Читать книгу Miracle Out of the Mud - Cleon Dewey - Страница 5

The bleeding and pain that had plagued my body for several months could no longer be ignored. Keeping secrets from Levoy was not my habit, but I felt I had to handle the problem myself. Something unusual was happening to me, but I did not wish to disrupt our lives. With our busy traveling schedule, we had precious little time to ourselves, and taking sick days was out of the question...so I thought. I have always seen the glass half full, so it was easy to put my concerns aside and deal with them at a more convenient time. Still, my sleep was interrupted by nagging suspicions about my health.

Could it be that Daddy’s recent death has made me more sensitive about my own mortality? Maybe I have an overactive imagination and things are not as bad as they seem.

I was not aware of it at first, but God was preparing the soil of my heart for a very different season.

Lord, You have heard the desire of the humble; You will prepare their heart... (Psalm 10:17 – NKJV)

When my mother visited us in Nashville, I casually mentioned that I was passing blood. The crochet in her eighty-plus year old hands quickly dropped to her lap. She fixed her piercing green eyes on her only daughter, leaned slightly forward, and pressed for more details. I took a deep breath and tried to appear casual as I described the symptoms. I reassured her, “Don’t worry about it, Mother. There’s probably nothing to be concerned about.”

What was I thinking? I’ve said too much already. Oh, if only I could retrieve those words that escaped my mouth. But it’s too late, now.

Mother slept little that night.

I was usually the first one in the household to arise. When aroma of the freshly brewed coffee from the automatic pot wafted across my senses, I would be on my feet and ready to greet the day. On this particular morning I was surprised to see Mother sitting at the kitchen table waiting for me. She held a medical book from the house library. Her worries over what had been said the evening before prompted her to do some research. The somber countenance etched on her face indicated that she had discovered some unsettling facts. She was convinced that I had signs of colon cancer.

As I reached into the cupboard for two cups and poured the steaming coffee, her troubled gaze followed my every move. I attempted to change the subject...nothing doing. By nature, Mother was not pushy, but this time she could not be dissuaded. I leaned across the table, patted her hand, still clutching the medical book, and promised to call my doctor soon. Next week would be a better time. A doctor’s appointment would put a damper on the special plans we had made for each day of her visit. The words sounded hollow as I reminded her that the offices at the hospital didn’t open until 9:00 a.m. She watched the clock. At exactly five minutes after the hour she handed me the phone.

Dr. Benjamin Caldwell had been my gynecologist for more than twenty years. He knew I was not easily shaken. After his nurse explained the urgency, he worked me in his schedule the next day. What I heard in his office stunned me. After a thorough examination, Dr. Caldwell was certain that I had advanced colorectal cancer. I had never seen him appear that somber; the look on his face spoke volumes. His assistant immediately called a specialist, whose office was directly across the street. Dr. Caldwell told me later, “I thought I was looking at a walking dead woman.”

Dr. Benjamin Fisher was one of the leading colorectal surgeons in the southeast. His voice sounded strangely far away when he pronounced his diagnosis: “You have colorectal cancer.” It was Suzanne’s birthday, September 5, 1994. It seemed inappropriate to hear such news on my daughter’s special day.

Who is he talking to?

I glanced nervously around the room, but I could not escape the fact that he was talking to me. For an instant, my brain could not absorb what I was hearing.

The instinct to defend myself kicked into gear. Questions tumbled out of my dry mouth, one after another. “I am not that sick. Are you sure this is cancer? Don’t you know that I’ve had these same symptoms before, and they weren’t serious?” The argument indicated serious denial.

I was the only one talking. Levoy’s hand was on my shoulder. Cindy bit her lip, holding back tears. The cold leather of the chair was bone-chilling. My mind was whirling. I felt vulnerable, too shocked to cry. I wanted to run.

Dr. Fisher explained the prognosis in layman’s terms. “The cancer is a fast moving lesion that involves the rectal muscle. That complicates everything. Cancer is even more critical when a muscle is involved, because of the blood supply. This usually impedes the cure. Its very nature complicates the possibility of stopping the spread of disease. You have a big problem with this thing.”

His plan of action was decisive. He stressed the urgency of starting treatments as soon as possible. Arrangements for chemotherapy and radiation would be set within the next two days. The objective was to reduce the tumor, which was the size of a tennis ball. Surgery was not feasible at that time. The cancer was aggressive and drastic measures had to be taken to shrink the mass and annihilate it, if possible. Nothing would be spared, medically speaking, to stop this rapidly moving killer.

Everything was happening too fast.

He must be talking about someone else…another patient. Yes, that’s it. He has the wrong information. That’s probably not even my folder in his hand. Dr. Caldwell said, just yesterday, that I have symptoms of cancer. But, Dr. Fisher…he’s a specialist. I didn’t expect this.

Only a few days prior to Dr. Fisher’s diagnosis, I had read an article in a popular magazine by a doctor in Europe who was a proponent of unconventional methods of curing cancer. I told Dr. Fisher that I remembered something about apricot seeds proving successful in the early treatment of malignant tumors. The doctor abruptly interrupted. Slightly built and in his early 70s, Dr. Fisher stood as he pushed back his chair; he leaned over his large mahogany desk, pointing a finger at me to emphasize the importance of what he said. He did not mince words or try to soften the blow; he cleared his throat and looked me squarely in the eyes, slowly pronouncing a death sentence: “Lady, please listen to me. You will not be here for Christmas if there’s not a turnaround in your condition. There are no options. Once again, it’s very late for you.”

I sat motionless and listened to words I could not begin to comprehend. My trembling fingers counted on the surface of my purse.

October...November...December.

Three months to live. The words shocked me like a bolt of lightning. The prognosis could not be clearer. Dr. Fisher finally had my attention.

Oh, how I would like to say that I was totally engulfed by feelings of euphoric victory at that moment; that no prognosis could have a negative effect on me, but the truth was very different.

Many years ago, my father-in-law was knocked off a ladder by 440 volts of electricity and landed on his feet. Outwardly, Dad Dewey appeared to be fine, but he bore the inner effects of that trauma for the duration of his life. Hearing that I had terminal cancer, I looked okay from the outside, but inside I was emotionally ripped apart.

As Cindy, Levoy and I left the doctor’s office, my eyes lingered for a moment on other patients. One scene captured my attention: a young woman was softly crying as she sat next to an older gentleman of Asian descent. “Probably his daughter,” I thought. “I wonder what news they received.”

You are probably not as bad as me. The doctor said I have three months. How much time do you have?

My world was suddenly upside down. Only yesterday the sky was perfectly clear. Something cruel, far beyond my control, had just robbed me of a future. I was still trying to wrap my brain around the horrific information that had bombarded me. One hour ago, there was so much to look forward to...now this.

The audacity! The pronouncement of my fate was spoken by someone I had just met. What right did that doctor have? My words were spent. There was no more energy for an argument. In my attempt to make the case that I was just fine, my emotional reserves were depleted. Somewhere deep within I knew the prognosis was established. Denial had to give way to reality.

Cindy dealt with the initial blow in her unique way. She believes the Bible, including the part that says a merry heart is like a medicine. The 20-minute drive home was probably not typical. My daughter instinctively reached for a new recording of a comedian, popped it in the machine, and cranked up the volume. That guy would make anybody laugh; even someone who had just been told she had three months to live! Cindy drove while we all laughed. A belly-laugh rolled out of me, like a rushing waterfall, and every other thought was drowned. It is proven that laughter produces endorphins that relieve stress and promote well being. Every one of those endorphins was put to good use that day.

When I got out of the car my legs felt weak. I could hardly stand. The ground seemed unsteady beneath me. Everything looked and felt surreal.

Surely, I would wake up and this nightmare would be over.

Mother, Suzanne, Nathan and little Rachel were waiting for us, holding a solemn vigil in the house. They made valiant attempts to be upbeat, but sadness, anguish, and unanswered questions were written on their faces. They were still reeling from the report they had heard on the telephone, only moments before we arrived. The atmosphere was charged with unfamiliar tension. For a brief moment, I wanted to bolt out the door. All eyes were fastened on me as I labored up the stairs.

If I could only get away from them, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much. I am the cause of all this trouble. If I hadn’t gone to the doctor...things would be normal.

In spite of those fitful thoughts, an uncanny knowing dominated my senses. Mother’s pressure on me to call the doctor had probably saved my life. Even so, I was conflicted. It was Rachel’s first day of school. I was sorry that my health issues overshadowed this happy day for our first grandchild.

Would I be there to see her graduate…or go to the second grade?

The privilege of planning anything for the future was stripped away in one cruel moment. Life seemed so fragile...so unfair. “Three months” screamed in my head and made me hot with anger. Only yesterday, Levoy and I had exciting plans. We were booking services and making projections for the ministry. I had always considered myself a healthy woman. When I was sick, God healed me.

Would He heal me this time?

A killer cancer was stalking. This was very different from any other challenge Levoy and I had faced. I knew that the greatest test of my faith was upon me. I felt vulnerable, like an open target with no defense; one upon whom fate had turned its back. At the same time, I was confident that it would be okay. I knew that God could not fail.

More than anything, I wanted to be alone. I did not have a grip on the news I had received. I slipped into our bedroom and shut the door behind me. My emotions rode a roller coaster. I heard a scream. It was me! The pillow muffled the uncontrollable sobs and absorbed the tears. I could not block out the mocking of a strange hiss in my head.

“Three months…Three months…Three months.”

I was exhausted. I cried out to God, “Why me… why this…why now?” I wept until there were no more tears. My throat ached from screaming. I listened to my own uneven breath and stared into nothingness.

I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing: I am come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me. I am weary of my crying: my throat is dried: mine eyes fail while I wait for my God.

(Psalm 69:2-3 - KJV)

Out of nowhere, a strong feeling of guilt smothered me. Raw emotions washed over me like waves of acid. Crazy thoughts invaded my mind like an army.

I must be a bad person, or this would not have happened. It is my fault! I have probably eaten the wrong foods or exposed myself unknowingly to toxic materials.

I felt stupid and ashamed, but I didn’t understand why. After wallowing in a mire of self-pity and confusion, for what seemed like a very long time, I rebounded.

If I have only three months to live, I refuse to live them like this.

Sound thinking gradually returned. My resolve to get out of the pit of deprivation was powerful and I started moving. There was a Bible on my nightstand. It’s not my style to randomly pick a verse, but this was not a time for the norm. I flipped open the Bible on the bed and watched as the pages settled. My eyes fell instantly upon a verse I had read before. Now I saw it much differently...with my heart.

Uphold me according unto thy word that I may live: and not be ashamed of my hope.

(Psalm 119:116 - KJV)

That was it! The Lord would heal me. He would protect me from evil. Yes, He would prepare me for what was to come. I would surely live and not die!

Of all the thousands of verses that might have caught my eye, that was the one that jumped off the page. My mind was renewed. My spirit was quickened and I knew that I knew. It would be okay. In an instant, the diagnosis came face to face with the truth of God’s Word. It was the beginning of a miracle.

It was written in an old song, “Trouble is Thy servant that brings me to Thee.” Down through the ages, God has used the troubles of life to draw mankind to Himself. It is human nature to seek the Lord more earnestly when trouble comes along. I began drawing upon the reservoir of my faith, knowing that no matter what transpired God would use it to His glory and my good. At the same time, I was curious to know what God would do this time...with cancer.

No one understands the necessity of preparation better than a farmer. My Granddad bought acreage in South Dakota in the early 1950’s. The virgin land had never seen a plow. Preparing the grassy prairie for planting required a lot of hard work. Huge rocks that prevented tilling were dragged alongside the perimeter of the field, and the gaping holes left were tediously leveled. When the ground was finally ready, he pulled the big tractor onto the field. The aroma of fresh dirt, turning and yielding to the plow, quickened his senses. Precious seeds were sown into the ready soil. God sent the life-giving rain and welcome sunshine. In due season, Granddad gathered a bountiful harvest of golden grain. The fruit of his hard labor was at last a sweet reward.

Preparation creates a passage for the entrance of good things, but it is hard work and usually not a pretty part of the process. I was beginning to learn more about what it means to belong to the Master. When I received Christ as Savior, I gave him my heart. He has always known exactly what I need.

My obvious tragedy, cancer, was a tool in His skillful hands. He tenderly began the process of honing, shaping and molding me into a more pliable image. It hurt, and I did not understand. I was clay in the Master’s hand and the tool He used was painful.

The things God often uses might be a broken relationship, a tragic accident, overwhelming disappointment or a chronic illness. The hurtful events of life are often instruments in the hands of a merciful God, which draw humanity unto Himself. Cancer was indeed a sharp, cutting instrument.

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PREPARE!

The painful process of preparation enhances the ultimate purpose of one’s existence.

The cause of pain in your life can be your greatest blessing if you surrender it to God in prayer. Think about Joseph in the book of Genesis. A string of unfortunate circumstances literally set him up to become the savior of his people.

...Joseph said to them, "Don’t be afraid. Am I in the place of God? You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives."

(Genesis 50:20 & 21 - NIV)

Trouble is a tool that God has always used to prepare hearts. He may not create the bad things, but He gently and wisely uses them to accomplish His will. It’s the conditioning of the heart that makes some people better in tough times, while others become bitter?

Your battle is winnable. Get ready, get armed, and get prepared to stand in triumph!

...put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand...Stand firm... (Ephesians 6:13 & 14 - NIV)

PRAYER: The winds of change are blowing. Without You, Lord, I would be so afraid. Your unconditional love is embracing me and preparing me to survive this storm in victory. Please use this season in my life to make me more like You. AMEN.