Healing Cancer

My wife and I were out to dinner last Saturday when my cell phone rang. I plugged my bad ear with a finger so I could hear the news from my brother-in-law over the clanging din of the family restaurant. The words coming through the phone hit me like a right cross to the head: My sister Maryanne had been hospitalized. She was scheduled for surgery the next morning.

She had a brain tumor.

Oh shit.

Brain tumor. Two words that are like the sudden appearance of a stranger with a gun or the unexpected snarl of a rabid animal when there is no place to run or hide. Terrifying words.

I know these words. I've been to this rodeo before. Sixteen years ago I lost a dear friend to a brain tumor. I flashed back to all the memories of that ugly, ungodly disease. The surgery. The recovery. The radiation. The sickness. The confusion. The hopeful good news. The devastating disappointment. The loss of a brilliant personality, disappearing inch by inch. The final, obscene family vigil by the bedside when Death, although inevitable, stubbornly refuses to come. The waiting, refusing to leave even for sleep or meals--suffering because the loved one is suffering. Anguish.

But I calm down. The terror subsides. I realize the fear is so great because of the dearness of the person who is at risk. It's so great to have sisters. Granted, it's been many years since I've seen Maryanne. We live on opposite coasts, and neither of us has a lot of money to spend on air travel to visit each other. Still, I just love to know that she's around--somewhere.

Maryanne is sort of the family eccentric. Back in the 1970's she was a genuine card-carrying Jesus Freak. Her enthusiasms have always been eclectic--modern dance, ice skating, fashion design, classical singing, and even pro wrestling. She's a wife and a mother. A brilliant water color artist, she has also been a professional scenic designer and set-painter with Off Broadway credits to her name. For me, her most defining and endearing characteristic is her humor--a goofball sense of the absurd, expressed in a diction somewhere between P. G. Wodehouse and Eddie Murphy. She is sensitive by nature, and, although she is technically my big sister, I find myself thinking of her as my little sister.

Siblings are precious because they are the only people, I think, who truly know us. Our spouses, our parents, our children, or our adult friends didn't grow up under the same roof, and don't share the same childhood memories. At best, siblings have their own special language and points of reference. And when we lose them, we feel so much more alone.

Fortunately, the news from Maryanne has been pretty positive. Her surgery went well, and most of the tumor has been removed without any impairment to her motor or sensory functions. So far, we are optimistic. Maryanne tells me that she is feeling closer to God now that she has had this traumatic diagnosis. She's thankful her headaches are gone. She tells me she has felt the support of all of those who have been praying for her. She is overwhelmingly grateful to her care-givers--especially her husband and mother-in-law.

And me? I'm feeling closer to my sister these last few days than I have felt in a very long time--and closer to her twin, my sister Lorraine, who is united with me in worry and prayer and love for our sis.

I've been a pastor for a long time now, but I still don't know if there is any kind of adequate pastoral care for a person or family attacked by a life-threatening diagnosis. All I can do is take solace in the little moments of joy and the tiny victories which come in the midst of our troubles. As Saint Paul says,

Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you." (1 Thessalonians 5:17-18)

This may not be of much comfort to those who are experiencing similar losses or fears, but it's the best I can do at the moment and under the circumstances. Because, you see, the truth is that none of us can be cured--we all must die from something. We all must face loss. But I want to believe in the soul and in eternity and in righteousness. I want to believe--as I know my sister does--in joy and gratitude and love. I want to be made whole.

That's what the word "heal" means. It comes from the same root as "whole"--free from grief, troubles, and evil. And such is the ground of faith, this is the belief which keeps me going: we are  all incurable, but no one is un-healable.

Thanks for reading, my friend. Keep us in your prayers.