Chapter 9 - Three Storms at Once

Cancer did not arrive in an empty life.

I thought I was standing in one storm.

It turned out I was standing in three.

Leukemia was the obvious storm and, strangely, the easiest one to understand because it had a plan. There were medications, treatment cycles, blood tests, transfusions, and specialists.

My mother’s declining health formed another storm.

A separate family situation formed the third.

Some parts of those stories are not mine alone to tell. Illness does not cancel another person’s right to privacy, and memoir does not grant ownership over every experience intersecting with my own.

What I can describe is the weight.

One storm is enough to rearrange a life.

Three storms can make it difficult to know where to look.

I wanted to move toward every problem at once.

The storms did not agree to arrive in sequence.

They overlapped.

A Body That Said No

Before leukemia, concern usually moved me toward action.

If someone needed help, I went.

If there was a problem, I tried to solve it.

Now my body imposed limits that concern could not override.

There were places I could not safely go and tasks I could not perform. Sometimes the most responsible action was to remain where I was and let someone else respond.

This felt like failure even when it was wisdom.

I had associated love with availability and responsibility with action.

Treatment required me to understand that resting, recovering, and following medical instructions were also responsibilities.

My body said no to roles my heart still wanted to fill.

The Illusion of Indispensability

There is a flattering form of anxiety that tells us everything depends on us.

It sounds responsible.

It feels sacrificial.

But beneath it is the assumption that without my direct involvement, the people I love cannot be cared for properly.

Cancer exposed the arrogance hidden inside that assumption.

I was important to my family.

I was loved.

My presence mattered.

But I was not the only person through whom help could arrive.

Others could make calls, drive, prepare food, complete errands, or sit in the room.

They might not do everything exactly as I would have done it.

Sometimes they would do it better.

Releasing responsibility did not mean withdrawing love.

It meant allowing love to travel through more than one pair of hands.

One Storm at a Time

The storms themselves refused to form a line.

My attention could.

At an appointment, I could listen to the medical team.

During a family conversation, I could focus on the person speaking.

While resting, I could allow rest to be the task.

During prayer, I could name what frightened me without immediately designing a solution.

The storms remained simultaneous.

My attention did not have to be.

This became another form of the next-bridge principle.

I did not need to cross three bridges in a single step.

I needed to identify the bridge directly in front of me.

Further Medical Decisions

As treatment continued, additional information helped the medical team evaluate the road ahead.

Cancer care rarely offers only one simple question.

The team had to consider the nature of the leukemia, my response to induction, the results of further testing, the risks associated with additional treatment, and the best strategy for protecting remission.

I wanted clear answers.

Medical decisions sometimes arrive instead as comparisons between risks.

What is the risk of proceeding?

What is the risk of not proceeding?

What does the evidence suggest?

How does that evidence apply to this particular patient?

What benefits are possible?

What complications must be considered?

What remains unknown?

I was grateful for experts who could guide those conversations.

I was also aware that expertise does not eliminate uncertainty. Medicine can provide evidence, probabilities, experience, and recommendations. It cannot turn the future into a guarantee.

Once again, participation was required without control.

I listened. I asked questions. Leslie listened and asked questions too. We took notes. We prayed.

We sought to understand not only what the team recommended but why.

Then we faced the next decision with the information available.

Faith did not replace the medical process.

It gave us somewhere to stand within it.

Storm Theology

A storm can create the impression that you are abandoned without hope because the conditions are loud.

Wind takes over the senses.

Rain limits visibility.

The horizon disappears.

Everything feels unstable.

But loud is not the same as ultimate.

The storms were real.

The leukemia was real.

The family concerns were real.

The exhaustion and fear were real.

Faith did not ask me to call the storms imaginary.

It asked me to refuse them the final word.

Concern and Worry

I wrestled with the difference between concern and worry.

Concern was useful:

Pay attention.

Wear the mask.

Call the hospital.

Ask questions.

Follow instructions.

Worry was like hiring a very anxious project manager who produced no useful work but sent constant updates.

I tried to fire that project manager daily.

I did not receive strength for every possible future.

I received enough for the next necessary step.