Right after Joni’s second round of chemo, a new front in the battle opened up.
“I’m ordering a chest X-ray for you today,” Dr. Ashouri said, removing his stethoscope from his ears, “I’m hearing something I don’t like.”
It sounded ominous. Dr. Ashouri had warned them that lung infections were common during chemotherapy. Within the hour, Ken was helping a hospital technician position the X-ray machine in front of Joni’s chest. Donning a lead apron, he stayed in the X-ray room to help hold up his wife’s arms while they took the pictures.
“OK,” the technician said, “we’re done. We’ll let your doctor know if the radiologist sees anything.”
All the way home in the van, Joni kept singing. That was not uncommon, but this time she was singing loudly, a concerted effort to break up any mucous in her lungs. “I surrender all,” she belted out as hard as she could. “I surrender all. All to Thee my precious Savior, I surrender all.”
As Ken pulled into the driveway, his cell phone rang. It was Dr. Ashouri: “Joni has pneumonia. I want you to pick up a prescription right away.”
This was exactly what Ken had been afraid of.
The first round of chemo had weakened Joni’s body, making her susceptible to infections — and lung infections for a quadriplegic could be deadly. But Ken was not about to let this new enemy gain any ground. That night, as the pneumonia began to gurgle up in Joni’s lungs, Ken stayed vigilant. The slightest cough from his wife had him out of bed and by her side, helping her blow her nose, helping her sit up so she could breathe, and sometimes pushing on her abs to help her cough or just get more air into her lungs.
But this pneumonia was proving to be a powerful enemy.
The second night, Ken and Joni came to a time that seemed to be the “worst of the worst” of what they had faced together through the years. It was an anguished, turbulent nightmare of a night, as Joni’s pain, weakness, claustrophobia, and nasal and lung congestion launched simultaneous attacks on her body. At the same time, hell seemed to unleash a savage spiritual attack of mocking, hateful spirits that chanted, “Where is God? Where is God?”
Ken, anxious and exhausted, found himself fighting a battle on two simultaneous fronts — physical and spiritual. At times, in his anguish for her, he found himself arguing with heaven, saying, God, what are You thinking of? Joni’s had forty years in that wheelchair, and then all of that pain for years on top of it. And now she has to go through cancer? Now she has to endure chemotherapy? Now pneumonia?
It was a grim, dark path for both of them. Life for them had never been what you would call easy, but this seemed more like David’s “valley of the shadow of death” than anything they had ever experienced. People make wedding vows and say, “For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health,” but now Ken and Joni seemed to be on the edge of “until death do us part.”
On the third near-sleepless night for them both, Joni woke her husband up for the fifth time — once again, she needed help blowing her nose. Lying in bed, gravity was her enemy and her lungs were filling up faster than she could expel the phlegm.
“Here’s some Kleenex,” Ken said as he propped her up in bed. “Blow hard. As hard as you can.”
Blow hard? Could she do anything hard? All the coughing earlier in the night had drained every ounce of strength out of Joni’s tired body. She took in as deep a breath as she could, then tried to blow her nose. She missed the Kleenex and smeared mucous over Ken’s hand. She groaned and dropped her head against her husband’s arm. The simple act of blowing her nose left her dizzy.
“Ken, I’m seeing spots,” she mumbled. “I can’t … I can’t breathe,” her voice trailed off.
Immediately Ken forgot about his messy hand and the wet tissues littering the bed. He rallied his strength and quickly put his arms around Joni’s abdomen. He squeezed as hard as he could, coaching her and whispering, “Breathe. C’mon, Jon Jon … take a breath!”
She had once told him, “When I die, Ken, it will be from pneumonia. That’s what gets all quadriplegics.”
But not now! Not if he could help it!
Joni wheezed and then dropped her head again. Was she throwing in the towel?
“Don’t give up now,” Ken almost shouted. “Don’t quit on me — you can do it. BREATHE!” He gave another hard push on her abdomen, “Come on, Joni! BREATHE!”
There was a sucking sound, and Joni was able to lift her head and draw in some air. “Keep pushing,” she said weakly. There was a rasping sound in her chest, but a few minutes later, she was able to expel more phlegm. Inhaling and exhaling became more rhythmic, more regular. Ken sighed his relief and relaxed his grip from around her middle. Both began to breathe easier.
That … that had been frightening. He’d almost lost her.
But it wasn’t over. As Ken lowered his wife back onto the bed, they knew the regimen would be repeated later. Hopefully, they might be able to snatch some sleep before the next coughing session.
Ken climbed back in bed.
Just before Joni drifted off to sleep, she sensed that the approaching hours would be particularly intense. And she asked the Lord Jesus for something special. In the dark, in a whisper so as to not awaken Ken, she prayed, Lord, I’m afraid it’ll be worse next time. Would You show up in some special way? When I wake up an hour or two from now — and I know I will — please let me see You, feel You. I need You, Jesus! Let me know that You’re there and that You’re with me. You have said You will never fail me or forsake me. Please, Lord … may I sense that tonight at some point?
Later that same night, when she woke up again, pain seemed to fill the whole room. The atmosphere was thick with it, like a heavy fog off Chesapeake Bay, with dark spirits darting in and out of the mist, taunting, jeering, whispering nonsense. More frighteningly, she could feel her lungs filling up.
She called Ken, and he came to her, stepping into the dim illumination of the bedside lamp. It was the third time that night she needed him, but there he was once again, so patient, so kind, so ready to help, deep love and concern written across every line of his face. He turned her body to another position, pushed on her abdomen, helped her blow her nose. Spoke words of quiet encouragement. Stroked her hair. Chased away the demons with words of prayer as he worked.
Suddenly, Joni turned her head and looked up at him, eyes wide with wonder.
It took him by surprise. Was she hallucinating? What was she seeing?
“You’re Him!” she said.
“I … I don’t understand, Joni.”
“Ken … you’re Him! You’re Jesus!”
Fresh tears began to flow, and he dabbed them from her face with a tissue. “I’m not kidding. I can feel His touch when you touch me. I can see Him in your smile. I can hear Him in the tone of your voice. Right now! I mean it,” she said with a sob. “This is what I prayed for. You are Jesus!”
In some of her writings, Joni had called suffering “a splashover of hell.” But there were also “splashovers” of heaven, and this had been one of them. Heaven was wherever Jesus was, and He had visited her that night. She had called out for Him, just as blind Bartimaeus, sitting by the side of the Jericho road, had cried out for Him in his darkness and despair. And Jesus had come. He came to her too — on that night, out of the fog, in the middle of that battle, stepping through her pain.
And His name was Ken Tada.
Within days, the pneumonia began to retreat, defeated by the prayers and tireless efforts of both Ken and his wife. Still, to be safe, Dr. Ashouri postponed Joni’s third round of chemo for a week. Those precious seven days gave the Tadas time to regroup. Time to reflect on what was happening.
With Joni’s forced seclusion in her home, they found they had more time to sit alone and get perspective on what they were learning. One afternoon, while sitting by the sliding glass door overlooking their backyard, Joni mused, “Honestly, Ken, maybe some people think splashovers of heaven would be standing on some beautiful mount
ainside with arms outspread — you know, a blue sky, fields of wildflowers, a soft breeze, and not a care in the world. Life is beautiful! But I think heaven’s best splashovers come in the midst of hell’s splashovers. Or maybe I should say, a splash of heaven is when you find Jesus in your hell.”
“So that’s what you saw in me that night,” Ken said.
“And what’s odd is, Jesus seemed so near and present that night, so intimate — in the middle of pain and fear and darkness, I could feel the touch of Christ.”
At the very darkest and most terrible of times, Ken and Joni would experience something fresh, something fragrant. Like somebody opening a window in a stuffy room and feeling a gust of cool air, maybe catching a faraway scent of lilacs or of a mown field after a rain shower. It was the closeness of the Savior, sweeter and more precious than they had ever known before.
If there were any lessons to be learned from the years of pain and now cancer; if there were any insights to be gleaned, it was this: suffering had been — and would continue to be — the thing God would use in their lives to draw them closer to Jesus. To show them His power to sustain. And to shine most brightly through them. Brighter than ever before.
This was the marvel they would always remember, as the children of Israel would remember the night when they walked between dark walls of water with a mighty whirlwind behind them as a rear guard. It was the most frightening night of all, and it was the best night of all. Ten thousand chariots clattered in pursuit on their heels, but nothing could touch them that night, the night the Lord Himself fought for them.
They continued to stare out into the backyard, letting those thoughts settle softly into their hearts. Neither was quick to speak, until Ken added, “It’s that sweetness of having Jesus there, of listening to what He has to say to us in the midst of suffering. It’s like when Adam and Eve walked with God in the Garden of Eden, listening to what He had to say.”
The Garden of Eden? Paradise? In the middle of such a nightmare of cancer, struggle, suffering, and congested lungs? On previous summers, paradise for Ken was fly-fishing up in Idaho. The Garden of Eden was wading in the Madison River in Montana. Those fly-fishing trips were usually with ten or twelve guys, and it was always an amazing time, something he looked forward to. But this summer — this July and August — during chemotherapy, he knew Montana wouldn’t be happening. It was his choice, though. His choice to be with Joni during this difficult time. He glanced at her, still looking out the window, and smiled.
“You know, Joni, how I’d normally be up in Montana this time of year? Well, when I first started going up there, I couldn’t believe how beautiful it was, looking out across some of those Montana mountain ranges. It was like a little touch of heaven. But it’s a funny thing. I thought I had to go to Montana or out in the wilderness to find that. But in these times since I’ve been setting aside time to seek the Lord, to listen for Him, just sitting here with you, looking out across our yard, at the flowers, at the hummingbirds? Well, I’ve found my touch of heaven here. Can you believe it? Heaven is in our own backyard. And heaven is looking into your eyes.”
“Heaven was 2:00 a.m.,” Joni added, “as you pushed on my stomach and helped me cough! Unbelievable.”
In Wild at Heart, the book that had meant so much to Ken, John Eldredge had talked about spiritual battles, and about Christian men standing together against the enemy and being a band of brothers. “Don’t even think about going into battle alone,” the author said. “Don’t even try to take the masculine journey without at least one man by your side. Yes, there are times a man must face the battle alone in the wee hours and fight with all he’s got, but don’t make that a lifestyle of isolation.”
Ken was understanding more and more about spiritual warfare and the importance of not going into battle alone. But he wondered, Who would I want beside me in a foxhole?
A week later, when Ken took Joni for her third round of chemotherapy, things felt different. He didn’t feel terrorized by the sights and smells in the chemo room. He watched his wife as the chemo nurses inserted the large needle into her chest port. She’s not even flinching, he observed with pride. He watched Joni’s face as the nurse hooked up the IV and adjusted the flow of poison into her body. His wife just smiled up at the nurse. She was astonishing.
Later that evening, after Ken helped Joni into bed, he found himself thinking about Montana and what he was missing. The guys were probably sitting around after dinner and reflecting on the day’s fishing. Ken looked at his watch. It was late, but he decided to take a few minutes before bed to jot an e-mail to his good friend Chris Leech, who was one of the leaders of the fly-fishing trip.
“Chris …” Ken typed, “you’re my brother in Christ, an outfitter, the quintessential mountain man. You’ve literally gone face-to-face with grizzly bears in the wild. You hunt with a longbow and can survive for weeks in the wilderness. You’re strong and tough, like a Navy Seal. And I’ve always said, ‘Chris, if I ever go to war, I want you in my foxhole.’ I say that because I know you are a warrior, that you are fearless, that you have skills with so many weapons, and that no matter what, I’d be able to count on you and you would always have my back.
“But over the last year, going through this cancer journey with Joni, I’ve changed my mind about who I would want in my foxhole. As I’ve watched Joni and how she has carried herself, I’ve been so inspired, so impressed. When it comes to cancer, we’ve gone to war against it, together. And just recently it dawned on me. Yeah, Chris Leech is tough. As tough as they come. But Joni is the real warrior. Her courage. The way she has modeled Christ through the worst of it, going through things that even super-strong able-bodied men couldn’t handle.
“So I’m sorry to tell you, buddy, but you are now second in my book. If I’m in a war, I want Joni in my foxhole. I want Joni fighting beside me. I want Joni watching my back. You may go one-on-one with grizzlies, but I’ve never seen anyone with courage like Joni. She is the quintessential warrior. I’m so very, very proud of her.”
Ken took a moment to reread his e-mail to his friend Chris before he clicked the SEND button. Nope, he wouldn’t change a word. His fishing buddies up in Montana were probably heading for their bunks right about now, pausing to step outside, stretch their arms, and look up at the wild, windy, star-splattered night. Maybe there were breezes whistling through the pines. The Madison River, just down the hill from the ranch, was no doubt hiding its fat fish, all of them resting for the night and dreaming of the next hatch of morning mayflies.
Did Ken wish he were there? He leaned back in his computer chair for a long moment, hands behind his head. Then he glanced at the door to their bedroom. No, he was right where God wanted him to be. And it felt so good.
The next morning Ken read his e-mail to Joni.
“Do you know what that means for a wife to hear that?” Joni said. “How many wives get to hear their husbands say that — ‘I’m proud of you’!”?
Weeks later, somewhere between the third and fourth rounds of chemo, Joni and Ken felt a cosmic shift — yes, in their relationship, for they were so much stronger together, but also in their relationship with Christ. This cancer was turning out to be a severe mercy. A bruising of a blessing, and a blessing out of brokenness. A strange friend, but still, a friend. An unwelcomed guest, but still, a guest. God was using this cancer to open new vistas in His Word, as well as new opportunities to witness to others. A great many others.
While Joni was still convalescing at home in late August 2010, Dr. James Dobson, a good friend of the Tadas, did an interview with Ken and Joni. It would be the first time either of them had spoken in public about their cancer journey.
Dr. Dobson, with a little catch in his voice, said, “Joni, I know you’ve written a lot in your blogs about the whole concept of walking with the Holy Spirit. Galatians 5:25 reads, ‘Keep in step with the Spirit.’ You and Ken have been all over the world and seen many places, but walking in the Spirit isn’t always about grand schem
es or the big mountaintop moments, is it? It’s in those very small steps we take with Him too.”
“Yes,” she affirmed. “And this whole season of cancer, chemo, and recovery has caused me to live life just like that. At this time in my life — fighting cancer — small steps are all I can do. I can’t do travel or go out with our field teams or participate in our Family Retreats or take Wheels for the World trips. I’m at home every day, and right now, the Holy Spirit wants me to take life in very, very, very small steps.
“In the morning I will sometimes say, ‘Lord Jesus, what would please You today?’ And I hear Him reply, ‘Seeing you eat forty-five grams of protein before lunch.’ And after lunch I will say, ‘Jesus, what would please You this afternoon?’ And I will hear Him reply, ‘OK, Joni, back away from your computer and enjoy the hummingbirds at your feeder. And this evening, how about giving the Food Network a rest and spending some time in the Word and meditating, praying, and singing some hymns to Me.’
“That’s living life in very small steps and keeping in step with the Spirit. Cancer has a way of making me do that, and that’s not bad.”
“A lot of people at the altar getting married,” Dobson said, “are thinking about the ‘better, richer, in health’ part of the vows, and they’re not thinking about the ‘worse, poorer, in sickness’ parts. What has it meant to your relationship to go through the struggle of these last few months?”
“We have fallen in love with each other,” Ken said. “I don’t know how else to say it. We loved each other before, but I don’t think we really had a clue twenty-eight years ago as we stood at the altar before John MacArthur at Grace Community Church. In this past year, we have fallen in love with each other in a new way.”
“Mmm,” said Dobson.
“Joni and I have talked about it, and I don’t think a lot of couples get a chance at a love like this, at closeness like this. It’s like all this has been a gift God has given us.”
Joni & Ken Page 15