Hospital numero...

7:11 pm

I'm sitting outside the reception of the resort we're staying at.
And I'm terrified.
Sheldon was just taken to hospital in an ambulance.
I feel numb.
It's probably nothing.
It's probably just dehydration and fatigue.
It's probably all going to be fine.
But I'm terrified.
I'm waiting for a friend of my sister. She lives locally and its rushing over to watch the boys for me while I go to the hospital.
It's probably nothing.
But this is a terrible terrible feeling.

11:22 pm

Another hospital chair.
I'm good at finding the warm blankets to wrap around my shoulders (emergency is freezing)
I'm an old hand at monitoring the BP and heart rate... the beeps are no longer a bother.
They are just there.
I know when to talk and ask questions and when to slip out in search of a cup of tea in a polystyrene cup.

This is nothing new.
It's just.. another hospital.
We're at the Gold Coast university hospital tonight.
It's brand new.
And yet it's exactly like any other hospital I've sat and paced and waited in.

There is one glaring difference.
The doctors and nurses are effected by the one word that needed to be uttered. Terminal.
That changes things.
The care is softer.
They move us to a quiet, warm room in the acute section of emergency. The kind doctor prefaces his conversations with a sincere reassurance that he will listen to our wishes.

X rays and blood tests.
Two bags of fluid.
His heart rate is fine as long as he lays down.
As soon as he stands it sky rockets.

The doctor thinks it might be the start of an infection.
He tip toes around the next part.
He thinks its wise to call the holiday done for now and get Sheldon on a plane.
He wants us to say it.
So I do.
I say that being admitted into the Gold Coast hospital is not a part of our palliative care plan.
I say that we need to get Sheldon home. To rest and kick any infection that might be lurking.
I say this and I hear the words. The calm,  detached way they roll of my tongue.
The doctors nods and smiles kindly. Exactly,  he says.
Go home.

7:56 am Tuesday

The weather has changed.
Grey skies and a subtle chill in the air.
It's ridiculous I know, but this weather shift makes the process of packing up and heading home easier.
Our beach days have been the perfect remedy for what ails us. We have reveled in the moments of being here. Of being able to push back the burdens and to live like cancer isn't around. The unwanted holiday guest.
Last night the kind doctor smiled as he told us to just take this one day at a time.
My mum used to sing a song.
You might have heard it. It's an oldie.

"One day at a time sweet Jesus. That's all I'm asking of you.
Give me the strength to do everyday what I have to do.
Yesterday's gone sweet Jesus and tomorrow may never be mine.
So for my sake
Teach me to take
One day at a time"

We haven't given up on our next holiday plans.
We'll just head home for now.
To rest.
To let Sheldon have his lounge chair and the Foxtel remote.
To hit any possible infection with antibiotics.
And after we take each day at a time I'm sure one day will be the start of the next great holiday adventure.

One day.

Overwhelmed

I am overwhelmed.
Not with grief or worry.
Not with concern or doubt.
No.
I am overwhelmed
...with kindness.

The kindness of people.
That is what I see.
And hear.

For your kindness to us..
The way your words and messages make us feel utterly surrounded and held.
We are so thankful.

For the acts of kindness..
From far corners of the country we have had beautiful offers of a warm bed and a peaceful place to just be together.
Our little tribe.
Our little tribe feels connected and loved.

Yesterday we went to a shopping centre on the way to the Gold Coast. The boys and their cousin were purchasing something.  We were standing at the counter and the lady serving us said to the boys "No school today boys? "
I looked to the boys and felt myself tense,  ready to jump in and change the topic of conversation.
Krystopher looks at the women and says, "Our dads got terminal cancer. We are just spending time together."
Two sentences.
Honest.  Simple.
I looked at the women and she glanced up at me for a moment.. just a flicker of being momentarily taken aback.
And then she carried on that conversation.. with kindness. I stood back and listened.
Kindness.

People have offered what they can to make this load more bearable.
Pictures that will matter so much.
Trips to theme parks.
Messages of support and love.
Prayers.
The kindness of a prayer.

One day I hope to speak to you all.
To even just give you a hug.
And you'll know why.
It is because you have been so very very kind in the midst of some of our dark days.

Thank you.

He's here.

I didn't want to do it.

Didn't want to sit in the doctors room, hearing all about the scenarios that might happen at the end.

I lingered outside.

I told Sheldon to head in..I'd be right there.

I went next door and ordered a coffee. 

The barista asked me in a good natured way how my day was.

I heard myself answering.. "Oh..ummm. Well. We have to go talk to our doctor about what happens at the end. My husband.. He's apparently terminal."

I sounded so normal.

So matter of fact.

The look on that poor guys face.

This is not normal.

We left that appointment with raw hearts. So many words I didn't want to hear.

We drove home.

To our sons. 

To pack the car for our holiday. 

I keep thinking about this knowing and planning that we are faced with. It wrestles and rages with the hoping and great faith that I hold. 

Can the act of responsible planning and the realm of great faith coexist? 

Can we talk about a palliative plan and believe for the miraculous in the same breath? 

Maybe. 

I don't know much these days. 

I know tears and a gut wrenching desperation for this to be nothing but a bad dream..

I know I am strong and weak in equal measure. 

I know we have a mandate to live these moments well. To find the smiles and laughs in the midst of the immense sadness. 

I don't know if knowing about the coming goodbye is great.

But not knowing is not that great either. I find myself wondering what I could have said to my mum if I had known that goodbye was coming. 

If we knew the last cup of tea or the last hug was the last, would it have been a sweeter cup? A longer, more precious hug?

No. Don't wait to know- Linger today when you grab your darling in a hug.

Make each catch up cup of tea count.

Jump on that plane.

Don't wait.

Don't wait until you know.

So. 

We are on our holiday. 

We are together. 

We taught the boys the wonder of room service. 

We are taking each moment.

I find myself watching him. Looking for signs of pain or fatigue.  They're there.

He's throwing everything he has.. Every ounce of faith and practicality that he has at this.

He is working to get his body to a reasonable pH level. Just to bring his body to optimal fighting status.

He is drinking reishi mushroom tea. It helps build immunity.

He is taking the "clutching at straws" medication- it makes him so very tired. It's also made him lose his voice.. He has a scratchy whisper thing happening. But he takes the tablets.

He sleeps when he's tired.

He cries when the weight is too much.

He laughs at stupid Facebook videos.

He's here.

He's fighting.

That's all I need. 

This hope.

I've started this post at least a dozen times now. Writing...pausing...backspacing.
I want to be real and honest.
I want to be authentic to my faith and to my fear.
I want.. well, I want to throw a tantrum.
And not just a little dummy-spit. No. A gigantic tantrum of epic proportions.
I want to be angry at everything and everyone.
I want to scream at...something.

More backspacing just occurred.

I don't want you to read any of these words I write and be under any illusion that I'm serenely smiling a grace-filled grin of acceptance as we walk this out.
I mean...sure. I know the grace-filled moments. I actually know them well. But I'm still hurting through them.

Sheldon keeps telling me that it's one of the best part of us- that human part that longs to stay. That longs for our people to stay.
It's the part of us where hope lives.
I've been thinking a lot about hope the past few days.
So instead of me telling you all about how I just wanna smash some plates or something, let's talk about hope.


Hope is crazy.
I find faith way easier.
Faith is an unchangeable declaration that is grounded in the absolutes of a Creator God.
Faith is declaring the fact of His sovereignty, unchanged by situation.
Faith is seeing what is not yet and calling it as if it was already.
Yes.. I find faith easier.
Because hope..
Well. Hope is being right there, knee deep in the mire of misery and finding a calm assurance that all is not actually lost.
Hope
.
Hope is being up to your neck in the hurricane..
Hope is being swamped beneath the storm surge..
Hope is being tossed by the storm of cancer and still... even then.. Especially then... reaching out with both hands and grabbing hold of that all is not actually lost or over...
Being anchored to a promise that, strange as it sounds, makes this all easier.

Sheldon has taught me how to hope.
In the most practical and gentle of ways.
He has cried..alot. We both have these past few days.
And in the overwhelming grief of talking about the possibility of his leaving, I hear hope.
Hope.
Hope that there is never going to be a millisecond in this journey where we will be left alone.
Hope that a miracle is possible and on it's way.
Hope that if the miracle is eternity soon, then there's a big picture and he's played his part really well.
He teaches me everyday that his hope has never been dependant on an outcome, but rather tied to a promise. One promise.
And the promise isn't "You will never get cancer and you will live to be 103."
And the promise isn't "Do x,y and z...Viola! You have your miracle!"
No.
The promise is: "I (God, the immoveable, the eternal and the giver of breath) will never (as in not for one moment, be it in the good times, the bad times, on either side of eternity) leave you nor forsake you."
That. That right there is what my brave husband has tied himself to. The storm is raging. It's tough going. And when we talk about the unthinkable and the too sad... this is the hope that I hear. This is the anchor that keeps him.

The hope that if he lives or if he dies, he is held by God.

You might not believe that God exists.
That's for you to figure out- but know this.

There is something profoundly beautiful and hopeful in knowing that, regardless of the outcome, we are held. We are purchased with a price.
We are His.

Dear friends. .

Dear friends,
Yesterday we heard back from our oncology team.
We are sitting here now, waiting in the school carpark.
Waiting to pick up our sons and tell them.
Tell them that dad won't be going to Sydney for an operation. Not this time.
Tell them that there doesn't seem to be any other option in chemotherapy world that might fight back the cancer.
Tell them that we are going on a family holiday starting next weekend.
Tell them.. because they need to know.
They need to know that when our kind-hearted oncologist called yesterday, he said words we didn't want to hear.
He said that options have been exhausted and his advice is to "enjoy the time you have left. "
Those words.

And so we are here.. I'm watching my sons dance and jump across the pedestrian crossing (they can't seem to just simply walk around ).
They are all talking and clamouring for their dad's attention as they juggle school bags and hats..
And my heart is about to burst wide open.
I don't want to do this.
But it is our privilege to parent these outstanding sons. And today parenting looks like this.
It looks like a heart broken.

Enjoy your time.
The hours and the weeks.
The months and the years.
Enjoy them with a ferocious thankfulness.

We have been given a number.
Months.
Just a few.

With wide eyed faith we run into these next days.
Wide eyed faith means we hear the report and we call out for our miracle.

Let me tell you about miracles.
We have three.
We weren't supposed to have children. Medically improbable.

And here we are.
About to tell our improbable miracles what we face and what we need.

A miracle.