How do you fit three years into a few paragraphs? I have so
much I want to say. I feel like there is so much that needs said. And yet, my
heart is still, my mind is empty. I am a shell. I am a limping, stumbling, and beaten
soldier walking through a crater-strewn battlefield. The evidence of chaos
surrounds me – decimation existing as the memories of the carnage
that played out on this vast landscape that swallows me whole. I am dirty. I am
broken. I am done.
I have emerged from this experience with cancer not feeling
like a victorious warrior, but a scarred, lost soul. For so long I have chanted
this war cry of faith, talked about the strength that got me from one day to
the next, and pointed to the day that I would be able to say Hazel was cancer-free.
This Friday is that day…and yet I remain silent. I should be rejoicing. I
should be dancing with joy, shouting from the rooftops, singing His praises…something.
Right?
I AM happy of course. I am joyous. But most of all, I am
tired. I feel like these three years have been a race that started abruptly and
had us careening at break neck speeds into corners that spelled certain doom if
not navigated properly, only to finish on a prolonged, slow-moving
straightaway. I have spent three years on edge, three years worrying
constantly, three years praying without ceasing. I have spent three years being
angry. Three years in fear. Three years in anticipation. Three years with my
mind somewhere else. So much was stolen from me, from us, and from Hazel. I
know I will never be the same, WE will never be the same. I can deal with that.
But what is hard to deal with is the time we lost and the innocence that was destroyed.
My life has been a warzone. I have watched my daughter fall
asleep in a drug-induced slumber over 30 times so her spine could be punctured and
injected with liquid poison. I have held her down and stared deeply into her
eyes as countless needles were inserted into her arms; felt her muscles tense
in pain and fear while she screamed “You’re hurting me” at the nurses trying to
save her life. I have brushed her wiry, chemo-damaged hair off of her pillow
each morning for months in a feigned hope that she wouldn’t notice her hair was
falling out…again. I have watched her struggle to walk as the side effects from
the chemo stole her balance and weakened her muscles. I have held her and cried
quietly as she struggled through fitful nights’ sleep, dreaming nightmares of
what had already and was yet to come. I have celebrated holidays, birthdays,
and anniversaries in the hospital. And I would do it all again if that is what
it took to save her.
I know I am damaged, I never assumed we would emerge from
this experience unscathed. Hazel has a small, pink line that juts across her
chest, a remnant of the port used to deliver her life-saving chemo for the past
three years. She wears it like a badge, telling the entire world “Something
came for me, I fought it, and I won.” My scars are not physical, but their cuts
are no less deep. I will never forget
what I have been through, but – like Hazel – I am healing. It may take the rest of my lifetime, but I
will emerge whole again.
This Friday begins that process. As Hazel rings her bell, I
know angels – some on earth and all those in heaven – will be rejoicing right
along with her. Our God is no less God
in the shadows and no less faithful when the night leads us astray. Therefore, I
will praise Him as much in the valleys as I do from the tops of the highest
mountains.
No comments:
Post a Comment