Guest Post: Between Christmas and Easter by Phee Paradise
Earlier this year, TMP Books put out a call for submissions for two anthologies, requesting stories from cancer warriors/survivors, and from cancer caregivers. We received several submissions, but not enough to fill either book, so for now, the books are postponed.
When I notified the writers who had submitted, one of them suggested running the stories on my blog, and I loved the idea. My goal was to share people’s stories, to give encouragement and hope to other cancer warriors and caregivers, so why wait? I’m sharing the stories each Tuesday, in the order they were submitted.
Today, I welcome author Phee Paradise, sharing a powerful snippet of caregiving during her son’s battle with leukemia.
On Christmas Eve, I held a flickering candle in each hand, tears filling my eyes. The left one was for me, the right one for my son whose arm hung uselessly after a stroke. This night he was quarantined at home recovering from a bone marrow transplant. In the dim church, the peaceful words of Silent Night rose around me. But my heart was raging and bitter. That infant they were singing about had been born to die. His mother had loved Him deeply, nurtured Him, watched Him grow into an impressive man. And watched Him suffer.
Like my son.
Six months earlier, in the middle of his college finals, advanced leukemia presented with a stroke. He lay in a coma for four days while we held his hand and prayed over him. Word went out to friends and family all over the world and God answered. Our son woke up and we hoped for healing.
But it was hard, and it was long.
I left work early every day to drive an hour to the hospital – first to the cancer ward, then to a rehab facility. He learned to walk and lift a spoon and tie his shoes and play Scrabble. After six weeks he came home and daily trips to rehab turned into weekly trips to the cancer center.
And we waited.
We waited for a bone marrow donor. God who gives lavishly, provided not one donor, but three, so we took him back to the hospital for the transplant. And we resumed daily trips to visit him. It went so well, the doctor called him the poster boy for transplants. But transplants are an insult to the body, and we brought him home with an almost non-existent immune system to start a scary new routine.
I organized his many medications into boxes and watched the clock for dosage times. Two ports surgically inserted into his arteries had to be sterilized daily and a bag of saline attached. We took his temperature each night and took him to the hospital if it reached 100.6. Sometimes he stayed for several days, and I had time to sanitize the house again.
I have never liked housework, but I like living in a clean house. My philosophy was always, if it looked clean and neat, it was good enough. With someone in the house with a compromised immune system, good enough changed to germfree, as far as possible. Each morning, I swept the floor, cleaned the toilet, wiped every surface with antiseptic. I deep cleaned spaces I had never reached before.
On the other hand, I’ve always loved cooking, but that changed too. The rule was no longer to cook healthy and tasty food. Now it was to avoid bacteria and add calories. My cupboards were stocked with prepackaged, tasty single serving snacks, regardless of ingredients. If he didn’t want to eat, I made milkshakes with pudding added. I cooked meals to tempt him, not for nutrition.
Through all this I was never alone. My husband and daughter shared the burden, and our church community supported us in a hundred ways. Over it all, God’s presence permeated the hospital, our home, our lives and even my heart. When I couldn’t read anything else, the Psalms comforted me.
But I was tired. Tired of cleaning. Tired of being cheerful. Tired of hoping. Tired of believing.
When Christmas came and we bought an artificial tree for the first time and celebrated at home without extended family, I lost my hope. Three more months of quarantine loomed. His immune system was improving, but I didn’t believe it was over. And here was the stark message of baby Jesus, born to die.
But Sunday was coming.
Somewhere on the way to Easter, my hope returned. He was released from quarantine, and we celebrated at his favorite restaurant. The port was removed. Cancer clinic visits became less frequent. He didn’t have to wear a mask anymore.
On Easter Sunday, he stood beside me as we sang about our resurrected Lord. God had given me His son, and then He gave me back mine.
Hallelujah.
About the Author:
Phee Paradise is a storyteller. Kipling’s quote, “The story’s the thing,” is her literary guiding light. She focused her BA (English) and her MA (Communication) studies on literature and cultural narratives. By day, she encourages her public speaking students to tell their own stories.
She devotes her other hours to sharing God’s Great Story of Hope through writing, reading voraciously, and studying the Bible with friends.
Paradise is the author of A Sincere Heart: One Mission Minded Man Serving His Utmost in China in which she tells her grandfather’s story of the mission field. She edited Miracles at Midnight, her father’s vignettes about Guatemalan missions. Paradise’s current project, The Letter Box, is a young adult novel with a curious twist.
Phee lives in Florida with her husband. You can find her short stories on Facebook at Phee Paradise, author.
Read More:
Guest Post: I Took Back Time by Mary-Kay Cronemeyer
Guest Post: 28 Years and Counting by Carrie Leeth
Health Update: Saying Goodbye - Another Milestone
Guest Post: A Joyful Warrior by April Whitt
Guest Post: Can’t See by Maureen Miller
Questions I’ve Had Since My Cancer Diagnosis
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Turning Points: How I Became a Writer
