More Medical Stuff

When the oncologist released me, he wanted me to see the colorectal doctor to decide whether the ongoing bowel problems were from the cancer in my colon growing instead of just chemo side effects. That appointment was yesterday, Friday, 22-6-07. The colorectal doctor thought it most likely was from the colon cancer growing, and that they'd most likely have to do surgery to remove the colon cancer, and do a colostomy. They've been reluctant to do surgery on the colon as long as the cancer there wasn't growing, because surgery would make the cancer more likely to spread to other places.

To determine whether he was right, he had x-ray's of my colon done on Friday and arranged to get the results immediately so he could make a decision right away. The x-rays convinced him that the colon cancer wasn't the problem, so they don't need to do a colon re-section and colostomy. Wierdly enough, he decided that I need to deal with the ongoing loose bowel movements by taking over the counter anti-constipation medication and stop taking all the anti-diarrheal medications. Apparently there's constipation back behind the diarrhea. Also, my belly and ankles are bloatetd and he decided that is from not getting enough protein, so I'll eat more protein-rich foods and see what that does.

One of the things I've discovered is that serious cancer provides a wealth of first-time-ever experiences. Swollen ankles is one of those. Also, perspectives change. When I told Karen about the possibility of a colostomy, she asked if it would be permanent. I replied: "well, the doctors think I'm dying, so as far as they're concerned, pretty much everything is permanent for me at this point." So we continue to not worry about tomorrow, but live this day for all it's worth.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggedy Jig

I'm writing this from the hospital, where I don't have internet access. (AAARRGGHH!!!!) I'll post it after I get out. After losing 13 pounds and being dehydrated and very low in potassium from a week of chemo-related diarrhea, the doctor skipped this past chemo session and had me come in for 3 consecutive days of just re-hydrating me intravenously with potassium and salt-laced water. He assured me that a week or two off chemo now wouldn't be a big deal, but 3-4 sessions off later would be, and that would be what will happen if we don't stop now and get the diarrhea under control. On the 3^rd day of trying to rehydrate me on an outpatient basis, with the potassium levels still low, he convinced me to stay in the hospital as an inpatient so they could pump fluids into me 24 hours a day and get a handle on the diarrhea. I checked in on Thursday, 14 June 2007. The diarrhea has gotten better and the oncologist liked what he heard and felt when he poked around on my belly on Friday, and evidently what he's seeing from the daily tests they're doing daily. The diarrhea is apparently just an unusually severe response to the chemo. At any rate, it looks like, having checked in on Thursday afternoon, I'll be heading home with everything under control again Sunday afternoon or Monday morning, skipping chemo on Tuesday, 19 June 2007 and then coming back in for chemo as usual on Tuesday, 26 June 2007. I was 40 pounds lighter when I checked into the hospital than I was on 5 March, 2007 when the cancer was diagnosed, and I wasn't overweight then. Half the weight loss was from the initial naturapathic diet I went on after the original diagnosis. The naturapathic diet changed after 52 days, but while the new, permanent anti-cancer naturapathic diet didn't make me keep losing weight, it didn't help me gain back what I'd already lost, either. Then, the other half of my weight loss was from the various effects of the chemo. The good news is I've gained back a significant amount of weight while in the hospital, so I should be able to safely resume chemo and the naturapathic diet as soon as I get home, without fear of further weight loss and without fear of being at such a low weight as to rob me of normal strength, energy and immune system responses.

Meanwhile, I've actually had a surprisingly good time in the oncology ward. It's always nice being waited on hand and foot, of course. The food is good, and I've got hot sauce from the house for those meals when my taste buds just don't taste anything at all. Dulled taste buds is another of the unfortunate effects of chemo. And they've got a little kitchenette on the ward, just for patients, so I can stroll down there in the middle of the night, as I did once last night and help myself to a chunk of cheddar cheese, a dab of peanut butter and Vegemite and a cup of tea with milk in it. It was great.

And visiting with the nursing staff is fun. One was interested in my Churchill book on my nightstand. One uses terms of endearment like honey and sweetheart the way Texans do but that I was warned that Australians generally don't. And a couple of the nurses are from India. I got to chat with them about India, about our common experiences as immigrants, and about our shared taste for hot, spicy foods that Australians generally don't like.

Even without internet access here in the hospital, I've got my laptop, so I've got this blog update as well as updates for www.choosing2live.com ready to upload as soon as I get home tomorrow, and with the Bible program on the laptop, I've been catching up on “daily” devotions that I'd gotten behind on.. So whether I have 3 months to live or 30 years, I feel like I've spent this day doing the things that make this day matter.

And moving quickly from the sublime to the ridiculous, what kind of computer spell check function doesn't recognize the word “blog”!?! This goofy spell check doesn't know that word and thinks maybe I meant flog or biog instead. Good grief! It's a limited enough dictionary anyway, you'd think it would at least know basic computer and internet-related words! It does insist I show a little respect for the internet by advising me to always capitalize it, though. I guess it's heart is in the right place.

Maybe near the end of a bad spell

One of many possible side effects of my chemo is diarrhea. I had been keeping it under control by a combination of Imodium and a prescription codein pill which has a normal side effect of constipation. Monday, 4 June 2007 I began a period of frequent, uncontrollable diarrhea that the medication just wasn't phasing. It has continued through today, 13 June 2007.

This week the oncologist cancelled chemo for the week, assuring me that one week off wouldn't hurt, but letting it get worse til I need 3-4 weeks off would be a setback. In the meantime he's got me off the Imodium but has given me a pain patch that has a side effect of constipation and combined that with another specific prescription drug that directly and primarily fights diarreha, plus the codein. Last night I slept 6 straight glorious hours without having to run to the restroom, for the first time in over a week, so I think we're starting to get it under control. I still have diarrhea, but less frequently, and hope to be "solid" again by this time tomorrow or the day after.

In the meantime, they've had me in for the last two days, plus tomorrow just pumping potassium/salt water directly into my veins at 3 liters per day, just to rehydrate me. On the other hand the dryness in my mouth and throat, plus "thrush" on my tongue and throat, apparently dulling my tastebuds to an extreme degree, has limited my dietary intake to liquids (Ensure, Cup of Soup, etc.). Between the diet and the diarrhea, I've lost weight very seriously. We expect I'll be able to resume chemo next Tuesday and hopefully begin to be able to eat normally again to start gaining weight again. I hope in 3 or 4 weeks to be back up to a minimumly healthy weight again. By then we'll just be 2 months from the end of this 6-month round of chemo and I'll be off it until or unless it mutates and begins to grow again. As soon as the chemo ends I'll start on an alternative diet and supplements that make gigantic and implausible claims to cure cancer in 2 months. But it's cheap and harmless at worst and it's the only thing left to do but sit around waiting for death or a miracle, so I'll give it a shot and see what God will do.

Thanks for your continued concern and prayer. At this point, even the oncologist and the naturapath agree that it's my best hope of a cure so keep praying and believing for a literal miracle.

Every Birthday is a Gift

I think I was born at 5 or 6am Central time, so I guess it would have been June 4 in both the US and Australia, so my birthday is now well and truly past.

It was a good one. My mother and brother just left today after a good two-week visit. I took them to Surfers Paradise on the Gold Coast just south of Brisbane yesterday, along with my oldest son Wesley who's here for his summer break, and his girlfriend Eva who's visiting for 3 weeks. Everybody played in the water at least a little, walked along the beach, and then had lunch in one of the beachfront restaurants and did a little people watching.

Then we spent four hours testing the limits of our love for each other while being lost on the ever-winding, unnamed streets of north Brisbane before finally finding our way home.

Today my chemo visit was made immensely quicker by my brother's gift of his own iPod to me. I've had to figure out by trial and error what dosages of meds adequately control nausea and diarrhea. I told the doctor what those doses are today and my prescription now reflects that, so I shouldn't run out again like I did yesterday. So hopefully today will be the last day for at least a while that I have to worry about diarrhea dehydrating me and keeping my weight dangerously low. My focus for the next couple of weeks is purely on gaining back to a minimum healthy weight.

A year ago I was firmly of the opinion that, there being no significant difference in anyone's mind between 48 and 49, or between 51 and 52, that birthdays were now meaningless unless they ended in zero. This year I've obviously had occasion to change my mind. Each birthday is a milestone of victory and a precious gift of God in which to further enjoy and love the amazing array of people who love me.

We are enjoying this day each day, praying thank you for healing me today; please heal me tommorrow. We're taking "no thought for tomorrow" and praying "not my will but your will be done" but meanwhile praying and trusting God for a genuine, literal miracle of complete physical healing for many more long years of just loving people more deeply into the kingdom of heaven.

God is good, all the time. All the time, God is good.

Thanks for your love, prayers and good wishes.

A Small Miracle

Pretty much all the events of this week are at www.choosing2live.com on the following pages:

Choosing to Live Physically
Choosing to Live Psychologically
Choosing to Live Spiritually
My Thoughts on Choosing to Live

However, since those entries will disappear as soon as I replace them with new entries, here's the short version of my week.

Mama and my brother Roy Lee arrived this past Tuesday for a 2-week visit. This week we visited rain forests, mountains, downtown Brisbane, the Gold Coast beach and enjoyed a proper "Devonshire Tea". We laughed together, cried together, prayed together and generally had a good time.

A potential major breakthrough or two at work give us optimism about the future of the company. Physically I had more trouble than usual with nausea this week than normal. The doctor has slightly adjusted my medications for that so we'll see if it gets back under control in the next few days. I've also had a problem this week with hiccups, which make me more likely to throw up if they coincide with nausea. That makes it harder to gain the weight the doctor wants me to gain, so it's a problem.

The coolest thing for me this week was the regular monthly district prayer time here on the Australia Northern Pacific District of the Church of the Nazarene. Mama requested prayer for my healing at the meeting, and prayed with her usual fervor and emotion, which kind of drew everyone else into her pain and desire and faith. The group that gathered around me ranged from strangers to new friends to deep old friends, but they all poured out their hearts and love on me a foreigner who had not yet given much to them. As they prayed for my hiccups, the hiccups vanished and haven't come back.

I felt their faith and their love and the healing presence of God for the hiccups and was encouraged to believe it might not be the only miracle he has in store for me.

Roy Lee's largest expression of love for me was the astonishing gift of his own very nice laptop computer. I'm amazed at the openness and generosity of his precious heart.

All in all, a lot of small things pointing to the possibility of big things ahead. It was a week of increased joy, hope and faith.

It's Good but it Feels Bad

Initially, the weekly chemo requirement of getting a needle stuck in my arm was no big deal. But I lost 20 pounds in the first month because of a naturapathic diet designed to rob the cancer of needed glucose, then had trouble gaining it back the second month because of chemo-induced diarrhea. Between the direct effects of the chemo and the effects of the weight loss and tendency toward dehydration produced by the diarrhea, it became increasingly difficult for the nurses to find a vein each week, and the attempts became increasingly painful. I raised that issue with the doctor last Tuesday and he advised getting a permanent line stuck in my arm so they only have to stick me that once and then every week when I need chemo or blood work, they just stick the needle in that permanent line sticking out of my upper right arm, instead of trying to stick the needle in my arm. It makes the whole process quicker, easier and less painful. When they're done, the line will just come right out and not even leave a permanent mark.

It's good, but somehow it feels kind of bad on a purely psychological level. Something permanent sticking out of your arm every minute reminds you every minute that you're not really as well as you feel; that you're a patient. I feel like it makes me look like a patient, too, to people like my mother and brother who'll be here in three days, and for whom I wanted to look as normal as I feel, to reassure them. It's an odd, silly little thing, and it'll pass, but for the moment, there the feeling is.

Another good thing that feels bad is the people who are being drawn into my consciousness. When you're fighting cancer as publicly as I've chosen to, you get to know a lot of other past and present cancer patients. The first round of stories that you hear are the great, encouraging victory stories of people who won their battles when the doctors said they couldn't. But part of the reason I've chosen to be so public in my struggle is that I want God to use even this as an avenue for ministering to other people. That means I'm getting to know other people who are still fighting cancer now, and some of their battles aren't going well at the moment. Because I'm in the same battle, I know how to pray and what to say that will be encouraging instead of merely trite. God gets to use this as a tool for more effectively loving other people who need to know that they're loved and lovable.

That's good. That gives my own struggle meaning and value even if I ultimately lose it, but even more so if I ultimately win it. But it feels kind of bad at the same time, because I care about those who seem to be losing their battles at the moment and I begin to carry their load with them. And it feels a little bad because I realize that what's going badly for them could be going badly for me tomorrow. It even feels a little bad that my latest news is encouraging while theirs is discouraging, because it raises the question of why God will heal some of us of cancer but not others. The trite, easy answer of the living that suggests it's because those who live always have more "faith" than those who die, doesn't fit my personal observation or experience or understanding of faith or scripture or God, or the view of most of the wisest and most holy of Christians through the centuries. So trust has to be enough when my understanding isn't. When I don't have all the answers like I did when I was younger, I have to choose to let God be God and love be enough.

So I do.

My execution date has been postponed!

I had a new CT scan yesterday, 14 May, 2007. The previous scan was on 27 February, 2007. That was the original scan that diagnosed my cancer. The oncologist said then that my kind of cancer only responds to chemo 50% of the time. Today he told me that I'm in the 50% that does respond. He showed me the two sets of CT scans and showed me what he was looking at and said they showed "quite significant improvement."

I'll take it. He also said I look better. I still have no symptoms except side effects from the chemo. The doctor isn't yet willing to say the cancer won't ultimately still be terminal, but my improvement was clearly on the high side, the "hoped for" side of what he would consider the normal, expected response to chemo. He agreed with me that we're just almost weekly seeing news reports of potentially major breakthroughs in cancer treatment that the researchers expect to have on the market within 1-3 years, so staying alive that long potentially dramatically increases my chances of a cure for what he initially declared flatly incurable.

In short, I am still having no trouble remembering to live each day as if it may be my last, but I am encouraged and thanking God for his healing at work in my life. And of course, I'm profoundly grateful for the love and concern of so many people for my well-being. Today's chemo has left me a little woozy and I really want to lay down for a little while, but I can't until I've written something here, on my blog and on the choosing2live website, because so many amazing, precious people are waiting anxiously for news, like Darius outside the lion's den.

Thank you for your love and prayers, and thank God for his love and power and grace.

Love,
Brad

A Time for a Miracle

I measure my life these days by medical re-assessments; by those moments when, if God is performing a miracle in my life, I'll have a chance to hear a doctor confirm it. Next week is my next chance to hear that God has healed me. On Monday, 14 May 2007, I'll get new CAT scans and on Tuesday, 15 May 2007, I'll meet with the oncologist and he'll tell me what they show and give me an updated prognosis. I've had no symptoms this past week except a couple of minor chemo side effects. It's easy right now to believe in miracles. It'll get harder if the news is bad next week. I'll obviously take any improvement that results in an extended life expectancy, but it would really be cool to get a genuine, flat-out, supernatural, miraculous total healing.

Miracles are by definition the exception rather than the rule, but if you're reading this, I'd sure appreciate it if you could over this next week pray for a miracle, no matter how small your faith.

In life or in death, God will be God and love will be enough, but I'd sure love to "be the miracle", as Bruce Almighty says. I'd sure love for this miracle to be a part of the story we tell when we tell the story of the great church God is planting in Brisbane. I'd love to be the first in a long list of stories of how God is transforming people's lives, healing them, liberating them from fear and from shame, "happifying" them in this place, in this generation.

And as my kids cling to me, hoping to see God intervene to avert tragedy in their young lives, I'd love to see the look of relief and triumph in their faces as their budding faith is confirmed and sealed by one enormous "YES" to a prayer that they've prayed, to carry them through all the dark moments that will come in their lives when God will seem silent. One memorable yes, can carry a person's faith through a lot of silence. I'm prepared to hear from God that his grace will be sufficient for me even on my death bed, but I'd love to be that yes in the early life of my children and my church.

The Big Lie and the Big Truth

I know someone wonderful, whom I love deeply, who is feeling worthless, who is hurting badly right now, and medicating his pain in ways that only add to his shame. Those are things I think we can all probably relate to. So we’ve been corresponding about it lately and when I was done with this latest response it occurred to me that it deals with such universal issues that it might, with a few minor alterations to eliminate personally identifiable details, be helpful to others as well, so here it is:

What you're really expressing is what everyone, believe it or not, feels to one degree or another, when they're forced to be honest with themselves. We can see that other people -- at least some other people -- are inherently valuable and worth loving, but not us. At least in our low moments, we can each do exactly what you have done here: go through the list of all the things that are valuable and admirable and lovable in us and say they don't really count, the good things aren't really me, the bad things are. Any evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, I remain unloved and unlovable.

When another dear friend was writing to me years ago about her inner struggles, there were times early in our friendship when I could say things to her and she could begin to accept them even though they were the same things she had discounted or denied when her husband said them because "He has to say that; he's my husband." Eventually, as our friendship matured, she began to say to me: "Of course you'd say that; you're my friend." There is something in us that says "my real worth is determined not by the best things I've ever done or that have ever been done to me, but by the worst things."

It's a lie, precious heart, a lie from Hell. You ARE fearfully and wonderfully made. You ARE worth more than many sparrows. YOU are adopted, chosen, made a royal heir. When the Bible says "while we were yet sinners Christ died for us" it means precisely that Christ knew that YOU were lovable and worth loving even when you were in the middle of those experiences that cause you the deepest shame, because those things aren't who you really are; they aren't what you're really about. There is a real you, not just a potential future different you, but a real you, right here, right now, that is good and noble and beautiful and worth dying for and being friends with, no matter what you've done and no matter what's been done to you.

The blood of Christ goes deeper than the stain of sin has gone, to that real, truest you, beneath all the layers of pain and self-protection from pain, beyond all the shame that has layered on top of the real you, and beyond all the facades that you've layered on top of that to hide the shame.

It comes most naturally to me to express to others in words the worth I see in them, like I'm doing now. It comes more naturally to you to express to others their worth -- to love them -- by doing things for them. But it is in both cases a sweet, beautiful, admirable heart that is, each in its own way, loving others. A loving heart is always a lovable heart and yours is as loving and as lovable as any I've ever known.

YOU ARE who God says you are, and not who the lie in your head says you are, no matter how persistent the liar is in repeating to you your alleged worthlessness and no matter how clever he is at compiling the purported evidence that you aren't lovable. His case is a deception, a clever, twisted house of cards that connects unrelated details, misrepresents them and deludes a redeemed man into submitting to the bondage of fear and pain and loneliness even in the middle of a loving crowd. Those good things you do for people can't simply be discounted; they are a reflection of who you are. With you, as with God, the quality of the gift is a reflection of the character of the giver. And the quality of your gifts is better than you think.

The truth will set you free, baby doll. Trust God's assessment of you. Accept God's assessment of your worth when he uses other people to reflect to you his positive view of you. You are more loved than you think, by more people than you think, and they would find it impossible not to love you. They reflect how God sees you, and how God sees you is who you really are.

Love,
Brad

My Hair-brained Linux Infatuation

I had my third chemo session yesterday. It was pretty uneventful. The doctor said after two more he'll order some new scans to see how the cancer is responding and then we'll meet to decide where to go from there. I'm praying of course for a miracle that shows no cancer then, or at least a providential answer to prayer showing the cancer significantly shrinking.

At any rate, I was going to post here Phillipians 1:20-22 from the New Living Translation. It perfectly expresses my thoughts right now on my present prospects of life and death. Then I'd have probably said something borderline profound about the passage.

Unfortunately those thoughts have all been driven completely out of my head by a self-induced technological crisis. I got this hair-brained idea to try to install Linux on our family desktop PC. Linux is an operating system like Windows or Mac, only it's free and is supposed to be fast, virus-free and never freezes up. I had hoped to have what's called a dual-boot system where I could start the PC in Linux while Karen and Jake would still be able to start it in Windows with everything just like it has been, until I got everything set up for them in Linux. Then I would try to lure them over so we could get rid of Microsoft altogether.

I discovered that all those reviews that told me how easy and consumer friendly Linux is were written by Linux geeks who wouldn't know easy if they tripped over it.

I got Linux installed, but wiped out Windows in the process, so no dual-booting. That wouldn't have been too terrible because I have all our data backed up. The problem is Linux doesn't recognize my wireless card so I can't get on the internet anymore, which is 90% of the value of a PC for us.

I hope to have some nice Linux geek rescue me within the next few days, but until then I'll be a little slower in answering e-mails and in updating www.choosing2live.com and this blog.

While you're praying big prayers for my healing, maybe you could pray a little one for my stupid computer's healing, and for Karen and Jake to forgive my poor ridiculous self who lives in that tragic netherworld of people who aren't competent enough to qualify as geeks but are too curious and proficient to just leave the PC alone and settle for word processing and e-mail.

In the meantime, let this be a lesson to the rest of you. We are Microsoft. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile.

Small Gifts and the Main Gift

You can find an update of my physical and psychological status at our website, www.choosing2live.com, by clicking on "Choosing to Live Physically" and "Choosing to Live Psychologically" at the top of the page. Basically, the news from the oncologist this morning was at least tentatively encouraging. Of course, he's such a pro at dealing all day every day with the false hopes and false fears of cancer patients that he never shows a big reaction. I'm sure he wouldn't act visibly shocked or excited if a patient walked into his office with a full-grown, fully functional third arm growing out of their forehead. But I think it was good news. Anyway, you can read about it on the website.

My other blog thought for the day is basically a copy-and-paste from an e-mail I wrote to my sister-in-law today, after she commented on the website:

The idea behind the website is precisely to use my terrible situation to say that the things we believe about God are not just trite platitudes or airy-fairy clichés or cruel hypocrisies. He is real and loving and powerful even in your situation, right here and now. We are told that all things work together for good to those who love God, who are called according to his purpose. I think that includes me -- and this. So we're giving my cancer to God to use it for our good and for the advancement of the purpose to which he has called us. We believe he's healing me, but we want to bring people not to the idea that if you're a Christian bad things will never happen to you, or that every crisis will always be resolved in your favour, that no real loss or grief or hardship will ever happen to the saints; rather, we want to bring them to the idea that the God who is able to give me healing or daily bread or deliverance from the lions den or the fiery furnace is able still to be God in my life, and to draw me into deep intimacy with him, even in the lions den or the furnace, even to the grave; that physical health or prosperity is not the main gift He wants to give us, or the main gift our hearts really desire. HE is the main gift he wants to give us, and the main gift that we'll discover that our hearts really desire. It's not mainly the ability to run a 4-minute mile or buy a big fancy house that our hearts were created for. Our supreme destiny and desire, the reason for our being and our ultimate joy is a deep, fervent, mutual love relationship with him, that spills over into a love for the people around us and an ability to see their incredible worth as He sees ours and theirs. And we can have that right here and now in the middle of the fiery furnace. That's what made it possible for the three Hebrew men in the Bible story, when faced with that furnace, to say: "but if not, be it known unto thee Oh king that we will not bow down to the idol you have set up". He is able to deliver us and he will deliver us, but even if he doesn't, we can trust him when he says "my grace is sufficient for you"; we don't and we won't bow down to the idol of fear and control. That makes every moment, even the bad ones, worth living.

THIS is the day the Lord has made.

A dear friend referred me to a website that contains a short essay by a Christian author who has been diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer. It was encouraging because he talked about his recent apparent physical healing. (After being told he had a week or two to live and being essentially bedridden, he gradually got stronger and healthier over the next two months, but hadn't at the time of the essay gone in for confirming medical tests.) But the essay was also encouraging for his description of how he has been praying:

Quote:

We live and pray one day at a time. We pray each day and say, “Thank you God for the healing you gave me today. Please heal me tomorrow.” It has occurred to both of us that if we were truly spiritually sensitive, we would have prayed that way all of our lives but it took the threat of imminent death to bring us to this point.

That's exactly the perspective I've developed and basically the same prayer I've been praying every day, except that his wording is slightly different and certainly better than mine, and I will adopt it now.

The downs and ups go along together. For the first time since the diagnosis 5-6 weeks ago, I've had several days this week of occasional abdominal discomfort. The other up-down thing was that Karen got a letter in the mail while I was at work on Thursday from our insurance company. She wasn't sure how to interpret it and didn't have it right in front of her when I spoke to her on the phone about it. From what she could recall of what it said, they had decided not to deny coverage of my cancer treatment as a pre-existing condition. It looked like they were going to pay. We might still have had significant out-of-pocket expenses if the policy didn't cover 100% of everything, but it would have seemed immensely more doable then. We were feeling real relief until I got home and read the letter myself. It turns out they were just agreeing to cover the initial colonoscopy and weren't saying anything, one way or the other, about coverage of the ongoing treatment.

So, we're still awaiting word on that.

In the meantime, my text for tomorrow's sermon is Jesus saying in John 10:10 "My purpose is to give life in all its fullness." (NLT) Other translations say "life more abundantly" or "to the full". The Message says: "more and better life than they ever dreamed of." One commentary says he gives us eternal life -- starting now. So this day I will let God have my grief at the past and my fear of the future and enjoy this moment he gives me now, and these people he gives me now, and the sense of his spirit bearing witness with my spirit right now that we are the children of God. This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.

I Love Chemo Day!

Today was my second chemo treatment. I go in once a week. This week the doctor told me that since I haven’t had any side effects from the chemo this past week, I’m probably not going to have any side effects. That’s a small answer to prayer! He also confirmed that Royal Brisbane Hospital is a cancer research facility, that they do human trials of promising new drugs from time to time, and that if one comes along while I’m undergoing treatment, he can get me into it. I had told him that as long as the existing treatment was deemed to have less than 50% chance of significantly extending my life, I wanted a shot at any promising new drug that came along, so that’s another small answer to prayer.

We pay for the chemo each week when we receive it. When Karen went to pay this week, the lady who routinely handles payments, insurance and so forth all day every day had to stop and make a phone call to see how to handle ours because she’d never before seen a case where the hospital itself had cut their charges. That means my oncologist wasn’t just doing something that they normally do from time to time in special cases; he was really collaring people and getting them to do totally unprecedented things for me. Roland and I had spoken briefly to the oncologist on my first visit, about why I’m here and what we hope to accomplish. After her encounter with the payment lady today Karen said: “You and Roland didn’t really say that much to him. Y’all didn’t do this. God moved in his heart.” He’s a good doctor and a good man, and he really is fighting for my life. That is, indeed, another God thing.

But that’s not why I’ve decided that chemo day is my favorite day of the week. On chemo day I get to sleep in, I get off work, I get 1-4 hours to sit and read without any obligation to be doing anything else. I eat food the hospital staff brings around for me which is off my normal diet. The naturapath says I don’t have to take my normal bushel basket of supplements that day. And I continue to have no symptoms of the cancer beyond occasional minor abdominal discomfort that is no greater than the average 50-year-old man experiences. What’s not to love?

God is giving me this day. He is on this day meeting this day’s needs. I don’t have my miraculous healing yet, but on days like today, it’s easy to believe I will. And either way, Roland and I should be ready tomorrow to go public with a new website that will keep people updated on my cancer battle, give them the opportunity to donate conveniently to my expenses, and use the cancer battle as an illustration of how we see God and his work in our lives. The site will thereby not only help my friends and family pray and donate as they want to for my battle, but will also help us draw secular, unchurched strangers into our planned church plant and ultimately into the heart of God.

For me to live is Christ and to die is gain.

Resurrection

We arrived at the beach this Easter morning just before sunrise, just a dozen of us. We spread blankets on the ground, talked a little about the resurrection and the power thereof, shared communion and prayed together. The beach was on the bay, rather than out on the open ocean, so there were only the gentlest of waves lapping up on the sandy beach, and we could see land on the horizon beyond the water.

For some reason I thought of the story of Jesus grilling fresh fish on the shores of Lake Galilee for the disciples, and I wanted that, too. Do you reckon Jesus had a good recipe for grilled fish fillets? As we took communion and celebrated his submission to death and his utter, absolute, unquestionable conquest and mastery over it, I really wanted to eat what he ate and drank what he drank. I’m on a really restrictive diet right now, hoping it will help in some small way, at least, to fight the cancer, but fish is one of the mainstays of the diet. Karen and Emmy both do a really good job of making it interesting, but I really like the idea of tasting what Jesus has prepared.

And of course, how can you watch the sun rising and the waves lapping and hear even the most abbreviated version of the resurrection story while wrapped up in your own prospect of imminent mortality and not desire right now a taste of his power over death and the grave?

When Jesus rose, it didn’t right then end death for all of us, of course – not in the literal, physical sense that it ended death for him. But it was a proof and a promise that his victory over death does ultimately mean our victory over death as well. He proved it by healing the sick, by raising the dead and finally by raising himself up from the grave, eating fish with his friends, and rising triumphantly into the clouds with a promise that he would return. He promised that death is the final enemy that shall be destroyed. All the healings and resurrections recorded in the New Testament are just samples, foretastes, appetizers, temporary reprieves here and now to remind and encourage us that what we have here only as an appetizer will there be a glorious gourmet buffet without measure or limit.

Somehow, sitting there on the countless grains of sand, watching the perennial rising of the sun over the endlessly lapping waves on Easter morning, it’s easy to believe that God is the quencher of anything that threatens to quench the eternal life he has given me, and it’s easy to believe that he will offer me now, like he offered the lepers and Lazarus, a foretaste of his death-quenching life.

Now, to totally break the mood, for those of you who recall my youngest son Jake as a blond, here’s the latest picture of him. He got a friend to dye his hair black this week, just for a change of pace.

My sister Janet has colon cancer!

Well, I had intended to come home from our Easter sunrise service on the beach this morning and write on my blog about the service. Then I figured that I'd offer a medical update after my second chemo treatment this coming Tuesday.

That's all just been bumped off the front page by late-breaking news. My brother Roy Lee and my mother called me on our mobile phone as we were on the way home from the sunrise service to give me the results of the precautionary colonoscopy Janet decided to get, after my recent diagnosis of colon cancer. She said she and my other sister Andrea were both going to do it and I figured that was fine, probably not a bad idea, but just never gave it a second thought. We have NO family history of colon cancer, and the doctors all agree that family history is the primary predictor. The fact that I have it doesn't make her any more genetically susceptible than anyone in the general population, because our genetic predecessors never had it.

Yet, shockingly, they found a 3cm malignant tumor in her colon. They removed it along with a foot of the colon, and they think they got it all. She should recover fully with no need for follow-up chemo or anything like that. Her doctor told her that her brother saved her life. I'm too astonished for words.

I'm just stunned that she could have it, too, at the same time as me, and I'm stunned at the providential nature of the discovery.

My entire family now, parents, siblings, even cousins are rushing out to get colonoscopies.

I saw a cute poster once that started out quoting a famous poem that said: "If you can keep your head while all about you are losing theirs..." Then at the bottom of the poster it offered a different conclusion from that of the original poem. The poster finished the sentence: "...then you obviously don't understand the situation."

Man, when we live our daily life as if it's not precious and fragile, we're obviously not paying attention.

Finally, Treatment!

I just got back from my first round of chemo. The doctor re-thought the way he normally does things, talked to the hospital CEO, the drug company and offered his own services free of charge to get my cost down from an initial AU$5000 monthly to AU$900-1000 for at least the first month. When I left his office to go to the “Day Oncology” room to actually begin the chemo, I told him: “I’ll do something useful with whatever time you can give me, I promise.” He took my hand in both of his, and then patted me on the shoulder, and told me he believed me.

In 8 weeks he’ll make his first assessment of whether the chemo is working. I spent 3 hours getting drugs injected today. Next Tuesday I’ll spend 1 hour getting drugs injected. It’ll alternate like that thereafter, 3 hours one week and 1 the next. The doctor doesn’t think I’ll have a problem with nausea, but gave me medications just in case.

When we got home, Roland told me about a news item they’d just heard of about a possible major breakthrough in the cure of bowel cancer (which is what I have), from the cancer research department at Royal Brisbane hospital right here. The doctor in the story said it may be available in as little as 12 months. If they look for test subjects I hope to be right here, standing in line (and watching the birth of a new, life changing church at the same time.)

I believe in miracles and I believe in medicine and I’m willing to suspend judgment on alternative therapies and give them a shot. The biggest miracle, of course, would be to have the doctor in 8 weeks find no sign of cancer. Next step down would be a remarkable shrinking of the cancer after just 8 weeks. The lowest level of “yes” to our prayers would be that the cancer has not grown at all, and that my life expectancy is not reduced from the initial average I was quoted. If the cancer in 8 weeks has continued to grow, I keep praying and hoping for a miracle, but I probably start giving serious attention to getting affairs in order and preparing the hearts of the people I love, as best I can. At least that’s my feeling right now.

At the moment, though, I expect a miracle. Eight weeks from today is May 29. My mother is expecting to be here the first week of June, so if she comes a week early and the news is good, she’d be here to hear for herself the answer to her prayers, which would be cool. If the news is less good, I guess it’s no worse to hear it in person than an hour later by e-mail or blog.

Anyway, thank you for your prayers. Keep’em coming.

Love,
Brad

Medical Update

My sister Janet is working on finding out whether I can get my cancer treatment paid for through Medicaid and SSI. If so, it would require moving back to the U.S., specifically to Houston if M.D. Anderson, the best cancer hospital in that part of the country, will accept Medicaid.

Of course that would be a severe blow to the vision to which we believe God has called us, to use our circumstances to plant in people’s hearts a confidence in the love of God, an eagerness to be open and vulnerable before him and a few close friends, an ability to more and more find their worth and identity in Christ instead of in things that fail, and ultimately to discover the level of joy and intimacy with God and loved ones that reflects the supreme law of God to love him and our neighbors without reservation. We came here to build a church that would be what church people have always believed church could be. We came here to build a church that would be what unchurched people never imagined it could be. We came here to build a church that everyone will know they were born for, once they’ve begun to experience real, intimate community there. God uses Roland and me together in a way that he does not use us separately, and we’ve seen a wonderful taste in Frisco of what we know God can do here, if we have 20 years here instead of the 5 years that we had in Frisco. Even if I only have a year or two, if I can spend it here we can see the glory of God more fully than if I spend that time on another continent.

At any rate, we’ll come back home if it’s the only way to get medical treatment, and Janet is working on that. Meanwhile, I have an appointment with the oncologist, Rick Abraham, at Holy Spirit Northside Hospital at 10am Tuesday morning, the third of April. That’s 7pm Monday, US Central Time. I understood him to say the actual chemo will start then. He’s persuaded the maker of the most expensive drug to give it to me for free the first month which, along with some other concessions he’s extracted from various parties, brings our cost for the first month’s IV chemo treatment down from $5,000 a month (Australian dollars, which are worth about 80 cents US) to $1,000. We’ve had enough donations come in so far to cover that. While we’re praying for a miraculous complete healing, we’re also praying “give us this day our daily bread”, which he has now done.

On another medical front, when Mark Dutney, the General Practitioner, first diagnosed me and figured out that my insurance company might deny treatment, he contacted Royal Brisbane Hospital which is a very good public hospital, unlike Holy Spirit Northside which is a private hospital. Dutney was hoping Royal Brisbane would somehow be able to treat me for free, even though I’m not under the government healthcare system here that would make it free for citizens. Royal Brisbane has finally gotten back to us. I have an appointment with them on Monday afternoon, the second of April. Karen talked to them, so I’m not sure of the time. At any rate, we’ll talk to a specialist there. The worst that can happen is it’s a wasted afternoon. The best that can happen is that God intervenes and they find a way to give us ongoing free medical treatment.

Meanwhile, I still have no symptoms whatsoever, beyond occasional stomach discomfort, which I understand is not terribly unusual for 50-year-old men. It’s a weird thing to look in the mirror and think: there’s a man who’s dying of cancer, and then go for a long walk through the woods with Roland or Karen, come home and laugh with Emmy and the kids, and get up and go to work the next day.

My mind runs the gamut constantly from grief and fear to hope and gratitude, continually saying “our God is able to deliver us and he will deliver us, but if not, be it known unto you, O King, that we will not bow down.” I live with the daily dichotomy of needing and expecting a miracle, thanking God for another wonderful day, while simultaneously helping Karen think through the things she’ll need to think through “if not”, and trying to think through how to help my children and other loved ones keep their hearts tender and trusting the power and character of God, even “if not.”

In all this, God is still God and love is still enough. This I testify.

Comic Relief

It’s been hard for me to stay focused for a prolonged period lately. My mind is constantly drifting off to quick prayers, imagining a miracle or working through in my mind the things, both practical and spiritual, that I need to help my loved ones work through if I don’t get a miracle. At any rate, that means I’m having difficulty with the kind of intense, prolonged prayer that I have engaged in at times past.

This past Monday, Roland and I attended a district prayer meeting that now happens once a month. Fifteen people were there. Some of the prayer was deeply felt stuff from people’s hearts. Some was still legitimate but less deeply personal, like prayers for the success of upcoming church programs and so forth. At any rate, my mind was beginning to wander back to my own stuff and I was really trying to stay focused. One of my tactics for doing that was just to silently pray along with whoever was praying at that moment, agreeing with that person in prayer, and asking God to grant whatever petition he or she was making.

That tactic for staying focused and in the spirit of prayer with the rest of the group broke down horribly when one young man prayed: “Lord, we pray also for the pastors.” Now there’s nothing in the world wrong with that. It’s a good, necessary, important prayer. My problem is that Australians pronounce the word “pastor” exactly the way we and they pronounce the word “pasta”. So I didn’t hear: “we pray for the pastors”; I heard: “Lord, we pray also for the pastas” and instantly my silly mind was lost to prayer. I went right along with him, agreeing with him in prayer on that misunderstood petition. In my mind I imagined myself praying earnestly:

“Yes, Lord, we pray also for the pastas. We pray for the spaghetti, Lord, and for the rigatoni and the cannelloni. Yea, Lord, even for the macaroni do we pray, both seashell and elbow.”

I was just killing myself and couldn’t share it with anyone. If I had so much as looked at Roland, I would have burst out laughing out loud before I could have explained it to him, and completely disrupted the prayer time. I couldn’t tell him, anyway, though, because Michael Schmidt, our dear district superintendent, was sitting between us. I’m quickly coming to love and appreciate Michael, but I don’t yet know his sense of humor well enough to dare sharing it with him. On the one hand, if he shared my sense of humor it would look bad for the DS to disrupt the prayer meeting by laughing out loud at an inappropriate time. On the other hand, if he decidedly did not share my sense of humor, I’d sound like a blaspheming heretic or something. For a second, as my shoulders shook and I hoped people would think I was crying, I thought I was going to have to just get up and go outside where I could laugh properly.

Finally, the man who had begun praying for the pastas began to get emotional as he prayed for stuff about which he felt very deeply on a personal level, and my heart was drawn to him and through him back into the spirit of prayer. There’s a verse in the Bible that says “Laughter does the heart good like a medicine” so I trust that we don’t leave his presence, and he doesn’t leave us as we move from earnest tears to silly laughter and back again.

In this moment I feel good physically, He has given us this day our daily bread, people all over the world are expressing their love, appreciation and concern for me, lifting me up to our Abba Daddy for a miracle and for peace in the meantime, and in this moment, we have unashamed laughter and joy in his presence. Maybe he laughs when we play the way we laugh when we watch our children play.

"Give us this day...."

A million Bible verses and stories are rushing through my brain this evening. I've thought of Tabitha who died, and so many people showed Paul the things she had done in their lives and all she meant to them, that God used him to bring her back from the dead. I've thought of the cripple whose friends cut a hole in the roof of the house where Jesus was teaching, and let the cripple down through the roof in front of Jesus, for Jesus to heal him, because they couldn't get to Jesus through the crowd. And when Jesus saw "their faith", not the faith of the cripple, but the faith of his friends who loved him so much, Jesus healed the cripple.

But the verse I'm finding peace in right now, that keeps repeating in my head as both a plea and a promise, is a truncated verse from the Lord's Prayer: "Give us this day...." I have this day, and it's good.

Today, on our 30th anniversary, Karen and I sat with Roland at the oncologist's office and listened to him confirm to us that, as far as the doctors are concerned, I'm dying. I have 18-24 months to live.

We went to the oncologist this afternoon to hear his prognosis and treatment recommendations now that he has the results of the colon biopsy. Apparently, we do need a miracle. He said my cancer is not curable. Without treatment the average person with my cancer at this stage lives 8-9 months. With treatment, 24 months. The 5-year survival rate is in the single digits.

There are two kinds of chemo, oral and IV. There's a 30% chance that the cancer will respond to the oral chemo and a 50% chance that it will respond to the IV. The oral chemo costs $1,000 per month. The IV chemo costs $30,000 for a six-month treatment course. He and the colon surgeon and the originally diagnosing general practitioner are all going to argue to the insurance company that the cancer should not be considered pre-existing, but those battles with insurance companies are generally lost.

We talked a little to the oncologist about what we came to Australia to do. We told him that we gave up good insurance in the states to come here in the belief that we had something to offer that would make the lives of many Australians deeply better, and we want time to do that. We said we believe in miracles and we want to give God time to act. The oncologist started thinking about people who owe him favors and ways to get around the cost to get me the IV chemo.

My spiritual challenge is to be like the 3 Hebrews when they were faced with the choice of being thrown into a fiery furnace or denying that God was really God. They said (in the King James Version in which I have it memorized from childhood) "Our God whom we serve is able to deliver us, and He WILL deliver us. But if not, be it known unto thee oh king, that we will not bow down...."

So, I'm learning to be confident that I rest in the arms of my Abba Daddy who loves me, regardless of the outcome, while still praying and believing that he WILL give me a miracle of healing and added years.

Meanwhile, though, we're apparently going to need all the money we can find, regardless. So, as much as I hate it (we built a church that never preached on Sunday morning about money and never took an offering), I have to be willing now to be a recipient of grace, and accept whatever my friends want to offer.

So, our little core group here that is hoping to plant a church soon has set up a bank account here in Brisbane to receive donations for me. Here's what you do from the United States to transfer money into that account:

1. Call your bank and see if they do overseas transfers, they may do it through Bank of America or Chase Manhattan. If your bank is large enough they will have an overseas funds transfer dept and that is who you want to speak to.

2. Ask them to transfer the money to the following details

a. SWIFT code: QBANAU4B (The SWIFT code is the number that identifies banks for the purpose of overseas transfers it stands for “Society for World-wide Interbank Financial Telecommunications”.)

b. BSB# (or routing #) 124066

c. Account Name: NewStart River City Benevolent fund.

d. A/C# 20443878.

(My sister tried the above instructions and said her bank also wanted the name and address of the bank here, to which the money is being transfered. That information is:

Bank of Queensland
Arana Hills
Patricks Place
Cnr Patricks Road & Dawson Parade
Arana Hills QLD 4054
Australia)

I need and have to be willing to accept whatever financial donations people feel led to make, but goodness I seriously must have your prayers. At this point, it sounds like money can buy me 12-18 months. More than that has to be a miracle from God in response to the prayers of the people who love me.

Love,

Brad

The Battle Begins

We went to the scheduled appointment this morning with the bowel surgeon. I think we got everything out of this morning's doctor's visit that we could reasonably have hoped for.

1. They seem intent on treating me regardless of my ability to pay. They are, however, going to fight with the insurance company to try to convince them that it's not pre-existing. And of course, after the encouraging words from the doctor, we got a call from the hospital itself insisting on cash up front to the tune of $700 and something dollars Monday morning before they’ll do the colonoscopy. That’ll wipe out all of our money for groceries and other bills, but we’ll at least get through Monday morning. The oncologist did indicate that he could treat me at Brisbane Royal Hospital and we could get it done there for free regardless. We’ll see. In the meantime, it looks like between this kind of thing and continuing all the expensive recommendations of the naturapath like supplements and organic everything, we’re going to need some real cash coming in from somewhere, somehow, fast. But treatment is still moving ahead, and that’s the main good thing out of all that at the moment.

2. The bowel cancer didn't look nearly as bad to the bowel surgeon as it did to the general practitioner. He doesn't think bowel surgery will be necessary.

3. I got to see the oncologist this morning, which wasn't expected. He's ready to start treatment. He wasn't any more encouraging about the condition of my liver than anyone else, but he wasn't any less either.

4. The bowel surgeon will do a colonoscopy (& biopsy) early Monday morning. Then midweek, probably Wednesday, the oncologist will look at the results of that to get a better idea of what kind of cancer it is and therefore what kind of chemo I need. He suggested in response to my question this morning that he'll also be ready at that time to give me an updated long-term prognosis, but reminded me that it won't be a crystal ball about what's definitely going to happen to me. It'll just be about the average outcome, and I may do better or worse than average. So that midweek visit will be the next chance to hear their guess about how dire my situation is.

5. After three months of chemo they'll be able to do further tests to evaluate the results. We'll get a much more informed prognosis then. That will also be our next best chance for an official confirmation that a miracle has happened and I don't have cancer anymore.

Meanwhile, I'm following the naturapath's diet, supplement and exercise regimen, which includes walking 10,000 steps per day. I presently have no symptoms whatsoever. Maybe without bowel surgery, and if the chemo at least holds the cancer where it is, I won't have any worse symptoms ever than just the chemo side-effects, and the general practitioner said side-effects from liver chemo are generally less than other chemo's.

Anyway, I feel good physically, I have reason to hope medically, I’m confident of God’s love and power to heal, and I’m surrounded and inundated by the love, prayers and fasting of people who care about me to an extraordinary degree.

God is love and love is enough.