Preview of my book "In The Cleft Joy Comes In The Mourning" which will be released in March or April

Chapter 2 Land Mines “How long must I tromp through this dense jungle half crazed and blind before the clearing appears?” --Tilden H. Edward I woke up the morning of June 24th 2010 and did the usual morning routine. Exams had been marked, report cards were done and the anticipation of summer made me start dreaming of the long warm days ahead. I had a luncheon scheduled that day to honor teacher’s dedication and hard work. I was excited to go, but I felt heavy with thoughts of worry. For the past two weeks, my oldest son, Zach, had been having awful headaches, double vision, some nausea and vomiting and his symptoms were unsettling. One night we found him lying on the floor beside his bed and we couldn’t wake him. He was a deep sleeper so we didn’t think too much about that, but the headaches were relentless. We had taken him into the ER three times in one week and they kept sending us home. We made appointments with massage therapists, thinking that school stress must be causing the tension and pain. The doctor explained that teenage hormones sometimes cause symptoms that resembled Zach’s, but my intuition told me something wasn’t right and it gnawed at me day and night. A Mother instinctively knows when something isn’t right. On top of the worry about Zach’s symptoms, Doug had developed a lump on the side of his neck that concerned us. My mother-in-law and I had been out for lunch the week before and I’d mentioned to her about my tendency to catastrophize everything--how in my imagination I’d already played out my worst nightmare: they both had tumors. As it turned out, they did. I had just finished blow drying my hair and putting on my make up when Carter came into my room and said, “Mom, Zach’s acting really weird.” They had been playing video games downstairs and all of a sudden Zach became disoriented and confused. He started slurring his speech and I felt terror coursing through my body. Something was horribly wrong. He had trouble getting dressed because he couldn’t co-ordinate his limbs to do what he wanted them to do. He couldn’t even get his flip-flops on. Surges of panic overtook me, wave upon wave of fear flashed through my body as memories of Jay’s diagnosis exploded in my mind. God, please don’t let this happen again. I can’t do this twice. Zach screamed in agony in the waiting room of the ER, his eyes wild with fear. Nobody would be sending us home today. Waves of hysteria pushed against me. They admitted Zach right away and by that time, he wasn’t making any sense at all. He couldn’t speak properly, his words were slurred and he seemed frantically confused. The doctor examining him acted frustrated with Zach’s inability to comprehend or tell him the origin of pain. Zach stared at him, mumbling incomprehensible words. The doctor ordered a CT scan and gave him a shot of something to calm him down. Everything was in agonizing slow motion as they placed him into the CT scanner. My world stopped. Dread overwhelmed me, as I became painfully aware that my life forever changed at that moment. I had the identical feeling seven years earlier when Jay was admitted to the Port McNeil hospital with chest pain. He had been screaming all night long in unbearable pain and drove to the Port McNeil hospital the next morning. He phoned me later in the day to say he had been admitted for tests. Doctors discovered that he had a plural effusion (liquid on his lungs). Nurses assured me that it was probably an infection and not likely to be anything serious. His youth and health made him an unlikely candidate for cancer. I knew differently. Somehow, I just knew. As Zach went into the CT scanner, an all too familiar darkness descended on me. Worse case scenarios flooded my mind as we waited for the doctor’s report. Zach slept peacefully and I was so thankful he wasn’t in misery for the time being. I had been trying to get in touch with Doug throughout the day, but he and Carter had planned a day together for some one on one time. I desperately needed to reach him, but couldn’t. As the doctor pulled back the curtain, I looked at his face and could see “the look” in his eyes —he was about to deliver bad news. He said, “I’m sorry, we weren’t expecting this. Your son has a mass in his brain that is the size of an orange. We are going to need to intubate him and fly him right away to Children’s Hospital in Vancouver.” What I was hearing was too much to take in. My sweet Zach, so innocent, so young, so vibrant lay in front of me as I tried to absorb what I was hearing. As a little boy, I used to rock him and read “Love You Forever”2 by Robert Munch. As he lay in my arms, I would memorize his features and how he felt in my arms. I treasured that time of being able to keep him safe from harm. For some reason, I felt like I may not have him forever. Now as the news settled, I felt helpless to save my baby. There is no feeling that can ever describe the physical and emotional pain of hearing news that crushes every dream you’ve ever had. All hope ceases and all that remains is unyielding pain. Doctors, anesthetists and nurses prepared Zach for transport. Tubes were coming from every direction, IV poles were attached, and phone calls were made to Vancouver to prepare for his arrival. People frantically worked to get him ready to go. I had finally gotten a hold of Doug and he was driving the car and meeting us in Vancouver. The medical team transported Zach and I out to the plane. All the way to Vancouver, I listened to him breathing in and out, feeling like I wasn’t fully connected with what was happening. It felt surreal and numb and horrifically painful all at the same time. It felt like there was a gaping wound in my body and all the life was seeping out. As soon as we arrived at Children’s Hospital, Zach was rushed in to have an MRI. The surgeon, Dr. Cochrane, came in shortly with the scan and showed us the mass on his brain. He was hopeful it may be something other than a tumor, but he needed to do a craniotomy to be sure. A craniotomy involves the surgical removal of part of the bone from the skull to expose the brain. Tools are used to remove the section of the bone called the bone flap. The bone flap is temporarily removed, then replaced after the brain surgery has been performed. The thought of this happening to my boy terrified me. Ryan and Kirsten arrived with care packages; we updated them on what was happening and waves of emotions washed over all of us: fear of the unknown, dread about tomorrow and helplessness at not being able to change anything. Thinking back, I’m not sure why we didn’t huddle together and pray--maybe we were too weary or too shocked or too sad to pray. For me, I think the shock had taken over any rational thinking. I wrestled just to draw a breath. Having Ryan and Kirsten there reassured us. Even though the gravity of the situation trumped small emotions like reassurance, I still felt lifted up by them and thankful they were standing in the hurt alongside us. I wished Carter could be with us—I missed him and I desperately, protectively wanted him near me. What must his little heart be going though back home? I felt disconnected from him and it troubled me. He should be here. I also wanted my mom. She stayed back in Kamloops to look after Carter, but I longed for her comfort. We slept on the floor of the tiny waiting room that night, and strangely we actually slept. When I awoke in the morning, I was uneasy and disoriented. A terrible ache rushed to my heart and I remember where we are and why we are in this strange room; fear catches in my throat, it’s hard to breathe. I wonder how many other families have slept in this room waiting to hear news about their child? The word tumor is pounding like an endless drumbeat in my head; it’s relentless and obsessive. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. God, make it go away. Why does he have this? I gave him healthy food. I’ve taken good care of him. Why Zach? The cloud around me grows and consumes me; it’s heavy and dark and suffocating and I can’t escape. Dr. Cochrane came in early in the morning to tell us that it was a tumor, but we’d have to wait to find out about the type and the prognosis. All of a sudden, I felt like I had to get to Zach immediately, like I had to rescue him out of a burning building. I didn’t want him to feel scared and alone. We were allowed to go in and visit him and what I saw when I got into the ICU room broke my heart in a way I thought impossible. He looked so helpless and alone. His head was bandaged and his eyes were swollen. He still looked like Zach, but not the Zach I knew: he looked so weary and so wounded. We waited anxiously by his bed for him to wake up. I wouldn’t leave his side even for a small break because I couldn’t handle the thought of him waking up with strange faces and machines, webs of intravenous lines and strangers all around him. The room was cold and mechanical; each bed had a critically ill child surrounded by machines and devices. Scores of hospital staff monitored each child’s care around the clock, checking vitals and administering pain medication. As I looked around, I wondered if their bad news was as bad as ours. I don’t remember praying. I felt too numb to pray and really, what was the point? God felt like a stone statue, incapable or unwilling to help us when we needed it most. Being steeped in pain makes it impossible to see anything else but the dark. Never in my life had God seemed so puny, powerless and distant. When Zach awoke, his beautiful brown eyes had fear etched in them. Usually his eyes danced with life, full of imagination, wonder and laughter. The eyes staring back at me made me feel like someone had taken a dagger and jabbed it straight into my heart. He had no idea where he was or what had happened to him. I reassured him that he was OK and that he’d had an operation to get rid of the pain he’d been having in his head. He looked so small and vulnerable. He quickly fell back asleep with his hand tucked under his cheek, just like he did as a baby. I savored watching him and being with him. I didn’t want to leave him for a second. Anger, sadness, rage, confusion and anxiety flooded and took over every available space in my body. I felt locked in the worst onslaught of evil I’ve ever experienced. Cancer was ravaging my boy and I felt helpless to do anything about it. God felt worse than a bully. He felt like the one who watches bullying and does nothing to intervene. The great writer C.S Lewis, during his night season of grief says “go to [God] when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting, and double bolting on the other side. After that, silence. You may as well turn away. The longer you wait, the more emphatic the silence will become. There are no lights in the windows. It might be an empty house. Was it ever inhabited? It seems so once.”3 The horrible feeling of betrayal sets in. The Jesus in the bible was moved with compassion. His heart broke when He saw people in desperate need. He especially had compassion for children, so why was my boy being passed by? Jesus’ empathy lead him to heal the sick, to comfort those who mourn and to help the helpless, so where was he? I’m so lost. My child has cancer, my husband might have cancer, my children’s father died of cancer and God doesn’t care. Hope vanishes and light ceases to exist.

Zach's slideshow from his memorial service