Mourning
Change is hard. One of the reasons it is hard is because it virtually always involves mourning. Small change probably involves smaller mourning than big change, I suppose. The loss of a loved one is cause for more mourning than when your favorite team loses a game. Nevertheless, we have all experienced that sinking feeling that follows disappointment or deprivation.
Now that my final consolidation chemotherapy round is approaching the end, I find that I am doing a bit of mourning. My path has been pretty clear for the past five months: a round of induction chemotherapy followed by four rounds of consolidation chemotherapy on 28 day cycles. I am now four days into the final cycle, which will include the recovery phase, when I am most likely to feel crummy and probably have another outbreak of my Rosacea, complete with the ugly, painful blood sores I have experienced after the past two rounds.
But it is not the pain and ugliness that I am mourning. Those will pass. I think it is the loss of the known path. I know the routines of regular visits to the medical office for lab tests; of days of being so light-headed I am stuck in my recliner; of bruises and of blood sores on my nose; of transfusions; of watching lab results for clues about how I will be feeling; and finally of knowing that on such and such a day I will return to Club Sunnyside, where I know the people and how much they care.
With new information to consider and difficult decisions ahead, the path is not clear. It is scary. There is so much to consider. In my last post, I mentioned some of the ifs and buts and caveats of bone marrow transplant therapy, which would be the next treatment modality in line. I guess the mourning involves a little of being done with the devil I know and facing a new devil I don't know.
The overarching fact, though, is that mourning is a process, and if one is willing to go through the process and come out the other side, there is a new hope and a new vision available. Not minimizing the loss, but embracing what we have experienced in a way that recognizes this loss of what we had and the gain of what we have received, all become part and parcel of who we are.
The Psalmist wrote:
For you formed my inward parts;
you knitted me together in my mother's womb.
14 I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
my soul knows it very well.
15 My frame was not hidden from you,
when I was being made in secret,
intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
16 Your eyes saw my unformed substance;
in your book were written, every one of them,
the days that were formed for me,
when as yet there was none of them. (Psalm 139:13-16, emphasis added)
None of this is a mystery to God. He knows where I have been and where I am going. There is great comfort in that. And ultimately, as He tells us:
Beautifully stated as always Tom. God knows your path already and will be with you every step of the way. God bless you and Jill.
ReplyDeleteDonalynn
Thank you for writing this - its such a wonderful reality that God knows, understands and ultimately cares more than we can comprehend about every hair on our head and breath we breathe. I'm thinking of another great old tune, "He's got the whole world, in His hands..."
ReplyDeleteB
Well said, Tom! My thoughts recently have centered on walking by faith and what that looks like on an everyday basis. My theory is that when we are young in our faith, God allows us to “see” more but as we grow in faith, He makes less visible and says, do you trust me now? Thanks for sharing your own walk of faith through this challenging journey! It’s encouraging and gives glory to our God.
ReplyDeleteJeanette, I am finding that to be true. As I contemplate what is ahead, I must remember what God has already done through this journey. He has definitely proven Himself trustworthy! May I give Him the glory in all things!
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