Grace.featured
“I can’t keep doing this,” I moan. By the third round of chemo, this has become a familiar refrain on the last day of infusions.
The equally familiar response follows, gentle but firm, “right now, the only thing you need to do is sit up. Then I’ll help you out of bed and to the car. This round is almost over. You’re almost done with what you need to do for today.”
I stumble to the car, leaning heavily on Jeff. I’m off to tumble into an infusion chair, surrounded by a flurry of kind, concerned nurses with fluids and medication and blankets and heating pads and cool washcloths doing everything they can to ease my sickness.
I leave two hours later, still weak and dizzy, but already on the way to recovery, in whatever degree and form that will take between this treatment and my next.
Weeks before my diagnosis, I was convinced my pain must be short-term. I told Jeff I was glad I didn’t suffer from chronic sickness or pain because I didn’t think I could carry that cross with grace. I easily could have added being on longterm, strong medications to the list of situations I would not manage well.
But here I am. With a chronic illness, on several of the strongest medications available, which are creating chronic sickness. This cross can easily overwhelm me to the point of seeming unbearable.
In those moments, I remember my husband’s wisdom. The cross I’ve been asked to carry is not everything at once. It’s not years of biweekly chemo treatments all at once; it’s this day of treatment. It’s not the uncertainty of how long I’ll be able to raise my kids and love my husband; it’s the opportunity to raise them and love them well on this day.
Shifting my focus to only what is being asked of me in this moment, on this day gives me the courage to take one step and then another. And one day at a time, the despair of not being able to make it through my first treatment has turned into three completed treatments.
Perhaps even more than the physical toll of chemo, I have struggled with the complete breakdown of my pride. Vulnerability, weakness, and accepting help are no longer choices I am able to make. They are my daily reality. And my stubborn, perfectionist self often wants to scream in frustration at the loss of feeling like I’m in control. And sometimes I do scream. And whine. And complain.
But most of the time, just as I’m about to fall into a pit of self pity, another meal arrives. My mom shows up for the hundredth day in a row to cook, clean, and comfort all of us. My siblings take time off of work and lose income to quarantine so they can see us and support us. Jeff’s parents buy a house nearby. A card arrives from our beautiful family in Ireland letting us know they are praying and have offered a mass for us. A care package arrives from my sweet sister-in-law in Florida, full of gifts she has collected to bring me comfort.
One friend knits a prayer shawl for me. Another arranges a rosary prayer chain, and the daily spaces fill up for months. Another weaves our family’s names and intercession for my healing into commissioned artwork she paints in a church, ensuring that we will always be included in the prayers said there.
My college friends arrange a virtual class on the artwork of the Sistine Chapel taught by a classmate who is an elite tour guide in Rome. One of my dearest friends fields all of my desperate, agonized texts with patience and love and immediately finds me the perfect intercessor, Servant of God Chiara Petrillo, and a shirt with her image to wear on chemo days. I receive books and letters and poetry to make sure I never feel alone. Friends who don’t pray let me know that they are praying for me.
After being two of the only people to never participate in a Zoom call, our friends from college and high school, undoubtedly Zoom weary themselves, schedule regular check ins. Jeff laughs more than he has in months. My high school friends flood our group Facebook page with photos to lift my spirits and my messages with songs and prayers of support.
A kind message from a follower I’ve never met pops up letting me know that my writing and our adventures gave them the courage to travel as a family and they are holding us close. Another follower sends me a sweet card full of hope and a candle from el Camino de Santiago that she has been saving eight years for a miracle. My doctor sends me a rosary from Lourdes that she received as a gift and felt called to give to me.
We receive relics of saints and Lourdes water and holy oils and gift cards for meals and persistent reminders of offers to do laundry and run errands and clean. People and groups all over the country offer prayers for my healing and for our family. Our deacon finds a priest to say private masses for our family.
Our spiritual and physical needs are cared for almost before we realize they exist.
And instead of screams of self pity, I am left with tears of overwhelming gratitude that even though I was right in my self analysis that I am not able to bear this gracefully on my own, I am not asked to do it alone. With a reminder of what a gift it is to be deeply loved. To be genuinely cared for. To be seen in all my weakness and still found worthy of mercy and grace.
