Last week, I went in for an MRI, but the machine “threw an error code,” so I ended up waiting for quite a while until the medical staff could figure things out. As the minutes ticked by, though, it became increasingly difficult to keep my thoughts calm. The reason for these scans, after all, was an increase in pain. My neck, specifically where a tumor is located at the base of my skull, has been hurting significantly more, accompanied by a surge in headaches. My doctor was concerned the cancer might be growing again.
In that moment, a wave of confusion washed over me. Why exactly was I so worried? Is it the pain? The future? The connotation of cancer itself? I've been going through this for years; it's not like I'm fearing the unknown… except maybe the “final adventure.” But fear of death aside, sometimes actually having firsthand knowledge about specific treatments might induce anxiety too. It’s just that the thought of a growing tumor could mean more radiation, and I don't know if I can endure THAT again. Radiation itself isn’t terrible other than being restrained—I really hate being restrained, especially when they’ve used the face cage while they’ve radiated by brain (they don’t want people to move, hoping for up to one millimeter of accuracy!)—but the aftermath of radiation is what’s much worse than the exact moment of treatment itself. Brain radiation gave me headaches. Radiation on my lower back and abdomen gave me extreme nausea and vomiting. That was horrendous, and I do not want to do any of that again because previously the symptoms lasted for months and months. Plus, they said radiating my upper neck, if it’s near my mouth and tongue… that can affect other things, like speech. We all have lines we don’t want to cross, this might be my final straw. Yet, ironically, each time I come against something I feel incapable of facing, compared with more time with my children and husband, I’ve realized I’ll do almost anything.
While I sat waiting for my scans, teetering on the edge of a complete meltdown, something surprisingly shifted as I suddenly thought about my last visit to the synagogue.
Several of us had clustered around a table, preparing for a Torah study. Being quite hot earlier, the building still felt warm that evening, and several people opened windows to try cooling things down. A gentle breeze danced across my skin definitely adding to the ambiance as we talked about the afterlife and how things can change as we get closer to the end.
“We shouldn't call them disabilities," Dale, a man who often assists our rabbi, said, "they're just ‘different’ abilities because when one thing is taken away, our other attributes become enhanced."
I continued pondering his words even as we discussed the well-known saying, "When one door closes, another door will open."
"We need to have faith in G-d," a woman commented. (Note: Many Jews spell G-d with a dash out of respect for Him; there’s some great commentary about this practice online.) After her words about faith, ironically—at that exact moment—a huge gust of wind swept through the open synagogue windows, whooshing around us and dramatically slamming two doors shut in the kitchen! The noise resounded, making all of us pause with shock and awe.
When doors close… that’s what we’d JUST been discussing!
Chills ran down my spine. "That was pretty amazing," I whispered, feeling as though G-d had been an active part of our Torah study.
Anyway, while awaiting scans, even remembering that moment brought me immense peace. I find comfort in the idea of G-d being in control; for me, it adds a profound sense of meaning to our chaotic world. It's truly amazing how trust can simplify things so much.
So, after I went for my scans and then infusions over the next two days, I found myself filled with faith in the nurses and my oncologist, too. I realized that faith truly does make this challenging process a lot easier to navigate. It’s like putting on a seatbelt and feeling a sense of safety even though you know something bad still might happen.
“The tumor in your neck hasn’t grown since the last scans,” my oncologist said after he reviewed the results of my scans after I finally got them done. I felt a rush of relief. This was such incredible news. Thank goodness for small miracles AND big ones too, like the godwink we witnessed at the synagogue when the doors closed and reminded me that no matter what it’ll all be okay because G-d is in control and there must be a reason this is happening.
