Awkward Silences

Today brought a dental visit for a filling.  The assistant seated me and, while she waited for me to become excruciatingly numb on the entire left side of my face, she made small talk.  I usually try not to let my husband's cancer be the topic of every conversation.  I am open about the topic when it comes up because I fully believe sharing our story may help someone one day when they least expect it.  God drew me to a child named Joseph three years ago.  Though he lost his battle with a brain tumor, his mother's honest reflections online and his family's transparency, humanity, and courage inspired me deeply.   On the day of Brett's first cancer diagnosis three years ago the reason for my "accidental" discovery of Joseph became crystal clear.  Joseph's story lit the path and wiped away some of the immediate all consuming fear.   Sharing the story is important because we never know when someone may need it.

But...  Brett's cancer is not my first topic of conversation.  This is mainly because of exactly what happened today.  The dental assistant kept asking me how things were going, how my holidays were, how work was, if I was busy.  It became unavoidable so I explained that my husband was diagnosed with a cancer recurrence and a metastasis to the liver and chest wall.  We had weathered a serious surgery and would soon begin chemo treatments.  And, there it was- the awkward silence.  I always feel so badly because people just don't know what to say.  And, truly what do you say?  Would I have known years ago what to say? 

The word "cancer" carries so many emotions.  The mere mention of it brings fear, anxiety, confusion, memories of loss, and sadness.  This is because people equate it with powerful metaphors.  Cancer is a battle.  There is a war against cancer.  We do a relay for life because cancer steals life.  We fight cancer.  We survive cancer.  We hate cancer.  We make t-shirts and mugs to display our hatred.  We write poems about the things cancer can't steal because it is a thief.  Cancer is the enemy.  Could we find the words to say or a different mind set if we simply shifted the metaphors?

Shortly after Brett was diagnosed the first time and we got news that he had a very advanced stage of disease he said these simple words to me, "Cancer is a blessing".  Now, I was a wife fighting the enemy- I was in full war regalia armed for battle- I was ready to kill and destroy.  Needless to say my reaction wasn't pretty.  How can cancer be a blessing?  How can this man facing chemo and an uncertain future say that to me and truly believe it?  (and he did truly believe it)  Yep, to him cancer, the very thing robbing the breath of life from his body and making him weak, was and still is a blessing.  Talk about shifting the metaphor.

Cancer is a blessing.  It rapidly prioritizes your life.  It reminds you that life is a gift and not a guarantee.  It makes you love more deeply.  It allows you to speak your mind and take more risks.  It reminds you to kiss your loved ones good night, good morning, and sometimes for no reason at all.  It grows your faith and connects you to God in tangible ways.  It strips you so all you have is your faith to lean on and it has to be enough.  It reminds you that money is just money and you cannot put a price tag on someone's existence.  It allows forgiveness for the increase in profanity in your life.  (Forgive me, but I truly believe that sometimes God laughs out loud at my outbursts).  It reminds you of how you felt the first time you looked at your husband at the tender age of fifteen and your heart spoke and said, "This is it." It reminds you that the argument you had yesterday over something stupid needs to be forgotten because it was over something stupid.  Cancer is beautiful.

Now, I am not a saint and I don't live this out daily but I am trying.  I am trying to get up each day and say, "How blessed we are to have this gift, this reminder, this faith, this joy, this view of life" and I am succeeding more days than I am failing so that is progress. 

Steven Curtis Chapman has a song called "Beautiful Scars".  I think of it often now as I look at the numerous scars on Brett's chest and belly.  They are beautiful.  They tell the story of survival and strength, of courage and vulnerability, of the frailty of humanity and the birth of great faith and trust.  May we all have beautiful scars and may we all consider our trials blessings.