I'm re-reading the last post, and almost don't want to write this one. We're in the same spot; looking for the same outcome, feeling the same things. Progress must have been made, right? But the inevitable: "what if" thoughts remain leering from all our dark corners.
The logistics of the last 2 weeks have been crazy. Forrest was admitted with the flu for over 10 days. His white blood cell counts (immune system) were non-existent because of where he was in treatment, and then the flu on top of that made any cell recovery stagnant for weeks. The big bone marrow procedure (I wrote about his last one in this previous post) had been scheduled for yesterday (Tuesday), but his low counts made them push the procedure until tomorrow. They let us out from the hospital Monday afternoon only after I promised to stay local and come right back at the first sign of a secondary bacterial infection. So we've been laying low at family's relishing the sun and the yard and air that smells of freedom and hope and spring.
The last bone marrow procedure showed progress, but not enough. This test is our last shot to reach their threshold for remission and to maintain our current treatment path. Daunting as the 3+ years before us is, the alternative is much worse. If Forrest is still not in remission tomorrow, it all changes. And not for the better.
You know that friend of a friend on FB that is just going through it? Yeah, I knew her too. Was always aware but comfortably distant from it. But its no longer a friend of a friend. "It" has barreled down our front door and supplanted itself squarely in our midst with no plans of leaving. It's surreal and weird and sometimes I literally just pretend it isn't. As this week has gotten closer, I've felt myself become more and more removed from the gravity of it all. There is a verse in Matthew that says: "Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." (v. 6:34) Simply by necessity, we live that out each sun up and each sun down. There is a vice grip around my heart, though. As the clock ticks by, the screws turn. Tightening, squeezing, aching. Its getting harder and harder to ignore. I start thinking about tomorrow and all that it means, and the flood gates threaten to roar. It is us. It is Forrest. And it can't be ignored.
If I'm honest, I don't even know how to pray right now. Yes, I pray for undiluted, full, and complete healing, but I have to wonder: not about God's omnipotence, but his omniscient reasoning. He is in control; he holds power over cancer. I don't doubt that for one second. So then why? Why doesn't He exert His power? And what does it mean if Forrest's path is different than the 85% of kids who find remission? And yet, I have been reminded, today, in a myriad of ways, that it's not up to me to know the future. I do know this: that though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I should fear no evil. I know He is here. To comfort. To bring hope. To walk us through this season. Psalm 103 talks about the love and care and attention God has for us. In verse six David compares His love as to a father's ... as a father is tender and compassionate. The Message says: as a parent feels for his child. Later, in chapter 118, David reiterates over and over: His love never quits; His love never quits. So God knows the depths of my angst and the depths of my love for my child. He created it to be so and He shares it with me. He knows. He cares. I believe that to be so. If that knowledge is all I have to lean on, then ... o.k... I don't know what the plan is, and that lack of insight and lack of control .... that utter, unwanted surrender ... threatens to undermine all that I stand on. But I believe He. Is. In. Control. I do believe there is a plan, even if I'm not privy to it. This is not cosmos spinning wildly out of control. My children and I sang today: He's got the whole world in His hands.... I wasn't just mouthing the words. I believe them.
Sometimes writing this down and working through it on paper... or the computer (whatever) is cathartic and spiritual and healing. Once the truths I've been telling myself all day are down in writing, they hold more weight. They sink in. They calm me. They lead me to a place of strength and surety. It's a little bit crazy: this public journaling. But I don't feel any compulsion to hide my thoughts or our story. God is using Forrest. We're along for the ride, and God ... we're paying attention. Do your thing.
Do. Your. Thing.
We're watching.