When Jacob was able to visit again on August 8, my courage had been restored.
Was it not enough that I had been diagnosed with Primary CNS Lymphoma while pregnant seven months before? That two nerves had been severed during my craniotomy, resulting in permanent deafness and facial paralysis on one side? That I was only two weeks into a month-long stay at the C.S. Mott Children’s Hospital in Ann Arbor for an autologous stem cell transplant, and that my husband, newborn and toddler were two hours away?
I had already given up my health, my normalcy, my appearance, and — for a time — even my family. What more did He want?
It was 1:30 a.m. The stubble on my buzzed head itched against my pillow, the deadened roots loosening after ten consecutive days of chemotherapy. My mouth and throat throbbed with sores and thickened spittle. My abdomen roiled with an E. Coli infection. The tubing that connected my central line catheter to an IV pole beside my bed tugged at my chest as I writhed.
All those months ago, I had thought that God was promising me deliverance from my disease. He had given me 2 Timothy 4:17–18 just as my symptoms were beginning, and I had embraced His assurance that I would escape “out of the mouth of the lion.” But had I been mistaken?
“You’ve promised that You won’t give me more than I can handle,” I cried, “But I think You have.”
Wiping my eyes, I put on my glasses and felt for my phone. As the screen recognized my gaunt face, I opened BibleGateway to the first chapter of Lamentations — planning to wallow in my misery with Jeremiah.
“She weeps bitterly in the night, her tears are on her cheeks.” I took a screenshot — this was about me. “From above [The Lord] has sent fire into my bones, ... He has spread a net for my feet ... He has made me desolate and faint all the day.” (Lamentations 1:2a, 1:13 NKJV) Screenshot
I didn’t care anymore that I was subtly blaming God for my affliction. Although I knew that He hadn’t caused my suffering, I couldn’t understand why He wasn’t removing it.
“My eye, my eye overflows with water; because the comforter, who should restore my life, is far from me. My children are desolate because the enemy has prevailed.” I began to ugly-cry, snot and tears running down to my chin and dripping onto my button-up shirt. (Lamentations 1:16b NKJV)
Keep reading, my thoughts urged, you know what’s next.
“Through the Lord’s mercies we are not consumed,
Because His compassions fail not.
They are new every morning;
Great is Your faithfulness.
It is good that one should hope and wait quietly
For the salvation of the Lord.
For the Lord will not cast off forever.
Though He causes grief
Yet He will show compassion
According to the multitude of His mercies.
For He does not afflict willingly,
Nor grieve the children of men.
You have heard my voice:
‘Do not hide Your ear
From my sighing, from my cry for help.’
You drew near on the day I called on You,
And said, ‘Do not fear!’”
God had heard me. He was not allowing me to be consumed. I needed to hope and wait quietly for His compassion.
Although I willed for peace to settle in my soul and for the pain to subside, neither happened. Instead, I was still sleepless and messaging “this is finally absolutely breaking me” to my family at 3:45 a.m. It was only after my sister — beginning a night on call as a veterinarian in New Zealand — phoned to cry with me and to pray for me that I was able to doze.
When I was awakened by my nurse an hour later for a set of vitals, I gave up on rest and forced down some applesauce and Cream of Wheat before posting an SOS on Facebook that concluded with the words, “I need the prayers of those I love today.” Then I slipped into my Chacos, donned a mask, and stuffed an Airpod into my good left ear. I told myself that I could stop moving after two circuits around the unit, pressed play on a shuffle of my entire iTunes library and set out to see if God’s mercies were for me.
“Don’t give up
Victory is sure enough
For angels fight beside the one
Who desires to overcome
The victory is sure
The battle is the Lord’s.”
The lyrics that vibrated through me weren’t coincidental — neither were the next ones, or the ones after that. Before I had even realized it, I had walked five laps — a mile — empowered by the bravery that pulsed through my veins.
And then I checked my phone. My Facebook post had been noticed. Comments compelled me to hold on, to keep believing. Many of the 20 new texts in my message app shared strong impressions to pray for me in the night or early morning. The final surprise was a picture of my grinning brother, his hair clipped to match mine. “Brave the shave,” read the caption.
I had two visits that afternoon — one from a fellow teacher, mom and word-lover, and the other from a previous academy student. They didn’t mind that my outlook was dismal or that my hair was mostly gone. They came anyway, bringing tubes of natural lotion for my scratchy scalp and heaps of courage for my heart.
Several hours later, knowing that I should exercise once more before bed, I ventured out again, nearly bumping into a woman as she exited a room with her head down. “Nancy?”
I had met Nancy months before during an earlier phase of my treatment. We had connected over our previous careers in English, and over the fact that her husband and I both had blood cancers on University Hospital’s 8th floor. He hadn’t been doing well then, and as Nancy looked up at me now, I feared he was doing worse.
We wandered to the windowed sitting area at the end of the hallway, watching the light of the August evening recede over tree-covered hills — my IV pole between us. As I absorbed the hopelessness and exhaustion in Nancy’s voice from my stiff, teal couch, my own problems diminished. I was conscious. I was walking. I was eating. My doctors were expecting me to live.
“Can I pray with you?” I heard myself asking hesitantly after we had talked for an hour, reaching for her hand when I heard her quiet, “Yes, please.”
By the time I returned to my room and readied myself for bed, I could half-smile at my nurse’s chiding “where were you?” as I wiggled my toes under my hospital blanket, my stomach quiet for the first time in days. Then I grabbed my journal. “Today has given me an incredible glimpse into God’s new compassions for me,” I wrote.
He had sustained me. He had held me all day long. And I knew that He was asking me to surrender my fear.
Emily Gibbs taught in the Michigan Conference for 11 years — in both peninsulas, in both elementary and secondary classrooms, and in both full-time and part-time roles — before dedicating her days fully to her two young daughters at home. In amongst the duties and demands of motherhood, she finds moments to write about the lessons God has been teaching her — many of which will be included in a memoir about her year of illness.
