by Dan Phillips
When I started blogging some seven years ago, though I was a semi-invisible presence at that point, I had made a decision to allow myself to become some kind of public person. But that was me. That wasn't a decision made for the rest of my family.
My dear Valerie for instance is a very private person, and I understood (without needing to be told) from early days that whatever I chose to disclose of my personal life and thoughts was a me-decision, it wasn't a decision for my wife and kids directly.
So I didn't tell you all right away of Valerie's pain, or even of her hospitalization and surgery, until I was sure it was all right with her. Then I gave
one report, and
one update a couple of days afterward. Valerie and I were both touched with the show of sympathy and prayer from my readers. It was like getting a nice little pile of "Get Well" cards.
Now here's the part I did not share, which I do now have permission to share so as to ask for your prayers, and to pass along a message from Valerie. We've had some time to tell family, and begin to get our minds around it.
Go back with me to Saturday the 11th.
The surgeon had told us that the radiologist reported some complication about the appendix, beyond simple signs for appendicitis. He wasn't sure what to make of it, but would begin in the pursuit of a simple appendectomy. He also was bothered by her anemia, something Valerie had never had before.
However, when the surgeon called me into the recovery room mid-surgery, what he told me was that it was more complicated than initially thought. He suspected a
tumor. Therefore, he would have to remove not only the appendix, but a small part of her colon and more. The pathologist's report would not come until Monday.
As you may imagine, this began one of the darkest moments of my life.
A tumor. Unable to help or save Valerie (a husband's first and dominant impulse), badly frightened for Valerie, alone, unable to think of much beyond my innumerable failures as a husband and a man, and of the horrors that suddenly loomed so large, I wept and cried out to God and clung to Him for dear life, alone, pacing and pacing for miles and miles in that tiny waiting room. I clung to the character of God, reminded myself that He loved Valerie even more than I, looked to Philippians 4:6-7 and 1 Peter 5:7 for comfort and strength.
How could I tell her? What would I tell her? If only I could simply
take it all from her and for her.
Then the surgeon came and his wonderful first words were "Good news." He'd found a pathologist, they'd looked at what was removed, and they both concluded:
it isn't cancer. Relief. Gladness. Gratitude. And more relief.
Then passed the difficult days which follow a major surgery, with a fantastic support staff at the hospital and our dear family, our good and faithful pastor, and the concern of our church family. Valerie made good progress up that steep road. Wednesday came, finally time to come
home. The surgeon dropped in for a final visit to the hospital room.
Our surgeon is, by all accounts, a superb surgeon, the man other doctors go to when they're stuck, the man the nurses would pick for their own surgeries. But he's not a sugar-coater.
Now his first, mouth-drying words were, "It was cancer."
This had been a niggling unspoken worry at the back of my mind. Could he and the pathologist have made that quick a determination? Might other tests turn up something they missed? Turns out, yes.
What neither the surgeon nor the pathologist could see with the naked eye, the microscope disclosed. I can't give you all the technical terms he used or we read in the pathologist's report, but it was cancer. That's the horrible news.
The good news, such as it is, is that it was caught early. The surgeon thinks he got it all. A number of lymph nodes were removed, and they were all clear.
And here's the remarkable providence at this point:
if we're understanding the surgeon correctly, it was the appendix that warned of the cancer. The cancer set off the appendicitis, which drove the very doctor-averse Valerie in for treatment, which led to the diagnosis, which led to the surgery, which led to the discovery of this otherwise asymptomatic cancer. Were it not for all that, the cancer would still be quietly growing in the darkness, perhaps spreading, giving no clue beyond an undetected and symptom-free anemia.
So now our next procedural step is a colonoscopy after two months of recovery from the surgery, to make sure all else is well.
Valerie wants me to tell everyone: thank you so much for your emails, comments, and expressions of prayer and support.
And Valerie wants me to tell you: get your colonoscopies when it's time. That was my birthday present from my doc when I turned fifty. It was unwanted but painless. Valerie had joked that when "50" came, she had figured she had 9 years before "50"(-something) passed. Since this cancer can be caught and dealt with, but does not announce its early presence, the test seems a wise measure to take.
What's more, Valerie's family
does not have a history of cancer. Mine does. This should be
me hearing this news about
myself, not Valerie. Yet here it is, the ultimate unwelcome visitor, stopping at
her door. So: don't assume. Valerie wanted me to tell you all.
So now we are in the same position
every last one of us Christians is in every moment, though we're not so conscious of it as we are at times like this: utterly dependent on the wisdom, power, goodness, mercy and kindness of God. And often before His throne in urgent prayer.
Personal pain is one thing; seeing my most-beloved suffer takes my needle right up to "unbearable," but for the comfort of 1 Corinthians 10:13, the challenge of Luke 8:25, and the call of James 1:2ff.
Thanks for your time. And please, please,
please, from me to you: pray for my dear, amazing, one and only, inexpressibly and absolutely precious wife Valerie.
