Snapshots of a Mother’s Cancer Experience — Pt. 13: Two Mothers & Many Hands
When I was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer in 2000, I came face-to-face with my own mortality—and learned some profound lessons that transformed my view of reality. I would never sign up for my cancer experience, but neither would I trade away the treasures mined from it.
Above all, I learned to live with the awareness that we all really do have an impending, inescapable appointment awaiting us. We all have an appointment with God. No matter how busy or distracted we are or how distant that appointment may seem, one telephone call can change everything.
My call came when I was a 40-year-old mother of two preschool children and a happily married wife. The following post is Part 13 in “Snapshots of a Mother’s Cancer Experience,” a series that chronicles my journey through diagnosis, surgery, and beyond. (You can find a chronological list of the previous Snapshots here.)
2000
Thursday, August 3
The chapel air carries a light fragrance, like the blending of fine perfumes. Many gather. Friends, strangers, Mark and Tammy and their two little girls.
Mark works in programming at our church. As producer and vocalist, he has served alongside Roger on many occasions. When he heard that I had cancer and about my upcoming surgery, he invited us to join him in the chapel for prayer following tonight’s service. He arranged an elder prayer time for his wife, Tammy, who has a tumor clinging to her brain.
His wife is several years younger than me. Their girls are younger than Roger Dean and Ryan.
Tammy captured my heart at a weekend retreat held by our church when Roger Dean was a toddler and Ryan was yet unborn….
While Roger Casey served with the music team, I spent most of my time in a makeshift mother’s room with Tammy, watching the festivities on a big screen TV.
On Friday night, after the regular worship and teaching, there was a special worship concert with Christian Worship Leader and Recording Artist Tommy Walker. I encouraged Roger to sit in the auditorium for the concert. But before he left the mother’s room, I mentioned that I needed something from our car. He didn’t volunteer to retrieve it; I had too much pride to ask. I told him I’d go myself.
It was night. It was dark. Our car sat in the hotel parking garage a block from the conference center. Although Roger would lay down his life for me, and every day in countless ways he does—sometimes he can be clueless about protecting me.
When I said I was going to the parking garage, Tammy looked alarmed. She handed her baby to her husband (who sat with us in the mother’s room) and insisted that she escort me to my car.
Her protective spirit nourished mine.
Tonight, Tammy weeps for me. Weeps for my husband. Weeps for my boys. She expresses more concern for me than for herself. Trusting I will understand, she whispers: “I’m glad we’re going through this together.”
As we talk, Tammy’s little girls play nearby. She wants to be with them every moment she can. My boys are at home. The contrast is not lost on me.
I love Jesus, yet I fall so short when it comes to loving others. Loving others often requires sacrifice. I most naturally pursue what I want or need. And tonight, I want (and feel I need) something generally unattainable in the presence of my children: freedom to focus without interruption.
Hushed lighting and a design for intimacy disguise the true breadth of this room. Lofty windows rise to a cedar ceiling crowned with a dome skylight. Curtains, carpets, and padded pews absorb voices, quiet the room.
I’ve been to this chapel many times. For staff meetings, for Roger Dean and Ryan’s baby dedications, for friends’ weddings, even for several funerals. But never for this.
Two church elders stand before Tammy, one holds a stainless cup that contains anointing oil. “If any of you is sick…”
Pain is personal; I know well the danger of comparison. But…Tammy has a brain tumor! Only a few days before my doctors “dissect” my abdomen, her doctors will operate on her brain.
And yet, Mark told me that he prays for me every day.
Friends encircle Tammy, utter prayers.
Eyes brim, a tissue box makes the rounds.
And then it’s my turn.
The elders know Mark and Tammy, but they don’t know Roger and me. One asks about our trial. First I briefly describe the heaviness we felt, then the shift that coincided with Maggie’s message, and, above all, my desire and prayer that—whatever comes—I will glorify God.
His face shows a smidgen of surprise.
Then I’m surrounded. Enfolded. Many hands rest lightly along my head, neck, shoulders, arms. Many words speak of healing, hope, encouragement.
And peace like a dove alights.
♥ ♥ ♥
Tammy went home to be with the Lord on June 21, 2012, (a miraculous 12 years after she was diagnosed with a brain tumor). Prayers for her husband and now teen-aged daughters are always appreciated.
Have you faced a difficult trial and been blessed by a friend who actively loved you even as they faced their own trial? Tell us about it! (And come back on Monday, July 7th, to read the next Snapshot.)
