Robo-Tim Being Real and Raw

(May 24, 2024)

Dear Journal

Thankfully, another bone biopsy (the most horrific of all possible next steps to decipher my ongoing bone issues) has been back-burnered for the moment.

Instead it will be a bone scan, for which we are hoping for clear and conclusive results.

But come to think of it, good results can’t be all that likely since, despite aggressive treatments, I’ve clearly still got the disease and pain. So something’s gotta be wrong. I just hope that we can find and fix it without me having to reenter the bone-biopsy agony zone. Being raw: the very thought of another biopsy in my jaw nearly freezes me with dismay.

My ongoing jaw issues showed up another way yesterday. When I “rehearsed” a sermon for two weeks from now, reading it aloud for 35-40 minutes to see how it flows and how I feel, it hurt to sustain a voice that projects to be heard in a preaching context. 

The recent jawbone pain setbacks have made it hurt far more than when I preached seven weeks ago. It’s not bad enough to cancel out on my June 9 message at Covenant Fellowship—at least not now. But the worsened pain is real. So God, as always, will need to provide extra grace if preaching is something he wants me to do. What else is new, right?

I cannot tell you the feeling of all this limbo in my life. 

My cancer is on hold, seemingly extending my life, but my jaw disease and other maladies seem to be worsening, filling that extended life with pain. 

I want to preach—and think that it might be a blessing—but it hurts to talk. 

I know tests are needed, but please Lord, NOT ever again a bone biopsy. 

Yes, the bone biopsy idea got tabled for the moment, but for how long; given that it was part of the conversation?

A bone scan is tolerable, but given the signs and symptoms, one of these tests is bound to have some bad news attached. 

I’m hitting the jaw disease with an antibiotic sledgehammer, and yet it’s as stubborn as a cranky old mule.

I can’t survive without writing (today is my 800th journal post!), but then real and raw writing that is not overly repetitive and discouraging to me and to those who read can be hard.

I get exhausted nearly every day, with heavy heavy eyes longing for sleep, but then I can’t sleep when I close them.

I faithfully and carefully take my meds and wear my fanny pack to IV my meds in, but the evidence is that they may be only barely helping. 

I get up to wander here or there but end up wondering whether I’m going anywhere.

I chauffeur Gayline, wash dishes, make my bed, take out the garbage, sit in my unusually-sized recliner, and putter and sputter around our 500 square feet of space—but I feel like I’m functioning through muscle memory more than conscious active choice. 

Like an overly hefty Robo-Tim I go through various mindless mechanical motions each day with a vague sense that life does very much matter, but that everything in my life has is stamped with a huge question mark. 

I try to make plans, but there’s an inescapable awareness that they may well be foiled by whatever is coming down the pike next.

If I whomp up ideas of things to do, they ALL come with a loud and unmistakable “If the Lord wills and enables”—which, given recent trends, is about a 25-75 proposition. 

Taking initiative takes energy that I do not have.

I want to exercise, but it hurts to. 

I want to serve, but the tank is on “E”. 

I want to enter fully into each moment, but first, I need to rest, to grab my cane, to make sure I’m stable on my feet, and to check that I am adequately pain-relieved to do it.

I feel like I’m a classic car in still usable shape, somewhat shined and spiffed, but without an engine. 

I live having lots of questions, but receiving very few answers.

I want to be free to live and thrive, but I’m held hostage by a half-a-dozen conditions every one of which restricts my movement and hinders my freedom. 

I know I’m not supposed to worry over stuff. But what is one to do when that stuff is pounding down the door. 

I know I’m not to worry about tomorrow, and pretty much I don’t. But me telling myself not to worry about all this tough stuff is like telling me NOT to worry when a gun-toting midnight burglar is coming through the door. At some point, if I can hear the broken glass and shuffling feet of an intruder, it might be time to show some appropriate concern. Wouldn’t you think?

Man! This is a very tough way to live.

Signing off,

Robo-Tim