On November 4, Webb and I sat down with my newly appointed neurosurgeon, and he walked us through recent MRI results. Within a few minutes, he pulled up my images, and circled a glowing mass located deep within my brain. It was a surreal moment, but we were grateful for his direct manner and path to move forward. He told us that while he believed this was a slow growing tumor, he wanted to proceed with surgery and remove it before the holidays. Despite the news, Webb and I felt a strange and inexplicable sense of peace settling into our bones. The reality check came later in the day, when against my better judgement, I spent 15 minutes researching the “low grade glioma tumor” our doctor believed I had in my brain. The more I learned, the more my heart sank. That night, I struggled to sleep- and ended up downstairs in my favorite chair to pray (and cry a little). Strangely, I didn’t feel the fear I thought I’d have given the circumstances we faced. What I did have was an aching grief for the life I’d pictured in my head, which I suddenly realized I’d taken for granted. I thought about the three beautiful people with whom I’ve made a life, and all the big and small moments I wanted to be a part of going forward. At some point in those early morning hours, the song “I Surrender All” came into my mind. It wasn’t some thundering, God-like voice, but I don’t think it came from me. I grabbed my AirPods and sat down to listen. Afterwards, in that peaceful space, wise words spoken to me almost a decade ago by my aunt Susan came to mind: “Darling, this is out of your pay grade.” And then another voice from the beloved pastor, Jim Jackson, who has always said: "Truth is self-authenticating. When you hear the truth, you know it's the truth." Even my mule-headed, stubborn ego could recognize the undeniable reality of my limitations in this moment.
We wanted to be honest with the girls about what we were facing, but knew it was too big a burden for them to carry without the support of our friends and family. We needed prayer… and help with the moving parts of our daily life because I was now suddenly unable to drive and facing long hours of testing at Methodist. In the days after our meeting with the neurosurgeon, time felt like it moved at a different pace. Moments somehow felt more beautiful and sacred, and previously unspoken expressions of love among family and friends simply flowed out without our normal protective armor or formalities. Telling all of you about what we were going through felt like hurling myself out of an airplane (which I have NEVER had a desire to do)… but I didn’t feel like we had a choice. We’ve been down the cancer road more than once with our parents, and knew from that experience how the minutia/scheduling of every day life can break one’s back when facing something that big. And because birds of a feather flock together- I knew my precious fella would break his back trying to carry the entire burden alone.
Through it all, Webb has been by my side. Somehow, he summoned a strength that was beyond anything I’ve ever witnessed in my life- but it wasn’t the kind of strength we see played out in the movies. This strength required absolute faith and trust- and was far more powerful because it was a lived-out expression of Godly love, as defined in the 13th chapter of Corinthians. His steady hand, profound devotion, and faith in me helped me find the courage I needed to calmly make hard decisions I never thought I’d have to face. He did the impossible and never attempted to fix or take control of what was in front of us (which has historically been our knee-jerk reaction when we’re afraid)… he simply cemented his feet alongside mine in solidarity. I only wish his mother and father were alive to witness their son in this difficult moment, because they would have been so proud.
Fast forward 10 days… we’re once again meeting with my neurosurgeon to go over the additional imaging they needed for the surgery. Webb and I sat frozen in disbelief as my doctor explained how that, after reviewing the more detailed scans with Methodist’s best neuroradiologists, he no longer believed the mass was a glioma tumor. Strangely, this news was more difficult to digest than the original meeting where we saw the first set of MRI’s… mainly because of the uncertainty it presented and the massive Brene Brown "vulnerability hangover" I felt for taking all of you down this roller coaster with us. I instantly shrank when I thought of how this would feel to all of you who’ve prayed for us, shuttled our kids and carried us with meals and encouragement. The path we’d begun to accept had changed in a way we never anticipated. Our doctor wants me to repeat the detailed imaging every 3 months for a year to make sure the area does not evolve into something else, but for now- surgery is off the table. We’re no longer facing the same prognosis, but because of the seizures, I’m still unable to drive. However, this time has taught us that, in the grand scheme of things, this is a small bump in the road and insignificant. As my precious dad always says, “God never wastes suffering.” We don’t why that area of my brain lit up, or what caused it… or if it will evolve. It’s unlikely. What we do know is that God was present in the midst of it all and continues to be… so we’ll continue to trust in whatever path He has planned for us. As for me, I find myself praying the prayer my grandfather always said before going to bed at night, which was “Lord, please give me the strength to accept Your will.”
When I created a CaringBridge site for myself, I imagined it being a simpler way to coordinate the handful of people who’d be willing to respond and help us. I also wanted to inform those with whom I have responsibilities so they could plan around my absence. And if I’m really honest, I wanted to be in charge of the narrative (hello, control issues) so that our experience didn’t end up being something it wasn’t. In weaker moments, I imagined us becoming a topic of conversation… and felt like curling up in a ball from the unwanted exposure. What I didn’t expect was the OVERWHELMING love and support from so many people around us. It’s created a profound gratitude, and has humbled us in a way I don’t yet know how to express. Every single one of you have been the hands and feet of Jesus for us during this time, and we will never forget how you’ve carried us. We love you.
