Transformation

We’ve been having a transforming experience now for over 4½ years.

Life is all about transformation – as you read these words, you no longer appear the way you did when you entered this world and took your first lungful of air. Whether physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual, most of life’s transformations occur gradually as we grow and have new experiences. These changes may not be evident in the short run – but consider yourself after over a decade or two and you’ll see a transformed person. Life does that.

Some of life’s transformations happen quickly, like when Susan's brain tumor made itself known. A headache that wouldn’t quit and a search for the cause – six weeks. A CT scan; a seizure, stroke, and surgery – eight days. Having the reality of death thrust upon you is immediately transforming. So are the sudden effects of disability with brain trauma. Having our game board overturned so suddenly made us wonder what we still had, what we’d lost, and what would happen next.

Loss itself is transforming – we’d lost our familiar way of life, we’d nearly lost Susan, and we had certainly lost control. But in so much upheaval, something stayed intact. It’s our foundation, our faith, our understanding of God; who he is and who we are. God had poured that foundation into us from his heart and his might. And it stayed. Our foundation shook as violently as anything else, but it didn’t groan or break. It stayed. And widened, deepened, and got stronger. It’s amazing.

Life has changed so much for us since 2007. Susan went from a full-time mom of teenagers and practicing dental hygienist to a brain cancer survivor. She’s been through the tumult and continues to fight. The kids and I have been along for the ride, all bolted to our foundation. What once was unbelievable for us became reality: not just cancer, but brain cancer; a stroke, craniotomies, chemo, radiation, meningitis, hydrocephalus; a brain hemorrhage; bone fractures, infections, and so on. Then something more unbelievable happened: we discovered we’re okay.

Somehow, in a short span of time, we have been and are being transformed. Our greater foundation means we regard death differently. I remember a time when thoughts of death for Susan brought great fear. Not anymore. Not since we’ve walked through that valley and realized there’s a wonderful, necessary purpose in it. We’ve moved to acceptance, even anticipation. When we talk about dying now, Susan looks forward to being with God in heaven. She wants to experience the new home he’s prepared for her. She knows living there will be truly living. It will be magnificent. We’re together in our outlook. As much as we value and hold to our life on earth, when it’s my time to go I intend to have a running start.

Why are we okay? One of Jesus’ companions, John, writing with wisdom and perspective toward the end of his life, says: “There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment.” (1 John 4:18) There was a time when Susan doubted God’s love for her. She was aware of her sin and knew she deserved punishment. But there was grace. About ten years ago she was led into a season of healing and deep affirmation of God’s love for her.

We both enjoyed that season, its transforming effect on her. We enjoyed the confidence she gained in herself, her God, and her future. When breast cancer came, she was ready to handle it in the right spirit because her foundation already had been improved. When brain cancer came a year later, the love and strength God had poured into her made her ready for that. The nearness of death, while unwelcome, did not send us reeling because God had already removed its sting and wrapped us in his grace. Then we realized we’d already been transformed. That discovery itself was transforming. 

So, this far along, we are: saved and being saved, healed and being healed; transformed and being transformed. We thank God for the foundation he’s given us and look forward to what’s next.  

Stable MRI, more chemo

We ventured back to UCLA this week for Susan's two-month MRI following our busy and joyous holidays that flew by in hindsight. Well into her fourth round of chemotherapy, Susan's status has been remarkably normal. Rather than having the setback one might expect with tumor growth and chemo, she’s maintaining her level of strength and ability. In fact, it’s common now for people to encounter her and say she’s the Susan they remember. We’re so thankful.

Not surprisingly, her MRI was stable. We’re grateful to see no indications of recent growth, although Dr Nghiemphu is intently watching a couple of areas. Our full schedule on Wednesday featured labs, MRI, oncology update, chemotherapy, and meeting more brain buddies. Susan has done well after three monthly infusions of Carbopatin. She had only slight fatigue after the first two, with a few days of Zofran to prevent nausea. Her good lab results so far show her body has handled the chemo well.

The neurological exam that accompanies Susan's oncology visits is standard practice for brain tumor patients. “Hold your head still and follow my pen with your eyes.” “Squeeze my fingers.” “Lift your knee while I press down against it.” “Other knee.” “Smile.” “Frown.” There are probably a dozen questions and commands in all, including spelling “world” then spelling it backwards. (Even I have to think about that one.) Some of the questions deal with orientation of place and date. Susan can struggle with these, made even harder with word-finding trouble. But her cleverness came through this week when she was asked, “Where are you right now?” Her pause told me the answer wasn’t coming easily. Then she looked into the nurse practitioner’s eyes and said brightly, “I’m with you!” That was a good one.

I frequently use our blog to reflect on our situation and arrive at a helpful perspective. Four and a half years later, it’s still often surreal to me that Susan has a brain tumor. As much as we’ve adjusted to our circumstances, it’s still somehow hard to believe what’s happened. A week ago or so I recognized Dr Javahery coming out of a medical office building as we were about to enter for an appointment. He’s the neurosurgeon who performed Susan's emergency brain surgery in 2007. We’ve had no contact with him since then. Amazingly, he remembered Susan; that he did her resection on July 4^th, that we’d had to move quickly against her worsening condition, and that we sought treatment next at UCLA. He regrets not being able to operate under more controlled conditions, but said he had to de-bulk the tumor or she would have died.

Time did not permit us to relate to him what she’s been through, but it was enough for him to know what patients like Susan experience and to see her there with me. He shared a proverb with us: “Absence diminishes small loves and increases great ones, as the wind blows out the candle and fans the bonfire.” Having nearly lost Susan altogether, its truth resonates. Our brief and lovely encounter allowed us to encourage each other and made Susan and I glad to greet and thank him. The care of doctors like him has been a gift.

As I consider how our brain tumor experience has been transforming us, I’ll share those thoughts next time.