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| He took a few weeks off and went back to work. |
We went to the doctor for the post-op visit. Michael had a tumor taken out of his brain, and this was two weeks later. No one had really told us clearly what it was we were dealing with. The doctor was cordial enough, but he's a neuro surgeon. Ask him a question; he'll answer it - factually, statistically, from everything he has read. Michael said, "What's the prognosis?" He responded, "18 to 24 months".
We left. I burst into tears. And then we went to buy some plants.
As we left the store with our purchases, the cashier cheerfully said, "Have a good day!" And I thought, "Right. Today is the first day of the rest of our life together. Have a good day."
Driving home, all I could think was 18 to 24 months. Have a good day! 18 to 24 months. Have a good day. 18 to 24 months, Have a good ...
Today we are several weeks later. I have had several tearful days, where I just want to hold on to Michael's arm, to touch him, to be wrapped in his embrace. He's recovering from surgery; he sleeps a lot. He's taking anti-seizure medicine; he sleeps a lot. What was removed from his head left him with a lot of heavy thoughts in there.
Michael is quiet. He has work to do, sermons and services to prepare. His work requires a lot of thinking about things to share publicly. These days he has other thoughts that remain mostly private. I know he contemplates his losses - experiences he won't have, relationships he won't have time for, adult children he'll miss engaging in conversation, activities that will be limited, curtailed, out of reach. He thinks about God, who loves him, draws him near, embraces him. He keeps on working.
We were advised to get a second opinion at Duke University Brain Cancer Research Center. We did that. They were great. After about five hours, we had talked to a nurse several times, a PA, someone who deals with money, and a doctor, a neuro oncologist. The first thing they told us was, "Don't google it" (gliobalstoma, that is). Yeah, well - too late. Their point, however, is even though there is no cure, and the timeline seems pretty short, there are anomalies; there are those who don't follow the rules. While they were realistic, they also encouraged us to live each day well. "Don't be a couch potato," said Nurse Nancy. And that is our hope. We hope that each day that Michael has to share with us will be the best day possible. We hope that the treatments ahead will bring more days and more good days. And we Hope.
Another line runs through my head, "For me to live is Christ, to die is gain." What a Hope! We have Hope. We have hope that God will bear us up, that God will be our life, that God will draw us to him. The Creator of the Universe wants us, Michael and me, to be with him today and always! The Creator of the Universe, who clothes the sparrows, who cultivates soil for us to grow in, who bears our grief, carries our sorrows has always been faithful. That is the Hope that we cling to.
And that is the Hope that allows us, all of us ... you're invited, too ... to Have a Good Day!
Writing makes things clear for me. I plan to write my way through this journey. You are welcome to join me. I Hope we will have lots of Good Days together.
