I’m not a fan of coming here . . . too many memories and a pocketful of worries.
It’s not the people inside; they represent some of the best of the best. Dr. Habal and his surgical, oncology team are uniquely gifted in doing what they do. With God’s help, they preserved my life, saved it for a season longer, and I am exceedingly grateful. But follow-up visits are never easy. Instead, they serve as invitations for me to remember the struggle. To enter, once again, that familiar memory from two years ago when I first heard those words, “Mrs. Olsen, the results of your biopsy indicate the presence of cancer . . . invasive ductal carcinoma.”
Two years later, my memory serves me correctly. One doesn’t forget a moment like that one. Some moments are meant to be remembered. They remind me of where I’ve been and how very far I’ve come.
When my name was called, I left Billy and the kids in the waiting room and traveled down that familiar hallway to that familiar examination room. Unlike two years ago, today I would go it alone; today’s visit was routine, less critical, and less worrisome. The room’s sterility was only outdone by its silence—a formidable combination for a mind content on reeling with the potentialities of possible outcomes:
What will he say to me when he comes in? What will he do to me? What will be the results? How can this be right? Where did things go wrong? Where’s my peace? Where’s the doctor? When will it be my turn?
These were my ruminations two years ago. Today? Well, instead of being fraught with worry and questions, I leaned my head back against the wall and rested my eyes. It had taken us two hours to arrive at our destination, and I was tired. I quieted my heart in the wait and listened to the sounds around me. Soft footsteps and even softer murmurings could be heard through the solid, oak door.
Little time had passed before I heard the doctor’s footsteps coming toward me. Instead of stopping at my door, he stopped at room next to mine and announced his arrival with a gentle rap and an even gentler greeting as he entered the room.
“Good morning, Patty. How are you doing today?”
Yes, Dr. Habal was on the move, and I would have to wait a bit longer. Did he say Patty? Maybe it was Kathy? In hindsight, I don’t remember. What I do remember is what happened next, about two minutes after Dr. Habal’s arrival there.
A guttural, turn-your-stomach scream called out from the room next door, interrupting the quietness and forcing my notice. My family tells me it could be heard in the waiting room as well. Some walls aren’t thick enough to insulate the suffering cry. Some walls, instead, herald its arrival, allowing everyone within earshot permission to listen in on private pain . . . her pain, the woman next door who had just received, perhaps, the worst news of her life.
Oh, I didn’t hear those words coming through the walls; I didn’t need to. Some moments write a witness all their own, requiring little explanation. Some moments are just that hard, hurtful, and seemingly hopeless. Some moments are meant to be remembered. This, undoubtedly, was one of hers, thereby becoming one of mine.
I wanted to bolt. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to leave the pain. Instead, I shed some tears on her behalf. Moistness collected in the corners of my eyes and then dampened my cheeks, falling gently into my lap. I marked the moment in solitude and stood in solidarity with my sister on the other side of that wall, knowing something of what she felt and wishing I could break through the scene to give her some truth.
All is not lost in the night, friend. Dawn will break through, and that which now feels like death can feel like life again. Like hope. Like spring’s resurrection after winter’s solemn grip. Hang on, sister-warrior. Yes, the fight has only begun, but the fight will not last forever. There’s more to the story. Hang on and hold fast . . . the best is yet to be.
I don’t suppose I’ll ever forget this moment . . . her moment. It belongs to me now. Some moments in our lives are meant to be remembered. Why? Because they remind us of where we’ve been and how very far we’ve come.
Two thousand years ago, another guttural, turn-your-stomach cry issued forth loudly from the cross, allowing everyone within earshot permission to enter into the Savior’s, suffering story. Two thousand years later, my memory serves me correctly, well-preserved for me in the context of Scripture:
“From the sixth hour until the ninth hour darkness came over all the land. About the ninth hour Jesus cried out in a loud voice, ‘Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?’—which means, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’” —Matthew 27:45-46
Jesus, too, felt forsaken, forgotten, and all alone to grieve the realities of his present suffering. His pain was undeniable; his cry, soul-shattering. The worst news of his earthly life became the best news of ours. All was not lost in the night. Dawn broke through, and that which was death became life again. Became hope. Became spring’s resurrection after winter’s solemn grip. Jesus Christ held on for a strong finish, fought hard for his Father’s finish, knowing that there was more to the story, his story, our stories. The best had not already been. The best was yet to be. And those who stood by as witnesses to that moment never forgot it. It marked them forever; in doing so, it marks me forever, maybe even you.
Some moments in our lives are meant to be remembered, even the painful ones, especially them. They remind us of where we’ve been; they stand as a memorial to how very far we’ve come, and, most importantly, they tell us the story of where we’re headed.
My life has been marked by pain; my life is not defined by it, but by God’s grace, my life has been changed because of it. I cannot undo personal suffering, nor can I remove you from yours. I can only point you to the One whose story, whose truth, whose witness, and whose resurrection can move you forward to victory.
All is not lost in the night, friend. Dawn will break through, and that which now feels like death can feel like life again. Like hope. Like spring’s resurrection after winter’s solemn grip. Hang on, sister, brother-warrior. Yes, the fight has only begun, but the fight will not last forever. There’s more to the story. Hang on and hold fast . . . the best is yet to be.
With Jesus Christ at the lead, the best is always yet to be.
Peace for the journey,
What suffering moment from your past serves as a lasting witness to the faithfulness of our God and to his Son’s triumph over the grave? What triumph trumps the pain and lingers as a memorial to the hard-fought battle you’ve waged (perhaps continue to wage) to the glory and renown of our Lord? I’d love to hear your story.
Wow, what a story, Elaine — and so beautifully written. Can’t imagine what it must have been like for you to hear that scream. Love the truth that you wanted to share. Dawn will indeed break through. So thankful we have our Savior to walk through moments like that with us.
I pray you had a good check-up — you continue to be in my prayers!
I love your words, Elaine. Your life marked by pain, but not defined by it. This is another post that caused me to share in your tears. That woman in the next room. Patty? Kathy? I prayed that in her pain, she will cry out to Jesus as her Redeemer.
Someday we will see each other face to face, dear Elaine!
For now, I delight to read the stories you write. In the reading, they become mine as well!
Love
Lidia
Patty? Kathy? I’m so glad that JESUS knows her name! And that He is not silent but but has matched every one of our guttural, turn-your-stomach screams with His own….
Hallelujah! It IS finished.
I, too, share in the tears. My heart aches for Patty/Kathy? Although I cannot empathize or even begin to understand because I have not walked the road, I can hurt for her. God has used you in her life, Elaine, even though she may not realize it. He has allowed her story to touch our hearts and we have lifted her to the Father…the great Physician. God bless you for allowing yourself to be used.
We all carry a story of suffering, of this I am convinced. The severity may vary, but in the end, our suffering unites us and draws us closer together–at least it should. Thank you for being on my team, Leah.
Elaine, the story…both yours and hers…brought tears to my eyes this morning! A great picture of how we should never forget how God has been and will be with us. Your thoughts today reminded me of a song you may know …Then Came the Morning (written by Bill Gaither). Here are some of the lyrics:
They all walked away, with nothing to say,
They’d just lost their dearest friend.
All that He said, now He was dead,
So this was the way it would end.
The dreams they had dreamed were not what they’d seemed,
Now that He was dead and gone.
The garden, the jail, the hammer, the nail,
How could a night be so long.
Then came the morning, night turned into day;
The stone was rolled away, hope rose with the dawn.
Then came the morning, shadows vanished before the sun,
Death had lost and life had won, for morning had come.
May God bless you with a most wonderful day today dear faithful friend!
Marilyn
This post gave me goosebumps…the path from victim to victor…that hope and assurance is in Christ alone…
Your closing question? The moment that stands out in my mind is a suffering child…and we moms know that when our child hurts, we feel that pain even more so…victory came at a particular place, specific time, and a word spoken to my heart…it ushered in peace like I had never felt before…
The battle hasn’t ended completely, but anytime I grow weary or discouraged, that victory moment is remembered…and I know the final battle cry is just moments away….
WOW! That’s all I can say right now. Amazing post!
My . . my. Having heard those three words, I felt this woman’s fear and her pain; I even heard her cry. These three words are ones she will never forget for the rest of her life,and mine, too. I hurt so deeply at the thought that I had cancer that I did indeed think I would now be defined by cancer – forever. I felt like the outline of my body, my silhouette was defined by the word cancer; little did I know that through my suffering a certain victory came. Praise Jesus that I am not defined by cancer any longer but through Him, my victory is a softer and more sensitive woman. Now I can look backwards and see the work of my glorious Savior.
Cyndi
http://advocateofhope.wordpress.com
May I reblog this post in remembrance of breast cancer month?
Feel free, Cyndi!
This post made me ache. Powerful.
And I will never forget “There’s a mass on his brain that shouldn’t be there.” But I am – we are – better because of it.
Wow, beyond beautiful.
My heart breaks for the woman in the room next to yours. I don’t need to know the exact words that were spoken, but I can hope, and pray, that she knows God and knows that He and His Son walk with her. How upsetting that must have been for everyone within ear shot. I’m sorry you were in the room next door, alone. The thoughts, fears and memories that scream must have brought to mind. At least you know the best is yet to be.
XOXOXO,
Brenda
How many times have I come here and find the tears flowing?? MANY!
What a day that was for you, and the way you tied it altogether… for you, for the sweet lady who just got her news, and for each of us… right back to the cross. It’s the one constant, and the thread that weaves it’s way into every heart that has found the cross for themselves, and whose lives are changed because of it. I pray for that lady, and hope she knows.
Wow! I can’t imagine being on either side of that wall… or being Dr. Habal. I say a silent prayer even now for her… and you… and him.
Thank you for putting this experience into words. It sure connects us, doesn’t it?
Oh how I identify with this post. I of course heard those words, though a little differently as mine was extensive ductal carcinoma in Situ. I have found myself returning for those same check-ups. I have sat in the waiting room every time I have gone and let my eyes linger just briefly on everyone sitting there waiting their turn to be called to the examining room. I have prayed briefly for each person not knowing exactly of course what their individual stories are, and not needing to of course. I can only imagine what it would have like to have sat there and heard that cry. I know I would have been in tears as well. Your so right of course, our individual stories of suffering may vary, and yet the cross draws all together. Loved all of this Elaine….HUGS
Oh goodness…the tears came on and I DON”T CRY!! I hope your path crosses her’s again…a path that allows you to share your hope, your life, your faith with her. Death surrounds me in my work…I could not do this without my faith.
Love and miss you sweet friend~Pamela
wifeforthejourney:
It is hard to return to the familiar territory of the Dr’s office where our cancer journey started. Everyone experiences traumas in the course of life and we can’t help but associate some of our negatives with particular locations. The Dr’s office is, often, a place of extremes – anxiety and relief; fear and hope; despair and promise; hurt and healing. When we are in the moment, sometimes screaming is the first thing to escape our lips. BUT, as several of your readers have already commented, our hope is in finding Jesus is close to us in the middle of hard times.
Thanks for your own brave witness – Oh how I love good news!
~ Billy
Eloquence & grace. Such a beautiful post!
My life, like yours, is dotted with painful episodes. It’s been a number of years since the last (the worst) of them, but even today its effects are palpable. I remember them well; and well remember how near was the Lord as I endured them.
Bless you! I love your dear heart.
Kathleen
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