The cords of the grave coiled around me; the snares of death confronted me. In my distress I called to the LORD; I cried to my God for help.
—Psalm 18:5–6
If I thanked God that my firstborn had found a calm harbor, it was because we were going through more troubled waters with the rest of our family. Our second son, Josh, and his wife, Laura, had still been in their teens when they married. They’d moved out to New Mexico by the time their daughter Maddi was born. But she was only three years old when their marriage ended in divorce, a devastating time for our son and the whole family.
Meanwhile, after graduating from film school in Florida, our son Zach had followed his dream of film production to New York. But he hadn’t been able to find work in that field and was having to take on any job he could find to pay bills. Neither Josh nor Zach could afford to come home often. Our youngest son, Jon, had moved to Lancaster City once he was out of high school, and though he dropped by now and then, his social circle was now his own set of friends.
In November 2002, Josh called to let us know he’d be having knee surgery. He would also be spending his first Thanksgiving alone. My heart broke for him. I called my own mother, and the two of us made plans to fly to New Mexico, where we could give Josh the support of family during his surgery and cook him a good Thanksgiving dinner before flying home.
The evening before our flight, I was still organizing my packing when the phone rang. It was my doctor’s office. I’d gone in a short time earlier for a routine mammogram. They would not be wasting a phone call if the results were my usual clean bill of health, so immediately my stomach tensed. The caller had no specific results for me, only said that something suspicious had shown up on the X ray. “You need to make an immediate appointment with an oncologist.”
I wasn’t as surprised as I might have been. In the short time since the mammogram, I’d noticed an unusual black-and-blue bruising around the examination area, far more so than with any previous mammogram. Already my mind was conjuring up scenarios. A fatty cyst? Benign tumor? Cancer?
But I could not let myself even go there. At this point my son’s need took priority. I didn’t even consider canceling my flight. I’ll deal with this when I get home, I told myself firmly. Right now my only focus is Josh.
I did share the news with Chuck. We decided together not to mention the phone call until after Mom and I returned from New Mexico. The last thing I wanted was for my mother or anyone else in the family to be worrying about me during this difficult time in Josh’s life.
But keeping my fears tamped down and a smile on my face wasn’t easy. Josh’s surgery was successful. My mother and I stayed in New Mexico for about a week. We cooked up an elaborate Thanksgiving dinner. Our visit had been a good one, and I’d been reasonably successful at banishing from my thoughts all the possibilities that phone call implied. But one day as I was dressing, my mother walked into the room in time to catch sight of the bruising on my chest, now even uglier in its black-and-blue mottling. Shocked, she demanded to know what was wrong. It was a relief to share my fears and to pray together.
Once back in Lancaster County, I called immediately to make an appointment. But it was mid-December before I was able to meet with the doctor. Despite my misgivings, I drove to the oncologist’s office with an optimistic attitude. For one, I believe in a God who wants the best for us. I trusted that God held my future in His hands. I never once asked, “Why me?” On the contrary, I knew well that I was no different from anyone else, and countless millions faced health crises every year. So why not me?
But by the time the oncologist explained the results, I was stunned. The X ray not only showed a large tumor, but the diagnosis was inflammatory breast cancer, stage three (IBC). I quickly learned that IBC is considered one of the most aggressive cancers because it grows so quickly, is often widespread at the time of discovery, and is more likely to come back after treatment than other types of breast cancer.
The oncologist laid out the course of treatment ahead of me, which included eight rounds of chemotherapy followed by a radical mastectomy. She explained also how sick the treatment would make me, with loss of hair, nausea, and weakness beyond the devastation of the surgery itself.
I left her office feeling far less optimistic. I stopped at the reception desk to make my follow-up appointments and waited while the receptionist made a phone call to set up my schedule with the surgeon. I’ll never forget my feeling of disbelief when the receptionist referred to me on the phone as a “C-patient.”
That’s not me! I told myself, stunned. I’m a healthy person. I’ve always been a healthy person. It felt like an out-of-body experience.
But in reality, I now had a new identity. I was a cancer patient. If all went well and God showed mercy, someday I would be a cancer survivor. But cancer would always be part of my identity from this day forward.
My next appointment was with the surgeon. Medical personnel are usually pretty expressionless when dealing with patients. But I caught a look of aghast disbelief on the surgeon’s face as she took in the unsightly discoloration of my bruises and then quickly turned her eyes away. She picked up the X ray to examine it. I’d been counseled to take along a voice recorder to my various appointments. Listening now to the recording I took during that appointment, I can hear again the sharp emphasis of her exclamation, “This tumor is so large!”
Her commentary should have scared me to death. This storm had blown into my life so completely out of the blue. Of all the disasters that could have befallen me, this was one that had simply never crossed my mind. Just how much was my life about to change?
If my worst fears had just been confirmed, I also felt peace. Perhaps to some degree I was still in shock. Maybe I just hadn’t quite grasped how deadly a prognosis stage three IBC implied. Or how few survived long-term to tell the tale. But at the same time I had confidence that God was in control of my life and that He could bring healing.
A major encouragement was a friend of mine named Johanna, who had also been diagnosed with breast cancer that had in time become lung cancer. She’d been told she had only three months to live. Along with traditional medicine, she’d chosen to pursue an alternative cancer treatment called the “living foods diet.” It is based on Genesis 1:29–30, where God says, “I give you every seed-bearing plant . . . and every tree that has fruit with seed in it . . . I give every green plant for food.”
Practically speaking, this translated into giving up meat, dairy, processed flour, sugar, and similar foods and eating only freshly harvested plants, seeds, nuts, legumes, etc. Since I thoroughly enjoyed the traditional German/Irish foods we prepared as a family, I’d had no interest in joining my friend’s new lifestyle. But one major downside of chemotherapy is that it doesn’t only kill cancerous cells, but kills healthy ones as well. The proponents of living foods claimed that this diet, first given to Adam and Eve by God himself in the Garden of Eden, was not only healthier, but restored the human body’s own natural healing ability, strengthening its immune system to fight off infection and disease.
These claims had certainly proved true for Johanna, who was still alive and healthy eight years after being given three months to live. She urged me to visit Optimum Health Institute, the holistic healing center in Southern California that had helped her shift her eating and exercise habits. I wasn’t quite ready to take such a drastic step. Instead I started chemotherapy, but I did begin a modified version of Johanna’s living foods diet.
“If the chemo and surgery don’t work,” I told Johanna, “I’ll consider going all the way with your program.”
I began chemotherapy and the new diet on the same day. Others with whom I shared my plan thought I was crazy. They insisted I needed meat protein to keep up my strength. Within five days I was feeling so ill at work that it seemed clear to me the new diet was not helping. Heading home, I opened a can of chicken and made a chicken salad sandwich. After gobbling it down, I felt so much better that I decided the naysayers had been right about not giving up meat protein.
When I shared my experience with Johanna, she reassured me that detoxifying the body of animal products and processed foods can make you feel ill for a few days, but that it would pass. In any case, the chicken hadn’t helped. Almost immediately, I was feeling even worse than before. I could actually taste the effects of the chemo—a strong metallic taste, like chewing on nickels. And my mouth was filled with ulcers.
I returned to the modified living foods diet, but over the next months, I lost not only my hair, but my fingernails, toenails, even my eyelashes. I was so weak I could hardly function. In the context of everything else, perhaps it seems trivial, but I felt so ugly! My beauty pageant days were long gone, but I’d always taken pride in a good appearance. Now I couldn’t bear to look at myself in the mirror.
Even in this, I sought to find humor. One week toward the end of my chemo, our church was sponsoring a coffeehouse with skits and other wholesome comedy entertainment. One of the skits being prepared involved eight bald men. I said to the organizer of the skit, “Hey, would you like another volunteer? I’ve lost all my hair!”
He looked at me skeptically. “Are you kidding? Would you really do that?”
“Sure, why not!” I assured him.
So out on the stage that night walked seven bald men—and one bald woman. The skit itself was hilarious, and the audience responded to my lines with roars of laughter. Afterward, a number of church members approached me to say how much they’d appreciated my participation: “Thank you for bringing into the open this whole issue of cancer. We’ve wanted to express our sympathy. We just didn’t know what to say.”
Through this time, I continued working. While friends and co-workers commented on my positive outlook, there were times in the dark hours of the night when fear would creep in, stealing away the sleep I so desperately needed. Throughout, I was comforted by the outpouring of prayer on my behalf from family, friends, and my church.
Another comfort was Scripture. I’d begun memorizing verses when I first started Neighborhood Bible Studies. Now I found myself turning to certain passages to calm me when fears arose or when I was feeling particularly ill after a chemo session. One of these was Philippians 4:6–7:
Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
It was a passage I’d heard and read often enough over the years, but its meaning had never really struck home—perhaps because I hadn’t needed it like I did now. A particular phrase jumped out at me: “Do not be anxious . . . but in every situation . . . with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.”
I’d poured out my anxious fears and petitions to God often enough. But I’d never really noticed the command to offer those petitions with thanksgiving. Once God healed me, there’d certainly be reason to give thanks. But what was there to give thanks about in the midst of such a desperate situation? I began to pray.
Thank you, heavenly Father, for that mammogram showing this tumor before it was too late. Thank you for access to good doctors. Thank you for such wonderful support from loving family and friends. Thank you for employers who are always understanding when I’m feeling sick from chemo. Thank you that my life is in your hands. Thank you for surrounding me with your love.
Yes, there was indeed reason to give thanks, no matter what my current circumstances. When I could think of nothing else to pray, I would turn to more Scripture passages I’d memorized. Always they brought comfort.
If you are going through trials, if the way seems dark ahead, if the winds and waves of life’s storms are crashing around you until you feel you are drowning, I cannot recommend strongly enough the value of committing God’s Word to your heart and mind through memorization. Then, whether alone in the dark of a sleepless night, driving your vehicle, or taking a walk, you can simply speak out to God the promises He has given in His Word. With every petition, thank God for the blessings He has brought into your life (and if you search, you will find many, even if they are simply clean water to drink and food on your table!). As you do so, I guarantee that you will, like me, encounter God’s peace replacing fear and anxiety in your heart and mind.
Find something to be thankful for!