Colleen Elisabeth Chao is an editor and author. She enjoys dark-dark chocolate, side-splitting laughter, and half-read books piled bedside. She makes her home near Boise, Idaho, with her husband Eddie, their son Jeremy, and Willow the dog.
The veil feels extra thin today… like gossamer or tulle. And while I may be living my best 90-year-old life right now (*snort*), it helps to know there’s a reality so much bigger and better than this present one—a fact that makes today deeply meaningful and worth living to the hilt.
I’m sitting in The Chair again—chair number 10, tucked back in the corner of the chemo ward. (Pretty sure this is purposeful… they put the wild ones back here.) Today is my return to Thugtherapy (my name for Trastuzumab, an immunotherapy that spares the hair but otherwise feels like chemo to my body). When I walked in earlier, R., a BSU student who’s my favorite phlebotomist, flashed me the sweetest smile—and Nurse K. looked up and said, “Welcome back!” after my 17-month hiatus. One of the acupuncturists just finished giving me a 30-minute treatment, which makes such a difference. (I’m so grateful the medical community is slowly embracing and integrating holistic resources!) My nurses and clinicians are lovely and kind and just the right amount of sassy. I adore these people.
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The woman in the chair next to me has a thin spike of hair (far more than several women in the waiting room had—they wore caps and beanies on their billiard-bald heads). A cheesy rendition of “I keep holding on” is playing a little too loud over tinny speakers, and if I were independently wealthy, I’d rip out this ugly old, patched linoleum and these cheap uncomfortable chairs and remodel this joint with as much warmth and beauty as possible. But more than a desire to remodel, my heart cries out, Jesus, shine your Light and Love into this place, into these hearts.
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Due to metastases making headway on my spine, last week I suffered a spinal fracture accompanied by pain that has made every movement and breath…special. As I was making light of it all, Dr. H told me it’s actually considered an emergency (due to the risk of spinal collapse and/or paralysis), so he ordered two MRIs STAT so we can make a new way forward. I’ve asked the Lord to hold my spine together and/or give me extra joy and grace to deal with the worst if it comes—because Lord knows that joy is not my default setting; I’m more prone to cuss and grumble than to laugh at the days to come.
So can I just stop and say here that if Jesus can work in and through me—self-absorbed and slow-to-learn, proud and petty me—there’s hope for us all. We have such a patient, compassionate, forgiving, faithful Savior. As we keep going to him, and looking at him, and seeking him, he works miracles in our hearts. He gives us more of himself.
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Despite a marathon of insurance and medical-record debacles, I always get the royal treatment here at St. Luke’s. Dr. H calls me the “OG Gangster VIP,” and he and my nurse bend over backwards to give me the very best care possible. I could not ask for a better medical team and can’t imagine being anywhere else. I’m so grateful.
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Back to that thin veil…
I’m convinced that a long goodbye, a slow death, is an unspeakably precious trust from God—a coveted window of time to share his goodness with a captive audience. People are enamored with the death process (albeit, terrified too, if it gets personal). They want to see how someone dies. So, when I talk about the life and joy and hope Jesus has given me in the face of death, most people lock eyes with me and listen.
Then all this protracted suffering (that can so easily turn me inward and grumpy and wearied into numbness), matters immensely. It’s a continual invitation to engage with eternal souls, to share the Love of my life with incredibly special people who crave hope and joy and meaning in all this world’s madness. Mydeath could be at work for theirlife. That’s ginormous and glorious and compels me to show up for yet another dreaded appointment or to push through another painful day.
This is why Paul’s words continue to mean so so so much to me:
We always carry the death of Jesus in our body, so that the life of Jesus may also be displayed in our body. … So then, death is at work in us, but life in you.
2 Cor. 4:10,12
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It’s almost time to wrap up here. I got so engrossed in writing this, I momentarily forgot about the loading dose of Thug dripping into my veins, but a wave of acid nausea just hit me, so here we go. I glance again at chair number 9, which now holds a man who must be in his mid to late seventies. He’s sick and weak, with a nagging cough (I call it “the chemo cough”). His wife sits with him and she’s attentive and—burdened. We’re surrounded by so many beautiful eternal souls. God’s image bearers. Hurting people who need to know that Jesus came…
to shine on those who live in darkness and the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.
Luke 1:79
Jesus, give us eyes to see what you see, to share your peace right where you put us, to remember that knowing you is “the best thing in life, bringing more joy, delight and contentment than anything else”*—and the best thing we can give others.
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Grateful for you, dear friends. Thank you for your messages, especially when you share how I can be praying for you too. It means so much. Everyone has their hard, and—yep, you know what I’m gonna say—suffering’s not a competitive sport. It’s a joy to be on this journey with you and to share each other’s burdens.
