A dad's perspective

I allowed myself to grieve and imagine Rachel's funeral for about one half hour on the day that Becky called me from Idaho. I was so sad for about 30 minutes. After that, I dug in to exercise my own volition to be realistically positive. I understand odds. Hodkins Lymphoma has a very high recovery rate. But I understand odds and know that the probability of success over many trials never predicts success in an individual event. For the odds to be applicable to us, I would need 100 daughters diagnosed with cancer, of whom I would only lose 10 or so. Not having 100 daughters, it was clear that my one daughter might be one of the 10 lost in the collection of 100. No matter how good the odds, we could still lose. I also knew that no matter what the odds, I could shave them in my favor by several things.

1: Faith.

Faith is action based on trust in an unseen reality. I know that God is real and very attentive to our lives. I know that God hears and responds to my prayers. I know that whatever God asks is right. I knew that in my daily prayers (and the prayers of all the friends around us) I could explain our situation and ask for God to heal Rachel. I know that he would hear me. I also know that if it were His will to take her to the other side, it would be right. Knowing that He hears, understands, attends, and will only do that which is ultimately best for us, allows me to let go and be hopeful and at peace. Being hopeful and at peace is salutary in its own right and shaves the odds in my favor.

2: Empathy.

Empathy comes in many forms, not just formulaic reflective listening. Teasing in just the right tone. "Oh, yeah, cancer girl gets her way with everything. She sleeps in as long as she wants. She gets people to bring her food. Cancer's working for you, girl." is a back door way to say, "I know you are not really getting your way with the most important things and it is hard". Driving around town while Rachel cries before she can go into work and thereby making myself late for work is a back door way to say "I'm with ya kid". Singing loud in the car and making dopey jokes (In my heart, I know I'm funny) are back door ways to say "you can do things to feel happy even when everything is hurting ...and I wouldn't be so obviously dopey unless I knew that you were really hurting." Multiplying nicknames is back door empathy as well. My favorite nickname for Rachel now is "Morty" which is short for "Voldemort" or calling her "She who must not be named". Both of which are to say, I know that you don't really like being bald and I miss your honey hair, too. When we know that someone is willing to suffer with us in empathy, no matter how it is communicated, it is salutary and shaves the odds.

3. Holding as many things constant as possible.

When trials come it is helpful to localize their impact. Holding our daily family prayers, weekly family home evenings, chores, schedules and duties as usual shaves the odds by limiting the spread of the trauma. As we have always done at dinner time, asking in round robin style, "What was your happiest moment today?" emphasizes that in good times and bad, we still focus on the good and are grateful for our blessings. Consistency and gratitude shave the odds.

4. Disciplining myself to be even more patient everywhere in my life.

Indulging in any impatience works against peace and hopefulness. I often tell others that "In our family, we are patient people." I usually say this when I, or another family member is tempted to become impatient. Disciplining myself to be patient brings peace, is salutary, and shaves the odds in our favor.

5. Extending forgiveness.

Forgiveness is similar to patience. The deeper I can dig to forgive, the better. Extending forgiveness frees us of burdens that otherwise weigh our spirits down. The freedom that comes from forgiving is salutary and shaves the odds in our favor.

So, I have worked to exercise faith, empathy, consistency, patience and forgiveness. It has been work that I am willing to do. My experience at hearing Dr. Wallentine say, (and I quote) "From every way I have to look at it, the cancer is gone" was to feel a gradual, gentle release. There was no exultant jubilation or soaring joy. Just a gentle release.

Now, I know that "every way we have to look at it" is not perfect. We are limited in our assessment, it ain't over, and the odds are still in play. Even so, I have felt a gentle release of tension and worry.

Rachel has worked to exercise her faith, show empathy, be consistent, patient and forgiving as well. Our neighbor, Brad Wilson, astutely observed that Rachel is uniformly cheerful and optimistic at church, but, that as she walks home, he sees her progressively deflate as she goes along. He could tell that she is working hard and gets fatigued by it all, but keeps working at it anyway. Rachel tries to be empathetic to the other patients in the chemo room. Whether she can communicate it or not at the moment, she comes home and describes how some people in the chemo suite seem to be suffering much more than she is. They are weaker or more tired or distressed than she is and she worries about them. She has maintained as much consistency as possible. We are eternally grateful to her employer, Rick Ashcraft, for allowing her great flexibility to work as often as she can. Working for Rick has been extremely helpful in keeping her going. Having work and a duty to others have kept her looking forward and outside of herself. Rae has been patient with her own chemo brain. It is frustrating to not have all of her cognitive quickness and to be in a fog when she is accustomed to thinking very quickly, but she has been patient with herself. She has forgiven others.

Shavin' the odds, Morty!