I wasn’t with her, but she called it surreal. It’s been over a month since her last clinic visit, and closer to two since her last poke. She vividly recounts the months of visits before, many times in a wheelchair. She recalled being looked at with pity. She recalled the needle-pricked veins. The weakness. The routine. She was never really fond of it all but it grew to be normal. Now, a short time later, it is only a memory. Going back reminded her that she doesn’t want to be there again.
We laid in bed last night as she describe this. I watched her talking as she laid on her back and looked up. I was caught off guard by the tear that rolled from the outer corner of her eye toward her ear. This clinic visit was emotional for her and I just figured that out. It dawned on me that I never experienced her side of it. I may have been pushing the wheelchair and holding her hand in some of the moments, but she was there every time. It was her. Her veins. Her frailty. Her pain. Her nausea. Her goals gone. Her body broken. As the tears continued she said, “I don’t think I could go through that again.”
She went on to describe the encounters with others who were going through what she went through. She knew what they were feeling. She found some purpose in her experience as she related to them and spoke encouragement to them.
We don’t get professional interpretation of the results until September 13, but her blood work shows that the CA125 number is down even lower than the last time she had it checked a month ago. Her white blood cell count and hemoglobin are also down which is not great. Ironically today she got sick with a low grade fever and feeling like crap.
This new phase takes some extra faith. We look back and see the hard road we traveled and wonder how we got to here. God was faithful to sustain us all along.