Exactly nine months ago today I made a dramatic afternoon exit from work feeling faint and with weakness in my right hand. Later that night I ended up in the emergency room with a doctor telling me that an MRI revealed an “abnormal lesion” in my brain. I didn’t know the meaning of “lesion” let alone other words they were tossing around like “malignant neoplasm” and “high-grade astrocytoma.” It didn’t take long with a mobile phone and Google to shatter my world. After learning what those new words meant, I hoped that it was all just a big mistake. Maybe they switched my MRI with Robert Jacobsen or Jacob Robinson. Maybe the spot was just a harmless calcium deposit. But it wasn’t to be. By February I had a definitive diagnosis of glioblastoma multiforme, the most aggressive form of primary brain cancer.
Someone who was diagnosed with glioblastoma about the same time as me has been using her condition to promote assisted suicide laws, going so far as to announce that on November 1 she is going to end her own life with pills legally prescribed by a doctor in Oregon. My first reaction was a strong feeling that what she was saying is wrong. As scary as this diagnosis is, it’s never caused me to consider taking my own life (with the help of a doctor or otherwise). But this story has spurred me to think really hard about why I feel the way I do.
I believe that God gave me the opportunity to come to earth to learn. I wanted to be here. I believe that I was among those who shouted for joy when God laid the foundations of the earth (see Job 38:6-7). I shouted for joy because my progress without a body was stalled; there are certain things that I could learn only here on earth. Whatever I learn will stay with me for eternity. When I was a freshman at BYU, I attended a devotional in which Gordon B. Hinckley taught something he learned by watching the end of his father’s life: “We must never cease to learn. We believe in eternal progression and that this life is a part of eternity to be profitably lived until the very end.” I trust that God will take me when I have learned all that I am supposed to learn. Until then, I will learn all I can with my beautiful yet imperfect body. In fact, I can’t think of a nine month stretch in my life where I learned more than I have learned this year.
On June 1, 2014, I shared ten spiritual lessons that my condition had taught me in a testimony meeting at church:
1. My life is a gift from God. Every day is precious. If you let it, nothing can bring your life into focus like a cancer diagnosis. I have a new appreciation and gratitude for the little things in life that I otherwise took for granted.
2. Priesthood leaders are inspired. God doesn’t ask his chosen people to serve because they have the longest resumes. Rather, he calls those who He knows will listen and follow His promptings. I can’t count the number of times our Bishop and others came or called just at the right time or said just the right thing that Jordan and I needed to hear.
3. Nothing brings God’s Spirit more than selfless service. As people reached out to us, many of whom we didn’t even know, we felt love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness and temperance in spades (see Gal. 5:22-23). It’s one thing to know this in theory, but it’s another to experience it. This Spirit is felt by both the giver and receiver of service. I’ve also learned that you’re never too sick to try to help someone, even if it’s just thanking a nurse or doctor and trying to brighten their day.
4. God hears and answers prayers of all faiths. God loves all his children, regardless of their faith, and wants to hear from everyone.
5. Living the word of wisdom and controlling appetites prepared me to have the spiritual and physical strength to recover from multiple brain surgeries and do a strenuous dietary intervention.
6. God especially hears and answers children’s prayers. So many times my children and other children (like my sweet nieces and nephews) have prayed for me. They are so sincere and faithful that when they open their mouths to speak to Him, He feels so close.
7. God wants to give us knowledge. So many times we have felt God directing our path. Often, this knowledge and direction has come through priesthood blessings.
8. The words from prophets and apostles are inspired. For years we have been counseled to get out of debt and build up our faith by praying, going to church, serving in and out of the church, having family home evening, paying tithing and more. Not that Jordan and I have been by any means perfect in all the above, but we have tried. Filling our tanks spiritually prepares us to handle life’s curve balls.
9. The temple brings peace by giving us eternal perspective. What’s really important is not the physical but where we stand with God.
10. God lives. During this process, I’ve experienced some of my darkest doubts and brightest, most peaceful reassurances. He knows me and loves me.
I also believe that God has and will continue use my imperfect body to try to teach others the lessons they need to learn. It’s not really for me to say what others have learned or should learn. In this regard, an article authored by Maggie Karner resonated with me. She was also diagnosed with glioblastoma this year and wrote a powerful counterpoint to Brittany Maynard’s assisted suicide advocacy. Her article is a good read and the closest thing I've seen written that expresses how I feel. Among other things, she tells about the final months of her father’s life in which he was left a paraplegic, “filled with utter helplessness.” Rather than wishing him dead, she and her siblings soaked up her father’s presence and learned unexpected things about themselves. In her own condition, she hopes her daughters will learn the same selflessness and servant-hood that her father’s decline taught her.
This sums up my personal and religious thoughts on why assisted suicide is a bad idea. I also think that assisted suicide laws are terrible public policy for believers and nonbelievers alike. But that is a post for another day.
Friday, October 24
Wednesday, October 15
Stable
Tuesday was Jake's 2 month follow up MRI and everything looked stable. No new growths. Minimal swelling. Just a brain with two tumor cavities.
Stable is our new favorite word in the English language.
I can say that yesterday, and basically the whole last weekend was a grueling emotional experience for me. (And if it was that rough for me, think of how Jake felt.) After the second surgery and radiation, we had more than a month of normal life. Taking trips. Dropping kids at school. Going to soccer practice.
And then it came time for the day of reckoning. I am grateful for MRIs. Without them I hate to think where Jake would be. But they are also a dreaded instrument because they let you know what is really going on and with that knowledge comes an upheaval of life as you know it.
Last Saturday we were able to keep really busy and not think too much about it. Sunday was uplifting as we fasted and attended church, but by Sunday night I was starting to freak out. The "what ifs" started to haunt my mind and I was sick with the thought of hearing bad news. Thinking of going back to the hospital was torture. I felt like a kid bucking and screaming being dragged somewhere they don't want to go. The thought of being back in the doctor's office evoked feelings of torture. Let's just say it was R-O-U-G-H and all my talk of perspective seemed to just fly out the window.
Monday I was in a tough spot, and as Jake sat me down and hugged me I just lost it in heaving sobs. And then he came to my rescue.
He gave me the day off, told me to just go and come back whenever I was ready. He would take care of everything and everyone so I didn't have to.
So, unexpectedly, I had several hours to myself to collect my thoughts and find some peace. My first thought was to go to the temple, but it is closed on Monday so that wasn't an option. Eventually, I found a nice secluded spot and for the next several hours was able to have time to ponder, read, pray, and commune with the Lord. I received some very needed and immediate answers to urgent prayer and was able to collect myself enough to return home and feel like I could face Jake's appointments the next day.
I had no idea that MRI day could be so hard. By the time we got into the doctor's office we were both ready to lose our lunch, our hearts were pounding, our mouths were dry and we were just sick with worry. Especially because the last MRI surprised us so much without warning. Jake had been water skiing one day and then... BAM ... there was a new growth the next.
It made it hard to judge or know what to expect.
After waiting in the room for more than 30 minutes we were feeling very apprehensive. The doctor opened the door, walked in, and started to ask, "How are you doing?" when I blurted out, "Just tell us right now. We can't stand it anymore." He immediately said, "The scan is good," and then proceeded to tell us about the images, show them on the screen, and go through the standard questions as to Jake's functioning. We got the schedule for his next round of chemo pills and were told to get on the MRI schedule in two more months.
Two months. It feels like forever.
I can say that I was not ecstatic, jumping for joy, or even really happy. The immediate feeling I felt when the doctor gave the report was R-E-L-I-E-F. Extreme, overwhelming, welcome, grateful relief. Jake says he felt the same thing too. It's like a giant exhale after holding your breath to your body's limit.
Someone asked me if we were going to get a steak dinner to celebrate. Really, the thing I wanted to do the most was come home, take care of our kids, make dinner, put them to bed, snuggle up with Jake, and know that I could repeat it again the next day. All day, as I've done laundry, gone to the grocery store, changed diapers, picked up kids, and made dinner I've been grateful. So very grateful.
Doing these everyday things is such a blessing. I never though so before, as a stay at home busy mom, but now I relish the chance to just take care of our home, our children, and my husband. Because it means that life as we know it goes on. It means things are normal.
Stable is our new favorite word in the English language.
I can say that yesterday, and basically the whole last weekend was a grueling emotional experience for me. (And if it was that rough for me, think of how Jake felt.) After the second surgery and radiation, we had more than a month of normal life. Taking trips. Dropping kids at school. Going to soccer practice.
And then it came time for the day of reckoning. I am grateful for MRIs. Without them I hate to think where Jake would be. But they are also a dreaded instrument because they let you know what is really going on and with that knowledge comes an upheaval of life as you know it.
Last Saturday we were able to keep really busy and not think too much about it. Sunday was uplifting as we fasted and attended church, but by Sunday night I was starting to freak out. The "what ifs" started to haunt my mind and I was sick with the thought of hearing bad news. Thinking of going back to the hospital was torture. I felt like a kid bucking and screaming being dragged somewhere they don't want to go. The thought of being back in the doctor's office evoked feelings of torture. Let's just say it was R-O-U-G-H and all my talk of perspective seemed to just fly out the window.
Monday I was in a tough spot, and as Jake sat me down and hugged me I just lost it in heaving sobs. And then he came to my rescue.
He gave me the day off, told me to just go and come back whenever I was ready. He would take care of everything and everyone so I didn't have to.
So, unexpectedly, I had several hours to myself to collect my thoughts and find some peace. My first thought was to go to the temple, but it is closed on Monday so that wasn't an option. Eventually, I found a nice secluded spot and for the next several hours was able to have time to ponder, read, pray, and commune with the Lord. I received some very needed and immediate answers to urgent prayer and was able to collect myself enough to return home and feel like I could face Jake's appointments the next day.
I had no idea that MRI day could be so hard. By the time we got into the doctor's office we were both ready to lose our lunch, our hearts were pounding, our mouths were dry and we were just sick with worry. Especially because the last MRI surprised us so much without warning. Jake had been water skiing one day and then... BAM ... there was a new growth the next.
It made it hard to judge or know what to expect.
After waiting in the room for more than 30 minutes we were feeling very apprehensive. The doctor opened the door, walked in, and started to ask, "How are you doing?" when I blurted out, "Just tell us right now. We can't stand it anymore." He immediately said, "The scan is good," and then proceeded to tell us about the images, show them on the screen, and go through the standard questions as to Jake's functioning. We got the schedule for his next round of chemo pills and were told to get on the MRI schedule in two more months.
Two months. It feels like forever.
I can say that I was not ecstatic, jumping for joy, or even really happy. The immediate feeling I felt when the doctor gave the report was R-E-L-I-E-F. Extreme, overwhelming, welcome, grateful relief. Jake says he felt the same thing too. It's like a giant exhale after holding your breath to your body's limit.
Someone asked me if we were going to get a steak dinner to celebrate. Really, the thing I wanted to do the most was come home, take care of our kids, make dinner, put them to bed, snuggle up with Jake, and know that I could repeat it again the next day. All day, as I've done laundry, gone to the grocery store, changed diapers, picked up kids, and made dinner I've been grateful. So very grateful.
Doing these everyday things is such a blessing. I never though so before, as a stay at home busy mom, but now I relish the chance to just take care of our home, our children, and my husband. Because it means that life as we know it goes on. It means things are normal.
Thursday, October 2
Perspective
Something that we gain over time and through experience.
Perspective has many definitions:
-the capacity to view things in their true relations or relative importance
-a particular attitude toward or way of regarding something
-the interrelation in which a subject or its parts are mentally viewed
-a particular way of viewing things that depends on one’s experience and personality
-a point of view
I understand perspective as being the way we view things, our lives, our world and the way we understand what is happening around us. I like to think of perspective in relation to viewing nature - depending on where we stand, our view of a given scene will change. The time of day, the lighting, the season, etc. all come into play as we take in a scenic view and can all change our perspective of what we are seeing.
Several things have spurred my thinking about this.
First, I've read Stephanie Nilson's blog, the NieNie Dialogues, for several years, beginning after the plane crash that changed her life forever. Recently, she wrote a wonderful post about how she could see now, from her current perspective, how she and her family were prepared for what was to come. I appreciated knowing that with time, experience, and faith she was able to look back on her difficult experience and see how things were put into place and worked out for good for her family.
Then, last week I attended a meeting with our stake presidency, and got to see a presentation our stake president put together about the heavens. It was a mix of pictures, facts, scriptures, and quotes regarding the infinite number of Heavenly Father's creations.
While watching it, I felt a new sense of perspective as I literally saw that there is so much more than my world and my experiences in the vastness of space. There really are worlds without number, and I found great comfort in knowing that my problems are small on such a grand scale. I am grateful for the perspective also to see that there was so much at play before I entered this mortal estate, and that there will be so much after I leave it. Seeing the heavens on such a grand scale helped my seemingly grand problems feel smaller.
Finally, we recently moved our bedroom furniture around and in the process I opened up a missionary binder my mom put together. I lived and served for 18 months as a full time missionary in Venezuela and had many learning and growing experiences on my mission. In my binder, I found a letter written by my dad in reply to what must have been an earnest letter on my part asking why missionary work was so hard and why I was so imperfect at it. I remember his letter being particularly important and instructive to me as a missionary, and as I reread it last night I was again encouraged by his counsel.
The letter stated, "It seems appropriate that I get to your concerns expressed in your last letter. I think any advice from me is best expressed in the context of perspective and proportion, which are easy things to say, but hard things to apply in the context of living life." After giving some wonderful advice, he wrote, "Perhaps most importantly, Jord, know that your life is acceptable to the Lord. Your offering of your missionary service is pleasing to Him. He will continue to direct your path, as He has to now, and you will feel more joy and satisfaction in serving Him and being an integral part of His plan in bringing the good news of the gospel to His children in Venezuela."
Today, eleven years after my missionary experience I can say that things did work out, the Lord directed me, and as I lost myself in service my doubts were replaced by love for the people and gratitude to my Father in Heaven for allowing me to have such a wonderful mission experience.
In summary, I am learning that time and experience will allow me to look back on this experience and recognize how I grew, changed, loved, and came closer to my Savior. I don't, I can't have that perspective right now as we continue to wage the cancer war. We are living month to month, problem to problem, and just trying to feel it out, trust in God, and hold to our faith as we place one foot in front of the other. But I find great peace and comfort in knowing that perspective will come. That months or years later we will have greater understanding of this experience and be able to see how His plan was worked out for good in our lives.
Perspective has many definitions:
-the capacity to view things in their true relations or relative importance
-a particular attitude toward or way of regarding something
-the interrelation in which a subject or its parts are mentally viewed
-a particular way of viewing things that depends on one’s experience and personality
-a point of view
I understand perspective as being the way we view things, our lives, our world and the way we understand what is happening around us. I like to think of perspective in relation to viewing nature - depending on where we stand, our view of a given scene will change. The time of day, the lighting, the season, etc. all come into play as we take in a scenic view and can all change our perspective of what we are seeing.
Several things have spurred my thinking about this.
First, I've read Stephanie Nilson's blog, the NieNie Dialogues, for several years, beginning after the plane crash that changed her life forever. Recently, she wrote a wonderful post about how she could see now, from her current perspective, how she and her family were prepared for what was to come. I appreciated knowing that with time, experience, and faith she was able to look back on her difficult experience and see how things were put into place and worked out for good for her family.
Then, last week I attended a meeting with our stake presidency, and got to see a presentation our stake president put together about the heavens. It was a mix of pictures, facts, scriptures, and quotes regarding the infinite number of Heavenly Father's creations.
While watching it, I felt a new sense of perspective as I literally saw that there is so much more than my world and my experiences in the vastness of space. There really are worlds without number, and I found great comfort in knowing that my problems are small on such a grand scale. I am grateful for the perspective also to see that there was so much at play before I entered this mortal estate, and that there will be so much after I leave it. Seeing the heavens on such a grand scale helped my seemingly grand problems feel smaller.
Finally, we recently moved our bedroom furniture around and in the process I opened up a missionary binder my mom put together. I lived and served for 18 months as a full time missionary in Venezuela and had many learning and growing experiences on my mission. In my binder, I found a letter written by my dad in reply to what must have been an earnest letter on my part asking why missionary work was so hard and why I was so imperfect at it. I remember his letter being particularly important and instructive to me as a missionary, and as I reread it last night I was again encouraged by his counsel.
The letter stated, "It seems appropriate that I get to your concerns expressed in your last letter. I think any advice from me is best expressed in the context of perspective and proportion, which are easy things to say, but hard things to apply in the context of living life." After giving some wonderful advice, he wrote, "Perhaps most importantly, Jord, know that your life is acceptable to the Lord. Your offering of your missionary service is pleasing to Him. He will continue to direct your path, as He has to now, and you will feel more joy and satisfaction in serving Him and being an integral part of His plan in bringing the good news of the gospel to His children in Venezuela."
Today, eleven years after my missionary experience I can say that things did work out, the Lord directed me, and as I lost myself in service my doubts were replaced by love for the people and gratitude to my Father in Heaven for allowing me to have such a wonderful mission experience.
In summary, I am learning that time and experience will allow me to look back on this experience and recognize how I grew, changed, loved, and came closer to my Savior. I don't, I can't have that perspective right now as we continue to wage the cancer war. We are living month to month, problem to problem, and just trying to feel it out, trust in God, and hold to our faith as we place one foot in front of the other. But I find great peace and comfort in knowing that perspective will come. That months or years later we will have greater understanding of this experience and be able to see how His plan was worked out for good in our lives.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)