Posts Tagged ‘caretaker’

Cancer: A Family Affair (Part 5 – Conclusion)

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Written by Matt, Stephanie’s husband, guardian, and steadfast calm in her biggest storm.

When I first heard that Stephanie had cancer, it wasn’t through Facebook. It wasn’t through word of mouth or even a phone call. I learned the news at the same time she did, because I was by her side, sitting in the chair next to hers at the doctor’s office. I was there.

Hearing the news made my stomach drop to the floor. Instantly, I became aware of a shortness of breath. I can only compare it to getting hit incredibly hard. You don’t feel pain at first, but you know it’s coming, and you know it’s really going to suck. Talking to the doctor, getting connected with oncologists and radiologists and getting meetings set up was the initial, “let’s deal with this” shock.

Then we got back to the car. That’s when the wave of pain hit.

Was this real life? Did that just happen? My mom had just died four months earlier, was my wife going to die next? Then what happens to me? I never told Stephanie at the time, but in my head I immediately went to the worst-case scenario. I went there once, and never went back. From then on, we had to live in the reality of the moment, but also make positive strides each day. So onward was the course. Even if you’re baby-stepping, make sure you baby-step forward.

Cancer is a literal hurricane that rips through every aspect of what your life was. Whatever plans we had for the future we had to let go of. We had to stay low to the ground and choose to not let it sweep us away. While shattered pieces of our dreams of having kids and buying a house swirled around us, cancer wouldn’t take us. Stay low to the ground and move forward, but find shelter.

The good news is that we did have a storm shelter, so to speak. It’s God. It’s still God. It’ll never stop being God. He’s our refuge. Get there, stay there. We found comfort in knowing Jesus as our Savior, and knowing that He was protecting us the whole time. We knew He wasn’t done with us, and that He’d use this situation for good. When people think of Jesus, they may think of someone who lived a long time ago and preached love and peace, laughing with children and holding lambs from time to time. That He was perfect. So perfect in fact that some don’t think He was ever real at all.

But people don’t see the whole picture. Jesus didn’t hide emotions. He cried over losing those He cared about. And He got angry, flipping over tables and yelling at people. While still God, He was also human and felt what we feel. And few see Jesus as the warrior He is and will come back as. The whole good vs. evil thing that plagues our world — He is the good. He was and continues to be our good. I shake my head and am brought to tears when I think of what would have happened if we didn’t know Him through the entirety of our journey through cancer. There’s a chance we’d be divorced. Steph could be dead. I could be dead.

Cancer sucks. But it galvanized our marriage. It gut-checked us. When we got married, we said vows to each other, but at the time never truly considered facing situations that would force us to “put up or shut up.” At diagnosis, we chose to “put up” and live out those vows. Because that’s what marriage is. It’s not surface-level rainbows and butterflies. It’s ugly and dirty and downright hard. But when you muck through the trenches with God as your anchor, the payoff is better than anything you could ever imagine. After all, we’re now in Austin, five years after God put the promise in our hearts when cancer wasn’t even on the radar. We still have dreams of family and buying a house someday, but those dreams look different than they did before.

This journey has also taught me to live a bolder life. Frankly, I used to be the type to think that if things didn’t work out in my favor, and if they didn’t work out perfectly, they weren’t meant to be. In the past few months I’ve stepped out and done things that the old Matt would call me absolutely insane for doing. But I’m glad I’m doing them, and I’m in a far better spot because of it. Swing hard, and swing for the fences. No one comes to the plate hoping to hit a weak grounder back to the pitcher. Taking chances and falling on your face is a guarantee, so you might as well make the falls worth it. Take big chances and bet on yourself.

Finally, invest in people. Take the good that life gives you, be the good you want to see, and do good for others. Take good, be good, do good. There’s nothing to be gained in the pursuit of vanity. “The good stuff” is in people, not things. Life isn’t a guarantee, and days don’t repeat themselves. January 25, 2012 happened once. August 31, 2016 happens once. Life ebbs and flows and is as unpredictable as the forecast of a Colorado weatherman. At the end of the day, what matters isn’t your status, intelligence, or bank account. It’s people. Growing old together may not be a guarantee, but the effect you have on others is. Make your life count for good.

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John 1:5 (ESV)

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

Cancer: A Family Affair (Part 1)

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When I was diagnosed, we were all diagnosed. My husband. My family. My friends. Though I carried the weight of the disease, those who surrounded me were burdened by the gravity of the situation as well. Cancer doesn’t only affect the afflicted, it tears through the core of everyone around you.

I’ll never forget each phone call I made to those closest to me on January 25, 2012. I spent nearly six hours sharing the news with my brothers, step sisters, parents, grandparents, extended family, and friends. I’ll never forget how I felt with each person. Because of different personalities, everyone heard the news in a different way. With some, I was direct and to the point. Emotionless. Others heard my tears and sorrow. With some, I was careful and delicate. I even offered comfort to those who simply couldn’t believe what I was telling them. I heard anger. I heard sadness. I heard guilt. I heard shock. I heard prayers. I heard support. I heard it all.

My diagnosis didn’t just affect me. It affected everyone who loved me. And everyone who loved those who loved me. And everyone who loved those who loved those who loved me. Cancer isn’t an isolated circumstance. Its tendrils reach far and wide, touching the world. We’ve all been affected by cancer in some way, haven’t we?

Though I fought this disease four times, through years and years of a desperate battle, my husband was there for every single moment. Though I was the one who was sick and aching and dying, my husband was being wounded by the disease as well. What he witnessed still leaves gaping wounds in his soul and deep scars in his spirit. I cannot even begin to fathom how he felt when his bride was facing death. We only had six months of wedded bliss before malignancy marred our marriage. He’s carried my weak body out of bed. He’s clothed me. He’s bathed me. He’s fed me. My husband is my guardian. He’s stood at the gates between Heaven and Earth in protection of me.

Miles often separated my brothers and I, but I know that my diagnosis also deeply affected each of them in ways I may never know. You see, my brothers are my best friends. We share a bond that I’ve never witnessed between other siblings. I thank God for choosing them to be forever mine. My comrades. My cheerleaders. My protectors. My younger, but much bigger, brothers. We’ve been through life together. We share everything with one another. We speak multiple times a week (often every day), and have for the majority of our lives. So, when I got cancer, I know they probably felt like a part of them got cancer as well. They are caring, attentive, and the most incredible brothers I could have ever dreamed or wished to have.

Because I’m not yet a parent, to begin to describe what mine have endured would never grasp the scope of what their realities have looked like since my diagnosis. My mom always dreamt of throwing me an elaborate baby shower. Of sympathizing with me as my belly expanded and morning sickness ailed me. Many of her dreams were lost the day cancer barged into her daughter’s life. In typical Momma Bear fashion, she roared in anger and desperation in my affliction. She felt helpless, as her adult child — her firstborn and only daughter — was growing weaker and weaker.

My father. This wasn’t the first time cancer threatened to steal someone close to him. His mother passed away from the disease years ago. His mother, and potentially his only daughter. I can’t imagine. I’m a true daddy’s girl. He has always been strong and bold and able to quiet emotion. He is the umbrella on a rainy day, and the warm blanket in the cold. Yet, my cancer tore through him. He cried devastated tears. How does this make a father feel? I will never know.

When cancer affected me, it affected them. And I’m sure my diagnosis has even affected some of you as well. I shudder at how devastating this disease is. It’s a plague. A monster. A beast that swallows everyone in its path. Cancer touches us all in some way. Yet, I honestly can only know how my diagnosis has hurt me personally. I can’t see within my husband’s heart, and though I often wish I could, I surely cannot read his mind. No matter how close my brothers and I are, to try and understand how my diagnosis has impacted them would end in failure. Though I’ve known my mother and my father longer than I’ve known anyone else, I’ll never be able to grasp what they’ve endured when their only daughter got cancer.

Because I cannot imagine, understand, or fathom how my family has personally been affected since I was diagnosed, I’ve been inspired to invite them to share their stories with you and me. This month, I’m beginning a series that focuses on the family behind the patient. Each week, a family member of mine will open their hearts and share with us. They’ll explain how they felt, what they feared, and how their lives have forever been altered since my diagnosis. Please know, this requires much of them. Though I have the gift of sharing my life in words, not all of them do. My journey has been painful for them, and I’m honored at their willingness to open their wounds in this way. They may share everything, they may only share the surface, and some may not share at all. In fact, my father desperately wishes he could, yet his wounds are still too raw to be opened. Someday he may, but the time isn’t just yet.

I encourage you to follow along as you and I both get an inside look at how cancer affects more than just me, the patient. Maybe you’re the mother, or the brother, or the spouse of someone fighting cancer. My hope is that this would bring healing to us all.

1 Corinthians 13:7 (ESV)

“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”