The sound emitting from M's bedside table on Wednesday night was a little foreign. M didn't stir. I nudged him. "Your pager went off. Are you getting up?" He grunted. I raised myself to look at the clock on his bedside table - 10:35. It wasn't late. We'd got into bed at 10 but neither of us was sound asleep yet. I rolled over to try to sleep."It's your mother." My mother? I rolled back. M stood next to the bed with one of his two electronic gadgets in his hand. He read, "I'm up and about doing things at half pace. Thanks for all the prayers." Mom had sent us a text message. We seldom get text messages which is why I didn't recognise the sound.
It was good to hear from my mother herself. We had received news from my brother in Johannesburg on how my mother was doing. We knew that she had been in pain directly after her mastectomy on September 28th. A second email informed us that she was discharged 24 hours after the operation, was at home sleeping and to give her a day before calling. The next one said that Mom was in good spirits and feeling much better after a good sleep. And now the fourth update was from the lady of the moment herself. It was welcome news. I had been concerned and eager to know how my mother was. Yet I didn't want to call too soon. It was important that she recuperate.
Our telephone conversations have been more frequent since August 8th. We've discussed heartfelt issues, the C-words (cancer and chemo) and the reality that one day each of us will die. The question is 'will it be a thief, or will I have a chance to say goodbye' ? (Brian Doerksen - Your Faithfulness). These sincere conversations have not been sad or depressing. My mother's calm acceptance of her cancer journey, having processed her emotions for a time alone with my father before bringing others into the news (See Balneotherapy, August 2009), has had a calming effect on our interactions.
So I called her this morning, four days after the surgery. I anticipated more of my mother's calmness even expected some sadness and angst at the assault on her femininity. What I didn't expect was my mother's elation. Yes, she has lost a breast but she is alive! Not to say that she doesn't have six months of chemo to get through, but the prognosis for her type of cancer is good and, in this moment, she is the happiest she has been in a long time. I was blown away at Mom's speedy recovery and her positive outlook.
"You've been shrouded in prayers," I said "and it is showing."
"Please don't stop," she replied. "I've still got a long race ahead of me." My mother has run eleven Comrades Marathons (89km marathon in South Africa). She sees this as her twelfth. She knows what it is to do a gruelling race and cross the finish line. She's preparing herself mentally for the long haul. We also spoke about faith and God's faithfulness. Trusting that our life and times are in His hands gives us a different perspective to our hardships.
Mom, my prayer for you is that you will run the race set before you, that you will fight the good fight (you know the rules) and that you will receive a crown of health when you cross the finish line of chemo and, more importantly, that you will receive the crown of glory when, one day, you do cross the finish line of life.
