ONE-EYED GOD WINKS

The morning we returned from our cruise, I checked in to the cancer center for a PET scan. 

Sitting in the waiting room, I observed the comings and goings of precious souls in various stages of cancer. Some were in wheelchairs, many had brightly-colored scarves covering their hairless heads, most looked gaunt and weary.  Yet every single person who looked my way offered a smile which I gratefully returned, along with a prayer. 

I didn't consider myself to be “one of them”.  I didn't feel like a cancer patient. Still,  I was honored to be in the company of  mighty warriors who never volunteered for such duty. 

I couldn't really tell you the precise moment that clarity struck, or as I like to say, sh*t got real. Somewhere between the waiting room and the act of being slid in and out of the PET scanner like an indecisive pizza pie, I accepted the reality that cancer would change my life in a defining way. 

And once again I heard, “Breathe in Jesus... breathe out peace.” 

As I became accustomed to the noise of the machine, I noticed music playing softly in the background. It was a Christian song that I had heard before, but really did not know. (I don't often listen to contemporary Christian music – I'm an old-time gospel kind of gal.)  Even though I couldn't hear all the words, the beautiful melody calmed me.   Then, just as the noisy scanner clicked off, I heard the final chorus of the song loud and clear: 

It is well, it is well... with my soul. 

My face broke out in a smile as I tried to keep my eyes from leaking. Those nine little words at the end of that song were a God Wink to me. 

[God Wink (noun) An event or personal experience, often identified as coincidence, so astonishing that it is seen as a sign of divine intervention, especially when perceived as the answer to a prayer.]

Last year, when my brothers and I were planning Mom's funeral, I was adamant about including “It Is Well” in her celebration services. I wasn't sure why, but I knew it had to be. 

Several months later, my cousin sent me a CD she had recorded from old reel-to-reel tapes of our family singing gospel music. It was a treasure of unspeakable worth. My Daddy's big bass voice blending with his Dad and family, along with my Mom's beautiful alto, simply flooded my heart with precious memories. But the best part was hearing their noisy chatter and jovial banter between songs. My Mom's voice – wilting violet that she was – came through loud and clear. In her twangy Texas brawl she drawled, “Paaaaauuuuul, I wanna sing that song that we sang in church... It is Well With My Soul. I loooooove that song – I want it sang at my funeral! 

And three decades later, my soul remembered and her wish was fulfilled. 

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Yesterday, I was visiting with my sister/friend – my 'ride or die' chick. We've been together from the cradle. From skinned knees to age spots... baby lotion to Retin-A... diapers to Depends (she's gonna kill me for that one). 

My friend was telling me how worried she was about my health, fearful of not having me in her life. “Robin, the entire time you were in surgery, all I did was pray and sing this song over you..." 

 

As she played the song, the words touched me deeply. We listened together in silent tears, our old familiar hearts exchanging words too hard to speak. And as I heard the last chorus I realized... 

This was the very song God had sent me during my PET scan. 

So many God Winks. So much peace in the knowledge that God is walking beside me each step of the way. Not a whisper of need to understand His purpose, only inadequacy in expressing gratitude for my blessings... for His healing.  Always with the understanding that 'Even If' He did not heal me, my hope is forever in Him. 

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Approximately half of Ocular Melanoma patients have a specific genetic make-up indicating a high risk of developing cancer mets (primarily to the liver). For this particular cancer, DNA testing is a very accurate prognosticator. 

This morning, I received the results of my biopsy. They were everything we prayed for --- I'm in the other half.

My doctor gave me an “Excellent Prognosis” which means this: Melanoma is a tricky little turd and there's always a possibility that years down the road, it might show up, again. It's also likely that I could die tomorrow from eating 14 servings of desserts in one setting. That's exactly how the King of Sweden died in 1771 and I'm pretty sure he's my Spirit Animal. 

But cancer..?  Nope.  Not today.

P.S.  GET YOUR EYES DILATED!!!

The 'C' Word

I'm radioactive, y'all. 

Two days ago, I underwent surgery to sew a disc filled with radioactive seeds to the back of my right eye. 

I have eye cancer. (The medical term is Ocular Melanoma but don't Google it... it'll scare the crap out of you.) 

I'm one of the lucky ones – mine is very small and treatable. The radiation and some other opthal-magic tricks should stop the melanoma in its tracks. 

But even with a good prognosis, there's not a great way to tell people you have cancer. Just the mention of that 'C' word freaks everybody out and they start talking reeeeaaaal slow, treating me like I'm gonna break. 

I'm not gonna break. Or even crack. 

I have laid it at God's feet – where everything in my life belongs – and I am golden. Glowing like a glowworm. 

If I had my druthers, I would have kept this between me and God... wouldn't have told anybody, even Dickie. But apparently, leaving the hospital after eye surgery without a driver is frowned upon in this establishment.

And then there's the fact that God just keeps pecking away at me, reminding me that He can use this to His glory; reminding me of my purpose... why I'm here. 

Clearly, my purpose is to overshare the details of my life on my blog and Facebook. 

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About seven weeks ago, my eye became suddenly blurry. The optometrist immediately referred me to an ophthalmologist. My appointment just happened to be at the same time the Dickman was scheduled for an upper and lower GI. We gave Jacob the dubious task of accompanying his Dad to The Butt Scope. (Key to this story is understanding just how much my husband loses his ever-loving mind on sedation.) 

After the scope, the nurse took Jacob back to recovery where he overheard his Dad earnestly trying to convert the sweet Hindu doctor to Christianity and also gunning for all the nurses to get a pay raise.  All Jacob could do was apologize and clamp his hand over his Dad's big mouth. As quickly as possible, he loaded him in the pickup and brought him to me. 

After a battery of tests, I was waiting to meet with the ophthalmologist.  I looked up just in time to catch a dopey-looking Dickman lumbering towards me with Jacob following closely behind, sending apologetic looks over his Dad's shoulder. 

“He's been a handful, huh?” I asked JP.

“Let's just say, I will never show my face in that office again, mmmkay?” replied my long suffering son. 

I told Dickie he could stay with me, but only if he kept his mouth shut. 

He just giggled. 

The doctor called us back to his office to give me the news. I heard the words, “Ocular Melanoma”, and before the first finger of fear could even began to creep up my spine - clear as a bell - a little voice in my head said, “Just breathe. Breathe in Jesus, Breathe out peace.” 

And I did.

The Dickman, however, was a few beats behind. I explained to my doctor that he was 'a wee bit loopy' from his buttscope. The doc looked at him in concern and asked, “Did everything go well?” 

“Oh, yeah,” replied Dickie with a goofy grin, “The doctor said I was a perfect butthole.” 

Which (pardon the pun) brings us full circle...

Dickie sent this picture of me eating ice cream after surgery to my entire family. I told him I couldn't believe he shared such an awful picture of me. He said, “It's not bad... that's exactly how you look when you're tired and hungry.”

(The worst part of the surgery was that they wouldn't let me wear ANY makeup. Also they refused to give me a boob job, no matter how nicely I asked.) 

But seriously, I'm doing great. In fact, I got up this morning, put my sneakers on and ran three miles. I'm kidding. I ate four pieces of french toast covered in syrup and a Twix bar.  I'll think about eating healthier tomorrow. (Again, I'm kidding.)

The radiation disc will be removed in a couple of days and then, well... then I'll get on with living this wonderful life I've been given more of.  

I plan on loving deeper and speaking sweeter... breathing in Jesus, breathing out peace. 

P.S.  If you're reading this and are not getting your eyes dilated yearly, DO IT NOW.   

P.S.S.  You know all those other things in life you've always wanted to do? You should do them, too. Now.