I've done a lot of hard things in my life. Most of them were things I didn't realize were hard until later when someone would say, "That must have been hard." I didn't notice - just kept plugging away knowing that with some persistence, patience, and ingenuity things would get better some day.
But this thing I'm doing now - harder than I ever imagined. It's not fun. It is not satisfying. And it has no hope for a great outcome - at least not by anything I can do. The day it gets better ... well, I cry when I think about that.
I ... we ... live in a most generous community. Without them I would be a major mess.
If you've been following our journey, you know that another tumor grew in Michael's brain and was removed Sept 1 last year. He hasn't been the same since. The whole tumor was not removeable. (The first time around they got the whole thing.) This time they had to "nick" some of the viable brain in the process of getting out what they could get out.
Recovery was slow. He had intention tremors in his legs that landed him on the floor daily until we (Amira and I) learned how to pay attention and place chairs strategically around the house that could be whipped behind him when we saw trouble coming.
He has recovered to the place where he can walk around the house without even a cane. The tremors are gone.
He can hear and understand everything that goes in his ears. He sleeps a lot. Maybe he's depressed. I know I would be. He watches stuff on the tv. Just watches. No comment, no annoyance, no excitement. He can answer yes/no questions effectively - except sometimes he says no when he means yes. He sometimes makes full, coherent, and correct sentences. He can tell you what position he played in high school and college when he played football. He can tell you the names of his teammates and friends. I tell him, "I love you". He says, "That's good". I laugh. Then turn away and cry.
We haven't had a conversation since mid August when he had a grand mal seizure.
He is comforted by scripture. He likes quiet music. He drinks a lot of chocolate-banana smoothies and still likes potted-meat sandwiches.
This is just the longest, hard journey I've ever been on.
I am comforted by music, scripture, friends, and family. Our kids have all been to visit. Amira still lives with us (except for the three weeks we're in the middle of, while she is in Portugal helping a friend with a newly purchased house there).
I've been preaching at a church down the mountain from here. The preparation keeps my mind off other things and points to Hope. And I preach at Michael's churches sometimes now, too. He's on permanent disability. We've been welcomed to stay in the manse as long as we need to. I'm grateful.
Michael still receives treatment - chemo therapy in tablet form that he swallows once every 6 weeks as long as it works and an every-three-week IV infusion that constricts the small blood vessels in order to starve the tumor and help the chemo work. The treatment is tolerable - no nausea or hair loss. I don't know if it causes brain fog or not, but it's not interrupting life for him, like it does with many other types of cancer treatment.
He asked me on one of our drives to get the IV infusion: Are we interrupting God's plan?
I didn't answer. I don't know.
This is harder than anything I've ever done before.
I appreciate your prayers, your emails and cards, your friendship, the meals and other support you all have provided. It's God's gift to us.
Thanks
