The Gifts

On Thursday, September 8, 2011:

• President Obama addressed a joint session of Congress about the high unemployment rate.  We weren’t listening. 
• Wildfires raged across Texas destroying 1,386 homes and displacing thousands of people.  We didn’t notice. 
• Football season opened with the Giants defeating the Saints.  We weren’t watching. 
• The largest power failure in California history occurred, leaving millions of Southern California residents without electricity and snarling traffic.  We were not at home nor on the roads to be affected. 
• Statistically, only one child in the U.S. was diagnosed with T-cell acute lymphocytic leukemia.  That one was Derek, and it had our full, undivided attention and concern. 

Our world permanently changed in an instant as we were launched on a horrible and tenuous journey one year ago today. But over this last year, I have received some intensely vital gifts I would not trade for anything.

On that day, we didn’t comprehend the extent to which our lives would change.  We were concerned with the immediate crises of the moment:  the shock of the thought “OUR SON HAS CANCER!”, his astronomical white blood cell count crowding out his red blood cells creating a huge risk of stroke, a mass in his chest hindering his breathing, four procedures that might have to be performed with only local anesthesia, RIGHT NOW!!  Mountains of paperwork to be signed, decisions to be made, a crash course in everything we NEVER wanted to know about childhood leukemia. A totally new vocabulary that would become everyday vernacular: blasts, aphaeresis, PICC lines, lumbar puncture, gene markers, VinCRIStine, PEG Asparaginase, Cytarabine, pneumatosis, port-a-cath, and the all-consuming absolute neutrophil count (ANC).

Other things changed, too.  We devoured every piece of information we could find on the internet until we became experts on Derek’s particular type of leukemia.  Everyday life, as I was used to living it, ceased to exist.  I didn’t cook, clean, or do laundry.  Most days and half the nights were spent at the hospital.  I had abundant help as family and friends supported us in every way.  These people are invaluable gifts.  Our house received a new floor which essentially entailed moving out and moving back in.  Again many friends pitched in.  It freed us to grapple with the bigger issues: Why Derek?  How long will he live? What are the chances that he will relapse?  What then?  What will be the long-term effects of his treatment to rid him of this dreaded disease? Why did God allow this? What Bible promises does God guarantee to fulfill NOW? 

For most of these questions, there is no immediate answer.  Fortunately, the answer to the last one has become abundantly clear, and it has become a most precious gift. “I will never leave you or forsake you.” (Heb. 13:5)  That one firm belief, that God is with me through EVERYTHING, allowed me to set all the unanswerable questions aside and trust.  I received the greatest Gifts, God with me. Maybe that is why it is called His PRESENCE.

Now a year later, we are still working to find a new rhythm to the unexpectedness of our lives.  Derek has responded well to treatment and is in remission.  His hair is growing back.  He eats well and has pretty good energy most days.  We are starting a new school year.  Vince’s job (which he had started in a new location only one week before Derek’s diagnosis) is going well.  We usually only have to go to the clinic once every two weeks instead of every day.  Many things that were such a shock at first have become normal.  I am a bit hyper vigilant perhaps because I never know what a day will bring and because I am very much aware of some unwanted possibilities.  I never leave home without hand sanitizer.  Derek never leaves home without a mask on his face.  Kristen never opens a public door without using a paper towel on the door handle.  I cannot tell from looking at him what his ANC is, and when I expect it to be fine, it frequently is not. 

It is hard to answer the question, “How is Derek?”  At the moment he is playing, laughing, not in the hospital, and not in pain, so I guess that makes him fine.  But it may all change in a few minutes, and I have no idea what is happening inside his body.  Today he may be apparently fine and tonight he may be in the hospital fighting for his life.  This reality has made me acutely aware of another all-important gift I have received this past year.  One at a time, I have received 365 of them.

Today, I witness God’s providence. Today I experience love from many people in many ways.  Today I have my son.  Today I hear him play the piano and giggle as he plays with our cat.  I smile as he and Kristen squeal and hug each other.  Today I teach him to read and hear him read his Bible.  Today I remind him to do his chores quickly, to live at peace with his sister, to chew with his mouth closed.  Tonight I watch his happiness as he rides on Vince’s shoulders to bed, and then I cuddle with him as I tuck him into bed.  I pet his new soft hair and feel his arms around my neck and his butterfly kisses on my nose.  “TODAY is a gift. That is why it is called the PRESENT.”¹

This year has been an intense and difficult journey.  But the journey isn’t over.  Derek has been gifted another day, and so have I.  He still has nearly two and a half more years of treatment.  That thought floods my mind with more unanswerable questions about the future.  I push them aside and embrace the precious gifts I have received: God's PRESENCE and the PRESENT.

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¹ Alice Morse Earle, Sun Dials and Roses of Yesterday (1902).