Undone Read online

  CHAPTER 2

  Thanksgiving

  Of course it is different when the thing happens to oneself, not to others, and in reality, not in imagination.

  — C. S. LEWIS, A Grief Observed

  FOR AS LONG AS I CAN REMEMBER, THANKSGIVING HAS BEEN MY favorite holiday. The pinnacle of every year.

  Until the year cancer joined my family at the table.

  I tried to stay festive, buy the turkey, whip up pies and side dishes, all while smiling and laughing as expected. But behind the charade of activity, I felt myself crumbling.

  That first day proved the most difficult. I hung up the phone with Dr. Francis as Troy rushed out the door to work. An empty house. I tried to do the dishes but couldn’t stand still. I pulled out my Bible but couldn’t read. Fear made me inconsolable. The silence screamed.

  From the time I sat in a kindergarten Sunday school class, I’ve been told to talk to God about these things first. Call him up on the heavenly 911 and “pour out my lament” like David or Isaiah. Certainly my heart called out to him while I paced from room to room trying to find a distraction. But I couldn’t form any coherent prayer other than “Help me.” Even then, more silence in reply.

  So I called Kate, the friend with whom I’d shared countless cups of tea. She always seemed to know the right thing to say to a friend in crisis. But she didn’t answer. I thought about leaving a message, but what to say?

  Call me. I have cancer.

  Not voicemail material. Besides, speaking would’ve breached the dam holding back a torrent of emotion. I was afraid I’d start crying and never stop.

  I tried another friend, Robbie, the one who always knows how to make me laugh. I needed to laugh. As long as I’ve known her, she’s been strong, feisty, and optimistic. She wouldn’t break down at my news, wouldn’t fall apart in a panic. I didn’t need any more of that. Knowing her, she’d talk a little smack, shake me by the shoulders, and dole out a plateful of faith and perspective.

  I couldn’t dial fast enough. But again, no answer.

  For the third time that morning, I hung up the phone to an empty house. Fear spread like a flood, drowning me. I wanted to run but had nowhere to go.

  Why? Of all days, why can’t I find someone to help me?

  My terror finally pushed me to my bedroom closet. To pray.

  I don’t remember what I said, and I’m quite sure it wasn’t anything worthy of the pages of the Psalms. It was more groans than words, more tears than testimony. I fell facedown on the carpet, the closet door shut and darkness enveloping me, and uttered a prayer of panic.

  Father God, help me. Please, help. I want to live!

  Somewhere at the tail end of that prayer I made a request. Desperate for human company, for some kind of physical presence to ease my fear, I asked God to bring someone — anyone — to sit with me. Didn’t matter if it was a phone call or a visitor on my front step.

  Please don’t make me endure today alone.

  I listened for the doorbell. Waited. Strained to hear. Nothing. Only silence. Defeated, convinced of my aloneness, I pulled myself off the floor and headed downstairs to work on the breakfast dishes.

  Only a few minutes passed.

  Then my cell phone rang.

  I felt a surge of hope, anticipating Kate’s or Robbie’s name on the caller ID.

  Neither. Instead, Christine.

  Christine and I weren’t really friends. At least, not anymore. At one time we’d been part of the same circles and spent regular time together. But for reasons I didn’t understand, she’d fallen out of love with our friendship. With me. It’d been nearly a year since we’d last spoken or seen each other. I couldn’t imagine why she’d be calling.

  “Hello, this is Michele.”

  “Michele? Michele Cushatt?”

  “Yes, it’s me. Good to hear from you, Christine. How are you?” I tried not to sound disappointed.

  “Oh.” She hesitated. Sounding disappointed. “Actually, I was trying to call my friend Melissa. You’re right next to her on my contact list. I must’ve hit your name by mistake.”

  Really, God? I need a friend, and this is all you can come up with?

  “No problem.” I moved to hang up.

  She didn’t. Instead, she threw a lifeline: “While I have you on the phone, do you mind if I pray for you?”

  Silence hung thick between us. Pray? I fell to my knees.

  “Yes. Yes, please. I’d love that.”

  I wish I had a transcript of that prayer, wish I could go back and savor each unsuspecting offering. Without knowing any of the events of the morning, Christine prayed for peace, for my heart and mind to be covered and secured by the presence of God, and that I would know, in no uncertain terms, God’s overwhelming, incomparable love.

  Amen.

  Within a minute, maybe less, we said our goodbyes so Christine could call the friend she’d meant to call all along. Again I hung up the phone to an empty house. But this time, instead of hearing taunts of fear, I heard the whisper of God: If I had sent anyone else, you would have called it a coincidence. I sent her, the one person you’d never expect, so you’d know it was me. I’m with you, Michele. I’m with you!

  That’s all it took. I didn’t start skipping through the house or planting daisies. Didn’t sing hymns or quote long passages of memorized Scripture. But I did close wet eyes and say, “Thank you.”

  The day cancer showed up in my life, God showed up bigger. He served up a portion of his presence, enough for one day. Enough to reassure me I’m not alone.

  He did the same a hundred times over in the days that followed.

  I show love with food offerings.

  Nearly every morning, I make my family a hot breakfast. Biscuits and gravy. Omelets and muffins. Waffles with fruit. After school, I serve up gooey chocolate-chip cookies and tall glasses of cold milk to my boys. When Troy’s had a tough week at work, I put together a gourmet dinner with enough courses to earn a college degree.

  It’s what I do when I don’t know what to do. I cook.

  That’s why, in spite of the diagnosis and unknowns, I still wanted to host Thanksgiving dinner. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t keep any food down because of the fear hijacking my stomach. Still, I cooked with a feverish desperation.

  Guests began to arrive around noon: Don and Rhonda, dear friends and former neighbors whose two daughters had grown up with our boys; Damian, a college kid and friend of my oldest who’d been joining us for holiday dinners as long as I could remember; Troy’s mom, Dana, who drove two hours to eat turkey with her grandchildren. These dear souls were more family members than friends, and they joined my parents, husband, and three boys to complete our Thanksgiving celebration. Honestly, I couldn’t imagine anyone else I’d rather spend such a day with.

  Soon, every inch of my kitchen reflected warmth, nourishment, and love: Steaming side dishes and chilled salads. A basket of homemade rolls served alongside a full stick of real butter. Cherry-red Jell-O with enough marshmallows and calories to ruin a faithful Weight Watcher in one serving. Creamy mashed potatoes whipped with an embarrassing amount of butter and half-and-half. Cinnamon-laced sweet potatoes. The best apple-walnut stuffing known to mankind. Gorgeous deep-dish pies — a gooey pecan, two cream-topped pumpkins, and a thick dark chocolate.

  And towering above these lesser dishes, assuming one entire section of my granite-surfaced kitchen island, sat the glory of our feast: a golden-brown, twenty-two-pound turkey.

  Cancer wasn’t good for my peace. But it inspired quite a feast.

  For me, the kitchen table has always been the axis around which our family revolves. And the making of the food is how I keep our world spinning. There’s something about feeding people that fills me with both peace and purpose. With my two hands, I create life-sustaining meals and serve them in generous, heaping portions to my family. And the satisfaction on their faces warms me from head to toe. In all the preparing and serving, I both love well and feel loved in return.

/>   I prepare the plate; they eat it. And we both end up full.

  I like to think God gets it. After all, he is the one who served up breakfast daily to his children. Manna from heaven. Sweet flakes falling from the sky.

  Exodus 16 tells the story. For four hundred years, the Israelites had been slaves in Egypt, abused and mistreated by ruthless captors. So they cried and prayed, in fear and panic. And God showed up with a man called Moses to set them free. Overjoyed, they left Egypt behind in the hope of finding a Promised Land.

  But they didn’t expect to first endure a wilderness. The shine of the promise faded at the first pangs of hunger. Forgetting their rescue and the God who arranged it, they chose to whine in despair rather than revel in their freedom. How quickly one miracle is forgotten when another is wanted.

  Even so, God promised to nourish: “I will rain down bread from heaven for you.”1

  Dinner dropped from the sky. Manna.

  One condition, God warned: Gather only enough for today. I’ll provide more tomorrow.

  But hunger drives desperate behavior. The Israelites didn’t listen. Instead, they pulled out the Tupperware. And those who stockpiled enough for the week ended up with stinking, maggot-infested leftovers.

  Though I wish it weren’t true, I’m no different. One-day-at-a-time living is difficult for me. I prefer to plot and plan, save and stock up. I gather and hoard for my unexpected tomorrows as if the Promised Land hinges on me. On me. But in my wilderness, my stockpiles turn rotten and unfulfilling. What can a full pantry and bulging 401(k) do for the woman facing cancer?

  I will rain down bread from heaven for you.

  He whispers it to me, again and again. Provision. But provision delivered in portions. One serving at a time. One day at a time. No stockpiles or truckloads. Not enough to fill a pantry, but certainly enough to fill a plate.

  Can you trust me? he asks.

  I couldn’t answer that question on Thanksgiving Day. With a single phone call two days before, infinite life turned finite. A PET scan and more doctors’ appointments loomed, during which doctors would stage the cancer’s progression and provide me with as close to a definitive prognosis as the medical community can. Until then, even as I whipped up potatoes and gravy, I hovered in horrific limbo. Life and death wrestled at alternate poles with me in the middle, curled up in the fetal position. I needed to know I’d beat this to again sit at the Thanksgiving table the next year. But no one could make that promise. No one could tell me, for certain, that it would all turn out okay.

  So while my family and guests ate platefuls of turkey and stuffing, I sneaked off to my bedroom, where I curled up on my bed, alone, and cried.

  I’m afraid! I don’t want to die, don’t want to miss out on life.

  But as it turns out, I did exactly that. Like Israelites consumed with hunger pangs, I couldn’t see beyond the ache of my circumstances. Downstairs, a dozen of my dearest family and friends filled my dining room, laughing and celebrating the gift of life. But rather than savor the day with gratitude, I wanted a stockpile of reassurance about tomorrow. In my fear of death, I almost missed life.

  It was my husband who finally helped me back to the feast. Finding me closed in behind bedroom doors, he wrapped sure arms around me.

  “You okay?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. Just held me close. Let me cry. Rubbed soft, tender circles on my back. Listened to my panicked questions without trying to fill the void with promises he couldn’t make.

  It was enough. Not for weeks and months to follow. But enough for that day. Enough to get me back to the table.

  CHAPTER 3

  Waiting

  Jesus, say the word.

  I am the bleeding woman.

  The crippled woman.

  The Samaritan woman.

  The little girl.

  I need your touch and your healing.

  Extend my life . . . I want to live!

  — JOURNAL ENTRY, November 29

  I DON’T WAIT WELL.

  I like answers, tangibles, plans. Not unknowns and waiting.

  When I was eight and a half months pregnant with my youngest, Jacob, I was convinced I’d be pregnant until Jesus came in glory. Have mercy. At each weekly appointment, the doctor shook her head, both at my girth and the stubbornness of my unborn child. The baby wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. He seemed quite content eating at my internal buffet. So I heaved my enormous self home, where I whined and tried every birth-inducing remedy known to womankind, including three-mile waddles around the neighborhood and spicy food. As if.

  In the end, it took a scheduled induction, gallons of IV pitocin, and almost twenty-four hours of horrible labor to drag my reluctant nine-pound, five-ounce man-child into his life.

  The Monday after Thanksgiving, the PET imaging clinic called to schedule my scan. I’d been waiting for their call for days, hovering near the phone like a girl desperate for a date.

  We’d done the biopsy, had a preliminary appointment and physical exam with the surgeon, Dr. Forrester, to discuss the process and options. But none of us yet knew the extent of the disease. The biopsied ulcer had been giving me fits off and on for two to three years, at least. When had it turned cancerous? Last week? Last month? Last year? Had cancer cells been slithering through my body all that time, sabotaging healthy cells without my knowing it? The PET scan would tell the truth, for better or worse. Once the results were in, my doctor would know what we were working with, “stage” it, and set a plan to tackle it. Until then, I fretted and paced.

  I took the first available appointment. December 1. Two days away. I hadn’t slept well for a week, couldn’t eat or function. I spent most days in a nervous panic. The thought of waiting two more days for my scan, followed by another four or five for results, made me want to throw up. Each twenty-four-hour block felt as taxing as a marathon. I was exhausted. But there was nothing I could do, no way around the waiting. In time, I’d learn the waiting is as much a part of the cancer journey as the scans and appointments.

  The day of my PET scan arrived and I exhaled. Simply having something to do felt better than sitting at home waiting for answers. After arriving at the clinic and checking in, I was greeted by a tech who took me to a side room for a quick debriefing. PET stands for positron emission tomography. To begin, I’d receive an injection of a radioactive glucose, a tracer. The tracer would then travel to areas of the body with a higher metabolic rate — cancer cells — which is why people often claim cancer likes sugar. (Who knew we’d have something in common?) After the injection, I’d sit in a dark, quiet room for one hour while the clear liquid traveled through my veins, gathering anywhere cancer cells were having a picnic. Then, after the hour of waiting, waiting, waiting, I’d be taken to the scanning room, where I’d lie long and flat in a narrow, hollowed-out white tube. For those who panic at the thought of tight spaces, I wouldn’t recommend it. For twenty-five minutes, I’d lie completely still, mummified by the white tube, while the technician took pictures of my body, head to midthigh. If cancer lurked, radioactive glucose would light up affected areas like a Christmas tree.

  Happy Holidays to me.

  Days before, my childhood friend Tangie sent me a text. She was having a long, painful dental procedure and felt more than a little apprehensive about it. The dentist planned to cut the gums away from her teeth to remove a granuloma. The thought of the pain terrified her (and me). We texted back and forth, and I did my best to give an encouraging pep talk and promised to pray. Later, when the procedure was over, she texted with news that the procedure ended up far more complicated than anticipated. “They were unable to numb my mouth after several attempts,” she said. “I could feel everything he was doing.” I couldn’t imagine her pain and fear, how she endured. “I sang hymns in my head,” she told me. “It got me through.”

  So as I lay inside the giant PET tube and a tech took images of my body, I thought of Tangie. And I sang hymns. Not out loud. But my heart sang, repeating wor
ds of the sacred songs I’d known by heart since I was a little girl.

  O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder

  Consider all the worlds thy hands have made,

  I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder,

  Thy power throughout the universe displayed:

  Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee:

  How great thou art! How great thou art!2

  “Great Is Thy Faithfulness.” “Jesus, Lover of My Soul.” “How Great Thou Art.” Lyric after lyric, I allowed the familiarity of these sweet old hymns to cradle me in peace while the PET scan determined my fate.

  In the process, I corrected my theology.

  A PET scan doesn’t determine the days of my life. The Great Thou Art does.

  The peace I felt on the day of my PET scan disappeared by the time I woke up the following morning.

  Fear swallowed all the truths that had reassured the day before. Again I waited for the phone to ring. I knew results could take days, but I paced and hovered, willing the answers to come. Waiting. Forever waiting.

  Once again I retreated to my bedroom closet, a six-by-eight-foot area that had quickly become sacred space. I don’t know how many times I fell on my face that day and week, but again and again I put forehead to carpet and pleaded with a delivering God: I want to live!

  Emboldened by my desperation, I prayed big, ridiculous prayers, prayers that didn’t make sense in a medical world of black-and-white facts. But I prayed them just the same, shaping my requests around specific results, using words like “no evidence of cancer” and “no sign that it was ever there.” It seemed too much to ask, too big of a request. Especially considering the number of years the ulcer had lingered. But I had nothing to lose. If I truly believed in a real and powerful God, I’d better act like it now.

  But my head knowledge had a hard time keeping up with my humanity. I’d leave my prayer closet with renewed determination to face this challenge with the courage and faith I’d claimed since I was seven years old. Sometimes the peace would last for an hour or two.