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Chapter twenty-one
His Grace
The only word that could vaguely describe the moment would be “bizarre.” The doctor had just left the room as I sat beside Mother in a state of shock. We had been sitting in the floor wrapping Christmas gifts moments before leaving the house for her scheduled appointment. Her cough had been worrying Dad, so David and I assured him we would visit a doctor while he was gone to Haiti for his Christmas 2000 trip. What we had hoped would be routine had just taken a “bizarre” turn. She looked a picture of health. But the doctor had painted a picture of his own.
He was weighing his words, as he explained the tumors that had appeared on the x-ray. He described the dread he felt as he walked through the door to inform us of the details. One apparently lay dangerously against the lung wall. “It could cause it to rupture,” he gently explained, looking at Mother, “Your life expectancy at that time would be no longer than three minutes.” He went on to add, “This could happen within a week.”
Mother looked at him in pity as she felt his anguish in delivering such devastating news. She knew he had no way of knowing where lies our hope as he began to advise us on our options, of which there were few.
We had been walking a tight rope of faith for several years up to that point. I was hoping against hope that my ears had deceived me the first time I had heard the word “Cancer.” But my other senses had prepared me for the possibility before Dad and I entered the conference room after Mother’s examination on that spring day in ’93. I experienced a near fainting spell. . then the room came back into focus as I attempted to concentrate on the doctor’s evaluation.
Her surgery proved to be successful and she enjoyed several years of health until the spring of ’99. The cancer had reoccurred in her lungs and the outlook was not what we wanted to hear.
We began the vicious cycle of chemotherapy, helplessly looking on as her body surrendered to its attack. One week out of three, she would lie at the door of death. Soon her full head of hair became a memory.
We were thankful that Christmas, for a family that was whole and in tacked. The doctors were giving us little hope for anymore to come. But Mother was making plans of her own.
Determined to receive her healing. She had been inquiring of the Lord of how long she should allow the chemo to invade her body. She was listening for an answer and watching for signs. It was around Easter of 2000, when she felt she had collected enough evidence. The final straw was when her doctor snapped at her in anger over a question she had asked concerning some test results. He had a difficult personality to begin with, but she felt confident in his abilities. Suddenly he took a turn for the worse and began treating her like the enemy. It would be a signal for her to walk away and literally “live by faith.”
We knew Mother well enough to know that when she felt she heard from the Lord, we stepped aside. We would support her in whatever she needed to do.
The coughing returned in October of that year. We were all nervous and concerned, but no one more than Dad. He called my husband the night before he was to leave town. “Could you somehow get Mary Lou to go to a doctor?” He despairingly asked. David told him we would be right over. He hung up the phone and we jumped in the car and headed to their house. We reasoned with Mother. “We are not denying your healing. We just need to know you’re okay. If for no other reason but for Dad’s peace of mind.” It was pretty easy. . . she consented to go with no problem. Hopefully it was no more than a mere cold.
The doctor was a young man. Our retiring Physician had referred us to him. Given her history, he thought an x-ray was in order. It had regretfully revealed the source of the problem. As he described the seriousness, he advised that we return to the doctor who had treated her in the past. I explained to him that he had been mean to her. We wanted another doctor. “At this point,” he continued, “No one else will see you.” We reluctantly conceded. He left the room to make a call to send us directly to him.
The air seemed to have been sucked out of the room as we both sat in silence. It was broken by the sound of my cell phone ringing in my purse. David had called to ask what the doctor said. The only response I could give was a wail of grief. David asked, “Do you want me to come?” I whimpered out a “Yes” and he was on his way. Mother wrapped an arm of comfort around me. “Bless your heart,” she said, “You always have to go through all this rough stuff with me.” I couldn’t talk at the time. But I knew it was me that should have been comforting her. . .
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