Sorry for the title, but Jessica and I will be interviewed by Bishop Robert Forsyth on 2CH (1170 on the AM dial) at 10 pm Sunday night (after the news). We'll be talking about our experiences of sickness and hope over the last six months or so. Can't say I've ever listened to that station myself (I rarely listen to any radio), but in case you're not already sick of hearing me talk about being sick, then this is another chance.
UPDATE: For those out of Sydney, you can listen online. H/T Jason Goroncy.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Recently
Over the last few weeks, three friends have been diagnosed with different forms of cancer: lymphoma, leukemia and breast cancer. Two of them are younger than I am!
Next scan soon
It's been over two months since I received the all-clear from a PET scan and so about time to be scanned again. I've been trying to contact my oncologist this last week, but he must be on holidays. He's usually very good at returning calls quickly. It's been over two months since my last cannula, but my wrists are still tender...
UPDATE: Just found out he is away and will be back in early July.
UPDATE: Just found out he is away and will be back in early July.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Before and after
A tale of two scans
I've just realised that I never posted these amazing images. The first is part of my CT scan from 1st December last year and is two vertical slices of my body. The black path down the middle of each picture is my windpipe. Towards the bottom it divides into two (one bronchial tube to each lung). You can clearly see the growth (which measurements of its height and width) almost entirely blocking my left bronchial tube (though this is on the right of the image, since you are looking at my chest front on). This is why I was having difficulty breathing! In fact, I only really started having noticable trouble with my breathing a week or two later than this scan, when the growth must have been bigger. By the end of December, just before treatment started, this left tube was completely blocked at times (esp when I lay down).
Breathing easy
The second pair of images are from my most recent CT scan. This is the same region as the first scan. Notice the smooth sides of the windpipe and bronchial tubes. There is still a residual mass visible, but it is much smaller.
Cured?
This is wonderful - however, it doesn't mean a definitive 'cure', as I have mentioned before. I will continue to have regular scans every few months (another one is coming up in a few weeks). It is not until two years without any regrowth that they are happy to say that this growth has been beaten.
I've just realised that I never posted these amazing images. The first is part of my CT scan from 1st December last year and is two vertical slices of my body. The black path down the middle of each picture is my windpipe. Towards the bottom it divides into two (one bronchial tube to each lung). You can clearly see the growth (which measurements of its height and width) almost entirely blocking my left bronchial tube (though this is on the right of the image, since you are looking at my chest front on). This is why I was having difficulty breathing! In fact, I only really started having noticable trouble with my breathing a week or two later than this scan, when the growth must have been bigger. By the end of December, just before treatment started, this left tube was completely blocked at times (esp when I lay down).
Breathing easyThe second pair of images are from my most recent CT scan. This is the same region as the first scan. Notice the smooth sides of the windpipe and bronchial tubes. There is still a residual mass visible, but it is much smaller.
Cured?This is wonderful - however, it doesn't mean a definitive 'cure', as I have mentioned before. I will continue to have regular scans every few months (another one is coming up in a few weeks). It is not until two years without any regrowth that they are happy to say that this growth has been beaten.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Thanksgiving reflection
Saturday morning was a service of thanksgiving. It was a wonderful time, with around 150 friends and family members joining together at All Souls to thank God for all his goodness. I'll write more about the service at some stage, but for now, I thought I would post the text from my reflection. A number of people asked for a copy and so I thought I'd make it generally available. Many of the ideas were taken from posts on my main blog over the last few months.
---------------------------------------------
It’s great to be here today.
It’s great to still be here today!
Death sucks
Our church signboard just out here on the corner recently caused a stir with a message of just two words. Tim and I were called up by the local paper, The Glebe, which ran a short article on the sign. Numerous parishioners were asked about it, or overheard animated conversations as people walked past. It made it into column 8 of the Sydney Morning Herald. It even attracted the attention of a local graffiti artist, who wanted to express disagreement. The two-word message was simply this: Death sucks.
When I first received the diagnosis of cancer back in December, this was precisely how I felt. Life is a good gift from God, and so death, which ends that gift, sucks. I had no desire to die. And as my situation developed and my symptoms got worse, it was not just death, but all that led up to it and anticipated it, that also sucked. The loss of good things in life, the loss of easy breathing, the reduction of strength, the decline of my voice, the coughing, the compromise of physical comfort, the loss of a full night’s sleep - these too were all causes of grief. And even once treatment began and progress was being made in reducing the tumour, I still regretted the side-effects of treatment: the constant needles, the lessening of mental concentration, the confusion of memory, the swollen feet, the suppressed immune system, the burned and itchy skin, the painful swallowing, the perpetual tiredness. And this is before I mention the social effects: telling people that you have cancer means that for some people you become a walking symbol of their fears and regrets, a constant reminder of their mortality.
Psalm 116
All these things have been part of my experience over the last few months. And now that they’re gone, and the possibility of imminent death has retreated somewhat, I am very thankful to God. Just like the psalmist in the passage Celia read (Psalm 116), I called on the name of the LORD: “O LORD, I pray, save my life!” and the LORD dealt bountifully with me. For he delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling. I still walk before the LORD in the land of the living.
Why?
God healed me. Through the doctors, through the chemotherapy, through the radiotherapy, through the prayers and love of many here, through his design of a good human body, through his life-giving Spirit, God healed me. Why? Like the psalmist, all I can say is our God is merciful.
Why me and not others? It would be tempting to give all kinds of answers to that question. But the truth is, I don’t know and don’t think anyone does. I know this, however: it wasn’t because I had more faith, or because I deserved it. Life is an unmerited gift. We can only accept it, and give thanks.
And so I thank God. I also thank God for all those through whom he has loved me over recent months: Jessica, my brothers and sisters here at All Souls and also at Barneys, all my relatives by blood and marriage, our friends, and even many whom I don’t know well directly, but who have been praying for us and generously giving love and support in all kinds of ways. Jessica and I thank God for all of you. I thank God that I’m alive to enjoy knowing you and being known by you.
It is a good thing this is not a funeral today. Death sucks. Life is a gift and for that we thank God.
But wait, there's more
But there is more to be said that this. It would be a shame to leave our reflections there and not dig deeper into this experience I’ve had and which so many of you have shared. Because what might we say if this was a funeral? What might we say if I go for my next scan in another month, or six months or six years, and the tumour is back, worse than ever?
The great taboo
Our culture doesn’t seem to know what to do with death. People seem to oscillate between denial and obsession. On the one hand, for most of the time, we live as though we won’t die: we arrange things so that the dead and dying are kept out of sight, out of mind; we stay busy and avoid silence in order to minimise reflection; we politely change the topic after an awkward silence if death does come up - as though we were trying to fool ourselves that it just might be possible to get out of this life alive. Yet, on the other hand, we’re obsessed with death: we spend billions of dollars each year on crisis healthcare, we demand doctors do everything in their power to keep us alive. To my mind, both denial and obsession seem to indicate that deep down, we’re terrified of death.
We pursue riches partially so we can try to insure ourselves against dying. We try to chase away terrorists with ever-tougher laws because we’re happy to pay any price to avoid the possibility of being killed. And when we do think about dying, we want our death to be quick and painless, we want a sudden death, to not know that it is coming so that we need not live in fear. Sometimes, it feels like this is almost the only thing left uniting our fractured society: we all share a fear of death.
Worse than death
But there are things that are worse than death. There are things more important than simply staying alive. And so while I have always wanted to do things that help me survive, I don’t want that effort to dominate my life and thought.
Why do I think there are things worse than death, things better than life? Because Jesus seems to have thought so too. He loved life as God’s good gift, but for Jesus, trusting and obeying the giver came before preserving the gift. When faced with the choice of obedience or survival, he prayed ‘not my will but yours be done’. He could have run. He could have kept his head down. He didn’t have a death-wish – he knew that death sucks. But he also knew there was something worse than death: a life that failed to trust God.
Death is bad, but untrusting anxiety, apathetic lethargy, bitter regret, faithless betrayal: these are the real enemies of God and humanity. These will blunt and bleed the soul, poison the spirit, and stop the heart more surely and grievously than the cessation of brainwaves and breath.
Bitterness, fear, apathy
For me, this was brought home sharply a day or two after getting the results of my first scan back in December. I clearly remember travelling home and realising that the more sinister danger facing me was not the wayward growth of cells in my chest, but the potential growth of bitterness or fear or apathy in my heart.
I could see myself becoming so fixated on my problems that my grief might sour into resentment, blinding me to all the good things with which life is filled, many of whom are sitting here in front of me. I could be so scared of what might happen, of pain that might come, of losing more abilities, so scared of missing out on the rest of my life that I could fail to live that life. Poisoned by bitterness, paralysed by fear, I might then give up and sink into apathy, losing the will to care about anything beyond my immediate physical needs.
These were the real dangers. To shrink into bitterness, fear and apathy would have been to lose part of my self.
Thankfulness, hope, love
But there was another option. Instead of bitterness, I could give thanks for all of God’s gifts. Instead of fear, I could place my hope in the God who raises the dead. Instead of losing myself in apathetic self-centredness, I could discover who I really am by loving and serving those around me.
Thankfulness
God has given me so much: not only life and breath, but new life by his Spirit; not only a loving family and wonderful in-laws, but brothers and sisters who share the same Father in heaven; not only the best wife I’ve ever had but a saviour who gave his life for mine. I am blessed and double blessed. How can I not be thankful?
Of course, all these good gifts and many others don’t mean I don’t grieve. I do. One of the saddest moments for me was back at Christmas, when my two and a half year old nephew asked me to sing with him ‘Jesus loves me this I know’. I tried and nothing came out. I’m sad that my voice isn’t able to sing as I’d like to. I’m sad that plans and dreams have been put on hold. I’m sad that many others - including many of you here - have suffered far worse for far longer than I ever have. Yet avoiding bitterness doesn’t mean minimising or ignoring the darkness. The thanks and the grieving go together. This is because giving thanks is already an act of hope. I can give thanks even in the midst of disappointment and heartache, not because I think the pain is good, but because I know something of God’s future.
Hope
God raised Jesus bodily from the dead, as we heard in our second reading (Luke 23.50-24.9). Jesus overcame death. To speak of this resurrection doesn’t mean Jesus or his spirit went to some afterlife with God. This would simply be as though death were being redefined – you think he’s dead, but really he’s in a better place. No, the tomb was empty – why seek among the dead for one who is living once more? God didn’t rescue Jesus from death; he rescued him from out of death. He was given life again after the grave. Bodily life. Life in every sense of the word that we mean – and more.
Jesus’ resurrection shows that God hates death, and his solution is not transferring us to another world, but to renew this world, to resurrect dead bodies to new life beyond even the possibility of death. God’s promise is that those who find their lives turned upside down by Christ will also experience a resurrection like his. In fact, God will renew his entire world.
And because of this – why fear? God is thoroughly committed to his world. He has demonstrated his love for us in that Jesus died to reconcile us. He has demonstrated his power in raising him from the dead. He given us a taste of this in pouring out his Spirit upon those who belong to Christ. His project of renewing creation has begun. So I live in hope, not fear. Not hope that God will rescue me from death, but hope that he will rescue me – and all his good creation – from out of death. Hope that he will finish the job he began in Jesus’ resurrection. Hope that death will not have the last word. Hope that I will not be overcome by evil, but that evil will be overcome by our good God, who raises the dead.
And not only does this hope make sense of being thankful, despite all that is wrong with the world, it also highlights just how wrong the world is. If death was the end, we mightn’t like it, but we’d just have to get used to it.
Instead, being hopeful makes me less content with how things are now. Paul talks about groaning and yearning for the day when God raises the dead. Jesus himself said blessed are those who mourn, who hunger and thirst for things to be right. During the most painful parts of treatment, I would repeat to myself these beatitudes. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for they belong to God’s rule; blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted; blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth; blessed are those who hunger and thirst for things to be right, for they will be filled. Jesus is basically saying that if you don’t like how things are now, and so join God’s protest and renewal movement, then you are blessed, because renewal is indeed coming. The dead will live again.
Love
And this is why love makes more sense to me than apathy. If God’s project of life wins over death, then every life really counts, every person is of inestimable value, every act of service is divine. I can pour myself out for others, enjoying them without needing to protect myself.
Thanksgiving, hope, love: none of these are about cutting myself off from the world or ‘being philosophical’. None of them are about just trying to be positive. They all rely on what God has done in Jesus and on his promised future.
Theology and experience
When I was thinking about what to say today, a good friend suggested I talk more about my experience and my feelings than theology. The more I think about it, the more I find the two can’t be separated. How we feel, how we experience adversity and prosperity, how we react, are all inseparable from who we think we are, and ultimately, who we think God is.
And so every day each of us faces this question: Will I look back on the past with bitterness or thankfulness? Will I face the future fearfully or with hope? Will this moment be one for uncaring self-indulgence or joyful loving service?
[Let’s pray:]
Thank you Lord for you are good, your steadfast love endures forever. This is the day that you have made; let us rejoice and be glad in it! Amen.
---------------------------------------------
It’s great to be here today.
It’s great to still be here today!
Death sucks
Our church signboard just out here on the corner recently caused a stir with a message of just two words. Tim and I were called up by the local paper, The Glebe, which ran a short article on the sign. Numerous parishioners were asked about it, or overheard animated conversations as people walked past. It made it into column 8 of the Sydney Morning Herald. It even attracted the attention of a local graffiti artist, who wanted to express disagreement. The two-word message was simply this: Death sucks.
When I first received the diagnosis of cancer back in December, this was precisely how I felt. Life is a good gift from God, and so death, which ends that gift, sucks. I had no desire to die. And as my situation developed and my symptoms got worse, it was not just death, but all that led up to it and anticipated it, that also sucked. The loss of good things in life, the loss of easy breathing, the reduction of strength, the decline of my voice, the coughing, the compromise of physical comfort, the loss of a full night’s sleep - these too were all causes of grief. And even once treatment began and progress was being made in reducing the tumour, I still regretted the side-effects of treatment: the constant needles, the lessening of mental concentration, the confusion of memory, the swollen feet, the suppressed immune system, the burned and itchy skin, the painful swallowing, the perpetual tiredness. And this is before I mention the social effects: telling people that you have cancer means that for some people you become a walking symbol of their fears and regrets, a constant reminder of their mortality.Psalm 116
All these things have been part of my experience over the last few months. And now that they’re gone, and the possibility of imminent death has retreated somewhat, I am very thankful to God. Just like the psalmist in the passage Celia read (Psalm 116), I called on the name of the LORD: “O LORD, I pray, save my life!” and the LORD dealt bountifully with me. For he delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling. I still walk before the LORD in the land of the living.
Why?
God healed me. Through the doctors, through the chemotherapy, through the radiotherapy, through the prayers and love of many here, through his design of a good human body, through his life-giving Spirit, God healed me. Why? Like the psalmist, all I can say is our God is merciful.
Why me and not others? It would be tempting to give all kinds of answers to that question. But the truth is, I don’t know and don’t think anyone does. I know this, however: it wasn’t because I had more faith, or because I deserved it. Life is an unmerited gift. We can only accept it, and give thanks.
And so I thank God. I also thank God for all those through whom he has loved me over recent months: Jessica, my brothers and sisters here at All Souls and also at Barneys, all my relatives by blood and marriage, our friends, and even many whom I don’t know well directly, but who have been praying for us and generously giving love and support in all kinds of ways. Jessica and I thank God for all of you. I thank God that I’m alive to enjoy knowing you and being known by you.
It is a good thing this is not a funeral today. Death sucks. Life is a gift and for that we thank God.
But wait, there's more
But there is more to be said that this. It would be a shame to leave our reflections there and not dig deeper into this experience I’ve had and which so many of you have shared. Because what might we say if this was a funeral? What might we say if I go for my next scan in another month, or six months or six years, and the tumour is back, worse than ever?
The great tabooOur culture doesn’t seem to know what to do with death. People seem to oscillate between denial and obsession. On the one hand, for most of the time, we live as though we won’t die: we arrange things so that the dead and dying are kept out of sight, out of mind; we stay busy and avoid silence in order to minimise reflection; we politely change the topic after an awkward silence if death does come up - as though we were trying to fool ourselves that it just might be possible to get out of this life alive. Yet, on the other hand, we’re obsessed with death: we spend billions of dollars each year on crisis healthcare, we demand doctors do everything in their power to keep us alive. To my mind, both denial and obsession seem to indicate that deep down, we’re terrified of death.
We pursue riches partially so we can try to insure ourselves against dying. We try to chase away terrorists with ever-tougher laws because we’re happy to pay any price to avoid the possibility of being killed. And when we do think about dying, we want our death to be quick and painless, we want a sudden death, to not know that it is coming so that we need not live in fear. Sometimes, it feels like this is almost the only thing left uniting our fractured society: we all share a fear of death.
Worse than death
But there are things that are worse than death. There are things more important than simply staying alive. And so while I have always wanted to do things that help me survive, I don’t want that effort to dominate my life and thought.
Why do I think there are things worse than death, things better than life? Because Jesus seems to have thought so too. He loved life as God’s good gift, but for Jesus, trusting and obeying the giver came before preserving the gift. When faced with the choice of obedience or survival, he prayed ‘not my will but yours be done’. He could have run. He could have kept his head down. He didn’t have a death-wish – he knew that death sucks. But he also knew there was something worse than death: a life that failed to trust God.
Death is bad, but untrusting anxiety, apathetic lethargy, bitter regret, faithless betrayal: these are the real enemies of God and humanity. These will blunt and bleed the soul, poison the spirit, and stop the heart more surely and grievously than the cessation of brainwaves and breath.
Bitterness, fear, apathy
For me, this was brought home sharply a day or two after getting the results of my first scan back in December. I clearly remember travelling home and realising that the more sinister danger facing me was not the wayward growth of cells in my chest, but the potential growth of bitterness or fear or apathy in my heart.
I could see myself becoming so fixated on my problems that my grief might sour into resentment, blinding me to all the good things with which life is filled, many of whom are sitting here in front of me. I could be so scared of what might happen, of pain that might come, of losing more abilities, so scared of missing out on the rest of my life that I could fail to live that life. Poisoned by bitterness, paralysed by fear, I might then give up and sink into apathy, losing the will to care about anything beyond my immediate physical needs.
These were the real dangers. To shrink into bitterness, fear and apathy would have been to lose part of my self.
Thankfulness, hope, love
But there was another option. Instead of bitterness, I could give thanks for all of God’s gifts. Instead of fear, I could place my hope in the God who raises the dead. Instead of losing myself in apathetic self-centredness, I could discover who I really am by loving and serving those around me.
Thankfulness
God has given me so much: not only life and breath, but new life by his Spirit; not only a loving family and wonderful in-laws, but brothers and sisters who share the same Father in heaven; not only the best wife I’ve ever had but a saviour who gave his life for mine. I am blessed and double blessed. How can I not be thankful?
Of course, all these good gifts and many others don’t mean I don’t grieve. I do. One of the saddest moments for me was back at Christmas, when my two and a half year old nephew asked me to sing with him ‘Jesus loves me this I know’. I tried and nothing came out. I’m sad that my voice isn’t able to sing as I’d like to. I’m sad that plans and dreams have been put on hold. I’m sad that many others - including many of you here - have suffered far worse for far longer than I ever have. Yet avoiding bitterness doesn’t mean minimising or ignoring the darkness. The thanks and the grieving go together. This is because giving thanks is already an act of hope. I can give thanks even in the midst of disappointment and heartache, not because I think the pain is good, but because I know something of God’s future.
HopeGod raised Jesus bodily from the dead, as we heard in our second reading (Luke 23.50-24.9). Jesus overcame death. To speak of this resurrection doesn’t mean Jesus or his spirit went to some afterlife with God. This would simply be as though death were being redefined – you think he’s dead, but really he’s in a better place. No, the tomb was empty – why seek among the dead for one who is living once more? God didn’t rescue Jesus from death; he rescued him from out of death. He was given life again after the grave. Bodily life. Life in every sense of the word that we mean – and more.
Jesus’ resurrection shows that God hates death, and his solution is not transferring us to another world, but to renew this world, to resurrect dead bodies to new life beyond even the possibility of death. God’s promise is that those who find their lives turned upside down by Christ will also experience a resurrection like his. In fact, God will renew his entire world.
And because of this – why fear? God is thoroughly committed to his world. He has demonstrated his love for us in that Jesus died to reconcile us. He has demonstrated his power in raising him from the dead. He given us a taste of this in pouring out his Spirit upon those who belong to Christ. His project of renewing creation has begun. So I live in hope, not fear. Not hope that God will rescue me from death, but hope that he will rescue me – and all his good creation – from out of death. Hope that he will finish the job he began in Jesus’ resurrection. Hope that death will not have the last word. Hope that I will not be overcome by evil, but that evil will be overcome by our good God, who raises the dead.
And not only does this hope make sense of being thankful, despite all that is wrong with the world, it also highlights just how wrong the world is. If death was the end, we mightn’t like it, but we’d just have to get used to it.
Instead, being hopeful makes me less content with how things are now. Paul talks about groaning and yearning for the day when God raises the dead. Jesus himself said blessed are those who mourn, who hunger and thirst for things to be right. During the most painful parts of treatment, I would repeat to myself these beatitudes. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for they belong to God’s rule; blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted; blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth; blessed are those who hunger and thirst for things to be right, for they will be filled. Jesus is basically saying that if you don’t like how things are now, and so join God’s protest and renewal movement, then you are blessed, because renewal is indeed coming. The dead will live again.
Love
And this is why love makes more sense to me than apathy. If God’s project of life wins over death, then every life really counts, every person is of inestimable value, every act of service is divine. I can pour myself out for others, enjoying them without needing to protect myself.
Thanksgiving, hope, love: none of these are about cutting myself off from the world or ‘being philosophical’. None of them are about just trying to be positive. They all rely on what God has done in Jesus and on his promised future.
Theology and experienceWhen I was thinking about what to say today, a good friend suggested I talk more about my experience and my feelings than theology. The more I think about it, the more I find the two can’t be separated. How we feel, how we experience adversity and prosperity, how we react, are all inseparable from who we think we are, and ultimately, who we think God is.
And so every day each of us faces this question: Will I look back on the past with bitterness or thankfulness? Will I face the future fearfully or with hope? Will this moment be one for uncaring self-indulgence or joyful loving service?
[Let’s pray:]
Thank you Lord for you are good, your steadfast love endures forever. This is the day that you have made; let us rejoice and be glad in it! Amen.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
In the news
My story (with quotes and pics from this blog and my other one) has made it onto the sydneyanglicans.net website: here.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Thanksgiving service
Give thanks to the LORD for he is good;
His steadfast love endures forever!
- Psalm 136.1
Personal update and an invitationWe've now had a week or so for the good news of the latest scan to sink in. After initially finding ourselves exhausted and relieved, we're now starting to look ahead to a life of new and renewed possibilities. Before we get there, however, it is appropriate to mark this point in our journey with gratitude for God's goodness to us through so many people. And so we would like to invite you to a special service of thanksgiving.
Saturday May 19th, 10am
All Souls Anglican Church, Leichhardt (cnr Norton & Marion Streets)
Morning tea will be provided following the service.
RSVP would be appreciated. All welcome.
From here, I will continue to have scans every few months for at least two years. I will post any further updates on this blog. Thank you for your support, prayers, love and generosity. God has blessed us so much through you all.
We've been reminded that life is so much more than the abundance of possessions, as Jesus says - indeed, it is more than the abundance of health. Our society often seems obsessed with health; could this be an expression of a deep fear of death? The Christian hope is not simply to avoid dying for a little longer (as good as that is!), but for death itself to be overthrown in resurrection.
May God fill you with hope and joy because Jesus is risen, and so the end of death has begun.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Update: 16th April
The breath of God has made me,
and the breath of the Almighty gives me life.
- Job 33.4
Good news!It has been a month since I had a CT scan that revealed the growth in my chest had shrunk to about a quarter of the size it had been in early December.
This morning, I had a PET scan at RPA Hospital. This involved being injected with radioactive glucose* and then being scanned to see where I was radioactive. The glucose is taken up into cells with high activity: the brain, liver, active muscles - and active tumours. The pattern of radiation thus reveals whether any tumours are active.*Technically, radioactive tracer in a glucose solution, since the sugar itself doesn't undergo radioactive decay.
But my scan was clear. There was 'no evidence of viable tumour activity' . This means that the remaining tissue revealed last month on the CT scan is simply dead scar tissue. Praise God! This is what we've been praying for and the best outcome we could have hoped for after the diagnosis in December.
From here, I will continue to have tests every few months to check for relapse. If I remain clear for two years, the likelihood of it returning becomes much smaller. But for the moment, I have been spared. And for this, we are thankful.I know there are many others who do not have such good news today, but who continue to struggle with illness and a variety of difficulties. Why have I been spared at this time? It is not a reward, but pure gift, like all life. We remain thankful for every day.
What has changed? In one sense, not much. I will still die sooner or later and I continue to trust the God who raises the dead. I still follow one whose path of faithful obedience meant suffering amidst a groaning and broken world. Health remains a good gift from God's Spirit, but not the goal of life. There are worse things than sickness and death.
Yet, of course, today's small mercy is worth celebrating: more life together with you; more opportunities to serve God, his world and his people; more time to tell of God's goodness to us all. I am looking forward to celebrating with friends and family, not having any more needles (at least until the next scan), and starting to once more think about the future beyond next week.My health continues to improve after treatment ended two months ago. I have more energy and am able to eat most things. I am beginning to work at improving my vocal volume with the help of speech therapy. I have lost all my convenient excuses for avoiding the exercise regime that Jessica and I have been promising each other for years.
Thank you for all your prayers, love, cards, food, gifts, kindness and presence (even in spirit). We have really appreciated your company on this leg of our journey and look forward to more adventures together (hopefully for many years!).
At this milestone, we think it's appropriate to give thanks and celebrate God's kindness to us. And so, Jessica and I would like to invite you (and any interested others you know), who have supported and prayed for us, to a thanksgiving service. We haven't yet worked out any details, but we'd love to acknowledge that we are and remain recipients of undeserved grace from you and our heavenly Father. We'll let you know date and time soon.Of course, we'd still love your prayers:
Give thanks: for so many things - I'm sure you can think of some!
Pray: for those who face disappointment and not joy today; for patience and discipline in trying to strengthen my voice; and that we will not forget the lessons we have learned.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Update: 13th April
PET scan next week
Just got a call to say that my PET scan will be on Monday morning 9 am. I fast for five hours beforehand (so that I'm ready to go really slow for a few hours...). This scan is to determine whether the residual mass revealed in my most recent CT scan is still active or is merely scar tissue. I get an injection of radioactive glucose (sugar) and sit very still for an hour. Sugar is picked up by cells that have been active (which is why I sit very still - so that as little as possible goes into other muscles), particularly the brain and active tumour cells. I then lie inside a large tube that functions as a 3D Geiger counter, measuring where radiation is coming from (i.e. which cells have been picking up the glucose). I probably won't get the results for at least a couple of days. I'll post an update here as soon as I know.
Speech therapy
In other news, yesterday I went to my first session of speech therapy proper and have been given a variety of amusing sounds to practice. I would have been really good at being a speech therapist before I lost my voice - I used to love practising silly noises.
Just got a call to say that my PET scan will be on Monday morning 9 am. I fast for five hours beforehand (so that I'm ready to go really slow for a few hours...). This scan is to determine whether the residual mass revealed in my most recent CT scan is still active or is merely scar tissue. I get an injection of radioactive glucose (sugar) and sit very still for an hour. Sugar is picked up by cells that have been active (which is why I sit very still - so that as little as possible goes into other muscles), particularly the brain and active tumour cells. I then lie inside a large tube that functions as a 3D Geiger counter, measuring where radiation is coming from (i.e. which cells have been picking up the glucose). I probably won't get the results for at least a couple of days. I'll post an update here as soon as I know.
Speech therapy
In other news, yesterday I went to my first session of speech therapy proper and have been given a variety of amusing sounds to practice. I would have been really good at being a speech therapist before I lost my voice - I used to love practising silly noises.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Update: 29th March
Nasal endoscopy
I've just returned home from having a second nasal endoscopy. Not the most pleasant experience (although there are worse places to stick an endoscope, I assume), but second time round the results were not quite so surprising. It was a similar procedure back towards the end of November that first discovered my paralysed left vocal cord and which led to my first CT scan that found the tumour.
Options
This time, the result was the same: a palsy (paralysis) of the left vocal cord, most likely from nerve damage to the nerve that controls it. I have two options: speech therapy to help my right vocal cord compensate (more than it already is, since the gradual improvement of my voice since October is the result of this tendency); or a surgical procedure to insert a piece of plastic into my larynx in order to turn my left vocal cord permanently 'on'. Non-invasive procedures are nearly always better to try first, so I will give speech therapy a few months and see if there is any improvement before I let them take a knife to my throat.
I've just returned home from having a second nasal endoscopy. Not the most pleasant experience (although there are worse places to stick an endoscope, I assume), but second time round the results were not quite so surprising. It was a similar procedure back towards the end of November that first discovered my paralysed left vocal cord and which led to my first CT scan that found the tumour.
Options
This time, the result was the same: a palsy (paralysis) of the left vocal cord, most likely from nerve damage to the nerve that controls it. I have two options: speech therapy to help my right vocal cord compensate (more than it already is, since the gradual improvement of my voice since October is the result of this tendency); or a surgical procedure to insert a piece of plastic into my larynx in order to turn my left vocal cord permanently 'on'. Non-invasive procedures are nearly always better to try first, so I will give speech therapy a few months and see if there is any improvement before I let them take a knife to my throat.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Update: 22nd March
Taste and see that the LORD is good;
blessed is the one who takes refuge in him."
- Psalm 34.8
God is faithful in times of prosperity and adversity. We continue to be so thankful for all the good things we receive from his hand.CT scan
Yesterday I had my first post-treatment scan (a CT scan) to begin to determine the effectiveness of all the chemotherapy and radiotherapy I received in January and February. The results were very encouraging. There were no secondary growths (i.e. the cancer has not spread) and the primary tumour had shrunk to about a quarter of the volume it was back at the start of December when I was first diagnosed (the only other time it was measured in a scan). On 1st December, it measured 35 mm by 30 mm by 25 mm but yesterday it was 25 mm by 17 mm by 16 mm - a very impressive reduction. The radiologist who reviewed the CT scan was also impressed at the comparatively minimal damage done to the surrounding area (esp lungs) by the radiotherapy.
However, yesterday's scan does not reveal whether this residual mass is merely scar tissue or active tumour. To find out, we need to wait another month to continue to allow the radiotherapy to have maximum effect and then I will have a second, different scan (a PET scan) to measure cell activity. More waiting - no wonder they call us 'patients'!
Side-effects
After finishing radiotherapy just over a month ago, I have been recovering from the various side-effects and feel as though I am well past half-way (though not yet 100%). I still have less energy than I used to and am still expanding the kinds of food my oesophagus can tolerate. For much of this month, I have been on a liquid diet but have recently been enjoying food with more substance.
Voice
My voice, though a little stronger than it was a month or two ago, continues to be quite different to what it once was. It is likely that this will be a permanent issue since the damaged nerve that controls my left vocal cord may never recover. However, with some speech therapy over the next couple of months I might continue to gain a little more volume. I am able to preach and give talks using microphones, but conversation in noisy contexts is very difficult, as is singing - a loss I frequently mourn.
Church
Apart from these factors, Jess and I have been well. We are both enjoying our work, as well as the extra time we've had to rest and recover while both being part-time. We are settling well into our not-quite-so-new church at Leichhardt and have started a couple of small groups for people our age, which have been very encouraging.
We have really appreciated all the generous support from so many: gifts, practical help, people willing to listen, and a constant supply of food and prayers. God has given us all we need and so much more!
Prayer
For those who pray...
Give thanks:
• for God's generosity towards us all: giving us life and every good thing, especially his son.Pray:
• for the love and support we have also received from church, family and friends in a variety of forms.
• for the good result on yesterday's scan, and how far we've come on this little adventure since the start of December.
• that the remaining mass will be all scar tissue and not contain any active tumour cells.
• that while waiting for a more definitive result next month, we will be patient and thankful for each day, without anxiously grasping after an answer or deferring our lives.
• that I might continue to regain strength and would use this to serve the God who loves life.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Update: 19th March
It has now been about a month since I finished treatment. This Wednesday I have my first post-treatment scan. It will be a CT scan to determine the size of the remaining growth (if any). In another month I will have a second scan (a PET scan) which will give the other half of the picture: whether what is left is still active. Thus, while there may be something left, this could just be scar tissue and it will be another month before it is possible to tell. However, Wednesday's scan will also (hopefully) rule out the worst case scenario of there being secondary growths indicating that the cancer has spread. More on Wednesday (or possibly Thursday), when I will send out another group email (and post it here too).
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Update: 14th March
Although for the last month or so I have been eating only liquids, over the last three or four days I have started also having some soft solids, which is very exciting, since it means my oesophagus is healing from the radiotherapy burns. Grace before meals is said with particular emphasis these days.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Update: 1st March
Turned the corner?After getting gradually worse for each of the last eight weeks, it feels like things might have finally turned a corner, since I feel a little better than I did at this stage last week (when I was just coming home from hospital). I am still only consuming liquids, but they are going down a little easier and faster than they were. Similarity, the burn mark on my back is healing well and is no longer itchy or sore. Feels nice to be on this side of the hill.
Here is a picture of my typical breakfast at the moment.
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