I have had plans to blog for months and months. First there was going to be the blog about the night I was called in for a woman pregnant with twins where the first twin delivered normally, but the second twin was stuck sideways, and in order to save both mom and baby, I had to reach up into her uterus to turn the baby around to get him to come out the right way. I would have told you how terrified I was and how, in the end, by God's grace, mom and both babies did fine.Then I was going to write a sensational story about the night I was doing an emergency C-section for fetal distress, and in the middle of sewing up the uterus and resuscitating the baby, the power in the operating room went out, making it pitch black and turning off the oxygen and the baby warmer, and we had to carry on under the guidance of flashlight until the generator was turned on. And again, God's hand was on all of us, and mom and baby were fine.
There might have been a blog about when we finally started doing thyroidectomies, or about when the architect came to visit and we made real-life plans for a brand new operating theatre + ICU. And there probably would have been something in there about my sweet cat Lloyd.
But life at Mukinge has been busy. And then I was traveling a lot. And then life got even busier with many in the missionary community going on furlough, having babies, and getting married, and many visitors coming and going from Mukinge. And then I started feeling unwell. And then things got worse...
In a regular day at my surgical clinic at Mukinge, I will
see patients who come with a variety of chief complaints – hernias, hearing
loss, broken bones, a bean stuck in the ear, weird lumps and bumps they want
removed, tumors large and small. In the
Western World, “cancer” is a word that automatically evokes fear as it is
largely understood to be something bad, something serious, something associated
with long and painful treatment, something associated with dying. In rural
Zambia, the word “cancer” often has little or no meaning. In Kikaonde, there
isn’t even a word for cancer. Many of my patients have not heard it in English
before, they don’t understand its seriousness, and are therefore not scared by
it. I will frequently have to explain what a cancer is, what it does, and what
we can (or often, cannot) do to treat it. Even then, to my patients receiving a
new diagnosis of cancer, the word itself holds little meaning.
As a surgeon, I have spoken the word “cancer” countless
times. To my patients, to their loved ones, in academic discussions with my
colleagues, and in hearing the sad news of others. I have learned to speak
about cancer without emotion and without fear because, after all, like a broken
arm or a bean in the ear, it is a clinical problem that I am working to solve.
Even when it involves sharing difficult news with a patient or hearing of the
tragic diagnosis of a friend, it does not consume me, and rarely does it change
me.
This week, however, I have heard and spoken the word
“cancer” more times than I can recall. And all of them in regard to me.
When I left Mukinge just last week, I left with a host of non-specific
symptoms, all of which I had attributed to a lingering viral illness, as well
as with a lump where a lump shouldn’t be. I made the long journey home to
Indiana to see some doctors and undergo testing. As feared, the lump turned out
to be malignant. If that weren’t enough, there’s cancer on the other side too.
And it’s in the lymph nodes. And all the other symptoms – the fatigue, the
aches and pains in my legs and hips, the coughing and shortness of breath, the
weight loss over the past few weeks – those are likely to be from a cancer that
is making itself at home throughout my body.
One week ago, I was a missionary surgeon in Northwest Zambia. Today I am
a 34-year old woman with advanced breast cancer. The word “cancer” has become
very personal.
Life forever changed.
I don’t know what else to say to you at this point other
than that despite this devastating news and the myriad of emotions I’m feeling
as a result, I wholeheartedly believe that God is still in control, that He
loves me, and that He has a plan and a purpose for me that is for my good and
His glory. I have a lot of questions for the Lord that start with “WHY?!?” I am
grieving the loss (at least for now) of the life I loved and have spent most of
my life preparing for with great passion and purpose. Along with my family, I
am preparing for some difficult days ahead as I get ready for chemotherapy and
all its glamorous side effects.
"Though he slay me, yet will I hope in him..." ~Job 13:15
I am thankful for each of you, for your prayers, your
friendship, and your support. Thank you to the many of you who have been
praying for me and have sent encouraging emails in the last week. I’m sorry
that I haven’t replied to most of your emails. Know that I have read each one
and have been so blessed by your love and concern for me. Please keep sending
them – even if I don’t reply right away.
I also ask that you join me in praying for many things:
For my doctors as they make decisions about treatment and
for all those who will be involved in my medical care along the way.
For my family as they walk through this with me. Pray for
courage and endurance, and pray that they will draw near to the Lord. Pray that
we would grow closer to one another through this.
For my friends and missionary family at Mukinge as they
carry on minus one surgeon and as they also grieve alongside me
For me in the days ahead – scans and surgery this week,
then chemo for the next few months. Please join me in praying for complete and
total healing. Pray for my heart, that I will lean on God and trust in His
sovereign plan, that He will soothe the fear and sadness and, let’s face it,
the anger that I feel, and that He will give me the courage and the grace to
move forward. Pray that in all things, I will bring glory to God.
