As a cancer survivor I often read the writings of other survivors. What do people deal with a year or two, or even ten years after they have been diagnosed? How has it changed them, their bodies, and their lives? And it seems all survivors have something in common- we all look over our shoulders. Even if we are declared cancer free we still have to face years of tests and scans to make sure it hasn’t come back. If something is off with our bodies, suddenly we start wondering if it’s cancer. I dealt with the cancer through shock, but later I felt the fear of the question we all ask… What if it comes back?
That question is like a hood always at the back of my head, and I’ve spent the past week cloaked with those thoughts and fears. It’s been testing time. I’ve been in and out of the hospital, the lab, and the doctor’s office. I’ve been poked and prodded making sure that we’ve done a thorough examination to make sure I’m really cancer free. I spent the entire week stressed and exhausted. I longed to get home and get to my big blue sweatshirt and wrap myself up in it. James was working and the kids were in bed, so I spent the evenings curled up on my couch with tea and books, which was my way of sulking and hiding from everything swirling through my mind.
Then I found myself at the perfect place at the perfect time- a small unfamiliar church to hear my cousin speak about his ministry in Chicago. Before my cousin spoke, a man named Denny stood up to do the meditation. Denny is a cancer survivor, like an uncle, and was an inspiration for me as I went through cancer. He is warm and funny, and always smiling. Again I found myself hanging to his words at a time of need.
He walked up to the pulpit, set his stuff down and put on his glasses. Although he smiled at all of us, his face had a look that said what was coming next was serious. He began to tell a story of running into another man at Wal-Mart. This man was in a wheelchair. When Denny asked this man how he was doing the man said he was great. Denny explained he walked away and began thinking about his own life. What did that man have that he was missing? He was in a wheel chair and he wasn’t just good or alright, he was great. Denny went on to do the meditation about examining ourselves and our hearts like a doctor would examine us if something was off. The doctor would do everything in his power to figure it out and find a way to make it right again.
Denny’s question startled me. It pulled the hood from eyes and let me see. A year and a half ago I could barely breathe. I could barely walk a lap around our small yard. I couldn’t sing or read to my children. An atypical tumor the size of a golf ball was lodged in my lungs with fingers that sprawled and reached around my lower and middle lobes. I was a sick and miserable young woman.
And here I was eighteen months later sitting in that pew alive. Not only was I alive but I was breathing well. Not only could I breathe, but I had just finished singing several worship songs. I run five days a week and I read to my kids every night. I have every reason to be great, but throw a handful of appointments and tests at me and I’m secluded on my couch trying to survive the week. Why wasn’t I great? On second thought, why hadn’t I spent the last week dancing my butt off with joy instead of sitting paralyzed on my couch?
In that moment, Denny and the power of God’s word taught me the meaning of being a survivor. If I wasn’t a survivor, I wouldn’t be here right now. Instead of wasting the time I’ve been given worrying, I should be enjoying every moment. Every day that I am a survivor means one more day to read the same book over and over again to my kids, one more day to steal a kiss from my husband, one more day to chase after my dreams, and one more day to soak in the beauty of life. Every day I get to wake up and call myself a survivor is a great day.
*Special thanks to Denny for the permission to write this story and for allowing God to work through him to change lives
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