It’s now over six weeks since Ben was hospitalised. In so many ways, he seems to have plateaued with his progress over this last seven days. He had a few hours with us at home on Saturday, but the day before he had a seizure whilst on a treadmill with the physiotherapist, one from which he ‘self-recovered’ after some time. But it shook him – limbs were hurting, with continual shakes and he needed a wheelchair to return from the dining room. Earlier in the week on Tuesday, just before I arrived to visit him, he felt a seizure coming on and managed to contain it himself.We’re understandably disappointed and feel Ben’s confidence in himself is slipping.
Epilepsy is still at the top of the list as a possible diagnosis, although there’s still talk of something else with it. The trouble is, we know so little about it all and perhaps we need to understand that it’ll take time for the medication to be correctly identified and adjusted so as to suit his needs.
Meanwhile I had my latest CT scan on Friday and the results come next week when we visit my oncologist. At this visit, the expected news is that my tumour has reacted angrily to the assault launched against it by my ipilimumab-super-charged immune system. But it’s next month’s scan that’ll provide the crucial state of play….whether the tumour has remained at status quo, enlarged or is showing signs of shrinkage. That’ll then help us make decisions as to the times ahead, conversations that Catherine, I and the family have been having for the last few months.
It’s strange to catch myself describing this growth in my chest as ‘my tumour’ rather than ‘the tumour’. It’s an odd thing (and I guess some might find hard to understand) particularly when I say I’ve almost befriended it. Its arrival has brought so much into my life I could have never expected. On one level, because it’s considered a terminal diagnosis, I’ve never been offered so many things ranging from free prescriptions, parking etc – I can now even get over the Severn Bridge into Wales for nothing – but on a deeper level, there’s been such an outpouring of love, friendship, care, encouraging words, prayer and practical help, we feel so upheld. But even more precious have been the intimate encounters with God I’ve experienced as I’ve stood, sat, knelt or lain prostrate in worship alone or with others. It’s as the old hymn puts it,
O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be.
This weekend, singing When I Survey the Wondrous Cross at church brought tears running down my cheeks – tears of wonder and joy. I’ve had simple opportunities to sit and read the scriptures and pray, as I’ve also had time also to think, to blog, to write letters to precious ones, so often experiencing that fresh and real touch of the Holy Spirit as I do so. Intimacy and eternity. I said to a friend some weeks ago that if Father was going to take me home, I wanted the transition from this life to the glorious one that scripture promises Christ has prepared for me, not to be a massive graunching of gears and huge surprises, but more a seamless transition into His amazing eternity. What I understand and experience of Him in this life will of course never be as good as when I see Him face to face, because it’ll always be limited by my mortality…it’s as Paul says in 1 Corinthians 13:12 “For now we see in a mirror dimly” or “through a glass darkly”. But even with that limiter, what we can experience and know now can be life-changing and times I’ve had with Father, through the direct access given by the Son, lifted by the power of the Holy Spirit, have nonetheless been rich. I was deeply encouraged as I read this week from Isaiah 30 words found in the middle of a warning to God’s people, but words which promise something real…
“In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength’ (v15)
‘Yes’, I quietly agreed. And then I think of those promise-packed words describing life after the Christian believer has been bodily raised at Christ’s return, from the book of Job, words made more famous by Handel in his Messiah,
I know that my redeemer lives,
and that in the end he will stand on the earth.
And after my skin has been destroyed,
yet in my flesh I will see God (Job 19:25-26)
But also because of this tumour – no, because of Christ who indeed lives – I’ve had so many unexpected opportunities to share with others the reason for the hope that’s within me. It’s like one beggar showing another beggar where to find bread. Bread that lasts. The Bread of Life. Jesus himself. There’s no greater joy than knowing Christ and sharing Him.
As Dabi, Catherine and I, with my ever-loving parents-in-law, gathered with Ben late last week on Dabi’s birthday, we all prayed together as we read Psalm 40…
As an old friend of mine from North Devon used to say regularly after a problem was identified, “But God”. He is able to do immeasurably more than we can ask, hope or imagine.