God is my Rock in whom I seek refuge ...

Really? Well, where were You, oh God, when I was diagnosed? Or even before I was diagnosed? Why weren’t You my body’s strength and refuge so that I didn’t even have to be diagnosed?!

These words, unspoken, fleetingly rushed through my mind in nanoseconds as I sat there listening to her explain how tumours can sometimes spread - metastasise being the official word - in spite of apparently successful treatment. Her words faded into the background … 

I had first sat in this basement situated windowless yet bright office, situated in the hospital, years ago. Windowless - and very much reflective of the office of a doctor - it was a typically generic space filled with the stereotypical stethoscope or other medical instrument, the obligatory posters on the wall of some part of the anatomy relevant to their practice, perhaps a “bed” and the computer sitting in the middle of the desk with its screen looking back at you. 

This time the computer screen came pre-loaded with a picture of what could be likened to a large, black butterfly.  A large, black butterfly with whiteish specks or blemishes on its “wings”.  Those specks or blemishes were what would drive the conversation of today’s visit.  That butterfly would be predicting my future - little did I know then - for over the next 100 months. That butterfly was the computer image of my lungs, the results of the CT scan that I had had a week prior to today’s visit.  That image, once manipulated, would also show my chest cavity. I weirdly thrilled to but equally loathed that computer screen.  It had power - or so it thought - over me. Power to fill me with hope, power to fill me with dread.

I was never the ill person!  I was overweight and be type II diabetic but I was never ill! I was a survivor of miscarriages, surgeries and divorce but never, ever ill! But here I was.  Now!  Officially being diagnosed with stage IVb metastatic cancer!!

Cancer was not something I had ever thought of as a disease to be concerned about; it wasn’t part of my DNA heritage; I loathed smoking; I had no known encounters with asbestos. There was absolutely nothing that I could think of having ever done or was currently doing that would cause me to think that that loathsome word would ever be a part of my vocab, my life.

Yet here I sat - once again - listening to her telling me how the chemotherapy was expected to work this time; how it might affect me this time; how it might interfere with the life that I was currently living this time …

Her words continued but my mind wandered.  How are You my refuge, God? This was so much more than when I had miscarried twice in a row - the first time an unfortunate, early loss, the second time at 16 weeks pregnant.

How, God, are you my strong tower and defence?  All defensive walls were now well and truly flattened - even more so than when I discovered that my ex-husband had walked away from the vows we had exchanged.

Finally, thankfully even, the oncologist finished speaking.  I did what she wanted, I signed the consent form. I shook her hand. I smiled.  I left. I had done this before.

Because He is my Rock, Strong Tower and Defence ...