My Cancer Journey 1

Martha gave me this
cozy blanket. It was
so good to have it in
the hospital!

Dear Friends,

As many of you know, I was diagnosed with cancer at the end of October. To help share information with the many, many kind and caring people who are concerned about this, I am resuscitating this blog, "Tenacious Grace," which I started a number of years ago but has been dormant for quite some time. (Check out some of the old posts. They aren't half bad!)

I thought it would be easiest to share updates, news, and the occasional reflection here rather than repeat it with each inquiry. Check back periodically and you'll have the latest on my cancer journey.

I'll start with the quick background and then share the latest update.

As you probably already know, I have a tumor in my right, upper pelvis area. (To put it crudely, it's in the upper part of my butt on the right backside.) It's a soft tissue sarcoma, which is a relatively uncommon kind of cancer. My specific type is even rarer. It's called sclerosing epithelioid fibrosarcoma (or SEF). That's the technical name, but informally I call it "my butt cancer." Unfortunately, a tumor of the same type was also found in my appendix. It has since been removed with clear margins, which is good. I can feel the tumor in my body, but most of the time it does not bother me. Except at night. For some reason, when I lie down -- in just about any position -- the tumor puts pressure on my sciatic nerve and causes varying degrees of right leg discomfort and pain. Some nights, it doesn't bother me at all. Much more often, I'm up 2, 3, 4, 5 or more times, pacing up and down in the bedroom to work out the achiness. It was in trying to get to the bottom of the right leg sciatic nerve pain that finally led to the discovery of the tumor and the cancer diagnosis.

It's been a whirlwind of medical appointments and a roller coaster of emotions and thoughts since the diagnosis. I've had more medical appointments in the last two months than I've probably had in the last 10 years. I've had two CT scans, an MRI, and a PET scan. I've met with the surgical oncologist, the medical oncologist (twice), had surgery to put an IV port in my chest, and have started a treatment plan.

The good news is that the PET scan did not show any additional tumors. That doesn't mean the cancer isn't lurking elsewhere, but it is a very good result.

My treatment plan starts with chemotherapy. I'll have six rounds of chemo and then, possibly (hopefully) surgery. But that is pretty far down the road at this point.

I started chemo last week. I spent four days at Oregon Health Sciences University hospital while receiving two chemotherapy drugs by IV infusion. (Hopefully future infusions will be done on an out-patient basis.) The first day or two went well and I felt OK. But Wednesday night, Thursday, Thursday night, and Friday morning were rockier. I got very little rest, struggled just a bit with nausea, and just felt lousy. 

After I got home on Friday, I took a long hot shower without any IV lines which was amazing. Then I took a 2 hour nap -- I was out cold. As Friday ended, I could see "normal" off in the distance and had a bit of hope. By Saturday morning I felt much better, and then felt increasingly better throughout the day. Sunday continued that trend. I don't feel "back to normal" or 100%, but fairly close. 

I actually went for a slow run today -- 3.5 miles. When I got home from the run, I felt almost giddy. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to run at all after starting chemo, so even though it was a classic Oregon morning -- overcast and raining -- I was overwhelmed with what a beautiful day it was, indeed.

I suspect that with each successive round of chemo I won't bounce back as much or as fast. But at least right now I am grateful that I've recovered from round 1 as much as I have.

Round two of chemo is scheduled for January 3, 4, and 5. Again, hopefully this will be outpatient. They are long days -- from 7:30 a.m. into the early evening. But it's worth it if I get to sleep in my own bed!

Thanks to all of you for your kind and caring words, cards, and gestures. It is much appreciated!

Preacher Man

Every week, I preach.

On Sunday morning, I stand before my congregation. I take a shaky sip of water and then a deep breath. I pray the same grounding prayer every time: “May the words of my mouth, and the meditations of each one of our hearts, be acceptable in your sight, O God, our rock and our redeemer.”

And then I preach.

I am burdened by it. I am blessed by it.

The sermon is always on my mind. Ruminating and pondering is not a 9-5 activity. The longing for an angle, an insight, a point of contact never disappears. It ebbs and flows, rises and falls, day and night. Imagery and analogy swirl ‘round my heart and mind, like tendrils of early morning mist, hiding as much as they reveal, as I run 5 miles, as I wash the dishes, when I stare out the window, as I lie awake in the pre-dawn hours.

I didn’t become a pastor in order to preach.

I do not enjoy having 175 (or 50 or 300) pairs of eyes on me. After many years, I still am gripped by the anxiety of “public speaking.” Except, when I preach, it’s not just the speaking in front of people.

It’s the vulnerability.

It’s the self-disclosure through personal stories and cherished ideas and deeply held convictions—where it all touches me (whether said with words, the visible lump in my throat, or the catch in my voice).

It’s gotten easier, but it will never be easy. The responsibility to offer grace-filled words that bless, that heal, that challenge…it is unrelenting.

And yet, when I have a Sunday when I do not preach, why does it feel as if something is missing? And not in that vague “I-should-be-doing-something-right-now” way, but in a way more deeply connected to my own spirituality?

Weekly preaching, when I am faithful to it, invites my deep engagement with scripture, wrestling with Biblical stories of grace and love and pain and devastation and forgiveness and sacrifice and compassion. Preaching that isn’t superficial requires my full engagement with the joy and the tragedy of the world around me. To preach, I need to observe, listen, experience, feel. I need be aware of the implications of the pulse thumping in my neck. I need to be fully alive and fully human.

I want to be alive. I want to be human.

Preaching calls forth the creativity within me. Not always. Not predictably. I’ve preached more than my share of clichés and clunkers. And yet, in the chaotic throes of the process, the creative impulse will offer her gems—a metaphor, an image, a story, an insight…the Word for this moment.

In the vulnerability is an indescribable experience of the Holy Spirit at work. My words? Not exactly. In that sacred space between the movement of my lips and the meditating hearts of the people, she does something marvelously and mysteriously thrilling. I am merely the instrument.

Preaching keeps my ego in check. Every Sunday, before I enter the sanctuary, I pray as honestly as I can, “It is not about me. It is not about me. It is not about me. Help me get out of the way, O God.”

Preaching strengthens my sense of self, my confidence, my God-given identity. For at least the first six years of weekly preaching, my Bible was open to the words of the prophet Jeremiah:

God said to me, “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations.” I said, “Oh, God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” But God said to me, “Do not say, ‘I am only a boy’; for you shall go to all to whom I send you, and you shall speak whatever I command you, Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you to deliver you…

There are many negative stereotypes of preachers: Bible-thumpers, judgmental hypocrites, divorced-from-reality geeks, know-it-alls, egotistical, money-grubbing, self-important narcissists, or perhaps worst of all…deadly boring.

I hope that I am not stereotypical.

Every week, I preach.

I am burdened by it. I am blessed by it.

Quietude

Every Advent I go away for a silent retreat at a nearby Trappist monastery.

  

The fall is an especially busy time of year for me personally and as the pastor of a church. By December, I am tired, ragged around the edges, and definitely feeling scattered. And yet, for the season to be truly meaningful, Advent demands that I intentionally create space for silence…to simply be…to allow God to be at work in mysterious and marvelous ways.

So I go away for three days to hang with the Trappists. Because, you know, they are really, really good at being quiet.

When I show up at the monastery guest house, they tell me which guest room is for me to use. I carry my few belongings to that simple, little room with a bed, a desk, a lamp, a wardrobe, and a rocking chair and then…

… “quietude.”

That was a new word to me when I first encountered it at the monastery. It comes from a little pamphlet I found in the desk of my room. It reads, in part:

“For this time of retreat…you have separated yourself from your usual daily pace and activities; they will make no demands on you while you are at the Abbey. You are free to enter into quietude! Our society has ingrained in us that we find success only when we put forth effort. A retreat, however, is a little different from that. When we ‘go apart’ for a spiritual retreat, we are seeking to make ourselves available so God can work in us and speak to us. [God] is not able to do so if we keep ourselves continually occupied and busy with doing things…

We need to be quiet.

We need to convince ourselves that it is perfectly all right to be quiet… that quietude is not a copout but a state of receptivity. If we allow our mind and body to be quiet, they are free to be open to God…Although you could no doubt take advantage of this retreat time to think-out and resolve many matters for yourself, you stand a much better chance of having them resolved in much more meaningful ways…if you leave all this work up to God. [God] won’t let you down. [God] asks that you be quiet and receptive so [God] might have the opportunity to ‘get a word in edgewise.’” (emphasis added)

This invitation to quietude is exactly why I return to the Abbey year after year. I step out of the swirl of activities and words and responsibilities and demands and tasks of everyday life so that, for just a few days, I can be quiet in a special way. It’s like I’ve been holding my breath for months and finally now can take a deep, full breath of deliciously crisp, clean air.

It’s like running madly along a path and then suddenly stopping to sit quietly by a little stream. And while sitting silently, expectantly, slowly I awaken to the sound of burbling water and I notice the tadpoles darting around in the shallow pools and I appreciate the smell of the fresh, cool air. All of which I completely miss when I hurriedly rush by.

I happen to think that most people would benefit from a little “quietude” so that “God might get a word in edgewise.” We live in such a noisy, distracted, busy world—which only gets more so in the weeks leading up to Christmas—that a little quietude would go a long way.

Especially during Advent.

Because during this season, without quietude, we may just overlook the inconspicuous, yet marvelous way, that God’s love is born among us.

“How silently, how silently the wondrous gift is given…”