Today’s Gospel at our Church was the story of Jesus healing the blind man—this story always grossed me out a little (spit and mud? Ew), but at the same time moved me, especially once I had a child who was going blind day by day in front of me. As the deacon spoke during his homily today, my mind wandered back to when G’s vision was failing at a rapid pace. Back then, if Jesus had offered some spit and mud for G’s eyes, we would have added that to the chemo regimen and showed the Pharisees some Jersey style onco-mom attitude if they had a problem with G getting healed on the Sabbath.
You wanna piece of ME?
Obviously, that did not happen.
But still—G’s vision improved. We aren’t sure why. Anecdotally, I think it had to do with changing chemos. Her tumors never got smaller after that first chemo fail, or the second chemo fail, or the third chemo stability/bone marrow burn out. But her vision improved.
We gave BACK the Brailler.
A Brailler. G used to cheat and look at the dots to read things.
The only time I ever celebrated cheating. ;)
That was a miracle.
It wasn’t the miracle we prayed for. It wasn’t a clear cut miracle of complete healing or woohoo. But the day G told me she could see stars… “ you know, those tiny white things!”…that was a miracle.
She still has no peripheral vision in any direction. Her left eye still is weak (to her sense, she can’t see out of it, but she actually can). Within a narrow field of her right eye, she is correctable to 20/30. That is a miracle, based on the “counting fingers” report of 2004.
Making peace with miracles remixed is an ongoing work. We’ve had other Miracle Remix kinds of days—March of ’06, when we found out the weird tumor thing G had going on after 18 months of chemo had NOT become stage four gliomatosis cerebri (a game changer, prognosis wise). We got to restart chemo #3. That was a miracle. The next 6 months AFTER that miracle day were brutal (Transfusionfest 2006, neutropenia-induced hospitalization, allergy to one of the chemo drugs), but it WAS a miracle.
My girls, with neurosurgeon Dr. Storm (the only guy
allowed in G's brain) and Research
genius Dr. Resnick(and his daughter), at Camp Sunshine.
Miracle Monday, 2012 – the day we found out the Avastin/Irinotecan/Temodar mix had dramatically reduced the tumor mass that had explosive growth while G was on the clinical trial. I literally almost unraveled that day. That was a LEGIT miracle, we had never seen that kind of shrinkage EVER. We got to do nearly another year of that chemo, and it kept working (and has continued, after the fact to keep G’s tumors stable). Miracles.
Scientific progress—miraculous. Inspired. Fought for. I will take any kind of miracle that comes, even if it is ultimately in IV form in a day hospital, or in the skilled hands of a neurosurgeon.
For me, one miracle--being able to talk to God again without using colorful language. And I don't mean red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple. Or chartreuse. THAT was a different kind of healing miracle. Not the one I prayed for, but a gift that helped me keep on going in the face of extreme medical yikes back in '05 and '06.
yeah, not so much. I had no issue with
Jesus, just God. This is why I don't teach theology.
I am grateful.
Not going to lie, I would be totally cool with the complete healing kind of miracle. That just isn’t the kind we are going to get, and I have made peace with that, really.
But I do wonder, some days, if I am doing enough with the miracle of time we have been given. Having more time is truly the greatest miracle of all.
As I type this, G is pondering what classes she should take at Community College (“Mom, what is “Aperture in Photography?”).
Time is the greatest miracle.
I don’t want to waste it.