by John Creasey
The confirming diagnosis of liver cancer, and the recommended regimen of treatment is another shadow I now must face. A new chemotherapy is paired with the one previously endured. This one is stronger and with brutal side effects. The infection known as C.Diff returns, this time with a vengeance; and if that isn’t enough, a UTI infection declares itself present as well. Physically and emotionally depleted, I think to myself: “I cannot do this.”
In that moment, my Light shows up again, dispelling the shadow this time with the promise of rest. Deuteronomy 33 is Moses’ blessing to the tribes of Israel. I have taken this as my blessing as well: “The beloved of the Lord dwells in safety. The High God surrounds him all day long, and dwells between his shoulders.” Again: “as your days, so shall your strength be.” “The eternal God is your dwelling place, and underneath are the everlasting arms.” Finally, Psalm 91 promises those “who dwell in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.” How good is this?
I find myself asking God, as David did in Psalm 17, to “hide me in the shadow of your wings.” He offers me “shelter” in the midst of shadows where I can rest. Rest, I must admit, is not my finest or easiest endeavor. When I lie down to rest, I feel the tense muscles attempting to untangle themselves, entering into a relaxed state, and my racing mind trying to cease the unnecessary “what-ifs.” Resting might just be my most challenging shadow of all. It is proving to be the most dense so far.
Finally, I love the picture the Psalmist paints in Psalm 131, “But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother, like a weaned child is my soul within me.” The child no longer needs to grasp at mother’s breast. She is content to just rest in loving arms. That is my goal.
Thank you dear friends, near and far, for all you have done to make my sacred journey that much more special. You are loved. I am hugging you all one by one! ~ Dixie in an e-letter and diary entry, October 2014
36
Road Trips
Yield, trust, obey. Absolute necessary attitude of my soul toward God. A response to who God is. Can I truly, wholeheartedly, believe that God is that aware of me? O Lord, help me in my struggle to believe. I will believe! I choose to yield . . . to have perfect confidence in you. ~ DLT diary, July 1990, St. Raphael, France
19 Dixie waits for the plane at Budapest Ferenc Liszt International Airport
Saturday. I return to the familiar corridors of UWMC today, this time to visit with Tom and his wife, Judy. Tom is one of the guys who meet regularly each Wednesday morning in our home. Two weeks ago, he and Judy drove to their SoCal desert home for the winter months. A week later at Eisenhower Hospital, Tom is diagnosed with Acute Leukemia. They return immediately to Seattle and to UWMC and SCCA to prepare for chemotherapy treatment in the same renowned research and treatment centers in which we have been served for the last nine months. Cancer is a dreadful disease for anyone to negotiate. So I go to say, “Hi,” to my friends, to pray with them, and share the love of Jesus.
Monday. Dixie continues fighting off the residual side effects of her third chemotherapy treatment in this series, while preparing for a much looked forward to trip out of town.
Tuesday. On the road again. She is feeling better this morning as we leave our home, stop for coffee at Starbucks, then drive onto I-405, heading south through heavy rains toward Oregon and beautiful Cannon Beach. Dixie loves road trips. It doesn’t really matter where, if by car. And if we are flying to someplace in the world we’ve not been to before, so much the better. She is all in. A combination of ministry and curiosity have taken us to all but one of the USA’s fifty states, and over fifty different countries and cultures, some several times. But, with the exception of my sister’s passing, this is her first time away from the Seattle area since January. About four hours and fifteen minutes from start to finish. As we make our way south, I recall how it was about the same drive time as this, each way between Springfield Missouri, and Tulsa Oklahoma. Years ago. We were so in love. It’s a wonder I didn’t kill myself.
During the school year on Fridays I would drive to Tulsa, then back to Springfield on Saturday late and go with the guys to wherever. Our quartet had weekend concerts and Sunday morning services as far away in the opposite direction as St Louis or Indianapolis. Always we were back in time to sing live on ABC radio’s Revivaltime broadcast every Sunday night. My mother, in our small eastern Washington farming town, never missed tuning in. Mothers are like that. (If she had known what kind of schedule I was keeping, she would have had a heart attack.) And I was sure that in Tulsa, the beautiful young woman who would forever be the love of my life was listening for our song as well.
In June, soon after my sophomore college year, we married.
Late in the afternoon, this same young woman and I check into Ocean Lodge, a beautiful birthday gift for Dixie from the guys who meet in our home on Wednesdays. Minutes later, we step out of our beachfront room onto a sandy shoreline that stretches past Haystack Rock, disappearing into a bank of low hanging clouds in the distance. It feels like November warm, and we are arm-in-arm together, ready to celebrate a special occasion, to live a special birthday moment, wrapped in lifetimes of memories.
Wednesday. We take short walks on the beach, rest in between, and read. Stroll through the small vacation village, with its plethora of quaint shops and restaurants, then back to our room to rest again. Her energy vanishes all at once, then after an hour or two, she is ready to go again. We investigate. We talk. We eat at places others have told us about. All good.
On this evening we sit near the fireplace in a house converted into a tiny restaurant, the only customers at this early hour. I watch as she eats well, and it tastes good to her. This is an answer from a caring God, who, I am sure, has arranged this holy adventure through a divine network of thoughtful friends. Sacred moments with just the two of us. We have Oregon friends with whom we do enjoy visiting; just not this time. At last we say goodbye to our server, Wendy, and walk carefully in the darkness across the gravel parking area to our car. Another car rolls to a stop beside us as Dixie is getting in. “We’ll take your place,” he calls out.
“Enjoy,” I reply back to the driver, while closing her door. “It is very good.”
Thursday. It’s early, but we hear it for the first time. This is it. At last. The flip side of why we have come to this place in November. Gray black clouds. Waves piling high onto the beach. It’s the storm! Winds rage against the walls of our corner room, driving rain against the glass, spilling downward in sheets of water, washing onto the deck and away to the rocks below. Glorious. This is what we came to see and hear and feel!
A visible reminder of the lives we are living. Not just us, but all of us. Days sunny and bright, with clear skies of blessing and joys that words are inadequate to describe. We speak of such times gladly with those surrounding us. Lifting our own spirits in the telling. Hoping it is the same for others as well. But storms we keep close, hiding them away, unwilling to show our fear of the winds that trouble us, the waves that break against us, overwhelming us. Believing that others should see only the sunshine in our lives and not our deepest dark nights of the soul.
Then he got into the boat and his disciples followed him. Suddenly a furious storm came up on the lake, so that the waves swept over the boat. But Jesus was sleeping. The disciples went and woke him, saying, “Lord, save us! We’re going to drown!” ~ Matthew 8:23–27
Perhaps we are more like these disciples than we think. Not sure why we got into the boat in the first place. Knowing we should have read the storm signs before it was too late to turn back. Helpless and fearful and not sure God even cares. After all, he is sleeping, isn’t he? While we are all about to drown? God may seem to be sleeping . . . but lest we forget, he is in the boat with us. Right? You have learned this, too? The storm beats down on us. The wind, the rain, the waves are pounding. And we are sheltered! This old boat is built for days and nights like this.
Friday. Time to leave
this place of awesome magic, its sights and sounds and fresh smells of the sea. “I will remember this,” she says wistfully at dinner on the night of her birthday. My feelings are too near the surface to chance real words in response. Memories kept secret. Quiet thoughts. Stories. Dreams of a future where chemotherapy is forgotten. Fresh ideas. How then shall we live once this storm has passed? Christ’s second half of life callings. What will we ever do to top this glorious evening? Will there be another like this? Ever? Finishing well. “Yes,” I say at last. “I will remember this, too.”
And God saw that it was good. And there was evening and there was morning. . . . ~ Genesis 1:12b-13a
. . . and it is our last day here.
The sun is shining on the waves. The winds are silent now as we walk in the early morning light along the shore. It’s all good. We are on the road again. Heading home.
Dixie loves road trips!
37
The Bad Week
If I forget,
Yet God remembers! If these hands of mine
Cease from their clinging, yet the hands divine
Hold me so firmly that I cannot fall;
And if sometimes I am too tired to call
For Him to help me, then He reads the prayer
Unspoken in my heart, and lifts my care.
~ from God, Thou Art Love, Robert Browning
It is reality check time again this week. On Monday, we spend the day at SCCA, beginning with a blood draw, followed by an appointment with Dr. Chiorean. Then on to F5 and the infusion center for the rest of the day.
Dixie’s blood work looks good this week, with the exception of white cell counts. Two weeks ago, it was over 6000. Today, only 1600. Since the count is low, in addition to the Gemcitabine / Cisplatin chemo cocktail, another steroid, and a 72-hour anti-nausea medication, before and after IVs to protect the kidneys, she is given a white cell booster shot in the tummy.
I serve as the gopher, bringing a turkey sandwich, a bag of chips and a cookie for lunch and, later on, a decent cup of coffee. These things are all found on F2 at the Red Brick Café. It isn’t gourmet dining, but adequate, all things considered. This particular SCCA building, tucked into a hillside near the Mercer Street exit off I-5, with mesmerizing views across Lake Union, is a red brick building, one of several red brick buildings constituting one of the world’s leading cancer institutes, the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center.
Fred “Hutch” Hutchinson was born in 1919. While still in his teen years, he was becoming a well-known baseball pitcher, winning his nineteenth game on his 19th birthday. He played for Seattle in the Pacific Coast League, and then for eleven years with the Detroit Tigers. As a manager, he led Cincinnati to the World Series. At age 44, he was diagnosed with lung cancer and died a year later.
His brother, Bill, a Seattle surgeon, wanted to establish a living memorial to Fred: the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center is the result. The Hutchinson Center is a world leader in research on the prevention, diagnosis and treatment of cancer, HIV/AIDS and other life-threatening diseases.
We feel fortunate to live only a 20-minute drive from the Center. Some come long distances, from far-flung points around the globe to be treated here. All the while, whatever illnesses we are up against, we know it is important to keep perspective: doctors treat ~ Jesus heals.
This week is the bad week. The one always following the treatment described above, filled with days of weakness and an almost total lack of energy. Rest is the only real answer while her body fights back against the Enemy Cancer. She sleeps off and on through the day. Still she remains in good spirits. Next Friday, more scans will be taken and we will know better how things are going.
Living the life I was designed to live.
Why would I ever think of disregarding the commands and laws of God, which reveal to me the way he desires me to live, and believe God would give me the life I desire? He designed me in a way to bring him pleasure, but I am designed to also bring his good pleasure to me. That is my deepest desire . . . to live as I am designed!
~ to glorify God
~ to drink deeply from his source
~ to live joyfully, lovingly, richly
~ to bring pleasure to him
~ DLT diary, March 2012
38
The Thousand-Year Day
The primary discipline of prayer is waiting. Waiting requires patience and perseverance. ~ WT
Mark Buchanan in Your God Is Too Safe calls this “the holy habit—living out the conviction that the Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. What we expect may take almost forever—a thousand years, anyhow—can happen in a day. More often, what we wish would happen in a day may take a thousand years. The holy habit is getting used to the reality that with the Lord one is like the other.”8
On Dixie’s sacred journey, a day like today can become a week, a month, a year, all rolled into one. We prepare for our scheduled visit with Oncology, and another normal Destroy-the-Enemy-Cancer infusion day. Books, iPad, Dixie’s new birthday Kindle (replacing the old one she has literally worn out from reading) are in the carry bag. We cross the SR 520 bridge on our way to SCCA. Once there, the usual blood draw on F1, then to F4 and an appointment with Dr. Chiorean’s young colleague, Dr. Lisa Vanderhoef. We know already that Dr. Chiorean is on hospital call at UWMC this week.
Lisa goes over the blood test results. All good. After a few minutes she begins discussing the CT scan results from last Friday. These, she says, are not so good. While the size of lymph nodes in question have decreased and no other organs show positive, the tumor on the liver has doubled in size since testing two months ago and the lungs show increased cancer cell activity. In other words, the chemo treatment is not working!
Lisa pauses and asks if there are questions. Seriously? Of course there are. What is a reasonable prognosis? She admits this is a question beyond her professional skills to answer. She recommends meeting soon with Charlie or Pam who work with Palliative Care to talk about future goals and plans. We sense Lisa is not used to this kind of duty as she sits in for Dr. Chiorean. She is doing her best. It just doesn’t meet the need. We feel empathy for her. We have been here often for others during our lifetimes. And now it is us.
A day like a thousand years . . . thinking along that scale is hard to get my arms around. But one that feels like a thousand years? I get that. When one asks for answers, assuming there is enough faith (does anyone know how much is enough?), we should get the answer we are hoping for, right? Not necessarily. Factor a thousand years into the equation, and it is another thing, isn’t it? God is not obligated to dispense answers like dollars in a candy machine.
Yes, the primary discipline of prayer is waiting. It does require patience and perseverance.
It is, however, intended to encourage and strengthen, not to distress and leave us hanging.
Three times the apostle Paul asked for a physical problem in his body to be resolved. He wanted it to be taken away. The Lord’s response was, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness . . . For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Corinthians 12:9,10).
Today Dixie mentions a new thought has come to her regarding Romans 12:1, “I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship . . . that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.” She says this is what she is doing.
I remind her that this is something we’ve done throughout much of our lifetimes. To which she replies with Psalm 31:15, “But this is different. This is what I am doing today. I’m presenting my physical body to the Lord. I’m not going to feel sorry for myself. I am going to live as I would if I did not know my life may be shortened. I choose to live in the fullness of joy and with purpose until my life is do
ne. There is only One who truly knows my end date. It is he of whom David writes this affirming word, ‘My times are in your hand.’”
I mentioned this to our primary care doctor earlier today. Dr. Bankson was the first to suspect the root cause of Dixie’s illness last February. (How many doctors have we become acquainted with since then?) She smiles and shakes her head. “She is one courageous lady!” I agree.
We will continue to do as our doctors recommend. After Thanksgiving, Dixie will resume infusion treatment with yet another form of chemotherapy called FOLFOX. This chemotherapy regimen is designed and used in patients with advanced, metastatic colorectal cancer. It consists of the drugs: Folinic acid (Leucovorin), Fluorouracil (5-FU), and Oxaliplatin (Eloxatin). Strange new words to us.
Wednesday 26 November. Tonight Dixie and I are sitting in a borrowed and thoroughly beautiful island home, looking out onto the Puget Sound. Members of our family who live here in the Northwest will be joining us for Thanksgiving Day. Granddaughter, Katy, and husband, Geoff, will open the envelope telling us the gender of our newest great-grandchild, due in March. We are hoping for a girl or a boy. Either will be just fine! New life. We are excited.
She leans into me, her eyes fixed on some distant point. I look to where she is looking. Is she thinking what I am thinking? Like many older couples, our thoughts often run together after all these years. I don’t want to go there, but I cannot help but wonder . . . could this be our last one? Our last Thanksgiving together? I keep looking . . . to where she is looking . . . but I cannot see that far.
God is good. We are good.
I love you, O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer, my God, my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold. ~ Psalm 18:1,2