Hope's First Day of Chemotherapy

 After a Long Morning of Tests

 

An Ipad, a xylophone, Play Doh, and mac & cheese made the day much more enjoyable.

 

 

 

 Resting

 

 Stuffed animals make a great hiding place.

After Chemotherapy

Jesus wept. And so did we.

The first day of Hope’s chemotherapy was a kaleidoscope of contradictions. Beauty swirled around ugliness, joy danced with pain, faith found a companion in mourning, and heaven touched earth during the most human moments. 

As I prayed for peace, the Spirit reminded me that Jesus taught us how to feel in the midst of sore trials. John 11 provides but one example. After Lazarus, the brother of Mary and Martha, had died, Jesus knew that He was going to heal him. He told His disciples that He was going to Judea to “awake him out of sleep.” He explained that Lazarus’s sickness was “for the glory of God, that the Son of God might be glorified thereby” and that, consequently, He would raise him for “the intent that ye may believe.” Certainly, Jesus knew what He was doing and knew what the outcome would be. He even knew that He had the power to make a happy ending for Mary and Martha because He had already restored life to the widow of Nain’s son (see Luke 7) and Jairus’s daughter (see Matthew 9). Nevertheless, despite knowing that all would be well in the end, when He saw Mary and others weeping, He, the very Son of God and soon-to-be Savior of the World, groaned and was troubled and wept. Yes, even Jesus—knowing the end from the beginning—wept. And why did He weep? As the Jews said, “Behold, how he loved [Lazarus!]” 

Why would I share a story from the New Testament in an entry about Hope’s first day of chemotherapy? Because the Holy Ghost whispered to my heart and mind that a lesson from this story was the lesson that God wanted me to learn from yesterday’s experiences. It was a lesson about faithful weeping. 

Similar to Jesus in John 11, I have a peaceful assurance that my friend—my sweet daughter Hope—will be healed. Similar to Jesus, I believe that God knows what He is doing in this difficult situation and that the outcome will be good, for the glory of God, and for the strengthening of faith. Similar to Jesus, I have a personal conviction of His power to heal and His divine dominion over death. I feel no fear, bitterness, confusion, or despair—only a deep and abiding faith that all will be well in the end with our angel Hope. Nevertheless, similar to Jesus—out of a pure, indescribable love for my little friend, my princess—Hope’s first day of chemotherapy was a day of weeping, faithful weeping, for me. 

I wept when she cried out in agony, “My bum, Dada, my bum!” as we walked hand in hand on a sun-bleached terrace. She had tripped, fallen on her tumor, and looked up at me as if to say, “Why am I in so much pain? I don’t understand. Why can’t you help me?” I mourned with her.

I wept as I watched her perform flawlessly on a hearing test, knowing that a decision that Christina and I had made—even though it was the right decision—would rob her of a gift that she had already learned to use so well. She was so proud each time she knew the correct answer on the test. She smiled, clapped for herself, and giggled and squealed in delight. Each moment of her joy increased my pain about what I knew she didn’t know about the future. I mourned for her. 

I wept when, holding her tightly in my arms on the third floor of the hospital, we walked past a relief sculpture of Jesus holding a little child. I said, “Look, Hopie, there’s Jesus. He’s holding a … He’s holding a …” The words wouldn’t come out. A knot of emotion clogged my throat, and I couldn’t swallow it away. Finally, I stared deeply into Hope’s beautiful blue eyes and said, pointing to the child, “Is the child sick?” She looked up at me, sighed, put her head on my shoulder and whispered, “Sick, Dadda, sick.” And, in that sacred moment, I felt that Jesus was holding her. To me, she became the child in the sculpture, and I sobbed with joy as the Spirit testified that Jesus would hold her that night.

When night, and with it the beginning of Hope’s chemotherapy, finally came, two female nurses carried a large tray of IV bags and syringes into our room. Each liquid’s container was labeled “toxic,” and a host of kind but realistic medical professionals had spent the day preparing us for the pain, nausea, weakness, disorientation, hair loss, hearing loss, speech loss, immunosuppressants, and potential infertility that these powerful chemicals unleashed, along with attacking fast-growing cancer cells. 

We felt like we were ready to plunge off a cliff. We had no idea where the leap would land, even though we felt a deep peace about it being a good place, and we knew that Hope didn’t even know that she was about to be pushed. As she laid stomach-down on her angel mother’s lap, she looked so small and frail in her teddy bear pajamas. My heart welled up in my throat, and, as the head nurse began to twist the first syringe into place, I felt like I would burst out of my skin if I didn’t speak.

In a voice that was calm but full of every ounce of purpose that I could muster, I asked the nurses if they would please wait for a moment. A sacred stillness flooded the room as I let them know that we would like to offer a prayer to invite the Lord’s help before beginning treatment. They asked if we wanted them to leave the room, and I told them that we would love for them to be present for the prayer in whatever way they felt comfortable. They graciously consented to listen to our prayer, and, as my voice began to tremble, I began to plead with the Lord.

I wept as the power of the Holy Ghost began to fill every corner of my soul. I wept as I felt the Savior’s love for Hope rush into the room. It was warm and peaceful. I felt as if He were holding me, along with her, in His arms. Hope, who had been screaming and thrashing in fear of what the nurses would do with their large tray, suddenly became silent and still, and I wept in gratitude for the fulfillment of the promise I had felt earlier in the day as I stood in front of the relief sculpture . I wept as I tried to speak, and, as tears rolled down my cheeks and chin and onto my neck, I felt God’s enabling power lift me up. 

In between tears, I was able to choke out a few whispered words. I wept as I thanked Heavenly Father for Hope’s life. I wept as I thanked Him for the Savior. I wept as I thanked Him for a plan by which families can live together forever, a plan made possible by the miracles of this Easter week. I wept as I thanked Him for the nurses, doctors, and medicine that could save Hope’s life. I wept as I asked Him to help the nurses to treasure her like He does and to have their abilities magnified. I wept as I pled with Him to spare her hearing as much as possible and for miracles to flood the course of her treatment. I wept as I thanked Him for His perfect will, whatever it may be, and humbly, breathlessly acknowledged that seeing it done was the only thing I ultimately desired. And, as the warmth in the room felt so tangibly thick that I couldn’t have imagined a physical visit from the Godhead bringing a more certain embrace, I thanked Him for the rare privilege it was to feel such an overwhelming outpouring of the Savior’s love and left the treatment in His merciful hands. 

Tears filled the nurses’ eyes. No one spoke for several sacred, pregnant seconds. The room felt transformed. I could not have imagined Paul’s road to Damascus or Joseph’s grove near Palmyra being any more sacred, any more still, or any more full. 

Jesus wept. And so did we.

And Hope slept peacefully through almost her entire treatment.