Horizons
I’m neither an optimist nor a pessimist;
Jesus Christ is risen from the dead!
~ Bishop Leslie Newbigin
We live in the land of horizons. Though I’ve lived many places, I truly am a prairie boy born and bred. The open canopy of stars. The chill, never-ending wind. The horizon. It’s a place where small human beings stand in the vast expanse ... and see.
These past two months have been a season of standing and seeing. Taking it all in. The good news. The bad news. The uncertain.
Let it come.
All of it...rolling over our home like a late summer thunderstorm. And we stand and see.
At the end of September, we had a consult with Mayo Clinic. This was the best decision we’ve made so far in this process. Dr. Martha Lacy at Mayo is a gem, and she brought us so much hope. Most importantly, her read of my charts puts me in the lowest risk category rather than Avera (local hospital) putting me in the medium risk category. (Avera thought I had a partial chromosome deletion that Mayo disputed - long story short, this is a big deal!)
Here’s what the next six months look like:
Initial Treatment
For four to six months I will be on chemo treatment. It runs on three week cycles starting this past Monday.
— 10 steroids every Monday
— A shot in my gut every Monday and Thursday for two weeks and the third week off.
— A chemo pill every day for two weeks and the third week off.
We are doing this treatment under Mayo’s supervision in Sioux Falls.
Stem Cell Transplant
When my cancer cell levels have been knocked down between 75%-90% we will go to Mayo for 3-6 weeks for a stem cell transplant. They harvest your stem cells out of your body, give you a few days of high dose chemo to kill the rest of your immune system (!!), and then give your stem cells back. I’m not so much looking forward to this part.
They will do this as an outpatient procedure at Mayo. So, thankfully, my whole family will get to be there with me even though I will be in the hospital for 4-6 hours a day.
New Normal
I’ll slowly recover and remain on one chemo drug daily for the next two years on what they call ‘maintenance therapy.’ Somewhere around 9 months after my transplant, I’ll get all my childhood vaccines again since the procedure wipes them all out! Crazy.
And so we stand. We look to the horizon... letting all these new realities sweep over us. We’re not trying to ‘look on the bright side.’ We’re not trying to ignore a terminal diagnosis. Nor have we bowed to all this news as if Jesus hasn’t gone before us in this journey. Jesus’ resurrection allows for us to stand and see it all... and not be swept away. I dare say, we can feel hope thrumming in deep places. And, by his hand, we are unbowed to these circumstances.
Please pray that Dave continues to feel relatively low side effects from all the poison pills I’m taking. Pray the treatment works as quickly as possible, so we can move on to the transplant phase of this process. Pray for me as I return to work at UPS soon, that I would be sustained.
Much of our journey so far has been us receiving from Jesus, through you. The generosity of spirit and kindness of friend and stranger.
Thank you to my UPS friends who gave so generously for our Mayo expenses.
Thank you to many of you who gave money for a sauna project where I’ll be able to detox from so many poison pills! We are building it in our basement as we speak (We have enough money - please stop giving to this project!)
Thank you to fellow believers in Jesus who have brought our household to the throne of grace. We belong to one another. Thank you for shouldering the burdens you can.
Thank you to our church, Christ Our Hope. We love you already (even though we only started a few weeks ago!).
Dave (for Amy, Charles and Owen)
He lives. He reigns. He loves.
I’ll send an update in the next few weeks.