I was 21 when the word that nobody wants to hear forced its way into my reality:
My mom was the one who received the dreaded diagnosis at age 50, and I immediately fell into a panic.
Would she die? How much longer did she have?
Right away, it was as if the cancer was now in control – as if it had a mind of its own.
The very fact that the cells were unseen made it even more scary … were they spreading even as she slept? Where were they now? Just how vicious and aggressive were they? Could they be stopped?
Few things were more crippling or paralyzing than waiting for test results.
A choking fear would make its way from the lump in my throat to grip my pounding and fretful heart. I would be robbed of sleep – and I wasn’t even the patient!
My heart would leap into my throat every time the phone rang, for fear of more bad news.
It was even easy for me to view the doctors as though they had the omniscience of God Himself. I would ask them questions which they had no ability to answer – like, “How much longer?”
The reign of peace was forfeited and anxiety elbowed its way to the throne.
I had to realign my thinking, or I would’ve gone mad.