Let's just face it. I'm scared. There. I said it. Now it's out on the page for all of the world to see. (Well at least for you to see.) I have finally mustered up the strength to face the inevitable - FEAR -The ugliest four letter F- word I can think of. (And you thought I was going to say something else! Shame on you!). I'm sad to say that of all the F-words I can think of, this is the one I have the most trouble owning up to.
I've been in this situation three times now. It's not new. The first time I was here I was inexplicably confident. (I think I was just naive.) The second time I was here, I was irritated. I was annoyed with cancer's inconvenient impact on my life. But this time it's different. I don't want to be here. I'm afraid of the medicine I may or may not have to take depending on the results of my scans. I know how sick I'll feel if I have another dose of radiation. (Even though the radiologist will tell me that it's all in my head.) I'm terrified of the painfully lonely 72 hours of isolation. I am acutely aware of the time I'll spend away from my husband and daughter. I know that I'll worry for the next 6 months about the next 6 months. And I'll always be concerned about the long term effects of radioactive iodine on my body.
Fear. It's such a small word, but it's impact is so big. It's paralyzing. At times fear has the strength of 10,000 wild horses- nothing else has such an impact on my life. I mean, it's crazy that something so small can do so much damage. So, now I've said it. At least this time I'm not faking it. (There's another F-word for you! Unfortunately, I'm kind of comfortable with that one. I know how to fake it.) Fear, the very word seems so weak and so uncontrollable.
So, here I am sitting in the hospital surrounded by fear. And then I hear a familiar voice. Sue. We go way back. Sue has been my radiology tech for each scan since last August. She and her colleague, Stephen, rule the roost in the Nuclear Medicine Department as far as I'm concerned. They keep everyone informed and up-to-date and they do it all with a smile on their faces. They are gentle souls - kind. As I hear Sue's voice, I am calmed. She calls my name and escorts me to the all too familiar spaceship/ scanner. As I settle in for my photo shoot Sue wraps me in a warm blanket and tapes my feet together. (It's OK. I'm used to it.) And as if on cue James Taylor begins to play in the background. Sue remembers that I love this CD. I ask for it every time I visit for my week long rendezvous. These seemingly unremarkable acts of kindness lead me to another four letter word - HOPE.
Isn't it amazing how you just need a teeny-tiny bit of hope in order to feel better? It's like a miracle drug. (I wish that's all you needed to cure cancer!) Sue's sweet spirit gives me hope that there is life beyond this dungeon; that there's life beyond this fear. And in a split second, I feel it - the other f-word - FAITH. Instantly I am reminded of the verses I read just yesterday in the book of Isaiah.
"This is what the LORD says-
your Redeemer, who formed you in the womb:
I am the LORD,
who has made all things,
who alone stretched out the heavens,
who spread out the earth by myself,
who foils the signs of false prophets
and makes fools of diviners,
who overthrows the learning of the wise
and turns it to nonsense,
who carries out the words of his servants
and fulfills the predictions of his messengers,
who says of Jerusalem, 'It shall be inhabited,'
of the towns of Judah, 'They shall be built,'
and of their ruins, 'I will restore them,'
who says to the watery deep, 'Be dry,
and I will dry up your streams,'
who says of Cyrus, 'He is my shepherd
and I will accomplish all that I please;
he will say of Jerusalem, "Let it be rebuilt,"
and of the temple, "Let its foundations be laid." '
Isaiah 44:24-28
My scans from today are inconclusive. I don't know what will happen to me tomorrow. I may have another treatment awaiting me. I may have another 72-hour isolation period in my very near future. I might get so sick that I don't eat for two more days. I just don't know. I am still afraid, but I am not gripped by fear. I want good news tomorrow. I'd be a liar if I said otherwise. I don't know one person in the Markey Cancer Center who doesn't want the same thing. But I do know this: Sue will greet me with a smile and a warm blanket. James Taylor will serenade me softly while a gigantic machine takes pictures of my insides. And The God of all Creation will continue to reign over it all.
