In the Arms of My Beloved

“Your biopsy results show a cancerous growth.”
This was not what I had hoped to hear from my doctor as I was actively pursuing my God-appointed destiny. But, I was sure of one thing—God’s promise is that He would never leave me. I was about to embark on a journey into unfamiliar territory. Without a road map, I was unsure of the trip and questioned the destination. As I closed my eyes and silently looked to the Lord, I heard “Christ in me the hope of glory.”

Regardless of the circumstances, I knew I trusted in who He is—a faithful God whose love is everlasting. As I ventured into the fire, the Lord went with me and at every corner, in every detail, He was there. He became more than the sustainer of life and the lifter of my head; He became my confidant and friend and proved beyond any doubt that He loves me more than anyone ever could. I knew with certainty that He would work all these things together for good.
In the beginning . . .
On March 22, 2006, I discovered a lump in my right breast. I was not panicked as my family has no history of breast cancer, and it never occurred to me that I might have breast cancer. A fairly healthy person, I rarely needed the services of a doctor. Still, the discovery disturbed me and so I called my family physician who suggested that it was just a cyst—not to worry. However, to be safe, she arranged for a mammogram. During the next two weeks I tried not to think about it too much, however I found myself checking the lump every ten minutes or so to see if it was still there.
The day finally arrived for the mammogram—my first, so the entire procedure was new to me. The x-ray was done at a small hospital in Vancouver that definitely turned out to be the Lord’s choice—one of many indications of His watchful eye upon me. I checked in at the registration desk and took a seat in the large lobby area. The fingerprints of the Lord were everywhere, in scripture and biblical pictures on every wall of the waiting room—a sign of His closeness that gave me great peace.
They called me into an area designated for “patients only,” then directed me to the changing room in preparation for the exam. Unlike the lobby waiting room that was bright and comfortable, I waited on a hard plastic chair, in a cold, dimly lit hallway. The standard issue hospital gown came fresh out of the warming oven, which was a great comfort in the ominous corridor. Such a small, insignificant act helped immeasurably amidst the tension that was beginning to sneak in. It felt like a warm hug settling any fears and restlessness. This was the beginning of many medical visits where I would brusquely be directed to strip down to my waist and put on a gown. While waiting my turn, I witnessed many orderlies swiftly shuffling people from one room to another. I sensed an unspoken connection between us; as patients we were all grasping at any opportunity to be distracted. The moving gurneys were close to my eye level, so my instinct was to make eye contact with each person and offer a smile as they rolled past. This simple gesture seemed to transcend words, offering a brief moment of life and light to their day. Helping others has always been a coping mechanism for me to alleviate tension, as it takes my eyes off myself and focuses me on the needs of others. It invariably turned a long, lonely wait into an opportunity for joy and blessing.
After the humiliating experience of having my breasts flattened on a cold metal surface and then photographed for what they called a mammogram, I was sent back into the hallway to wait again. I felt a bit troubled as they decided to move up the date of my ultrasound to today. I know people often criticize the healthcare system, but in my case those responsible certainly addressed my situation immediately. (And I am sure God had something to do with it too.) On the move again, I was shuffled off into a new examination room for a more thorough inspection of “the lump.” With all the doctors, nurses, and interns I faced in nine months of treatment, I never got used to being asked to disrobe before strangers. I tried to remind myself that I was just another “body” to them, which did not always help me in my on-going struggle of self-worth. In fact, it slowly brought shame over me as I tried to mentally disconnect from what was going on.
The room was fairly dark with only enough light to read the ultrasound monitor. I was positioned on the bed in such a way that I could see the screen. As I was not really sure what I was looking at, I would shift my glance from the monitor over to the technician, looking for answers in his response. Their medical training must teach them how to remain unaffected by every new discovery of a cancerous tumour, as his facial expressions did not tell me a thing.
He took a couple of snapshots and then called in a doctor for an assessment. Although they remained unemotional, I felt the tension of their discovery. When they were done, I asked for a copy of the picture for my records. The technician seemed a bit surprised by my request, but graciously went down the hall to copy it for me. A shock of reality hit me hard . . . I had always imagined my first ultrasound photo to be of a child in my womb, not a lump in my breast. An appointment was scheduled the following week for a biopsy of the lump, a delay that suited me just fine as I already felt the burden of too much information to process.