Apr 26, 2018
by Deirdre Camenga
“A leg of your stool has been kicked out from under you.”
How did Pastor Liz know? That is exactly what it felt like. Emotionally, Eric’s cancer diagnosis felt much harder to deal with than my lymphoma diagnosis five years earlier. My wonderful, faithful friend, companion and love was facing the big C. At best—treatment options would forever change him physically. At worst—life without him. A difficult and sobering concept for our girls and me.
Clearly I was having an emotional reaction to this nasty diagnosis. Cancer facts: prostate cancer is the second leading cause of cancer death in men. Eric’s particular kind was moderately aggressive and NOT a “wait and watch” type. He was only 53 at the time of diagnosis. The American Cancer Society does not recommend screening for men with no family history until after age 55. (I am thanking God Eric’s PCP ignored that recommendation!)
Faith facts: God had this, no matter what. God has gotten our little family through a lot of trenches—including open-heart surgery on our little seven-year-old Elizabeth, three bouts of unemployment for Eric, and lymphoma for me. I knew all this, and yet, I was shaken. I also knew that sometimes God says, “No,” to healing this side of heaven. I knew this from watching my brother, Doug, wither away from cancer 8 1/2 years ago.
Fast forward four weeks. We checked in at St. Mary’s Hospital before 9 a.m. His radical prostatectomy was scheduled for noon. My need to plan-so-I-feel-somewhat-in-control-self had the day mapped out perfectly. I would sit with Eric until the surgical team wheeled him back, then I’d wait out the surgery with my dear friend, Amy, who had driven almost two hours to sit with me.
In healthcare, however, life doesn’t always go as planned. Eric’s surgery was delayed by over four hours. I thought my nerves were edgy weeks before we even had the surgery scheduled. The hour-by-hour wait was grueling. The pre-op nurse had already given Eric his happy meds, twice, and each time we waited and waited some more. I was concerned for him. Not only had he not had anything to eat or drink since the day before, but he’d also had a handy dandy colon cleanse the previous evening. He was whipped. We both wanted to get it over. We wanted the nastiness out of his body so healing could begin.
Finally, at 4:30, the surgical team whisked him away. I joined Amy in the waiting room. Unfortunately, for over four hours she had endured the whining of two very disgruntled, very LOUD preschoolers who had been confined to a double stroller since noon. While I felt bad for their mother, I was too consumed with my own angst to offer assistance. I realized very quickly I needed to escape the waiting room chaos.
The waiting room attendant looked at me with complete understanding when I asked if there might be quieter, calmer spot to wait out Eric’s surgery. Amy and I made our trek to the suggested area. As we passed through a long hallway with window walls on each side, we noticed a little outcropping that overlooked a lovely garden. We eased ourselves into comfy chairs facing the garden oasis. Curiously, just outside of our spot, was a huge 4 x 4-foot rock with a water fountain gurgling out from the middle. Very odd.
We settled into an easy conversation—the kind you have with a friend that knows all about you and loves you anyway. We talked about deep concerns of the heart: cancer, death, life, faith. (Amy is a breast cancer survivor.) We talked of family. We talked of lighthearted issues: our favorite characters of “Downton Abby” and all of the Jane Austen movies. Our conversation was interrupted periodically by phone calls from one of Eric’s OR nurses, giving me surgery updates.
I also had conversations with my girls, including a very tearful one from Tacy, who was having her own traumatic emotional reaction.
I would like to say the four hours (surgery was 3 and he was in recovery for an hour) flew by. In reality they did not. Yet in the waiting, God tended to my frazzled nerves. A quiet, semi-private place to wait. A beautiful garden for my eyes. Bubbling fountain for my ears. Amy’s tasty snacks for my mouth. Good conversation for my soul. Encouraging surgical updates for my heart. Best of all, Eric’s surgery was successful. He fared well. The cancer was contained with no evidence of invasive spreading.
As I settled into bed that night, God reminded me of my morning’s devotional verses:
“He stilled the storm to a whisper and the waves of the sea were hushed. They were glad that the waters were quiet and He brought them to their DESIRED HAVEN.” —Psalm 107:29-30
Following these verses in my journal I had written, “Looking to You today—counting on this.”
The phrase DESIRED HAVEN nearly lifted themselves off of the page. What is a haven? I need to look that up: a place of safety, refuge, offering favorable opportunities or conditions. Wow! God answered my prayer very specifically. He guided me to a precious desired haven where He masterfully hushed my frayed nerves.
Still, I couldn’t get to sleep, even though I was exhausted. I kept seeing the huge rock with water flowing freely. It seemed so familiar, yet I know I’d never seen a rock fountain. Then I remembered a conversation God had with Moses.
“Behold, I will stand before you there on the rock at Mt. Horeb; and you shall strike the rock and water shall come out of it, that the people may drink.” —Exodus 17:6
God provided refreshment for the Israelites from a most unlikely place—a rock. While I didn’t go down and drink the water out of the rock, God certainly used it as a means of calming refreshment. The rock gushing water was all part of the desired haven I had prayed for in the morning.
It has been nearly five months since Eric’s surgery. The image of my desired haven sticks with me. A month ago I felt a lump in my neck. Was my lymphoma rearing its ugly head again? Within five days of this discovery I visited three physicians: my PCP, a surgeon, and an ENT. I also had an email conversation with my oncologist and the added pleasures of a CAT scan, an MRI, and a round of antibiotics. In the midst of theses crashing waves, God kept reminding me of the desired haven He had provided months earlier. Oh yea—God can still this storm to a whisper, too.
**Endnotes: Eric is doing great. Aside from not being able to bike with me all summer, it’s almost as if he never had cancer at all. And my lump—well, it was an inflamed, infected parotid gland—something the ENT doc said is common in old, dehydrated ladies.
