Next Steps.

Sometimes I question why I still believe. There is frustration in knowing that God has the ability to snap a finger and bring healing—and yet here we sit. I am lost in a maze of grief…every turn is a dead end. A big, knotty mess of emotions, searching for some sort of sense in all of this craziness.

I know deep down that suffering is dimensional. You can search your whole life for a reason, but truth be told, there is no one reason for the heartache. God isn’t one dimensional and neither is suffering. The current Goliath in your life might be about your ability to witness to someone later rather than for your own current maturity. Regardless, it doesn’t stop me from searching for a reason. I have bargained with God, I have slid down the slippery slope of “why”, I have searched for the lesson, and now I am perched at anger. I didn’t even realize it was anger until my counselor pointed it out, and he was right. Every time I see a couple interacting, or a father with his children, I slowly shut off, building an internal wall of resentment. I don’t mean too, all these emotions have been slowly simmering like a tea kettle on the stove. It’s not fair! Why do others get to go on with their lives? I don’t like these feelings, and yet I can’t ignore them. Why does processing have to be process? I feel lost and helpless. I miss my strong and steady man to process with, and to hold the screaming toddler after a long day. Where do faith and acceptance intersect? How do you live expectantly while facing the unexpected? I want these answers, but I don’t have them.

It has been a difficult but necessary transition having Brock temporarily move out of the home. He currently rotates between family. I have wrestled with guilt and shame, especially when Brock tearfully asks me “why are you kicking me out of the house?” I hate everything about this decision but it was a vital one. Choosing between the kids and Brock was heart wrenching. I feel I have failed him, the kids, and our marriage. I was embarrassed to tell anyone because I was afraid people would judge me like I am judging myself. However, my counselor said standing up for the kids isn’t weakness. Weakness is living in the illusive agony of solitude, believing the enemy’s whispers of defeat. Acknowledging your limitations and admitting your need for help is true strength.

It has been a challenge adjusting to being a single mom. Even though Brock hasn’t been able to help since surgery, at least there had been another adult around. Now, the house is lonely … no one to lean on when you’re at your breaking point, no one to tell you that you’re doing a good job, no breaks. Just me. I have called my mom so many times just to hear another adult’s voice after a long day. It’s refreshing to hear a voice that isn’t demanding or crying. It is like someone took a pin to everything I hoped and dreamed and popped the balloon. How? Why? Although it has been hard, the house has become a safe haven again for the kids to just be kids. The air is light and lively again. Providing a space for them to feel secure, free of criticism, and loved during a season of uncertainty was priceless for their young, impressionable minds.

Since finding out that the tumor is growing back at a unprecedented pace, I have been given two options of treatment; radiation or secondary resection (AKA another brain surgery). I got second opinions, third opinions, even fourth and fifth opinions, some biased and some unbiased ones … the answers were all the same: it is a rare tumor and treatment is very controversial. One of the neurosurgeons I spoke with told me “he wouldn’t even know what he would pick if it was his own wife, he would have to do a lot of soul searching.” I made a long list of pro’s and con’s for each option. I searched, even begged God for clarity—nothing. None of the options feel right. The frustrating part is that the tumor’s regrowth has no effect on our current reality, it is just another hurdle. Instead, either treatment puts him at a higher risk for more health issues.

I hate watching Brock suffer like this. He has stopped at a hard spot … aware enough to know his mind is off, but yet not accepting of help. It is next to impossible to reason with him. He tearfully cries out for Jesus to take him to heaven. I see his mental struggle and my heart breaks, it doesn’t feel fair. I don’t want to put him through more Hell just so he can be here on earth suffering longer. My heart longs for quality of life over quantity. I never thought I would get to this point, but watching him suffer like this is more than I can bear.

I was running out of time to make a decision and didn’t want my fear to have the final say. I was leaning towards radiation as it is more of a ‘controlled’ risk. This week I got down on my knees in desperation and put a metaphorical fleece out before the Lord. I had a call scheduled with a neurosurgeon located in Pittsburgh, but before the call I prayed “Lord if surgery is your will I need to hear the doctor specifically say ‘xyz’ and that will be my sign from You”. I told my counselor about the fleece I put before the Lord; both of us thinking that the actuality of the surgeon saying ‘xyz’ is next to impossible but it will be a clear sign of direction if he does. I picked up the phone and the surgeons first words were specifically what I had prayed—I got my answer (que goosebumps). I am terrified to be moving forward with surgery, but above all, I wanted answers from Heaven. I wanted to know that come Hell or high water, I can walk confidently toward Goliath.

Secondary resection will be scheduled to take place in the next 6-8 weeks in Pittsburgh by a neurosurgeon who is well versed in Brock’s tumor and, specifically, secondary resections. The idea of surgery brings up a lot of emotional trauma within me, because after the first surgery, Brock was part of the unlikely 10% of risks/outcomes. I want to acknowledge the fear associated with the past, while also stepping forward in faith. I can’t move forward while looking in a rearview mirror. I ask for prayer for our family and specifically Brock during these next couple of weeks as we prepare and plan for the trip to Pittsburgh. That details would come together seamlessly, and with each passing day, the fear inside would melt away and turn to confidence. Also, prayer for me, as I not only am raising these kids alone, but seem to be constantly faced with new life-altering medical decisions for Brock. This surgery is just the another step into an all new world of unknowns. I also want to take the time to praise God for providing a new endcronologist who not only understood the complexity of Brock’s case but was also knowledgeable, it was a breath of fresh air!

My children do not know that Brock’s tumor is back, or that another surgery is right around the corner. I have temporarily withheld this information from them—the last time that they knew their daddy went for surgery, he never really came back. They’re starting to slowly regain a semblance of normalcy in this new, adjusted life with only me—and I don’t want to cause more fear or hurt until we have a better understanding of what’s next. So, if you see us out and about, please say hi! I just respectfully ask that you not inquire about Brock’s upcoming surgery in front of the kids. My hope is to preserve their feelings of security for as long as I possibly can.

Someone recently said that it is easy to share our struggles from ten years ago, but it is difficult to share our current challenges. It’s hard to admit the defeating reality of our struggles when you haven’t claimed a victory over them. To be open, honest, and admitting of the angry, shameful, and confusing feelings is hard. All of this is to say that although it is hard to write through the grief and pain, I want to share the uncomfortable in hopes of comforting someone else lost in the depths of despair. I am acknowledging that although God’s arms may not be the safest place to be (as his own son faced trails and persecution), those same arms are the best place to be, as they offer a hope that can’t be found on earth. Thank you all for your continued prayers, love, and support. You’ll never truly know what it means to me.