Walking for Hope

I wrote this in October 2010.  It was saved as a draft and I guess I never hit "Publish."

Three years ago, my mom was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer. It would be another 18 days before we knew that it was Stage 4, but just hearing the initial diagnosis was hard enough.

Hope. It’s the one thing you can’t live without, and unfortunately for most pancreatic cancer patients, it’s the one thing that’s very hard to come by.

Of the “Big 10” cancers, pancreatic is the only one whose 5-year survival rate is in the single digits. Yes, you heard that right – a mere 5% of patients survive 5 years from diagnosis. And a whopping 75% die within the first year.

Over the course of less than a month, I saw my mom morph from an outgoing, vibrant retiree into a feeble, forgetful, frightened old woman in a broken body. She didn’t want people to see her that way, so she withdrew into her shell. It was like she went from 64 to 90 practically overnight. But the biggest change was the feeling of hopelessness. It was insidious, and as hard as we tried to keep it at bay, it was a persistent little bugger. Suddenly Mom looked haunted – and no matter how bravely she kept up a strong front, it was apparent in her eyes. As my brother put it, it was like the smile had left her eyes – and she had the type of eyes that were always smiling.

And that was all because of pancreatic cancer … the cancer ate away at her body while the statistics ate away at her hope. It’s hard to be hopeful when you’re faced with such grim figures. Most Stage 4 patients die within 3-4 months after diagnosis – Mom made it 4 months and 3 days. 126 days. Which was exactly half the time it took for me to grow my oldest child (the one born a month early, even).

The one beacon of light shining hope through the dark is the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network. It’s where we turned when we were looking for answers and for information – and yes, for hope. It’s the organization most responsible for raising awareness and much-needed funds for research. They’re the advocates who are tirelessly campaigning within Congress for more federal funding. And they’re the ones who are funding research grants so that passionate and dedicated scientists and doctors can make some improvement in the detection/treatment process.

It’s a race against time, since only a small percentage of patients are diagnosed while their cancer is still in the early stages. And unlike most of the other cancers, there has been virtually no change in the statistics in the past 40 years. Don’t you agree that it’s time to change that?

My family and I will be walking in PanCAN’s PurpleStride 5K Family Walk on November 13th. It’s my greatest hope that the funds we raise will help in the battle to put an end to this cancer – or at the very least, bring hope to other patients and their families through the form of earlier detection and more effective treatments.

In the end, it all boils down to hope. While it was indescribably hard to watch my mom lose her life, it was really almost harder to watch her lose her hope. Because what is life without hope, anyway? No one should have to live – or die – that way.

Through PanCAN, I found Kate Thaxton, a determined young woman who was diagnosed with Stage 4 at age 35. She died in June after a 3½ year battle, but she was an inspiration to so many. In her blog she wrote, “The purple community is small, stubborn, and ever hopeful. We’re that proverbial junkyard dog, scrappy and feisty, not going down without a fight. Help me spread the word about pancreatic cancer. We may not be pink, but we’re just as proud.”

When we walk in PurpleStride on November 13th, we will be doing so in memory of Mom and of Kate. We’ll be celebrating their lives and their spirits. We’ll be proudly wearing our purple shirts. And we’ll be hoping.

Transfiguration

This morning's Gospel reading was Luke 9:28-43, which shares the account of the Transfiguration of Christ.  Jesus took Peter, John and James up on the mountain to pray.

²⁹ As he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became as bright as a flash of lightning. ³⁰ Two men, Moses and Elijah, appeared in glorious splendor, talking with Jesus. ³¹ They spoke about his departure,^[a] which he was about to bring to fulfillment at Jerusalem...³⁵ A voice came from the cloud, saying, “This is my Son, whom I have chosen; listen to him.”

Wow.  What an experience.  We know it as the Transfiguration of Christ, but I expect it was also a Transformation of Peter, John and James.  This happened about a week after Peter had acknowledged Jesus as the Christ of God and it makes me wonder -- I'm sure he felt great conviction the week before, but that conviction, no matter how strong it was, must have seemed weak by comparison after the experience on the mountain.  It's one thing to know something, and quite another to know it. 

In his sermon, Father Doug said that the disciples needed that mountaintop experience to be able to go on after Christ's crucifixion and build the church (or something along those lines -- that's when I was fumbling in my purse for a pen).  That their experience was glorious enough to overcome their sorrow at losing their Master.  And likewise, as we head into Lent in three short days, we need to take our own mountaintop experiences to help us through the "desert of Lent."  I love that imagery.  The lush, verdant mountain and the desolate drab desert. 

Yet there is glorious beauty in the desert, as well.  It's not always evident from up high -- you need to actually get down into the landscape to be able to see all that it has to offer.  Which, when I think about it, is also a great metaphor for Lent.  Yes, Lent is a time for discipline, repentance and sacrifice.  But it is also a time for reflection, prayer, contemplation and absolution.  We can't access the gifts of Lent from anywhere but smack-dab in the midst of it, on our knees (literally or figuratively).

I was powerfully reminded of my own personal "Transfiguration/ Transformation" experience, which occurred 5 years ago next week.  My mother was at the threshold of death, surrounded by her husband and two children.  It had been a tortuous hour for all of us, as she struggled to communicate with us before she was released from her broken body.  It was far from peaceful, for me at least.  Finally, when I could stand it no longer, I got up and put in Noel, Josh Groban's Christmas album which I had given her two months prior.  "Ave Maria" had always been Mom's favorite hymn, so I hoped that listening to it would help settle her some. 

And it did.  It was amazing, how quickly she relaxed and became, finally, peaceful.  I was not at all ready to say goodbye to my mom -- really, I don't think I ever would have been -- but I did it anyway.  She was staring intently into my eyes, and I told her that it was okay for her to leave.  That her job here was finished, and that we'd be okay.  We'd love her forever, but she could go.  And so she did.

She closed her eyes and almost melted down into her pillows.  We knew she was gone -- you can just tell.  We all bowed our heads and James started to pray.  As he spoke, I lifted my tear-drenched face to look at Mom.  "Dear Father, thank you for taking Mom home to be with Jesus...."  And suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, she started.  She sat forward a few inches with an exclamation that sounded a bit like "Whoa!"  as her eyes flew open.  I jumped, and probably let out an exclamation of my own.  But then I was transfixed by the expression in her eyes.  She had always had very expressive eyes, but I had never seen such life and joy in them.  They blazed for an instant, and then -- as quickly as they'd flown open, her eyelids shuttered the glory and she rested back into the pillows.  And then she was, truly and finally, gone.  I think it happened in a matter of seconds, and I'm pretty sure Dad and James missed it.  I would have missed it myself if I hadn't been watching her at that very instant. 

Now, obviously, this was nothing compared to Jesus' mountaintop experience, but I think what I witnessed was Mom's Transfiguration, from her earthly existence to her eternal life with her Heavenly Father.  And that's how I can only speculate at the transformation that took place within the hearts of the apostles.  I just know how much my own soul was transformed by my tiny little flash of God's glory. 

Oh, my God.  And I'm not saying that in an OMG way.  :)  My mom gave me so many gifts -- more than I could ever enumerate.  She gave me life, which is pretty huge.  And she shaped my very existence.  But nothing can compare to that final gift.  She let me glimpse Heaven itself.  They say our eyes are windows to our souls -- and her sky-blue eyes were windows to Eternity.  I already believed in Heaven, but believing is not necessarily knowing.  But now I know without a shadow of doubt that not only does it exist, she is there, waiting for the rest of us.  And that continues to bring me immeasurable peace on a daily basis. 

So, going back to Fr. Doug's sermon.  No doubt about it -- our mountaintop experiences do help us through the deserts of our life, be they Lent, grief, depression or whatever struggles that threaten to suck the joy from our existence.  May we all take the time to venture up the mountain, pray, listen for God's voice, and be rejuvenated. 

2 Corinthians 3:16-18 ... But whenever anyone turns to the Lord, the veil is taken away. ¹⁷ Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. ¹⁸ And we all, who with unveiled faces contemplate the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.

Oh, and about the music... A few months later, my brother thanked me for "ruining" the album for him, saying that he couldn't listen to it without remembering Mom's death.  Funny how different we are -- I, too, can't listen to it without being transported to that hour.  But it brings me joy.  Maybe because I feel closer to Mom when I hear it, or maybe because I can just picture that beatific expression on her face as Josh Groban belts out "O Come All Ye Faithful."  It was Mom's favorite Christmas hymn, and has always been mine, too.  So to me, it was the perfect soundtrack to her departure from this world to the next.  We should all be so lucky.

Tornadoes

I'll be honest -- I'm terrified of tornadoes. I've experienced my share of natural disasters, and don't get too worked up about earthquakes or hurricanes. But tornadoes ... tornadoes scare the living daylights out of me. For that reason, we have a basement, and a few years ago my husband got me a weather radio for our bedroom. For Christmas, no less. We're big romantics that way.

When I was in college and lifeguarding my summers away in Colorado, I got somewhat accustomed to seeing funnel clouds in the sky, usually far away on the plains. Most places you watch for lightning; in Colorado we watched for lightning and funnel clouds. My parents lived on the high plains, and most years a twister touched down somewhere in their general vicinity, but never close enough to their house to really warrant an anxiety attack.

I vividly recall seeing a tornado touch down in Miami about 12 years ago while at work. I was elsewhere in the office and when I returned to my office, there were several people clustered at the window behind my desk, watching a tornado touch down just on our side of the interstate, probably about 2 miles away. On the one hand, it was hypnotic to watch the debris flying, and it was far enough from us that we didn't have to worry about being damaged by it. But on the other hand, my instinct was to bolt -- it didn't matter where, just away from that window. I stood in the doorway and watched while the anxiety grew within me, and was poised to sprint down the hall to the file room at the first sign that the tornado was heading our way. As terrified as I was, I was unable to look away from Nature's fury.

Thankfully for us, once the twister finished tearing apart the buildings unlucky enough to be located on that street corner, it lifted up and disappeared back into the black clouds. That same afternoon, another one touched down near the college campus where Bret was studying, and we were able to compare tornado stories when we got home. I think I won.

So. I have a history of fearing these storms. And three different storms, on three different days this past spring, will be forever etched into my memory.

Back in January, we learned that my mom's chemotherapy treatments were not having the desired effect -- or really, any effect -- on the cancer. So we supported her in her decision to discontinue treatment, and took her home to begin hospice.

Super Tuesday was two days after we took her home. Hospice had set up her hospital bed in the living room since she wanted to be in the heart of the house. And as we watched the news, the primary election results were overshadowed by the news of a terrible storm system that was tearing through Tennessee. Tornadoes had damaged towns in Arkansas and western Tennessee, and we were directly in their path. For hours that evening, as Mom dozed, my dad and I watched the radar maps that were tracking the storms as they rampaged towards us. With dread, we watched the news reports of the destruction of part of a college campus, and the panic began to really take hold when they hit Nashville. All I could think of was, their house has no basement, and their "safe place" is under the stairs in the garage.

"Dad," I asked, quietly because I didn't want to distub Mom, "how are we going to get Mom down there?" She wasn't a large person, and we're both pretty strong, but it would be a real challenge to maneuver her down the narrow flight of stairs and into the garage storage area.

"We can't. But if we need to, we can go into the laundry room in the center of the house. It has no windows, and is the safest place inside." It would have been tight, but we did have a wheelchair and we could manage.

As it turned out, the storm changed slightly in its course once it left Nashville, and headed far enough away that we never did have to load Mom into the wheelchair and into the "Not-Quite-So-Safe-Place." And I'm sure that if we'd had to hunker down in there and wait out a storm, it would have been much more frightening. But it was pretty scary, and it just illustrated all that I hate about tornadoes. You're so helpless, and all you can do is wait and see if the fickle finger of fury will single you out. Talk about the epitome of vulnerability. And, being a bit of a control freak, there is little I hate more than having no control.

Fast forward two weeks. I was at home that Sunday afternoon, with a long list of tasks that needed to be done before I headed back to Tennessee the next afternoon. Being a procrastinator, I figured I'd get to it all in the afternoon and evening. Yeah, well, it was a nice plan while it lasted. Here comes a storm in from Alabama, and it was big enough and fierce enough to drive even my big strong husband into the basement for most of the late afternoon.

It was nice to spend a few hours playing Yahtzee as a family, even though I was preoccupied by my worry and my ever-growing to-do list. And of course, by the threat of tornadoes whirling about somewhere not too distant. As soon as we heard the all-clear on the radio, we went back upstairs and I called my dad to check in about my drive up the following day. Mom had declined suddenly over the past day or so, and I was trying to get all my loose ends tied up in case I couldn't get back home the following weekend as planned.
Later that evening my brother called to tell me that Mom had decided that it was "time" -- that she was ready to go. She was basically just waiting for me to get there. Tornado forgotten, I put the kids to bed, loaded the car and went to bed. The next morning, I hit the road before dawn, and heard reports on the radio of the damage from the previous day's storms. As I drove, I could see the evidence -- highway signs twisted completely apart, billboards downed and limbs and debris littering the roadside.
Fast forward another 3 weeks. My mom had passed away, and we were all gathered in Tennessee for her funeral. Late Friday night we heard reports of a tornado hitting downtown Atlanta. The next morning, an hour or so before we left for the service, my husband received a call from one of his team telling him that their office had been severely damaged by the storm. All I could think was "Another one?"
We're fortunate, I guess, in that of all three storms over that 6-week period, we weren't injured or permanently affected. Even my husband's office is back to normal. But something is nagging at me. Isn't it strange that three significant events over the last month of my mom's life were marked by tornadoes? Did I just notice them for some reason?
Or are they somehow a metaphor for my struggle with my mom's cancer? It was so difficult for me to accept and find peace with the fact that I had no control whatsoever over the outcome. And when I think about it, her cancer was like a tornado that whipped through our lives, destroying our neat plans and leaving in its wake the debris of our grief. And, like survivors of natural disasters, we have cleaned up what we can and moved forward with our lives. Even while looking back over our shoulders at the sky, watching the horizon for signs of another storm.
I've been thinking a lot about this lately. Maybe because today marks six months since Mom died. Somehow it seems like a hundred years ago, and at the same time it seems like just last week. And I'd been doing a better job at compartmentalizing my sadness. But lately it's been creeping back into the other compartments of my emotions, and instead of trying to just shove it back in and slam the door, I thought maybe if I address it for once and for all, then maybe (just maybe) it will be content to stay put.
I have no answers, just so many questions. And I had peace, but if I'm honest, sometimes it feels like the calm before the storm, and there's a part of me that's just waiting for another storm to churn through and blow it to pieces.
Not the healthiest way to feel, I know. I'm working on it. But is it normal?