Everything’s okay, until it’s not

“You have a mass in the middle of your right lung.” A little over a year ago, Kent and I sat in a doctor’s office stunned by these words. You think everything’s okay, until it’s not. Only three days before, Kent had developed a rattle in his chest, there was blood, and he had had an enlarged lymph node for a few weeks. Frightened, we made him a doctor’s appointment.

Monday: Doctor ordered an x-ray and made us an appointment to see him next day.

Tuesday: Doc said, “Something’s going on. We’ll get a CT this afternoon and I’ll call you with the results.”

Wednesday: Doc calls. “You need to come in for us to discuss your results.” When we got there, he showed us the report: spiculated mass, right middle lobe, suggest PET scan.

Until we got the call to come in after the CT, we’d been in denial. “It’s pneumonia, bronchitis, something easy.” You think everything’s okay, until it’s not. We went to our car in silence, reached across the console, and held hands.

Father, we trust You. We know You love us. We know You will walk with us whatever comes. Give us faith. Give us courage. Amen.

Then, we texted the kids. We’d kept them in the loop from the start and they were waiting to hear the results. Now, we had to prepare them for the worst.

We’ve prayed about this. We’re going to find out for sure what we’re dealing with, and then, we’re going to do the next thing. We are in Good Hands. Love you so much.

I included a screen shot of the report. Youngest is an MD and she didn’t reassure us with an “it’ll be okay.” Middle one is a PT. He came by the house later in the day after he’d done some reading and told me, “All things considered, what I’m seeing is best-case scenario means less than eight year survival.” You think everything’s okay, until it’s not. The numbness set in.

The doctor began the process to schedule a PET scan and told us to expect about a three-week wait. We began the process of getting back to normal. Right. Good luck with that.

We did all the usual things–work, eat, sleep.

Kent was working from home. I’d pass his work station and look at him, touch his shoulder, catch his eye and smile. I’d go to the grocery store, and instead of buying all the good-for-you stuff I usually bought, I’d buy all his favorites. Suddenly his notorious snacking habits seemed insignificant in the grand scheme of things. At night, I’d wake up, reach over, and touch him, listen to him breathe, and wonder what it would be like if he wasn’t there. You think everything’s okay, until it’s not.

We were sitting on the couch watching television a week or two in and he suddenly started shaking with silent laughter. I asked, “What’s so funny?” He said, “I just realized. At least it doesn’t matter that my suit doesn’t fit anymore because we’ve told the kids we want to be cremated.”

Horrified, my mouth fell open. Then, the weirdly dark humor of the situation hit me and I began to laugh too. We laughed and cried and laughed some more. “We can’t tell the kids about this,” I said, “not yet, anyway,” as I wiped tears off my face. I don’t know if they were tears from laughter or sadness, but the laugh and the cry did me good. Did us both good.

One day, the sink stopped up in the bathroom. As Kent got out the snake to unclog it, he said, “I need to show you where all this stuff is and how to use it. There’re a lot of things I’ve never shown you. I need to make sure you know how to do all this.” We take so much for granted. We think everything’s okay, until it’s not.

What changed the most was how we spent time. Seems like we’re always so busy, running from thing to thing, trying to get the list checked off, but I found myself marking things off the list, leaving spaces, leaving time to just sit on the porch and talk, and listen, and soak up all the moments. I found myself wanting to gather our kids and grandkids around and just be together. All those things on the list are always so urgent, so important. Until they’re not.

“All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”
J.R.R. Tolkien

Friday, a couple weeks later: Sitting with our oldest, waiting on Kent during his PET scan, I said, “I hope the result is good.”

She shrugged. ”We know what it is. Hope is just denial.”

With a calm that only comes from faith in our Creator, I said, “Hope doesn’t mean it will all come out okay. Hope means we will be okay, whatever the result.

Later that afternoon, sitting on the porch, we got a call from the middle one. Our littlest grand was on the way to Children’s Hospital with a life-threatening crisis of his own. Nothing we could do. Just wait. And pray. And hope.

Sunday morning, tears running down my face, hands held high in surrender, standing by Kent with our church family, we sang CeCe Winans’ Goodness of God.

“All my life You have been faithful.
All my life You have been so, so good.
With every breath that I am able,
Oh, I will sing of the goodness of God.“

God doesn’t promise us happy endings. But, He does promise us hope.

Monday: Kent’s PET scan was completely clear. No sign of cancer. Six months ago, the pulmonologist announced the mass had completely resolved. Littlest grand recovered completely and got an all clear a couple weeks ago on his one year follow-up.

It doesn’t always happen like that. We’ve had some sad Christmases too. But through them all, we’ve known the hope of Christ.

The whole experience has reminded me of something. The people in our lives are gifts. The relationships in our lives are gifts. Time is a gift.

2024 is just beginning. I’m grateful for the people in my life. I’m going to reach out. Touch them. Make the time for them. Really see them, listen to them, cherish them.

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.”
Romans 15:13 ESV

Taking nothing for granted.

May your 2024 be blessed!