cancer Archives - Page 16 of 21

When God Doesn’t Read the Memo

February 17, 2016 by Marissa Leave a Comment

Last month, I stood at the window of a downtown Memphis hotel room, looking down at a minor league ballpark as the memories came rushing back.

On a Thursday in March 2001, just before noon, I joined my husband and the rest of his medical school class as they stood near their assigned base at that ballpark, each clutching an envelope. Like a bizarre adult version of a sorority bid day, the envelopes contained news of where each graduating medical student would continue their training for the next several years.

I knew what our letter said. I had spent months praying and trusting God for that moment. I was confident that He had gone before us, working out the details of His good plans for us. God was good. God was in control. Therefore, I expected to get what I wanted.

At the strike of noon, my husband opened his envelope, and my plans all fell apart.

It took a minute for my brain to figure out what my eyes were seeing: Indiana University School of Medicine. Indiana? I looked up into the ballpark bleachers, racking my brain for a mental map of the United States. Where was Indiana?

Somewhere near those other “I” states, I thought, Illinois and Iowa, land of cold and corn and snow and nowhere close to anyone I know. That’s when the tears started, and I shoved my sunglasses over my eyes to hide my distress.

After driving home and changing the greeting on our answering machine—the most efficient way of spreading news in 2001—I climbed into bed, hid under the covers, and wept for most of the afternoon. I couldn’t understand what happened. I had plans. They were good plans: relationships, career, and ministry. I was confident that God approved. And yet, my plans had been ripped from my hands and torn to shreds.

In the following months, God showed me that I hadn’t been trusting Him at all. What I thought was trust in God’s plans was really trusting that God would get on board with my plans.

“For I know the plans you have for yourself,” declares the Lord, “And I’m here to give you what you want.” That was my personal rendition of Jeremiah 29:11.

Now standing in that Memphis hotel room, I could picture that 24-year-old Marissa, learning through her pain how to trust the Lord more deeply. The experience that hurt so badly at the time now looks like one of God’s greatest mercies to me.

He knew that ten years later, His plans would take a drastic turn from my plans once again. I would need to trust Him, not only with where I’d live for the next few years, but whether or not I’d live to raise my children.

My Heavenly Father knew I needed a decade of big and small lessons in surrender to build my confidence in His wisdom and faithfulness. In His kindness, He didn’t let me walk through the next decade with an incomplete understanding of what it meant to trust His plans.

How is God asking you to trust Him today? What would it look like to surrender your plans and genuinely trust His wisdom and faithfulness to you?

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord,

“plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

Jeremiah 29:11 (NIV)

Please don’t say THIS when someone tells you they have cancer

February 11, 2016 by Marissa 2 Comments

Hey friend, can we have a chat about how you respond when someone tells you that they are a cancer fighter or survivor? This might make you cringe, or hurt your feelings, but whatever you do, please don’t call and apologize if you’ve said this to me. I have chemobrain, and all is forgotten (and forgiven).

This is a grace-filled conversation for your benefit and for the benefit of those you will meet in the future. I love my cancer-fighting brothers and sisters, and I want to help you respond to them with the love and support they need. So I’m having this hard conversation out of love for you and for them.

Here we go . . .

I’ve noticed that many times when I tell people I had cancer, their first question goes something like this: “How did you find out you had it? Did you have symptoms? Did you find a lump?”

I understand this reaction. I know I’ve reacted the same way when I’ve heard about someone else’s suffering. For most of us, our first response is to any piece of news is to wonder how it relates to ourselves.

If you wonder how I know this, it is because I am the most selfish person on this planet. I relate everything to myself. God is working on me in this, but I’ve got a long way to go. In the meantime, I get it. I understand why people respond this way to the news that a healthy, 34-year-old mom could suddenly be plagued by a rare, life-threatening disease.

But when I have this interaction with someone, it feels like this conversation happened:

Me: “I went through something hard. It was life-changing and difficult. It still affects me. I’m bringing you into my pain by sharing this with you.”

The Other Person: “I’m scared of this hard thing happening to me. What if it’s happening now, and I don’t realize it? Holy crap! I’m doing monthly self-exams. Please tell me that you weren’t, so I can feel better.”

Listen, I don’t want you worrying about the times you have responded this way to someone’s cancer story, especially if it was mine. (I seriously don’t remember.)

But now that you know, you can respond differently next time. I want my cancer-fighting sisters to have you hear their story and respond with love and compassion.

When someone tells you they have/had cancer, first have the “holy-crap-I-hope-that-doesn’t-happen-to-me” moment inside your head. Then focus on the person who has just shared their pain and show your concern for their current well-being.

If the diagnosis is recent, you could ask them how they’re feeling today, how they’re coping with the news, or how they are feeling about the next steps. If their story is in the past, ask them how they’ve grown or changed as a result, how their health is today, or what they’d like others to know about their experience.

Thanks for helping to love our cancer-fighters better. It’s a tough road to navigate, and we need to stick together. They deserve our very best support!

Jean {Thoughts on the death of a friend}

January 7, 2016 by Marissa Leave a Comment

It’s strange how my mind still doesn’t know what to call her. In a way, she’ll always be Mrs. Pharr to me. I’ll remember her teaching us calculus, writing furiously on the overhead projector, pushing us all toward a greater understanding of higher-level mathematics and 5s on the AP exam. I’ll remember her as the fiercely competitive sponsor of our Quiz Bowl team who wouldn’t rest until we beat Bentonville.

I’ll remember her as the loving mom to her two young daughters who hung around our after-school Quiz Bowl practices. At the time, I was too self-absorbed to wonder how she did it all, how she balanced her home life with being an engaging teacher who poured into us day after day.

I’ll remember how she saw that I had a gift for math and encouraged me to develop it. Her spunky personality made being a math geek seem much more acceptable than it really was.

I’ll remember how she trusted me with the responsibility of helping teach my peers calculus. How she had confidence that I was capable of just about anything – with the exception of her beloved sport of waterskiing, that is. She never could coach me to success there, and I know it drove her crazy.

But sixteen years after I left her classroom, our lives intersected again – we were diagnosed with cancer on the same day, she with stage 4 breast cancer and I with angiosarcoma. We both had a slim chance of surviving five years. And as members of a tight-knit club that no one wants to be part of, she became my friend, Jean.

We visited a couple of times—once when I was battling cancer, and again after my battle ceased and hers continued. And then in April 2015, she retired from her job in education and her second job of receiving cancer treatment, and she entered hospice care. So I decided to pay her a visit. One visit turned into two, and eventually these visits became a regular part of my schedule.

The first couple of visits were spent mostly sharing memories and catching up. But as time went on, our visits were less about two people who shared a past and more about two people who were sharing the present. But looming over our friendship was the unavoidable fact that one of us faced a short future. We talked about family, faith, fear, cancer, and dying.

And now she’s gone, taken home to glory, finally healed. My routine is left with a gaping hole. My heart hurts. I don’t want to go to her funeral. I want to pick up lunch from Panera, drive out to her house on the lake, and chat with my friend.

In a way, my grief feels selfish. For months, I tried to make our visits less about me and more about what she needed. And now I’m focused on my own sadness. But she doesn’t need me anymore. She doesn’t need anything. She is complete in her Savior. The tears have been wiped from her eyes, and now it’s my turn to weep.

And as I do, I will cling to my Savior, who knows how it feels to weep at the grave of a friend. He knows the pain of death, because he endured it to bring me eternal life. He sees my tears and promises that this hurt won’t hurt forever, that this separation is only temporary. He alone is the anchor of hope for my grieving heart.

I Never Could Have Survived Cancer Without This One Thing

October 25, 2015 by Marissa 1 Comment

Five years ago today, I first heard the words: “It’s cancer.” I was standing alone in my bedroom, but I wasn’t alone for long.

Within hours, a few family members and friends came over and joined me in my shock and grief. The next day – my 34th birthday – a larger group of friends gathered for a surprise birthday party full of prayers and tears. And over the coming months, a multitude of supporters came together with love, prayers and service that sustained us. The Lord used these people to demonstrate His daily care for us. I’m positive that I never could have survived cancer without this community.

In fact, I didn’t survive cancer. We survived cancer.

One of the most impactful stories of support during my illness occurred the week after my diagnosis. My husband tried to persuade me to seek a second opinion at MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, but the logistical challenges overwhelmed me. I told him, “Maybe if we had a private jet, we could make that work. But I just can’t imagine how I could go to a doctor in another state when I can barely make it to a hair appointment across town.”

Within two hours of that statement, a family friend offered the use of their private plane for our initial appointments at MD Anderson.

That moment is not only an example of the generosity of our community. It was also the moment that I realized God was going to meet each and every one of our needs, just as He had promised. He used an army of friends, family, acquaintances, and even strangers to provide tangible, emotional, and spiritual support as we battled for my health and for my life.

Most of you don’t have a private plane that you could loan me. But you gave what you could – a meal, a prayer, a card in the mail, a ride for my kids – and God weaved your thread of support along with thousands of others into a beautiful tapestry that provided for all our needs. I know it’s cliche, but it’s so true: we couldn’t have done it without you.

At the risk of leaving someone out, I want to describe all that was done for us during those months. As I celebrate five years of surviving angiosarcoma, I can’t think of a better way to mark this day than to acknowledge all of you who loved us through my illness.

I hope you’re comfortable, because if this were the Oscars, they’d never get me off the stage. We were well-loved, as you’re about to see. And I hope it will inspire you to love someone who is hurting in a way you might not have thought of before.

Our family and friends provided endless support. My husband, parents and in-laws made constant sacrifices to care for me and the kids. Lynette kept my kids often, drove them to school and piano lessons, and took care of countless details I was only vaguely aware of. Becky drove my kids to school and spent hours on the phone with me when I was lonely in Houston. The two of them also did my grocery shopping. Rachel organized a “Scripture shower,” asking others to send me notecards with Scripture and other encouragement. Staci, Anna, Marilyn and other friends called and texted me often to encourage me.

Allyson coordinated several months of meals and decorated our home for Christmas. Jenny cleaned our house regularly. Callie faithfully showed up every Tuesday morning to take Will to preschool. Alison made gingerbread houses with my kids at Christmas. Ginny and Alyse were our go-to babysitters, and an anonymous friend paid Ginny whenever she was at our house. (I know who you are, Anonymous Friend!)

Then I started spending two out of every three weeks in Houston. Penny left a stable job with benefits to take a leap of faith as our nanny. She loved our children well during a painful time for our family. During my first stay in Houston, Sara picked me up at the airport and helped me find housing. On my second stay, I met Greg and Blair, and I’ll never forget the day Blair asked if I would stay with them from then on. We both cried a little as I agreed – I was already starting to think of her as my “Houston Mom.” She treated me like a daughter, housed me and my friends, fed me, listened to me, and even picked me up from the airport in the middle of the night when my flight was delayed.

Jennifer and Catherine – who were each a friend of a friend – took the time to befriend a cancer patient and made me feel like I had friends in Houston. Becca left infant twins at home and drove hours to spend time with me in Houston. Friends flew in when I needed assistance during chemo – Marilyn, Amanda, Jenny, Melissa, Andrea and Tara each spent a week away from their jobs and families to care for me at my worst.

Our church family and my parents’ church family rallied around us with enormous amounts of food. Friends brought us dinner three nights a week for about seven months. Some friends even asked for a copy of my kids’ favorite recipes and prepared a family favorite. A group of Noel’s colleagues had pizza delivered to our home every Tuesday – our kids loved that! Our Providence Academy family provided freezer meals immediately following my diagnosis.

We received donations of cash and airline miles. Friends sent me treasured, thoughtful gifts. Several people made hats, including a pink knitted cap I wore every night. Nicole and Sarah fixed Sarah Kate’s hair on Sunday mornings when my husband dropped her off at Sunday school with a brush and bow in hand. Carol ironed our clothes. Friends visited me at chemo and during blood transfusions. My memory is a little fuzzy, but I remember visits from my mom, sister, mother-in-law, Crystal, Lynette, Evelyn, Laureen, Jamie, Eva and Jan. The “Henley’s Homies” participated in the Race for the Cure in my honor. The Mothers of Providence spent time on their knees praying for me.

My medical team was superb. Dr. Pope and Dr. Emily Hinton made a quick diagnosis that probably saved my life. Dr. Ravi and his staff at MD Anderson gave us hope of a medical cure. Dr. Vadhan and her attentive research nurses cared for me during the clinical trial. Dr. Rosenfeld, his fabulous nurse, Aimee, and the nursing staffs at Highlands Oncology and the infusion center all cared for me back home in Fayetteville. Dr. Hunt successfully removed the tumor after a team of compassionate radiation techs zapped the life out of it. Years later, Dr. Atwood put me back together again with reconstructive surgery.

In the years following treatment, friends continued to provide support. The Cancer Posse is an amazing source of encouragement and friendship. Mary Grace showed up just when I needed her. Carrie gives wise, compassionate counsel as I process the impact of cancer survivorship.

I wish I could list the names of everyone who brought us food, wrote a guestbook message online, commented on Facebook, emailed, texted, called or sent a card. I’ll never even know all those who prayed for me and put my name on church prayer lists.

Each and every one of you are a significant and meaningful part of my story. Together we are five-year survivors!

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