“In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”
— John 16:33
Big celebration time!
Yesterday was my last infusion. I got to ring the bell. Again.
If you’re keeping track like me, it has been quite a year: 1 port placement, 8 chemo infusions, 1 trip to the ER, 1 pink eye diagnosis, 1 lumpectomy surgery, 15 rounds of radiation, and 9 rounds of immunotherapy. I am still taking oral chemo until January, but the infusions are done.
And just because I rang the bell doesn’t mean I don’t still throw myself a Pity Party now and then.
I was much more emotional than I expected. Hearing that I can schedule the port removal and knowing I won’t sit in the chemo chair again was a bit surreal. As always, the nurses were magnificent. They gave me a big cheer.
Brian teased me. He thought you only rang the bell once. I rang it three times — after 8 rounds of chemo, after 15 rounds of radiation, and after 9 rounds of Keytruda. It’s like getting a gold star in school. Yes, I can see from the outside how that may seem excessive, but living it… oh, I earned those three bell ringings.
In the book of Joshua, when the Israelites finally crossed the Jordan River, God told them to do something that might seem excessive too. He told them to go back into the riverbed and pull out twelve stones — one for each tribe — and stack them on the bank. Not because the stones did anything. Because the stones remembered.
“In the future, when your children ask you, ‘What do these stones mean?’ tell them that the flow of the Jordan was cut off before the ark of the covenant of the Lord. These stones are to be a memorial to the people of Israel forever.”
— Joshua 4:6-7
You tell them what God brought you through.
That’s what those three bell ringings are. They’re my twelve stones. They mark the crossings. And when someone sitting in that chair for the first time hears the bell, they know — someone made it through. Someone finished. That bell isn’t for pride. It’s for proof.
I also took Valerie — she works the intake desk, the one with the rainbow pig — some flowers in a vintage pig bottle. She was thrilled. Called her husband right away. I had bought the bottle earlier this summer and knew I would bring it on my last infusion. Valerie is one of the reasons I wrote When Pigs Fly. She is one of the people who made the impossible feel possible.
“A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.”
— Proverbs 17:22
I was hoping some of my pink flowers for cancer awareness would still be alive in my flower garden. I went out and sure enough, the tallest pink zinnia was there, looking at me, saying pick me.
We had planned dinner with my sister-in-law Suzie and niece Lexie at Olive Garden. It wasn’t planned to celebrate — it was planned because Suzie was in town. But it became a celebration.
A few years ago, we were Olive Garden regulars when the bottomless pasta bowls hit their menu. We had a favorite server. When we walked in that night, our favorite server was there. We asked for her. In the course of our meal, she thanked us. She said on slow nights like a Tuesday, they send the servers home. She got to stay because we asked for her. She knew what we were celebrating. They brought a beautiful tray of Italian doughnuts, and with the raspberry syrup, they wrote out “Congrats on your Recovery!”
As I was leaving, I took my fingers and marked through the word “Recovery.” Check — I am doing that right now.
The dinner wasn’t planned. The server wasn’t planned. The doughnuts weren’t planned. The zinnia still standing in October wasn’t planned. But I think Someone planned all of it.
In Walking Through, I wrote about Psalm 23 — about how the shepherd doesn’t lead you around the valley, he leads you through it. But there’s a verse in that psalm that hit me differently that night at Olive Garden:
“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.”
— Psalm 23:5
Cancer has been my enemy for over a year. And right in the middle of it — not after, not when everything was perfect — God prepared a table. With breadsticks, and a favorite server, and Italian doughnuts. Sometimes God’s table looks a lot like Olive Garden on a Tuesday.
Now here’s the part where people expect me to talk about the question.
Why me?
When you get a cancer diagnosis, people assume that’s the first thing that crosses your mind. For some, it is. And I understand that. There is nothing wrong with asking it. But I never asked it. And the reason I didn’t starts with my dad.
My dad was diagnosed with colon cancer in 2012. He’d already beaten prostate cancer years earlier. When the colon cancer came, he said he understood why folks would think, “Why me?” He got it. But that attitude wasn’t for him. Life can be tough, but you keep walking through.
To back up — my dad wasn’t just a good person. He was the best person I have ever known.
He would never let you win. No matter a grandkid’s age or our age. If you beat him at anything, you knew he didn’t pull any punches. That held the last six months of his life. He beat the entire family at Around the World and Horse on the basketball court. He would look at you and quote one of his favorite movies: “In what world could you ever beat me?”
He loved sports and wanted us to donate his memorial to the recreation centers in our town and his grandkids’ town. There’s a sign with another favorite movie quote — from Miracle — on the baseball field: “This is your time.”
Towards the end of his life, he apologized to me. He said, “Sorry about the last year. I don’t think I gave you my best.”
I reminded him that he had beaten us on the basketball court just weeks earlier.
But I get what he meant now. After my last year, I get it. The year of treatment is a rough year. For a father with the gift of serving — and serving was his gift — I’m sure it didn’t live up to his standards. This is a man who never stayed at your house without filling up every vehicle with gas. As he would leave, he would say, “Wherever you go, there you are.”
When I was in junior high volleyball and would come home with bruised knees that the knee pads wouldn’t cover, he cut out foam and sewed it into the knee pads for extra padding. When we planted trees on the coldest day of the year because that was what the Farmer’s Almanac said to do, he would tell us, “A family that plants trees together stays together.” All the trees lived.
So for him, a cancer diagnosis wasn’t time for self-pity. It just meant you kept going. And when it was my turn — when the same disease knocked on my door — I already knew how this worked. Not because someone told me how to handle it. Because someone showed me.
Why not me? I’m no more exempt from the hard stuff than anyone else. Being a believer doesn’t come with a pass that says “skip the valley.” Jesus never promised that. What He actually said was the opposite. “In this world you will have trouble.” Not might. Will. That’s a guarantee. But He didn’t stop there. “But take heart! I have overcome the world.”
The trouble is coming. That part isn’t optional. But neither is the overcoming.
What a year. 1 port placement. 8 chemo infusions. 1 trip to the ER. 1 pink eye diagnosis — because apparently cancer wasn’t enough. 1 lumpectomy surgery. 15 rounds of radiation. 9 rounds of immunotherapy. 3 bell ringings. 1 zinnia that refused to quit. 1 Olive Garden server who got to stay. And 1 God who showed up at every single one.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a port removal to schedule.
My Prayer
Lord, You know the weight of this year — the chair, the port, the treatments I lost count of and the ones I never will. Thank You for carrying me through every one. Thank You for a dad who showed me that faith doesn’t mean you skip the hard parts. It means you keep walking. Thank You for memorial stones and bell ringings and pink zinnias that refuse to quit. Thank You for unplanned celebrations and tables You prepare when we’re not looking. For anyone reading this in the middle of their own fight — remind them that trouble is not a sign You’ve left. It’s the place where You do Your best work. In this world we will have trouble. But You have overcome the world. We believe that. Even on the hard days. Amen.
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~ Niki