2-15-06 Update

My counts have been sluggish in their rebound, and it’s been a long time down, but I’ve somehow managed to stay out of the hospital. This last weekend was a bit of a bear. I got a platelet transfusion going into it. I needed a hemoglobin transfusion as well, but needed the one more than the other, so I went until this Tuesday without all those make-me-happy, energy-giving red-blood cells.

I’ve been a bit nauseous on top the fatigue. I hate hanging nausea. I like that it’s not so bad that it makes me feel like throwing up, but it’s a bummer not to feel much like eating. On top of that yucky whatever-it-is that won’t go away.

All the consequential bed rest has been hard on my back. It’s hurting the most consistently it has in months. Persistent spasms and the occasional conversation-stopping pain. I just haven’t had the energy or the strength to keep moving like I must to keep the atrophy from progressing. Soon enough, I hope.

Speaking of atrophy, it’s very much a reality for me in the physical sense – the consistent weight loss and the perpetual bed rest of this last year has created the opportunity for my muscles to shrink up tight. I’ve mentioned many times how it’s going to take some time and some intentional training to reclaim what strength I once had. The same is true with my guitar skills and my voice. I haven’t used either much this last year, and I can feel the weakness – the slow fingers, the limited range.

Oddly, I feel the atrophy is a reality for me in another sense: mentally and socially – the interaction I’ve had with people in the last year has been limited. Very specific circles: doctors, nurses, other patients, family, and close friends. After so much time in solitude and often in a state of suffering, I feel my mental muscles in my interaction with other people have shrunk up a bit, too – if that can happen. I sense the need to be in prayer about this as I resurface in ministry and life in general.

Anyhow, Aedan’s sick now. He gets his coughs so badly. We’re hoping he and I both heal up nicely by the weekend. Jen & I have plans of heading to the Rochester L’Abri Fellowship conference Friday and Saturday. It’s a getaway of sorts for the both of us, and one we’ve enjoyed for years.

The good news, of course, is not to be forgotten. The cancer is gone and I’m done with the hardest chemo. Once the chemo works its way out of my system and I begin to rebound from this crash, I should continue to climb and feel better from day to day. My friend Jessica has been in and out of the hospital a bunch this last week, and for whatever reason, I’ve been spared this time around. She is recovering, and the bug she’s had has been identified and targeted with some pretty effective antibiotics.

It’s just striking, once again, how different I can feel from month to month. And how different the realities can be. January was a good month, and one for which I’m incredibly thankful, but it was as month on steroids, too. I imagine life without chemo and all these other medications, and I eagerly long for the day my emotions and physical wellbeing aren’t being toyed with by concoctions of poison lingering in my body, or a barrage of physical side effects poking at my sanity. It’s also funny how what’s normal can be so hard to remember. I have a hard time imagining what it’ll be like when this is really over – in spite of the fact that it’s rather close. I can’t imagine what life is like for those who suffer for so much longer than this. Normal as it once was must just disappear.

We’ve got a new website in the making. Expect to see it unveiled sometime next week. It’ll be the same content with some few extra bells and whistles. Simpler navigation. Music. We’re pretty excited about it.

Thank you for your prayers. I’m beginning to ramble now (or did I start much sooner?) and I should bed down for the evening. Or at least make sure I have a good snack before I do.

Living in the light at the end of the tunnel,

Still His,

Jeremy

2-6-06 Update

Still His, because of Him,

Jeremy

1-24-06 Update

I’m scheduled to hit the hospital today. They’ve got a bed reserved for me and everything. This is my last run in Round IV. When I’m through with my stay they pull the tubes out of my chest, send me home for another week of chemo shots, then give me a month or more before we begin maintenance therapy – which will be a walk in the park compared with what they’ve done to me this past year.

The light at the end of this tunnel is so bright now I’m squinting.

It will be a nice reprieve. I came down with a fever Thursday night. Spent some time in the ER on Friday. Was sent home after three hours without having done the proper tests. I have things I could say about that, but this isn’t the forum for bad-mouthing the fine people our insurance companies pay so much money to take care of us. In any case, the fevers got worse into the weekend – at one point near 103 on Tylenol. Headaches, body aches, night sweats, loss of appetite, etc… but it seems to have passed.

I did go into see my doctor yesterday – on his orders – and we ran all the proper blood cultures and x-rays. He saw me and said if the cultures didn’t turn up with anything – and so long as my fevers stayed below 100F and I felt alright today – that we’d go ahead with things as planned. I asked him what “alright” was in this case. He said a headache, mild fatigue, and a little bit of nausea every now and then wouldn’t dissuade him.

So that’s where we are today. Jen will drop me off at Regions around 11 o’clock this morning, and if there’s not another update posted by 10 tonight, it means they’ve got me in a bed on 8East, pumped full of chemo and well on my way to being done with all this junk.

But praise God, in Christ, that they’ll be sending me home cancer-free and more ready and able to pursue health for the sake of His kingdom and His glory than ever before!

And in a poetic stroke of providence it just so happens that a Dr. Jerome Siy is the doc on duty at 8East this week – starting tomorrow. His was the first white coat Jen and I saw upon arriving at Regions eight months ago. And what a friend and brother he has become!

So pray with us that I could run this final lap well – head high and not limping. I’m going into this a bit sub par – the fevers took some meat off my bones, and wore me out – but we know it’s not my strength that matters as much anyhow. We have found (again) that it is the mighty hand of God that holds our hearts over the deep waters. And though dark and scary, cold and wet as it may sometimes be, it is as safe as the sunshine if we are His.

And His we are.

More to come on the other side…

Grateful still,
Jeremy

PS: Prior to the fevers, we had a GREAT week! And Saturday was Jen’s birthday. Mike and Lisa drove up from Zumbrota and helped make the day fun and special.

PPS: The chemo to come slows down the GI. Please pray for me accordingly. Gracias.

PPPS: My friend Jessica started her last pass (the same as mine) on 8East yesterday. It looks like we’ll get to finish this thing together! Pray for her, too. (Go to www.caringbridge.org, link to the visit page, and type in Jessica Lutz to read her story.)
 

1-16-06 Update

What an incredible week! I haven’t slept much. For the last ten nights, with the exception of two, I’ve slept little more than 2 to 3 hours per bedtime. No naps during the day, just a jazzed-up version of me; like a 14 year-old boy on a one-week all-nighter sustained daily by gallons of Mountain Dew. Only the sustenance in my case came from a steroid I was taking with the chemo. But that was for my body – we know what hard-pressed fatigue can do to a mind – way down deep, the Spirit of God’s been uplifting my heart.

I began tapering off the steroid late last week, finishing my last dose Sunday.  It’s a crazy experience, really. Like an emotional and mental mid-western prairie thunderboomer – fun to watch from a distance, but really crazy underneath. These next couple of days should see some return to normalcy, if not a brief afternoon nap or two. I’ve got this week off to recover my white blood counts, which have been battered quite a bunch by these latest treatments. But aside from mouth sores and things of that sort, we haven’t seen any infections.

There really have been rich moments amidst the frantic physical and mental activity spawned by the medications. My long nights awake in bed (or at the keyboard) have been sweet. Even during the day, in the midst of conversations I’ve had with friends (or in some cases, total strangers) I’ve found myself a bit wet around the eyes sharing or discovering how GOOD God has been to Jen & I this last year.

Good? Did I forget? A little sunshine in the head maybe? Delusional? Selective memory?

No, I remember. I remember well enough never to want to do it again, nor would I, in my most carnal state, wish the same experience on anyone in the world.

But I’ve been processing the bits and pieces of the whole lately. The experience itself is too much to package nicely, and I don’t intend to ever oversimplify the horrors of suffering or the work of God in the midst of it. But there’ve been moments, and conversations, that have helped make clearer to me what was going on in the long dark of Moriah.

Most specifically this last weekend, as I chatted with several close friends of mine out at the Association Retreat Center (WI), gathered there for a youth worker’s retreat. (I loved the drive between here and there so much I locked my keys in my car Saturday afternoon so I could drive back and forth from Bloomington again for a spare).

There was a day in the middle of October – I’ve written of it before – that I’ll remember as the darkest day of my soul. Two weeks of treatment – spinal taps, injections, pills, IVs – had left me for dead. I was so incredibly tired and sick that every day the darkness hung about me like a cloak of death, though the autumn weather beyond our walls was the finest we’d had in years. I would slowly step around the house like a zombie, lips and legs quivering, stomach reeling, with a backache and a heavy, heavy heart. Those two weeks were to be the first of five of the same. I couldn’t even console myself with the thought of being “halfway through.”

It was the long day and night before I was to go in for the top of week 3. My communion with God the previous week had included listening to a few messages on suffering and praying grateful prayers in response to the truths made plain. But mostly, what I had been saying to Him for days on end was just “Would you quit this, God? I can’t take it anymore!” Clenched fists and jaw and all.

To contrast that attitude with the one in which I welcomed the diagnosis in May is to start seeing why my heart had become so heavy. I had thought myself willing to go through whatever pains God would see fit to lead me through, knowing He intended good to come of it, and that His ways of doing things really were the best, especially for those who believe. (Ever notice psalm 23’s “paths of righteousness” lead INTO and “through the valley of the shadow of death?”)

Now here I was in October telling God that if He wanted me to go further, if He wanted me to go deeper in – to take another week of chemo and submit my body to the smashing once again – that I wasn’t going to do it. (I’ve told the details of this story elsewhere. Here I only wish to lift the curtain on what was going on in my heart.)

In those moments, I began to wonder what that meant for my God and me. Was my devotion so fickle? Was my faith so weak? Was my love so fair-weathered? If the Shepherd leads on, and the sheep refuses to follow, does that sheep still belong to its Shepherd?

I discovered in those moments that I didn’t love God as deeply as I thought I did. I saw my devotion to Yahweh for the shriveled, leprous hands they were, and my heart for Him as the pitiful mess it was. And with clenched fists and jaw and all, I asked the question, now what?

“Am I still yours, Abba?”

The answer I got I’ll give with an image, rather than a word. But being that image exists only in my imagination I must first give you words:

Our son Eli is a month old now. He sleeps well most of the time – often on top of the covers between Jen and I in our bed. One night recently he woke startled and upset. He was screaming scared, eyes closed tight so as not to see the darkness that really was around him, clumsy little arms flailing about in front his face. I leaned into him, put my face next to his, where my breath could mingle with his own. His flailing hands caught my cheek, and he calmed instantly.

In my darkest moments, I too closed my eyes tight. I too flailed the arms of my heart about in front of my screaming soul, grasping in the spiritual for something solid to hold on to. Something steady like an anchor, or a hand…

But what I found was a face. A face I could feel in the darkness. A face right next to mine. And not a fair face, either. But a whiskery face. A face that knew suffering, that knew the darkness, that knew the pain. And on those whiskery cheeks, as He pressed them to mine, I felt the warm, salty tears of One who could care for me like no other.

Abba loves His own not because we’re lovable, and not because we love Him, but because we are His. And we are His only because of Christ.

And we do Him a dishonor if we are not as honest with Him in and about our pain as we are with each other. Acknowledging the realness of our hurts in real words to God affirms how real we know Him to be. And this, I believe, really does bring Him glory.

I hope to unpack more in the days to come. Or years, for that matter. For it seems God has seen fit to let me see His goodness in the land of the living.

Next Tuesday (January 24), I’m scheduled to check back into Regions for my final crash, pending my counts recover enough between now and then to proceed. My friend Jessica, who’s neck and neck with me in this protocol (she was diagnosed with Leukemia as I was with Lymphoma – our treatments are identical) will be there that week as well. When we check out after 3 to 4 days (this is the expectation, at least) we’ve only one more week of the Round at home, then have a full month or more to recover before beginning maintenance therapy.

I’ll need time to rebuild my body, and I intend to – better than before, we hope. It’d be nice to come out the other end liberated from the problems I’ve had previously with my wrists, my jaw, and my gut. Health is good for ministry and life (while necessary for much of life it’s not as necessary for ministry). And I got a used set of golf clubs for Christmas I’d really like to be able to swing by next fall.

So we continue to depend upon your prayers for much, and are grateful daily that there are people praying. We are excited here for the opportunities to come express our gratitude in person. Some sort of road trip someday, perhaps? I like driving.

“Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Romans 8:35,38-39

I believe this now more than ever.

Still His,

Jeremy 

1-9-06 Update

When Aslan came back to Narnia, the ice began to thaw. The snow melted. The forest floor became green with grass. Trees budded and blossomed. Wildflowers sprang up all over. And the river began to run again. Peter, Lucy, Susan, Edmund, the Beavers, and all else in Narnia watched it happen all in a matter of hours.

That is the nice thing about fairy tales. Especially children’s fairy tales. The good things can happen quickly. A few pages and the 100-year winter is over. You stand there surprised holding an unexpected Christmas present, with the promise of an exhilarating adventure before you by the end of the day.

My life has felt like a fairy tale this week. The last seven days have been unlike any I’ve known for months. Came out of the blue, really. We were expecting for so long that the two months after Christmas were to be difficult. Like the last long haul, or the pushing in childbirth. Instead it feels more like we’re watching a warm sunrise on a summer morning. On the deck. With watermelon and kiwi in a dish.

I’m a week and a half deep into my last intense phase of chemo. I’ll visit the clinic again on Wednesday for another IV of drugs, and then have a one-week hiatus before my last stay at Regions (which looks like it could be more like 2-4 days than a week), after which they’ll pull my tubes and send me home for a week or two before I begin maintenance therapy.

A pleasant surprise, indeed. I’m not quite sure how I was so misinformed. Or how we misunderstood. But it just looks easier than we thought it would. And after such a long fall (and December), the view comes on us like a two-blink change of seasons.

Add to that the fact that this Round hasn’t been too terribly trying so far, and you’ve got a pretty happy me. Steroids keep me up and busy all day (and most of the night). Eating much – I demolished a 4-course meal at Don Pablo’s on a giftcard late last week – I’ve gained some weight. I’ve found enough gumption and grit to bust ice off my driveway, finished cleaning the garage (parked a car in there for the first time in 2 years), and took my bride on a fancy date.

It was our anniversary weekend. Ade went to Grandma’s for the night and Mike & Lisa came over to watch Eli. Jen & I did pasta at home and drove into downtown for a concert at Orchestra Hall. Dressed up and all. Fourth row front and center, 25 feet behind the conductor, for two hours of crazy good Beethoven. I cried (smiling big) for the whole first piece. Seven minutes of a sobby, happy me.

We’ve had our trials here this week, but they’ve been mostly relegated to the realms of parenting and sleep management. Aedan’s taking his time healing up from his bug, and he’s handling the “I’m-a-big-brother” phase only oh-so-well. Lots of work for Mom and Dad around here. Eli’s sleeping alright. I seem to be the one up all the time, but it’s got nothing to do with being a Daddy. Steroids. And a really slow digestive system. A few candid prayer requests uttered at church Sunday morning seem to have moved me along some, but this would be one thing for which we’d like continued prayer. Chemo can shut down a GI track. And it’s crazy what a backed-up system of toxins can do to a body and a mind in just a very short while. Ten days last July proved to be a nightmare of physical, emotional, and spiritual proportions that I’ll never forget.

But again, all this aside, it’s been a very good week. I asked a lady in church yesterday morning how her winter was. Silly me, it’s only one week into January. But it feels so much like springtime in my head that I can’t help but be a little giddy. When a warm morning dawns upon a long dark night of the soul, the most natural thing to do is to get out of bed and stretch before that light. And I feel like stretching.

The rivers began to run in Narnia when Aslan was on the move. The waters began to rush. Have you heard the noise of rushing waters? Isn’t there force in it? Isn’t there life? Isn’t there longing? Makes you want to go where it’s going. The Bible says the voice of the Lord sounds like rushing waters. I can hear the waters rushing again, and it’s bringing strength to my soul.

Thank you for laboring with me through your prayers for this day. If I’m not yet through with this in my body, I think I can say the shadow has passed in my heart. God be praised!

Still His,
Jeremy
 

1-1-06 Update

Happy New Year! Aside from Eli’s idea of a good night’s sleep we’ve got much to be happy for round here! I began chemo again last Thursday, and, not knowing really what to expect, wanted to hold off a few days before saying how it went. So far so good! I’ve misunderstood and therefore misrepresented exactly what this next round entails (and I’m still not entirely clear about it all), but the immediate good news is that these first four weeks should be manageable as an outpatient. I go in for an IV of two drugs once a week, go home and take antibiotics and steroids, and give myself shots in the leg to keep my white counts from crashing. If I can steer clear of infections, I should be able to stay out of the hospital for the month! Steroids make me hungry, and there’s much food here to eat these days. While Christmas munchies have been good to me (110 to 118 pounds in just two weeks), I’ve got much weight to gain before the intensive segment of this round. Week five I’ll be admitted for the last massive onslaught of chemo drugs I should have to endure. No clue how long the stay will be. Our main prayer request is that I wouldn’t crash too hard or for too long. But once I’m through with that, I should be free to begin rebuilding my body, regaining strength, and slowly reentering the life it seems I can hardly recall. But I’m ready. I’m eager to be well again.

Seems a part of being well these days includes acupuncture. I started last week. Crazy thing is, our insurance covers it! Guess it’s been proven by Western medical standards to be effective in treating chemo-induced nausea, pain, and immune-suppression. So I fall into that category well. And it’s been working. Fun to have a new weapon going into the final stretch. You could thank God with me and say a prayer for Annika Meehan. She’s the gal with the needles.

Nonetheless, we’ve got things to be praying for. Both Aedan and Jen are sick these days. Aedan’s once again a snotty mess of germs with a horrible hack, and Jen’s just not able to get the sleep she needs to keep bugs like that from getting into her system, so… one could pray I’d be spared from this bite. Infections, fevers, colds, etc… have been the most common culprits for landing me an unexpected bed at Regions. I’d like to visit the fine staff on 8 East once more this year – that’s all – and I’ve already got those days booked.

Christmas was really good here. We had a busy Christmas weekend with Jen’s family Friday and Saturday nights, followed by an extended time here in Bloomington with my family at the house and a nearby hotel. New Year’s weekend came upon us at a comfy pace. Even managed to make it over to the mall for exchanges and such (and grandma Joy gave Jen and I a date night to go see Narnia). It was different – not making it up north for Christmas – but it was great time with family: a much needed distraction from the unfun circumstances of cancer fighting chemotherapy. Prayerfully, we may have another month of such freedom.

The December crash was tough and unexpected. While Eli’s been for the most part a GREAT baby since coming home, there’s still much more work to do, and I’m only just now beginning to find the strength to help Jen like I’d like to. I can’t do much through the night, as I need the sleep badly when it comes. But there are things I can do during the day, and I like that. We’re aching for a good month of predictable activity, and the time to begin processing the depth of this whole experience. It’s run me over. 2005 doesn’t make much sense to me yet. There was so much good mixed in with so much bad. I feel like God’s still telling me the story. I’m not sure yet how it ends. I’m not sure yet how my heart has handled it all. I feel beat up and a bit dizzy.

So one last prayer request would be that I’d find the words to write our little New Year’s letter I mentioned awhile back. Updates are one thing. Recapping seven months of this stuff is another. I’ve thought about waiting until I’m done sometime in March, but I think we could use the pray cover sooner than that. So anyhow, if you pray, pray I find the words, the thoughts, and the time…

Eli’s a blast. Aedan still loves having him home here. A bit difficult from time to time, but we’re alright. Please be praying for Jen: Sleep. Peace. Patience. Strength. And rejoice with us that God has given us this little dude to brighten up an otherwise rather dark season of our lives. We are really glad to have him around.

And thank you – many of you – for your cards, candies, checks, toys, clothes, meals, emails, phone calls, and genuine well wishes. Every now and then, just when it seems the lights have gone out, you show up in droves. And how badly we need you! Thank you! Thank you!

Not enough time or space here to say it all. Lord God, give me a life to say thanks.

Merry Christmas! Happy New Year!

Jeremy, Jenny, Aedan, & Eli
 

12-20-05 Update

I’m home again. Been here since last Thursday. I haven’t had the gumption to post a new update yet, until now. It’s mostly because I’m weak, the weakest I’ve been in many months. My four-day-stay in the hospital last week came on the heels of 9 days of fevers. The corresponding dehydration put me up at Regions. When they sent me home late last week, I weighed 110 lbs. I haven’t weighed that since fifth grade, and I wasn’t the towering specimen then that I am now.

I was able to be with Jen when she gave birth to Eli. And Mom & Eli came home healthy just over a day later. Aedan likes his little brother, but is pretty sure being two with a little brother means he can do everything now. His frustration at the many discoveries to the contrary is wearing mom and dad thin. Especially so since I’m unable to do much about it. I’m sleeping through much of the day, unintentionally, most often. I’ll sit down to read a book or an article and wake up hours later. Jen’s been doing as well as can be expected without me.

Still, I’m here. We’re learning how to be a foursome here at home. Eli’s sleeping about as often as I am. Jen would tell you that she and Aedan aren’t doing too poorly either.

I’m off the hook as far as chemo goes until late next week. That’s a few days after Christmas. My family will be joining us here at our place in Bloomington early next week. I’ll be seeing my Oncologist Wednesday morning (28^th) then moving forward with Round 4 the next day if there’s no reason to do otherwise.

Please pray for my stamina and strength these few days I have now before Christmas. I was so looking forward to what was going to be a long month full of good days. With two and a half weeks already cached as much less than ideal, these remaining days are valuable to me, yet it seems I’m too weak to do much with what I’ve got. 

I hope to write our New Year’s letter in these available days, as well. Pray that I could write without nodding off between paragraphs. And pray more for our hearts. They took hits with this recent crash.

“I would have despaired unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living…”

Merry Christmas.

Jeremy, Jenny, Aedan, & Eli

12-12-05 Update

Jeremy is in the hospital. Eli and I drove him in this morning. He is extremely weak, tired, uncomfortable and nauseous. He hasn’t had a fever since Saturday, but doctors are still ordering the standard tests to rule out an infection. They treated him today for dehydration. Pray for much improvement come tomorrow.

Jer was unable to bring Eli and me home from the hospital Sunday, so my sister spent Sunday morning with me at the hospital and drove us home. Our families have been a great support to us through this. We thank God for them, and our friends, often. Your calls and emails continue to bring great encouragement to us each day.

Aedan, Eli and I are doing wonderful so far. Aedan adores his little brother, Eli is an incredibly peaceful newborn, and I am recovering well. Please continue to pray that this peace and health continues for us. It’s been disappointing to have Jer in the hospital, as it’s so fun to share in these first days as a family of four.

Pray for a quick healing in Jeremy’s body. We want him home and well. We praise God for Eli and his health, and for the grace God shows us through these times. Pray our hearts would not be discouraged. Our God is big.

Jen

12-10-05 Update #2

One healthy baby. One not so healthy dad.

I finally made it back to Jen's bedside around noon today. It was wonderful. Again, it was just the three of us. But within an hour I began feeling very sick. Aedan showed up with Grandma Joy and Mike and Lisa. Best part of the day was watching the brothers meet. All Aedan wanted to do was hold him and stroke his head, and tell Eli where his nose was. Then he gave him his own taggy blanky. Self-sacrificing big brother that he is.

I simply got too sick to stay. Been at home sleeping for a couple hours. Just woke, and I'm still not feeling well. So, great disappointment that it is, I can't return to the hospital today.

Please pray for me, that I can return tomorrow to bring my bride and our baby boy home to stay.

Thank you.
Jeremy

12-10-05 Update

He's here! Baby Eli has arrived healthy and in good spirits. Full name: Jeremy Elijah Erickson. Born just minutes after 1a.m. Saturday, December 10th, 2005. Labor was quick. No drugs (how does she do that?). Delivery happened with just 4 minutes of pushing. After a good hour alone wih his mom & dad, Eli slept peacefully the rest of the night, and cried only for his first diaper change early this morning. A beautiful baby, he is.

Mom's doing well. Again. She knows how to have babies.

Dad broke his fever this morning, again. He did yesterday, too. Still feeling sapped from 7 days of a fever always over 100. Praying this is the last time I have to break a fever for awhile.

Oh, and Aedan is delightful. We've been talking about Eli around the house here for months. He's used to pointing at Jen's belly and saying, "Eli! Eli!" I think he's very ready to be a big brother. The two of them will meet this afternoon.

Stay tuned. I've gotta head back to the hospital - Jen's hospital. Sure feels good to be walking those halls for something other than cancer or chemotherapy!

Thank you all for your prayers! God has smiled on us and laughed with us this day.

Jeremy, Jenny, Aedan, & Eli
 

12-6-05 Update

I’ve got a bug. Not sure what it is yet. No adverse symptoms except for this burning fever. Good friend Ryan Petersen drove me to the hospital 2AM Saturday morning. They took blood cultures there, and nothing showed up, so they sent me home later that morning without antibiotics, expecting my body to fend for itself, and clear out the bug by Monday. Still had a fever this morning, so I returned to the clinic for more blood work. The preliminary results should be available sometime tomorrow.

It’s Tuesday night, and my temp is hotter than it’s been so far. A well-placed call to my primary oncologist by the phone nurse at the care line has likely saved me from another night in the hospital. Dr. Hurley said to stay home, take Tylenol (which I’ve been doing since the weekend), get some sleep (hard to do… last night Jen & I both were up from 3 to 5), and go see him in the morning.

An infection is a big deal for chemo patients. The chemo swings hard at our blood in such a way that our immune system can go from stellar to the cellar in a day. And with the potential for infections in the blood itself, or the dangling tubes in my chest that slip right into my aorta, make it all the more urgent to identify the cause and treat it quickly. An infection that develops into more serious stages can (and has before) land me in the hospital for days.

I don’t want to be sick right now – never, really – but this particular season is one we’ve been praying for for months. Jen’s still pregnant and due any day (heard that before?). We want badly for me to be well and able to be at her side when the baby arrives.

Please pray with us. We send out this update as a sort of SOS – no fluff, just an earnest request for genuine prayer. Trusting still that God does what is right, though not always liking it much in the moment, we are nonetheless deeply grateful for this grace He’s allowed us tonight in letting me stay here, at home.

Thank you for joining us in this fight for health.

Jeremy & Jenny
 

11-30-05 Update

So far, so good. I take 12 chemo pills every Monday. Last week went better than expected. This week’s going better than that. Thanksgiving was a blast. Jen’s sister served up a bird Martha Stewart style. And I managed TWO pieces of cheesecake for dessert. It snowed all day Friday. I took Aedan sledding Saturday afternoon. No baby yet. Jen did some vigorous Christmas shopping with subtle hopes the activity might induce labor. Nothing yet. Nevertheless, we’re savoring our remaining days as a manageable threesome. Looks like a December baby is likely.

I spoke some with my doctor Monday regarding the next phase of my treatment. It’s expected to be similar to the first. They put me in the hospital right after Christmas, load me up with all kinds of chemotherapy, some of it brand new to my body, then keep me there till I bottom out and get better again. Another one of those “anywhere from 2 to 6 week” deals. Once I’m through, they pull the tubes out of my chest (I’ve got two 12-inch plastic tubes dangling from my chest on my right side that go directly into my aorta for IVs and such. I tend them every day. Will be nice to be able to roll over in bed without getting all tangled up) and send me home.

There I’ll finish the remaining days of Round 4. They call Round 4 “Late Intensification Period.” Isn’t that great? I guess it’s good they’re honest. Better that than “Feels Like You’re On Vacation Period,” or “Just Another Walk In The Park Period.” Other than the fact that it should be the last hard-core chemo Crash I have to endure, I’m really not looking forward to it. We’ll have a brand new baby at home. Jen will need my help. Aedan will need my company. And there’s some concern my lethargic white-blood cell makers may make my recovery a lengthy ordeal. We’ve taken some consolation in their recent rebound from my October/November crash. Guess that’d be a good thing to start praying about right now. Prior to starting this last half of Phase 3, we’d been praying like crazy that I wouldn’t experience any terrible side effects, and I haven’t. There’s something to Dr. Luke’s account of the persistent widow. Jesus knew what He was talking about: Ask often. And don’t quit.

In the meantime, there are still things to keep life a hair less than normal. I’m still very bald. Much more noticeable for me here in the winter. Anybody think wearing two hats looks funny? While I’m gaining some weight back ever so slowly, I’m still 10-20 pounds underweight (I’m not sure I remember what’s “normal”). The loss of mass, and the 3-4 months spent in bed this last year have effectively atrophied most of my major muscle groups. Add that to a goofed-up back (3 mildly compressed, bulging discs) and you get why I’m on pain meds every day. And it goes without saying that I’m not as strong as I once was. That’s tougher and tougher as Aedan gets bigger. I can still take him, though. I wrestled in seventh grade.

Crohn’s hasn’t bothered me too much. I do have to take extra care each time I’m on chemo, though. Side effect warnings like “may constipate” or “can cause diarrhea,” mean I have to bust out another 5 or 6 bottles of pre-meds and counter-meds (and dried apricots). My gut’s as prone to extremes as my whims. In spite of that, the therapy I’ve been on for cancer has really been effective at treating my Crohn’s as well. Something I was just thinking about though, is that when I’m through with all this, all the treatments I’ve previously been on for Crohn’s potentially put me at risk for a lymphoma relapse. And there are few treatment options left.

So, one could pray that I achieve permanent remission in them both. No more Crohn’s. No more Cancer. For the rest of my life, period. When it’s time for me to go, I’d rather go out like Elijah. Fatal illness is the ticket for guys much tougher in the physical and in faith than I’ll ever be. Beyond that, I’d really like to be well again. I pray that wellness wouldn’t lead me to apathy, and that I’d use whatever strength God gives me for the best things. In spite of all the good that I’ve come to experience in these dark times (like finding in the lowest possible place that God is still beneath me, holding me up), I’d really prefer being well, and learn how to meet and serve God there.

I’m intending to write another mass email – like the one I sent out and posted in May when this all begin. Please pray with me as I do this. That I’d be brief. That I’d say the things that should be said. The last one ended up in front of more people than I could’ve anticipated. Entire congregations I had never visited. Radio stations in Minneapolis and Duluth. Newspapers and online newsletters. There may’ve simply been an anointing on that letter that shouldn’t be expected again. Nevertheless, I had only two weeks behind me then. It’s a considerably more complicated testimony (and much more information) half a year later. I hardly have a clue where to start.

Thank you, each and all who are praying. Forgive me for not being as grateful as I ought to be. And for being so unable to personally express gratitude to each of you. In time, perhaps, God will ordain a way for me to return the favor.

Until then,

Indebted and grateful still,

Jeremy

11-22-05 Update

Aedan turned two yesterday. And I finally began my next pass of chemotherapy. We had a party on Sunday with balloons, candles, cake and all. There’s been much to enjoy in life as of late. Much to be thankful for.

The chemo is slowing me down a little. I can feel it while I write. Can’t think as clearly or as creatively. Or as quick. That first paragraph went through three revisions in about fifteen minutes to end up being what it is – brief and a bit boring. Much like the kind of conversation one might get out of me while I’m on this medicine – not nearly as much fun as me in the hospital on morphine. You should hear me talk then.

We’re hopeful these days, too. I take 12 pills every Monday for the next month, then spend the rest of each week giving my body what it needs to get rid of the poison. Good food. Good rest. A lot of water. That’s the plan, anyway. We’ve spent much time praying that God would fortify my body against the nasty effects of this medicine (nausea, loss of appetite, lack of sleep, etc…), and we believe He has done that.

Baby number two is expected to arrive soon. We’re also praying that the day God’s ordained for this new voice to make itself heard would be a day its daddy is feeling well. Jen is doing great and feeling altogether much too comfortable for being this close to labor (her midwife said last week, “within a week or two…”). We’re thankful for that, too.

So, while I wish I had something more exciting to write, I’m at the same time quite thankful I don’t. Life is fairly good right now. God has shown mercy in more ways than the Cross, though without the Cross those other ways wouldn’t mean so much. But within the context of Christ’s forgiveness, being now reconciled to God, these days of wellness and rest are sweet kisses of Grace. We are grateful to be recipients of His love in this way, and thank each of you for praying on our behalf.

May your Thanksgiving be as deeply felt as ours. 

Simply grateful,

Jeremy

11-18-05 Update

CT Scan last Friday showed I’m still in remission. Good news. Not as good news: my white blood count was lower this week than it was last. I did have a bone-marrow biopsy done Monday (ridiculously painful – I guess college students get paid $100 to volunteer for such procedures, but really, who’d want to?). My doctor called with the results Wednesday night. We were concerned there might be marrow damage, or worse, lymphoma in the marrow – both of which would demand a transplant. Neither, thank God (really), was the case. It turns out my marrow is just particularly sluggish from all the therapy. I started booster shots today that are sort of like the giddy-up for my white blood makers. I’ll be taking those through the weekend, then returning to the clinic Monday for another blood test. If I’ve recovered sufficiently (my counts have been absurdly low, all things considered – like don’t sneeze in my zip-code low), I’ll finally begin the second half of Phase 3. My friend Jessica’s been on the meds for several weeks now, and it hasn’t been delightful, to say the least. Pray for her. And pray that my body would react kindly to the chemo. Baby #2 is right around the corner. Daddy really badly wants to be up-and-at-em when the time comes. Jen’s still doing great. And Aedan, it turns out, is pushing two more molars just in time for his second birthday.

Thanking God still for all the good,

Jeremy

Ps. If you haven’t read the last update (just below this one), please do. That is, if you’re interested in background and feelings and such…

11-13-05 Update

Jen & I have been reading C.H. Spurgeon devotionals before bedtime for the last several months. As of late, I haven’t much liked them. That is to say, they’re speaking biblical truth I’d rather not hear. Most often, the scripture referenced is text on suffering from one angle or another. One would think this might hit the spot in a season such as this. But let me be honest: I’m really tired of suffering. It’s not that I feel I’ve had my share of it or that I think the goal of my suffering has been accomplished, it’s just that I’m tired of it. I’d prefer strength and comfort again. Predictability. And wellness.

And while we’re praying earnestly for recovery and relief, Spurgeon’s words seem ominous, if only because they seem to imply more suffering. Let me quote several that hit close to home:

“Believer, if your inheritance be a lowly one you should be satisfied with your earthly portion; for you may rest assured that it is the fittest for you… Remember this, had any other condition been better for you than the one in which you are, divine love would have put you there… Be content with such things as you have, since the Lord has ordered all things for your good. Take up your own daily cross; it is the burden best suited for your shoulder, and will prove most effective to make you perfect in every good word and work to the glory of God” [November 11, PM].

“Faith untried may be true faith, but it is sure to be little faith, and it is likely to remain dwarfish so long as it is without trials… You could not have believed your own weakness had you not been compelled to pass through the rivers; and you would never have known God’s strength had you not been supported amid the water-floods” [November 12, AM].

And then this one:

“Perhaps your affliction will continue upon you till you dare to trust your God, and then it shall end” [November 9, PM].

I mean, the question I have is this: do I trust Him? If the spiritual maturity for which I’ve often prayed (perhaps more so when I was younger than now) and the culmination of God’s glory in my life lies beyond the borders of this trial, and the only way to it is through this suffering, do I trust God to complete His work in me? Do I trust that His way really is the best way?

Yes. The answer I would give now and always is yes. However, do I trust Him to sustain me in the midst of such a trial? I know He would have to, if I were to make it at all. For I know my strength would fail me – because it already has many times. And He has sustained me, often in some sort of deliverance, a rescue. I’ve prayed for a way out, and He’s provided.

But in the end, when the rubber meets the road, as they say, it seems none of that matters. I want out. I mean, I want out of the trial. I don’t want more suffering. Who would?

But He gives beauty for ashes.

I still have a long way to go in all this: in my understanding of suffering, in the testing and building up of my faith, in my treatment for cancer, and in my telling of it. Yet I want it to be over. I want the strength to sing my songs again. I want the agility to wrestle my boy. I want the drive to speak truth to congregations. I want the stamina to care for my bride and my baby. Weakness isn’t fun. Regardless of what it teaches you or what it makes you, it’s not something to be enjoyed. Paul may have rejoiced in his weakness – for the opportunity it gave God to show Himself – but I have not read that he ever enjoyed it. Rather he prayed for his thorn to be removed. I am praying here.

My white blood counts have been terribly slow to recover from the last pass. Every time I’ve gone in to begin the second half of Phase 3, my counts have come back lower than the week before. My doctor was concerned enough with the delay of treatment that he wrote orders for another CT Scan, just to be sure the cancer wasn’t returning to my chest. I had the scan Friday, and will know the results tomorrow. If my counts haven’t gone up from last Wednesday, I’ll likely be doing another bone-marrow biopsy within the week. The procedure is something like carpentry with hand drills and such; only I’m the wood. As unfun as it is, I’m more than willing if it might provide us with some answers. Especially if the answers bring good news.

Chances are my white counts have risen. I’m feeling better today than I have in awhile, and my boy’s had the sniffles and a bad cough for nearly two weeks now, and I haven’t had so much as a runny nose. I’ve been eating much better as of late. Have yet to break a buck and a quarter on the bathroom scale though. It’s amazing to me how each successive pass requires a longer period for recovery. I feel like a boxer getting knocked down again and again, rising after each blow, but taking more time between each fall to find my stance. And weaker when I rise than I was before.

But by the grace of God, I fight still. If all is good tomorrow, or as soon as it is, I’ll begin the pill form of the drug they’ve been squirting into my central nervous system. Word in the ward is it makes you sick for 3-4 days at a time, and I take it once a week through Christmas. Our baby’s due sometime in the next month. I’m not the only one here hoping I’m healthy enough to be at Jen’s bedside for the delivery. So we’re praying that my counts would rise and that my body would be fortified by God’s Spirit against the ill effects of the chemo.

And we’d really appreciate it if you prayed with us.

And thank and praise God with us for the good: Jen & I have been on two dates recently. I was able to make it home to hunt deer with my Dad and brother one week back. While Aedan’s been a bit under the weather, he’s been very happy and quite agreeable. We’ve got a home where we’ll be kept warm through the winter. There is good art in the world still (and better food). We belong to a church who cares for its own and who has risen to the occasion more than once. And God’s Word is living and active, speaking into our deepest needs and fears, bringing light and hope, conviction and freedom, releasing the Spirit of God into our darkness.

And let us be praying for our brothers and sisters in Sudan and Egypt, and anywhere else where they know so much more about suffering than we know here,

May we be shown how we can be used of God to bring them hope and healing.

Praying with the Church,

Jeremy

If we do not post again for a time, assume good things. The status quo should be rebounding white blood counts, no need for a bone-marrow biopsy, continued treatment, and mild, endurable side effects. If something else arises, we will post what news we know.

Also, please consider checking the status of two other friends fighting cancer at this time as well. And pray for them. Access www.caringbridge.org and visit Jessica Lutz (she’s on the same therapy as I am, same phase) and Brent Carlson (type in specifically: www.caringbridge.org/mn/brent/). Thank you. 

“Bear one another’s burdens, and thereby fulfill the law of Christ.” Galatians 6:2

10-30-05 Update

While things were better this week than they’ve been in awhile, I still haven’t felt up to much. We made it up to my parents’ place last weekend. That was good. Felt well enough Friday to make the drive. Came back late Sunday. Had a great time with family while there. Last Monday was my follow up appointment with Dr. Hurley after my week-off from spinal taps. He thought it best that we call off spinal taps altogether. That was good news. He also determined I was yet too sick to begin the second half of phase three.

Still throwing up earlier this week, and having a difficult time eating, I remained sub-par up till Saturday sometime. Then a pack of friends from church showed up at our place to replace our windows and rake our leaves. It was a good day, and an excellent distraction. This morning (Sunday), I made it to church. Jen stayed home with Aedan, as he’s been somewhat sick with a cold. Jen, too, actually.

Enjoying the afternoon with a little bit of Tolkein and an autumn musk candle in the corner. I need to get better. An important part of post-radiation recovery is eating much. Hydration and nutrition provide what my body needs to rebuild the good cells that were fried during treatment. I haven’t been able to eat or drink much on a daily basis for a month now. Friday I was in at the clinic for a liter and a half of IV fluids. Dr. Hurley stopped in and said I should give my GI doctor a call, as he’s now clueless why I’m not healing up faster.

Dr. Purdy does speculative work on my gut. He’s not in till Tuesday. I’m scheduled to start the second half of Phase 3 tomorrow (Monday). The chemo medicine that they’ve been injecting into my central nervous system via spinal taps they’ll now give me in pill form. We’ve no clue yet what that’ll do to my belly, or the rest of me, for that matter. I’m hoping to stay well enough that I can go north next weekend to hunt deer with my dad and brother. Normalcy is very therapeutic right now.

It’s been an almost unbearably long month. But the truth is I’m happier now than I was one month ago. I’ve crossed the halfway point, and if all goes well, I’ve got only one more intense pass at the top of January. We’ve a baby due in the next six weeks, and the fall has brought us sustenance and grace. God has been good to us, and He is yet teaching us how to trust Him, how to pray to Him.

Please continue to pray with us, and for us. I really want to be healthy for baby number two. Jen’s going to need my help, rather than the current norm – that of me being in such need of her help. Plus, Thanksgiving and Christmas serves up some of the tastiest morsels of the calendar year. Who wouldn’t want to have a good appetite for such great gifts from God?

More seriously, we’d ask you to continue praying for our recovery on the other side of this junk, and our perseverance in the midst of it. I can understand how people can become bitter or cool as a result of their sufferings. I can understand anger or denial – the preference to ignore suffering altogether once it’s been removed from the everyday experience. We don’t want that to happen here. And the reentry into ministry and normal workday routine will be tricky to navigate after a yearlong experience such as this, in addition to the slow quest for health and well-being. Mostly, we want to be ready to minister in whatever ways God sees fit.

Intending and longing to live a life of gratitude, now AND then…

By the grace of God,

Enduring,
Jeremy (& Jenny)
 

10-18 Update

It feels good to feel good. Or a whole lot better, at least. It’s also a beautiful day. I’m writing from the swing on our backyard deck. A bible, a bag of beef jerky, and a Gatorade on the bench beside me.

It’s one of the warmest days we’ve had this October.

The wind. The leaves. The sky. The sun.

I like it all very much.

I woke up early yesterday morning to throw up the water I’d had to drink through the night. Jen put her hand on my arm as I came back to bed…

“I’m not starting again today. I’m not.” I said.

As we lay in bed over the next hour, I became thoroughly confident I could talk my way out of a spinal tap later that morning. And I set my mind to do so. Then, as the sun was coming up, Jen began to pray.

As she prayed, I began to wonder whether it would be right for me to talk my way out of a temporary suffering like this. Seeing that God had seen fit to put me here in the first place, and knowing that He has a way of redeeming our sorrows for His purposes, I questioned the rightness of my insistence upon getting out.

Yet I realized I had already determined in my heart to do everything I could to avoid the next spinal tap, and whether it was right or not, that’s what I was going to do.

Then I prayed. And I told God all that I was feeling – what I was thinking, what I had determined to do – and I told Him I feared I hadn’t the strength to do otherwise, even if He made clear to us that’s what He desired me to do.

We prayed together that I wouldn’t have to make that decision. We didn’t pray for a “show me” moment when we’d know what was right, we just prayed that He would save me from sinning against Him (by choosing my way over His), yet somehow deliver me from the perpetual suffering of the previous two weeks.

Then I called my dad and my brother, to garner up strength and support for my refusal to continue (I was really only rallying for a week off).

Here’s how God came through:

Before my doctor sees me, an oncology nurse does a pre-evaluation (like they do at most clinics) and fills out a form the doctor looks at before entering the room. Yesterday morning, that pre-eval took three-times longer than normal. And instead of sitting in the chair as usual, because of my stomach, I needed to lie down on the exam table.

As my nurse was leaving our room, she put her hand on my knee and said, “Remember, you have the right to say when enough is enough.” Jen and I were in tears instantly. It surprised us. We’d been in that room with that particular nurse at least ten times before, and this was something neither of us could have expected her to say.

As if that wasn’t green light enough, minutes later, when my doc came through the door, the first thing he said was, “Things aren’t going so well, huh? No spinal tap today, okay?”

Decision made, but not by me.

I cried again as he continued, telling us that it may not be necessary for me to do the rest of the spinal taps altogether; that we may be able to skip ahead to the less intense half of this phase.

All of that was to be decided next week. First, he said we had to figure out what was going wrong with me, and do what we needed to do to get me better. So we did an ultrasound on my belly, waited around for 2 liters of IV hydration, and went home with some last line defenses for nausea.

Within hours I was feeling better, and eating more. I slept most of the night, without taking any sleep aids at bedtime. And I woke this morning with just a slight trace of the discomfort that has been so persistent these last weeks.

I’m moving around more, and able to read again. Top all that with the potential for permanent release from the spinal tap experience, and I’m a very happy man.

These last weeks seem like years. My back and legs will take weeks to recover. My appetite is slowly gaining steam, and I feel a bit woozy from the meds. I’m still taking (and will have to take for a long time) chemo pills. But I’ll manage. Compared to these last two weeks, life’s on an upswing.

And once again, I’ve been surprised by the mercy of God. Delightfully so.

Grateful again for the things He’s shown me in scripture, this time from Hebrews 12.

And as I think about it, Second Peter 5:10:“AFTER you have suffered for a little while, the God of all grace will Himself perfect you…” I’ll never forget how I was taught the fruit comes AFTER. It comes after the seed has been planted in the ground and dies. It comes after the season of challenging weather and growth. But it comes.

And I’ll never forget how God answered our prayers and showed us mercy one particularly painful Monday morning.

Thank you for your prayers.

I’ve been very grateful, these last weeks, for the different communities of believers God has allowed me to be a part of through my life. Most recently, I’ve been thinking much of Galilee Bible Camp in northern Minnesota, and the friends I made there; where we encountered God together in His Word, and wrestled with what it meant to be His. I’m curious who from those days might be reading this. Remember spear-grass in grade school? And Thursday night “banquets?” I’d love to hear from you – how you’re doing, where you are… Drop me a line, if you could.

More next week. The ultrasound came back good. The rest of this week should be uneventful. Just trying to fatten up.

As my buddy Andy Britz might say…

In His Grip,
Jeremy
 

10/16/05

It’s been a very difficult couple of weeks. Days are long with discomfort. Nights are long without sleep. I’m done with radiation and just beginning to experience very mild side effects from two weeks of it to my head. Feels like sunburn, except on the inside. Glad it’s done, but more concerned with the weekly spinal taps. Methotrexate is the chemo drug being injected into my central nervous system every seven days. It’s poison and I hate it. Seems seven days isn’t enough for me to recover from the hit. It’s Sunday, and I was throwing up this morning. Just like Wednesday. And Thursday. My inability to eat or to keep food down when I do has cost me near five pounds this week. Same as last. At this rate, unless something changes, I’ll be a hair over a hundred pounds by the time it’s all over. My back continues to atrophy and cause me pain. I’m on my feet very little. Haven’t been able to sit up much, either. Not doing much at home. Can’t stare at a computer screen for long without feeling sick. Can’t stare at a page for long without feeling restless. Been glad there’s baseball. And John Piper sermons. Nightly news is almost as hard to bear as the chemo.

I don’t want to go in tomorrow. I can bear the needles now. Even the four-incher that pushes through my back and into my spinal canal doesn’t bug me as much as it used to. And I think with enough hydration and the caffeine drip following the tap we can hold the headaches at bay. But I can’t imagine bearing up under another week of this junk in my system, my brain floating in a pool of poisonous fluid, my soul crawling all over inside trying to escape the chaos that has become of my body.

July was hard. I think there were days then that rivaled what I’m experiencing now, but October will be a month I will remember till death as the month I had to ENDURE. It’s the slow passing of time that’s hurting me. The new every morning battle for joy and hope that has me weeping daily. Sometimes I pray. Sometimes I bite my lip and hold my belly. I wish things were different. I really, really do.

There was a special grace given me in the early weeks of this ordeal. A very tangible, evident grace. By it, God sustained my soul, holding me above the tumultuous waters of this therapy. It seemed I was more able then to embrace this trial and its implications. It seemed then I was able still to rejoice on impulse. While these days are different at least from July when I couldn’t even recall the better days of my life, they seem years away from those early days of June, when hope seemed so available. When God’s purposes in this suffering were enough to keep my head and heart up where I could breathe freely.

I knew then that darker days were coming. They always do. They’re promised to those who seek hard after God, actually. Promised. Promised as days of testing and refining, the suffering giving occasion for the making of perseverance and proven character, for the impartation of peace and hope.

I’m asking now for that peace, for that hope. And I’m praying for healing. And for faith. For I know now beyond a doubt that apart from the gifts God gives I do not have what it takes to endure this pain. I do not. I’d rather bail. Some days I think I just might. And perhaps God yet will provide some way out, but if not…

So, while trusting in the sovereign grace of my Maker, and thanking Him for the fruit that’s promised, I pray to be released from this suffering. And I ask you reading this to pray with me. As the writer of the letter to the Jewish Christians requested in his own words:

“Pray for us, for we are sure that we have a good conscience, desiring to conduct ourselves honorably in all things. And I urge you all the more to do this, so that I may be restored to you the sooner.” Hebrews 13:18-19

Please know Jen has been so good to me through this time (and always). Please continue to keep her, the little one, and Aedan before the throne as you pray as well.

Needing Him now more than ever,

Jeremy

6/26/05

6/16/05

Well, it’s been a hard week. My Monday blood count gave some pretty low numbers. Apparently my immune system was crash-landing: another pit stop along the road to recovery. I did catch a bug of some sort, and fought a mild fever for two days. This morning I was rather miserable, actually, and kind of sad. Body aches, headache, and this persistent pressure in my gut. Not to mention the fatigue…

Funny how misery – however slight (when life was “normal,” a simple interruption to the comforts and conveniences of the day could qualify) – puts us at a crossroads: there’s always a decision to make. “Bitter or better.” Some people say it’s about attitude. I disagree. If God isn’t a realized Mover in your reality, then I suppose it is about attitude. But I know my attitude: it’s generally pretty bad. I’d rather be comfortable. I’d rather be naturally happy. I’d rather not have cancer (more specifically, I’d rather not have to do chemo).

This morning I brought my bad attitude to Jesus. Boy, does He dress things up. He put my body to rest along the way to boot. I prayed. I watched Jesus and listened to His words as I read a chapter from the gospel of Matthew. My heart changed. I was suddenly crying with gratitude for so much. When you watch God as a bone and flesh, bare feet and whiskers man in this broken world (where people get sick, have bad attitudes, do things they’re not supposed to) you see and know the heart of God. It’s pretty cool. He did some things pretty quick-like (calming the storm, healing some sick), but mostly He worked patiently, even slowly. He taught about His Kingdom, and began building it in the hearts of what would become His People, one person at a time.

That’s what He’s doing still. And Jen and I know beyond a doubt that what He’s doing in our lives is a good thing. He is changing my attitude, because He’s shaping me. He’s shaping us. He’s doing a marvelous work in our church. He’s alive in our family. I’m not sure I can put to words the comfort – even the joy – God has brought us these days. Much of it has come through the cards, gifts, emails, meals, and care that many of you have sent our way, but much of it seems to comes straight out of the blue – from a passage of scripture or a situation that just “clicks” (when things fall into place at just the right time, like they were scripted or directed) – God has affirmed again and again that He is in this. That this is His deal, and that He’s doing it for our good (that we’d be better made for His good…)

I did go see the doctor this afternoon. The folks in the Cancer Care Center at Regions really rock. We did a chest x-ray: the tumor is gone. Wiped clean (it’s nice to have my chest back). My white-blood count is on its way back up, and I’m still scheduled to start Round 2 in just over a week (the next 4 rounds of Chemo are primarily to skunk the cancer and keep it from growing elsewhere – or ever coming back). But I do have a bug of some sort, and it’s up to my body to fight it off.

I’ve also got this terrible mystery pain in my back. It’s what’s keeping me on pain medications. Crazy pain. My Oncologist said he’s really got no clue why I’ve got it. I’ve an assumption it’s got something to do with the fact that I was in bed for a month and lost over 20 pounds in the process – call me presumptuous – in any case, those of you who pray, please pray for my back. If this pain would go away I could ditch the pain meds, and that would help free up my digestive system to do what it’s supposed to so I could eat like crazy and get nice and plump for Round 2. I’ve got 10 days to fatten up like a Thanksgiving turkey. I haven’t gained much since the weekend, though I haven’t the pressure in my gut I had just days ago. I’m still enjoying food.

In fact, funny story: Jen and I split a Whopper Jr. at 10PM a few nights back. It was with a certain degree of trepidation that we unwrapped the burger and put it down (and abandon, mind you – it was so good!), but since then I’ve felt much better. Of course you all prayed and I ate apricots and drank hot prune juice for three days, but BK? God “moves” in mysterious ways, indeed…

It’s been a far more relaxing week than last (I’m still ditching prednisone) – which has been necessary, as I’ve been susceptible to bugs and all that – and I’ve many people to thank for the respite. Mostly though, Pastor Tom Gilman and the volunteer student ministries staff at Emmaus. This is seriously an exciting time to be youth director at Emmaus. There are great things happening, and we’ve got great people riding the wave. And I’ve a feeling, if youth ministry’s anything like surfing, we’re making beach bum lifers out of the whole bunch.

I intend to see Star Wars Episode III this weekend. I’ll probably spend a little time Saturday afternoon putting my last unopened Star Wars Lego toy together, watching Episode II to get up to speed. The hype, of course, has died down (and I’m ready to see Batman), so I’m feeling the need to manufacture a bit on my own. My main concern at this point is that my mouth and belly will be up for a bag of popcorn. I love movie theater popcorn.

Jenny and Aedan are awesome. It’s going to be sunny here in days to come, so we bought a pool for Aedan. He’s been so great! So happy and responsive to my being home… he dances, sings, tells stories, and laughs at every page when I read him Dr. Suess’ “Hop On Pop.” And he’s sleeping lots. Jen (if I may speak for her here) is rarely happier than she is when she’s home caring for her two boys. She just glows, and makes home such a fun and pleasant place to be.

So, know always that your prayers are more than appreciated – they’re vital. When they’re prayed to the Living God (the power has never been in the prayer, but to the One to Whom the prayer is prayed) He hears and responds, and moves in the hearts and lives of His People, and by His grace, we belong to Him.

That’s probably it for the weekend. I hope to write another more substantial “letter” in the week to come summing up this first month. Otherwise I intend to post another update early next week. Thanks again to all of you for your concern, and the time you’ve given to read all of this…

Peace to you.

Gratefully His,

Jeremy

6/12/05

Been home for one week now.  In many ways, perhaps, the best week of my life.  (This Update may have to count for three or four – so grab a cup of your favorite java and read on…) 

This morning, I went to church with my family (first time in five weeks – it was glorious!).  Yesterday, I took Jen to the Guthrie for a delayed Mother’s Day date.  We walked through the Sculpture Gardens for a few minutes following the play.  It had just rained.  And cleared.  I saw the spoon and cherry up against a postcard Minneapolis skyline for the first time… alive with my bride… alive outside… just really alive.

 My apologies for going seven days without any word here on the website.  It’s been a busy week.

 God’s been so good to us.

My first round of chemotherapy passed without a hitch as Wednesday’s drugs (6/8) cleared my system this weekend.  Or almost - I’m still having issues with my digestive machine.  Not the issues you’d expect from a Crohn’s patient, perhaps.  But discomforting moments, nonetheless – reminds me of harvesting on my dad’s farm when the swaths were still a bit damp (some of you may get that).  This may be an issue off and on over the next six months.  When you pray for us, you could keep this one near the top.  I’d appreciate it.  I love eating.  And I’ve got roughly tons of weight to regain (I’ve held a steady average of 116 this week in spite of GREAT FOOD, HUGE MEALS, and a stubborn GI).

The other annoying sign that the chemo’s still floating around are my tingling fingertips.  Big deal.  I’ve been told that will come and go, too.

I’ve decided I’m going to write up an update devoted specifically to explaining my chemotherapy – the extent to which I understand what to expect over the course of the next six months, at least.  Some people are curious.  And it’s sort of educational.  I’m learning stuff, anyway.  And much of it’s really fascinating.

Some of it’s fascinating like a backache.  Which is what I’m pondering as I write this.  This past week and next is a weaning period for me from a combination of steroids and pain medications.  Both tend to have a direct effect on my digestion (and my mind), so I’m holding off a bit while I write and wait for dinner.  Pardon me if I seem a bit distracted…

I spent much of the beginning of my first week home doing what I could to prep our youth ministry volunteers for summer programming.  We’ve got a good crew.   I was able to spend a few hours with Emmaus staff Tuesday morning – good friends, all of them – and sit in on several Bible study/prayer groups from the WWII generation that happened to be meeting at the building that day.  Wednesday night I stopped in and saw the youth group.  Three bald heads, I saw.  Man, what a bunch!

Afternoons have been a collage of activity and fatigue.  With high doses of prednisone early in the week I was a like a racehorse in need of frequent (and sometimes lengthy) naps.  My mind, and sometimes my mouth were running nonstop.  I’d dream without sleeping (a crazy effect of the chemo).  I had things to do.  People to write.  Calls to make.  And then I’d crash, and couldn’t do a thing.

Tuesday afternoon I was on an AM radio talk show here in the Twin Cities.  KKMS 980.  Pastor Tom Brock (I’m unsure of the correct spelling of his last name) was pinch-hitting for Todd Friole and graciously interviewed me on-air.  A good man, that guy is.  He sat in his office earlier in the day and patiently listened to my over-the-phone/prednisone-jacked/I-really-needed-a-nap-just-then version of my story, which I think went way back to when I used to help my mom peel potatoes on the farm up near Roseau…

Speaking of Roseau.  My hometown.  I’ve got to say it’s been fun reconnecting with you all.  I realize I haven’t had much opportunity to “connect” back – just yet.  Nevertheless, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the emails, cards, and occasional phone-calls from good folk like you.  Aside from my family, church family, and closest friends, you’ve been the community nearest to me through this time.  Many thanks to Bro Jeff Olsen for the article in the paper.  I can’t wait to be well enough… we’re hoping right now for a few days (or an afternoon) at the county fair.  I could use a good burger, and some mini-donuts, and an uf-da taco.

I start my second round of chemo (2 of 5) on Monday, June 27^th.  We aim to do everything as an outpatient – meaning I don’t plan on going back to the hospital, but will spend a few hours every other day in the Cancer Care Center at Regions in Saint Paul.  Round 2 lasts roughly one month – same as Round 1 – some of the same medications plus a bunch of others.  My immune system is expected again to take a hit.  Whether it crashes hardcore or not, and how quickly it recovers, will be what determines if a hospital stay is necessary.

It’ll also be what determines whether or not we can fly out to the 2005 Free Lutheran Youth Convention in Colorado during the final days of the conference.  I was slotted to speak there this year, and the FLY Committee has graciously offered to get us there yet for a few days if I can go, yet the medical odds at this time I’m told are 50/50.

So you could pray for that.

We trust God to arrange what’s right.  He’s really done that so far.  Good grief.

It has been so good to eat.  It has been so good to sleep.  It has been so good to have so many other things to do when I’m not sleeping and eating!  I noticed my breathing this morning – I can breathe and it doesn’t hurt!  I haven’t had a fever in two weeks!  The tumor is shrinking, leaving my body, and I haven’t gotten sick!  My 3-6 week hospital stay lasted just 14 days from the day I started my chemo!  We have an incredible family taking care of so much… so much!  All this we believe to be provision straight from the heart and hands of God.

The Almighty can be trusted.  Watch Jesus in the Gospels.  Read Job.  Catch a glimpse of His peace at work in the hearts of his men as you read the Psalms.  He is SO GOOD!

If my cancer has merely served as a backdrop for Jen & I to have discovered so intimately the Compassionate Heart of our Maker as we have this past month, even if the suffering is for seasons to come, it is SO INCREDIBLY WORTH IT!!!  God in Christ Jesus is captivating.  His love empowers and enlivens.  His love dresses up the dull life with vision to see things that are invisible otherwise – stuff that makes the dullest life drip with purpose, meaning, adventure, and BEAUTY!

May He continue to form OUR hearts as you join me in this journey – thank you for joining me in this journey.

My apologies for not having new pictures up yet.  My good friend and webmaster flew to India Wednesday.  He was here for a day last week.  Good guy, he is, that Kevin White.  His wife, Robyn, is posting updates for me while he’s away (10 days – Go Robyn!), but the picture thing was one thing that took more explaining than he had time to tell.  So, when we can, we will.

Until then, picture Jen and I standing in front of a huge spoon and cherry against a postcard Minneapolis skyline (I’m still very bald, very thin, and very white – but very happy!), or Jen, Aedan & I laughing on our couch at home (I discovered this past week that my boy loves watching baseball!  So I’m back into baseball, I guess.  Just like that.).

Couldn’t be doing this without your help.  Your prayers, your words, your ears and eyes (knowing there’s someone to write for makes it so much easier to write).  Thank you all near and far for your part in this.

We are being led and held by Good Hands.

“For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.”  II Corinthians 4:17

His more and more,

Jeremy

6/5/05

Goodness.  God bless Ambien.

I’m getting sleepy now.  It’s ten to eleven Sunday night.  My wife and boy are tucked in and sleeping, and I’m soon to join them.  I’m home.

Came home Friday - all day Friday.  Seems sometimes it’s a whole lot easier to get yourself into the hospital than it is to get out.  But we made it.  Jen & Aedan are my little troopers.  They put in the longer day… trips to three different pharmacies with waits anywhere from 1-2 hours a piece.  But we’re home now.  And boy, is that a great thing!

My first round of chemo obviously went better than expected.  I credit the strength of my God for such a turn around.  The medicines are great and rightly applied also, but trace all that stuff back to its origins and it was still His idea in the first place.  A very cool mind, He’s got.  In any case, I get to finish Round 1 this week sleeping in my own bed.  Waking up in our room is just heavenly.

My parents came down Saturday.  We’ve relaxed and done what we can to make home a better place for me to BE ALOT in the months to come.  Creating a friendly little hobbit-hole where I can easily work, rest, write, eat, be a dad, be a husband, heal, make music, and keep in touch with the rest of the world all at the same time (relatively speaking).  It was a great weekend – the perfect combination of productivity and peace.  Barbequed chicken and asparagus, hanging blinds and bathroom hooks, fixing an air-compressor and watching rain clouds roll through.  The best was watching my boy, though.  Should see him play… wish you could see him watch his daddy.

All day Friday, especially once we got home, he’d look at me as though he were expecting to blink and wake from a dream.  We’d laugh, tickle, kick a soccer ball, bob our heads to some Jazz, then he’d just stare at me with these eyes that said something like, “you’re really here, aren’t you?”

Yes, I’m really here.

While I’m home, and feeling well often, these next few weeks are still chemo weeks.  Though I take my last chemo drug at Regions this coming Wednesday, the therapy stays busy in my body for a full 5-10 days following the final treatment.  Then they give me a few weeks to ramp up strength, weight, and immunity before we begin Round 2.

As Round 1 comes to a close, I’m at home with a countertop cluttered with medications that I’ll be weaning from over the course of the next two weeks.  I explain this here not just because I think some of you are curious, but to paint a picture of our day to day reality here that’ll best equip the community of support and concern you’ve all been to us this far.

While the chemotherapy continues to break down the cancer, I’m on high doses of steroids (yes, prednisone again, my friends) to jack up my body enough to deal with the toxins.  Super high doses for a little guy like me.  Prednisone does many things.  I don’t bulk up, but I puff up.  I eat A BUNCH (as much as the sores in my mouth will allow).  Most significantly, my mind moves faster and more randomly than ever before - this means I both have the capacity to get much done (which is good) and to get anxious and agitated (which is bad) all at the same time.  It all depends on the time of the day, the situation, when I last ate, and how much pain medication I’m on that particular moment.

The important thing for us here these days is routine and predictability: rest that can be spontaneous when necessary; good visits (and we love good visits) that are planned ahead and cleared well before the doorbell rings.  While I have the strength and capacity of mind on my side, I hope to spend what time I can in preparing the ministries I’m involved in for the days to come when I may not be as available.

All of this to say, if you have my cell-phone number, please continue to use that for updates or to announce a potential swing-thru.  Leave a message, and let us call you back.  If we haven’t returned the call in a few days, assume that the time wasn’t good, and leave another message when you might again be available.  We seek to see as many of you as we can (and be encouraged by your presence – and I don’t mind showing off my little boy) we’re just trying to be as cautious as necessary so as to space out what good there is and not burn out in these first few (and perhaps more fragile) weeks back home.  Thank you for your understanding in this.

There will be more to tell in days to come.  As the 2-year chemotherapy plan begins to make more sense to me, I will pass it on in this same way.  These updates seem to be read.  Be absolutely positive I read all your emails.  There have been days your words have been manna to me.

As time and strength allows, I hope to write more about this.  There are so many stories within the story – just another part of The Story that The Grand Author is composing with all of our lives.  There is beauty and there is sorrow, and I anticipate sharing in whatever way the Master Pen allows.  I can’t wait for that.  For this, really.

Alright, the Ambien is working now.

I should go bed.  My bed.

Life is good.  (Apart from you, O Lord, I have no good thing.)

Still His, 

Jeremy

6/2/05

Well, I’m going home tomorrow.  (The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places.)  My immune system started upward about the instant it bottomed out - kinda like those little globe-colored bouncy balls you get for a dime at kiddy-coin machines just outside of K-Mart.  I think they cost a quarter now.  Next time you see one, spend your quarter, give it a good chuck in the parking lot, watch it till you can see it no more, and think of me…

Bouncing.

That’s what I’ve been told to expect in the months to come.  Just this afternoon, I met with a team of Oncologists to better understand the therapy I’m scheduled to undergo over the course of the next two years.  I’ll do my best to explain it at a later time.  For now it’s good enough to know I’m going home.  Tomorrow.

It’ll have been 26 days since I was first admitted.  17 days since being told I had another 3 to 6 weeks in the hospital.  I fought a fever (delightfully morphinated) for a mere total of 30 hours since beginning my chemotherapy.  My most agitating side effect was the expected deterioration of the lining in my throat, which is healing now and due to clear up within a few days.  There are other things, but nothing worth words here.  No nausea.  No bloating.  No crazy uncontrollable body aches.  If I have any stories to tell (which you can be sure I do), they’re mostly good ones.

Only three moments did I make a fist and slam it into my bed, a chair, or (by accident) my leg.  But it was never a frantic plea for an answer, just a desperate prayer for relief.  “But the Lord stood at my side… and gave me strength.”

Miracles of healing are good things.  God does those still – through the prayers and hands of His people, and the wonder of His ways revealed to us in medicine (the laws that determine what works and what doesn’t weren’t really our ideas in the first place, were they?).

But I’m quite certain the greater miracles God works to show people Who He is and what He’s like happen in the heart.  Like a heart held upright in upside-down circumstances.  Like my friend Jack Keller in Minot, ND.  Or the Brandts in Sioux Falls, SD.  Or the Hallbergs and the Helgets from my home church in Bloomington.  As in so many families where health problems are regular and serious, or relational conflicts are persistent and irritating, and the hearts of those afflicted are oriented toward their Maker, there’s an Anchor in the Deep.  And having seen evidence of that Anchor in the lives of God’s People in years past has made this an even richer experience than it would’ve been otherwise. 

He has done that for me here.  Proven to be the Anchor I always had a hunch He was.  And I trust Him now more than ever.

Which is necessary.  Because going home right now doesn’t mean this battle is over.  On the contrary, there is life to live, and my body may be slow to live it.  I’ve got outpatient chemo scheduled through next week, and then I’m given a few weeks to regain strength and weight (I’m a mere buck-nineteen these days) and get my immune system back up and running before round 2.  Then round 3.  Then round 4.  And round 5.

Somewhere in there I’ve got the strength of 10 horses, and somewhere in there I’m a butterfly with wings on one side but not the other.  And for the first six months, my hair will come and go, mostly go – but so will my cancer.  The tumor is shrinking, and is expected to vanish from my chest entirely in time.  I still feel it.  I can tell it’s in there, and I’ll be glad when it’s gone.

Cancer is bad.  But God is Good even when cancer is bad and suffering is real.  God is more real.  Amen.  And the Master Artist makes half-winged butterflies fly, too, and what a Story He tells!

I’m craving fair food.  You know, burgers, cotton candy, popcorn, mini-donuts…  Some friends of mine sent me pictures of their grill getting busy on Memorial Day.  That was nice.

So many of you have made our lives simpler this past month – not merely endurable, but undeniably enjoyable!  With your gifts, your words, your emails and letters, your financial help, your meals, care for Aedan, your lawn-mowing, tree-trimming, furniture-moving, hair-cutting, ride-giving, music-making, article-writing, card-sending, smile-making, prayer-praying presence has been felt everyday of this journey so far.  And to top it off, the care here at Regions 8 East has been great!

So life at home, with my bride and our boy begins again sometime tomorrow.  I’ll be honest here (not like I haven’t been to this point), but we’re a little nervous.  There will be adjustments to be made.  There’s much rest we must be sure I get, food we must be sure I eat, and responsibilities I must be both careful to embrace, avoid, or delegate depending on the situation.  Not to mention Jen having to get used to having me round again!  Ask God with us that He would give us clarity, discernment, tact, and timely help.  And we will trust Him to be all that He’s been this far (and all He’s promised to be for us all) – So Incredibly Faithful and So Obviously Near.

Grateful again for all the Good we have in Him, and in every one of you…

His still,

Jeremy

5/28/05:

"Answer me quickly, O Lord, my spirit fails.  Do not hide your face from me or I will be like those who go down to the pit.  Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you.  Show me the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul… for I hide myself in you."  Psalm 143

There’s a difference I think between positive attitude and life-changing faith.  There have been some who have commended me recently for having such an attitude.  While I can appreciate such a compliment, I can just as easily demonstrate the lack of necessary willpower to sustain such optimism.

Today was my eleventh day of chemotherapy.  Two days ago my white blood counts crashed and my body stopped replenishing fast growth cells from head to toe.  Now completely susceptible to infections of every kind, I’m on 3 to 5 drip bags of IV non-stop, battling high fevers for 15 hours at a time, and wincing at the convulsing pains in my mouth and throat making it virtually impossible to swallow.

At one point at the onset of this expected phase in therapy, I was alone in my room, rocking on my bed, crying simply and desperately for deliverance.  Asking only that my marrow would start making white blood cells again.

A positive attitude ends in itself.  And while so incredibly necessary in so many aspects of living, when it comes to a battle like this, positive attitude is not enough.  It will only carry me as far as I can go.  And having lived life with me for these 29 years, I know that distance – I’ve traveled it many times – and it’s not very far.  The infinite value of life-changing faith in a Heart-Changing God is that when and where we are weak, then and there He is Strong.

“You hem me in, behind and before.  You have laid your hand upon me.  Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain.”  Psalm 139

We ask questions when rough times hit.  “Why?”  I find hope not because I believe I have the answer (though I’ve a hunch sometimes I do), but because I have an Answer Giver.  And it is in His Hands that I am held.

Please be praying that my White Blood Count would skyrocket unexplainably.

Boy would that be fun.

Thank you for your concern.

Jeremy

Postscript:  Chest X-Rays yesterday showed the tumor IS shrinking.

5/26/05:

Today I feel like a Cancer patient.  My white blood count crashed yesterday.  I’m now officially what they call “neutropenic.”  My body has no defenses against infection.    This was an expected and anticipated effect of the Chemo.  I must mention again that all the other adverse and terrible side effects often associated with the therapy passed me by untouched.  It’s been a good week.  And we more or less knew that since the Chemo was dumped into my body (like an asteroid into the ocean) I’ve been strolling on the shore waiting for the wave to hit. 

The waters are rising.  I’m increasingly tired.  I’ve got sores in my mouth and throat.  I’m getting bedsores from two hours on one cheek.  I’ve lost weight and am soon to lose my hair.  I’ve been told to expect an infection of some kind.  They’ll plug me back into fluids and give me drip-bags of antibiotics.  I’ve affectionately christened my IV pole R2-IV, and have been pleasantly free from his leash for four days.

Again I must stress however that these are the expected effects of the therapy.  As the Chemo begins and continues to do what it must to the Cancer, breaking down fast-growth cells and releasing them from my body, it does the same thing to all other fast-growth cells on board.  This includes my GI tract, my hair follicles, and my bone marrow.  The game now becomes one of waiting.  I stay here at the hospital and they do everything they can to keep me healthy until my bone marrow recovers from the hit, adjusts to the Chemo, and begins making white blood cells again.  This may take anywhere from three days to three weeks.  Things will likely get worse before they get better, but they will get better.  And I’ll get to go home.

Last night Jen brought in some home video of Aedan.  Man I miss that kid.  He’s been quite sick these days as well, snot-ball that he is.  I got to see him a few days ago on one of my walks outside.  It was great.  He’d point at my mask and wave.  And blow kisses.  He’s running around like an eighteen-month-old boy should – into everything and loving every minute of it.

The goodness in life is very poignant right now.  I know how complex the tangle is when you’re living in the grind everyday – it hasn’t been so long for me to forget that – but I pray we all find the capacity of heart for the joy God has for us in the things we so easily overlook or ignore, even in the midst of such sorrow as we may find ourselves in.  I’ve known that sorrow… more so elsewhere than here, believe it or not.  It’s in everyday life that we need God most – where we most easily forget how essential and how good it is that we Belong to Him.  That’s why I pray for all you who are praying for me… may the Risen Jesus be as near you there and then as He is to me here and now.

I am getting weaker, and there may be days coming when I am unable to write.  Know that I am grateful for the days of sunshine I’ve had thus far, and am fine with whatever storms may come.  My heart has been sustained not by human ambition or strength of will nor by the medicines of man, but by the Merciful Hand of My Maker.  He will hold me still.  The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places.  The boundaries are not pleasant because of where they are, but because of Who put them there.  The LORD has made my lot secure, surely I have a DELIGHTFUL inheritance!

Suffering for a little while (and asking for that eternal glory which far outweighs them all), 

Still His,

Jeremy Erickson

5/25/05:

I’m so grateful for these last five days of wellness.  Having felt so sick for weeks, and having gone through eight days of surgery and procedure to arrive in this place, it’s been really good to feel so well again.  All last weekend, and through the good part of this week, I’ve been stronger, breathed better, slept more, and actually done more stuff than I have in a long while.  The first three days of Chemotherapy, expected to be the worst, came off without a hitch.  The potential for complications as the tumor began to dissolve and be eliminated from my body came and went with nothing to speak of.  The steroids they put me on for this first induction round gave me the appetite of an ox, and I’ve been enjoying food here more than I have in a long time.  I’ve been on walks around blocks near the State Capital, wearing a little blue mask of course (they didn’t have any Darth Vader helmets). 

The nurses in the carousel have been listening to my CDs for five days now.  Every now and then I play my guitar for housekeeping.  Ron Foss stopped by my room my first day here and said, “you need some furniture.  I’ll be back tomorrow.”  We’ve since fixed up this little hole so nice the nurses often take their breaks here.  Just hanging out and chatting while their break-time whittles away.  This afternoon, the floor manager stopped by to see and take recommendations as to how they might make the Cancer Ward more homey.  She took one look at several of the things we’d done (moved the bed, set up shelves, hung a mirror and some corkboard) and said that’s just the way things are going to have to be from now on. 

I’ve been trying to get my cell phone fixed to send and receive text messages for three days now.  Just yesterday, my repair ticket reached Tier 3 Customer Service.  I got a call on my room phone… it was a girl’s voice.  She said (while crying…) “Hi, Jeremy?  This is Alecia from Cingular Wireless in Atlanta, Georgia.  You made me cry today.”  Apparently she had listened to my voicemail update before ringing the second number.  She said, “I’m going to fix your phone, okay!”  Twenty minutes later my phone worked and I had been crazily encouraged by Alecia in Atlanta.

We had a Bible Study here in my room Monday night.  12 of us cramped into this little space.  We read Psalm 16 and had verses read here in 3 different languages.  My visitors and friends let me teach from the Psalm, and I do believe it was an edifying time for us all.  Besides the emails, phone messages, and visits, one of the most encouraging activities for me these days has been taking whatever opportunity I have to encourage the church.  Whether it’s been equipping and preparing others to carry what responsibilities I must release in days to come, or merely sharing the encouragement and hope that God has brought to me in this place, I can relate to the Psalmist’s prayer in 119, praying from a particular affliction, he says, “May those who fear you rejoice when they see me, for I have put my hope in Your word.”  Several desperation Psalms contain this sort of prayer, this sort of longing… in the midst of whatever suffering the Psalmist is in, his desire is to encourage the People of God.  I get that here.

First three days of chemo are behind me. All good so far. Actually feel better this weekend than I've felt for three or four weeks. However, my blood counts are dropping (like they're supposed to) and I should be receiving blood transfusions by the morrow. My doctors warn me the dark days of chemo are just round the corner. This coming week and next weekend may be the hardest yet of my life (they say I just might wish I were dead). This coming week is when I'll need the most prayers. Please, no nausea. Please, good sleep. Please, good digestion. And mostly, that my heart would hide in God.

This has been a very rich time for Jen and I. The last two weeks have been difficult, ripe with suffering and the kind of depth that comes with it when held by the hand of God. We pray for that to continue. Praise God for my two Christian nurses, and what I'm beginning to believe is my Chinese brother for a doctor. Pray for my Oncologists and my Social worker, who in her notes for me yesterday wrote, "spiritual... delusional?" These people don't get hope - don't get the trust we place in the Good and Great Hand of God. They need to see strength and recovery they can't explain. Psalm 16:5-6,9 has brought great comfort to me. It's hanging on the walls all over my room.