Things should get better from
here. Last August I was diagnosed with
breast cancer, and last week I had my last chemo treatment, the last time my
doctors will pump poison in to me.
When I was diagnosed, I had several
people offer their ears. “Sometimes you
just need to vent!” I waded through the
anxiety and fear. I cried tears upon
tears. Then I waited for the anger, the
“Why Me, God?” It didn’t come. I learned that with proper treatment there
was no reason I shouldn’t survive, and the panic subsided. I was not angry. I gritted my teeth for when I would lose my
hair, which has been so much part of my identity. It came out, and I was sad, but not angry.
Then one afternoon as my husband
Peter brought me something to drink on the couch, I thought of my mom, also a
breast cancer survivor. When she was
going through this, she lived alone. How
did she make it through the effects of chemo by herself, making her own meals,
keeping her own house? When I mentioned
my mom’s situation to a friend she said, “but you have children to take care
of!” I thought of the friend who went
through breast cancer with two toddlers, one with special needs, not like my
self-sufficient big girls. I thought of
the single mothers who could be going through this, or the women without half a
dozen friends willing to lend an ear. I
didn’t ask, “Why me, God?” I began to
think, “Why not me?”
Why not me? When I talked to my department chair, he
said, “Just let me know what you need.”
When I went to the Provost to figure out my work schedule, before she
said anything, she hugged me and cried.
Then we proceeded to find a way to cover my classes, my committees, and
my other responsibilities. Not everyone
has a job with such flexibility or employers with such caring and motivation to
preserve them. My teaching allowed me to
work (and thus not go crazy!) when I could, and allow others to take over when
I couldn’t. My job also provides me with
health insurance, which has allowed us to absorb this time without too much of
a shock.
Then there are my students. Dozens of students who told me they are
praying for me. The student who
anonymously sent me a scarf. The student
who told me that he looked to me as a role model on days he didn’t feel like
going to class. The students who didn’t
mind my running a meeting while lying on a couch. The students who sent cards, and notes, and
didn’t flinch when I didn’t cover my head.
Why not me? This has been a bumpy exhausting road, but it
is only for a season. I continue to walk
and teach, to read stories to my kids, to sing, and all for the most part pain
free. There are people who deal with the
frustration of not being able to communicate easily their whole lives. There are young people in the prime of their
lives who suffer accidents paralyzing them.
There are people who live in constant pain. For a time, I am sick. If it had to be someone, why not me?
Perhaps I should ask, why me, God? I
cannot presume to know the answer. But I
am someone who needed to know the love of those around me abounds, and I found
that I can depend on others. I needed to
know that losing my hair wouldn’t mean losing what I like about myself. Chemo has been a fascinating lesson for me in
the wonder of how God creates our bodies.
Perhaps God knew I would appreciate more the sense of touch on my scalp,
the fine motor skills of my fingers, the complexity of my digestive system, and
the insulating power of body hair. The
timing of shedding and renewal of cells is perfectly arranged. This is a comfort to me, because it reminds
me that God is in charge. And above all,
what I needed to know was that I am not in charge.
