trying to drown out a phrase that kept pumping through my mind:  I just want to go home.

But this wasn't my phrase.  I knew that God was trying to tell me something, but I had no idea what it was.  I didn't even know what was referred to by the word "home."  Was this Cincinnati where my children live?  Heaven?  I had no idea.  And it wasn't even me doing the "wanting."  As I said, they weren't my words.  They were imposed on me from the outside:  I just want to go home.

The Spirit seemed to be pressing this message into my heart but I didn't know why.  It was upsetting to me because I like to figure things out and understand the reasons why I react the way I do.  My friend, Rhonda, came out to check on me, so I told her all of this and she prayed with me.

The next day, my favorite speaker at the conference said these words:  "It's not your job to find your way home; it's your job to follow the voice of the Shepherd."  Rhonda and I did a double-take.  Did she just say what I thought she said?  Then she said it again just in case we needed proof.  "It's not your job to find your way home; it's your job to follow the voice of the Shepherd."  Wow!  That was really cool confirmation that those words were Spirit-led!

The trouble was that I still didn't know what they meant.  Was I going to be leaving Moberly?  Dying?  I had no idea.  I could only conclude that something was coming and God meant me to be looking for it, and since it happened this way, I would know it was from him.  I also concluded that I wasn't supposed to do anything about finding my way home to Cincinnati.  God would take care of getting me "home" and that was that.

In hindsight I think this was a warning, kind of like Jesus warning people about false prophets to come so that they would be prepared.  Or like Paul being warned that prison and hardships were facing him.  Now that I have cancer, I can only conclude that God was preparing me. 

So I'm going home.  I get to go home.  All I have to do is follow the voice of the Shepherd.

 After he has gathered his own flock, he walks ahead of them,

and they follow him because they know his voice. 

John 10:4

At Just the Right Time

It was the wrong weekend to spend all alone.  Usually I enjoy being by myself and feeling like I can do whatever I want whenever I want to do it.  Having a big chunk of time would be a rare treat.  But I didn't feel good.  Lower level pain was almost constant and sharper pain came whenever I exerted myself to get out of a chair, walk very far, or go up or down steps.  So I sat.  I only got up when I had to.

I watched TV for most of two-and-a-half days.  The drugs made me feel fuzzy-headed and sleepy, even though I took only one at night.  I couldn't grade papers and I didn't want to do anything.  I had already given up teaching the ladies' Sunday school class, and I figured I'd have to give up teaching the women's class--Doing Life Together--on Wednesday nights if I didn't improve.  Nothing about my future was certain.  I felt purposeless.

TV got really old really fast, but there wasn't anything else I wanted to do either.  The sickest feeling pushed into my heart.  I had nothing to give and nobody to give it to.  I didn't even want to give to anyone, and I didn't want anyone around.  But I was lonely, too.  Even God was on hold...until something happened, whether good or bad.  But this was limbo and God was not there.  I didn't care if he was or not.  I wasn't talking to Anyone anyway. 

Sometimes I cried in bed at night, but not for long.  I could drug myself into sleep.  I wanted to sleep so I wouldn't be in pain, but I knew I would wake up in the night hurting and sleep restlessly until it was time to get up and work some of the worst kinks out of my joints.

Finally, Monday came when things were required of me.  My friend, Rhonda, took me to my fourth round of radiation.  She said if we had time, we would go shopping afterward for a lift chair.  My Sunday school class and DLT had collected money to buy it and made arrangements for me to go and pick one out.  I was amazed, stunned!  I hadn't even considered such a thing, and it would help the pain in my hips so much!  Just like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, there was one chair that was too small (my head hung over the back when reclining), one was too big (my feet didn't touch the floor), and one was just right!  The right size and the right color.  And it reclined all the way back.  They could deliver it tomorrow.  I was ecstatic!

It was such a considerate and sacrificial gesture!  It was heartwarming and helpful.  And it was a turning point.  If not for their kindness, I could have sunk into an even deeper depression.  They were there for me when I needed them most, at a time when I couldn't have--or wouldn't have--asked for help.  A time when I didn't even know what I needed.

For God says,“At just the right time, I heard you."

2 Corinthians 6:2a

[The righteous] share freely and give generously to those in need.  Their good deeds will be remembered forever.  They will have influence and honor.

Psalm 112:9

Nothing I Desire Compares with You

I finally remembered to ask the radiologist (as opposed to my GP) about my prognosis and how long I had to live.  He said, "You have seasons to live.  You won't die within the next few days or weeks.  If you do, it won't be because of cancer.  You have seasons, a year, maybe two."  Oh my.

I was alone again to hear this news.  Why do I have to hear this stuff when I'm all alone?  It becomes a mantra in my head, a year maybe two, a year maybe two.  It was terrifying.  From the five years, maybe longer, that I had depended on having, my life was shortened to "seasons, a year, maybe two."  Seasons, like summer-fall and I'm done?  So instead of watching the new grandbabies grow to age five or older, I may not make it to age two?

I start shaking from the inside out.  If I were not in a doctor's office waiting for the nurse to come back, I would cry and maybe scream.  But I don't have words.  Except...a year, maybe two...a year, maybe two.

I'm not numb anymore.  This prognosis shakes me out of my numbness.  I don't like this answer, not at all.  And I'm scared.  This is not okay with me.  What will I do now?  How do I proceed with my life?

I have to go home.  I will go home.  I need my girls and they will need me.  That's settled.

God, help me.  I need to sing a song.  Uh...Lord, you are more precious than silver.  Lord, you are more costly than gold.  Lord, you are more beautiful than diamonds.  And nothing I desire compares to you.  Nothing I desire compares to you.

"...I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my lord, for whose sake I have lost all things.  I consider them rubbish, that I may gain Christ"

Philippians 3:8

Wait for the Lord

"Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord"
Psalm 27:14

It was time to call my children. That was the hardest part. We cried a lot together. I knew by then from reading on the internet that only 20% of people with metastatic breast cancer were alive after five years. My children have given me five grandchildren. The babies are less than four months old. I may have only five years. The boys are six, three and two. And I may have less than five years. It isn't enough. It isn't enough for my daughters either.

I know we could all die at any time, but I have more of a deadline (no pun intended). How should I use the time? Go back to Cincinnati where my cherished children live? Or stay in Missouri with beloved family and friends and a job that I love?

So I had the bone scan, but I had to wait five more days for the results. My niece came to stay with me. She was a godsend--waiting on me hand and foot, encouraging me, praying for me, waiting with me. The first afternoon we waited at Priscilla's house hoping for an answer any minute. But it was five more days before I found out--it was definitely cancer.

The doctor cried when she told me. I knew it was serious then. She confirmed that the average lifespan I had read about on the internet sounded about right.

I spend a lot of time staring into space. I can't take it in. I'm not praying much and I question myself about that. I hesitate to ask God to heal me. Do I want to be healed or do I want to go to heaven. I'm honestly not sure. Until I think about my grandchildren and how I won't see them learn to walk or say their first words or graduate or marry. And I think of the pain it will cause my daughters. I cry over this pain, and I would give anything to spare them.

I feel like my life was thrown up into the air, and nothing that I used to depend on will be there tomorrow like I thought it would. I don't know anything for sure.

So I wait...on the Lord. And I take heart.

A Time to Dance

The nurse called me to say that I needed to come into the doctor's office to hear the results of the test. That's never a good sign. If the results are good, the nurse just tells you over the phone.

I knew that a CT would give results for cancer patients too, so I tried to prepare for either a bloodclot in my lungs or for the possibility that my cancer had returned. Chemo had been so difficult the last time that I really didn't want to go through it again. And the hair loss. No!

It was cancer. Even though I had tried to prepare for that answer, it still felt like a punch in the stomach. I could die. And I could suffer a lot before I did.

I face the facts but I don't feel them. I shove the emotions to the back burner, just like usual. How should I feel? Is it prideful to ask that question or is it the mark of a mature Christian?

So many questions... What if...? What should I do now? Cry? Pray? Call someone? Feel something?

All I know is that God is in this. He has carried me through so much in the past and I know he will carry me through this too. And maybe, just maybe, we will dance.

"A time to mourn and a time to dance"

Ecclesiastes 3:4b