From the Bench

Ed note: This story was written almost a year ago, and appeared in the fall edition of "Northeast Georgia Living" magazine. It is a story of hope, a journey that continues almost a year after it was written. What better time than Springtime and Easter to celebrate..........

A JOURNEY OF HOPE
"But as for me, I will always have hope."
Psalm 71:14

In 1996, shortly after I was diagnosed with cancer, I received a card with a picture of a pelican trying to swallow a frog. The frog was desperately squeezing the pelican’s neck to avoid being eaten. The caption read, "Don’t ever give up."

I never have, although there have been times when I was tempted.

When the diagnosis came, the doctor delivered a mixed verdict. "I have some good news and some bad news. You have low-grade lymphoma. The good news is that it develops slowly. The bad news is, there is no cure."

The verdict was excruciatingly accurate. The first three years amounted to watching and waiting. The last five have consisted of bridges over the painful waters of chemotherapy , connecting to islands of tranquillity in between. The islands have another name, "remission". So far, the islands have made it all worthwhile.

Eight years have gone by since the original diagnosis. How have I made it? I’m still not sure; therefore, when I was asked to put it down on paper, I was skeptical, and doubted that I could do it, especially after five or six aborted attempts that ended up in the trash can. But the deadline approached, and a promise is a promise, so here goes.

First, this will not be a presumptuous, ready-made survival kit: "How I Survived Cancer, You Can, Too". Every person’s journey is different, and "Plug-in" psychology is not my bag; however, there are a few things that seem to have worked for me, things that are common to all of us.

The basis for them is both practical and biblical. They center around one word, one thing, that we cannot exist without, or, if we do, isn’t worth the effort. That word is "Hope".

The apostle Paul encapsulated it best in I Corinthians. He surrounded hope with faith and love. It is significant that "hope" is in the middle. It is like a swing, supported on either side by the pillars of faith and love. Without the pillars, the swing would collapse.

The pillars are unique to each of us. That is why "do-it-yourself " kits do not work. My story is mine alone. Maybe you will find it helpful. I hope so.

I could tell you that I read the Bible every day and pray without ceasing, continually building my pillar of faith. I would be lying. When I am in the foxhole of despair caused by chemotherapy or its aftermath, I work harder at it. The pace picks up when I am crossing one of the bridges, then slacks off when I reach an island.

It would be misleading to cast off my faith and my prayer life casually. Both have been an integral part of my survival. More integral, however, has been the faith and prayers of others, which brings me to the other pillar, "love".

"Love." It is a word that is sometimes used so indiscriminately as to become meaningless. That is sad. It can be such a powerful word, for its power rests in what it means to each of us.

For me, love is people. Relationships. It cannot exist in a vacuum. You do not get it by moping in a darkened room, although that can be tempting in desperate times.

Love has taken on new dimensions over the past eight years, far beyond what I could have ever expected

It has come in the form of a spouse who refused to let me give up when I was ready to quit.

It has come from my children, who agonized with me when I got bad news, and rejoiced with me when the news was good.

It has come from a seven-year-old granddaughter, sensitive enough when I stood in the kitchen, crying in despair, to come and hand me a hastily-written note in a childish scrawl, "Grandpa, I love you. Guss who."

And it has come from people who have cared enough to demonstrate their concern with cards, and calls, and prayers. Knowing they are praying has been one of the greatest reinforcements for both my pillars.

Right now I am enjoying another island of relative tranquility. What the future holds, I cannot foresee. Perhaps it is dimmer because of that pronouncement eight years ago, "There is no cure."

That’s OK. I haven’t given up.

When the next bridge will come, and where it will lead, I do not know. That’s all right, too. So long as the pillars remain strong, hope will survive, and that is all that matters.