Into the Fire

I don't know how many of you know Lee Hough. He's a prime literary agent for the well-known and highly regarded Alive Communications Literary Agency. Lee is one of the good guys. Professional, congenial, humorous, and first class.

Not too long ago Lee and his family faced the horrors of discovering he had a malignant brain tumor. Before they had much time to adjust to this startling news he was into surgery with a rigid schedule lined up for what happened next. None of it was pretty. And really it still isn't.

I'm including this latest entry from his post at Caring Bridge. It speaks both eloquently and dramatically of his present condition and need for prayer. I'm posting this so you can add your prayers to many others for this genuine gentleman. Please pray for Lee Hough.

Going into the first appointment with my chemo doctor back in July, Paula and I held on to each other’s hand, tight. There was still so much about my glioblastoma cancer that we didn’t understand, much less about chemotherapy. We were nervous. The doctor was chipper.

He said there had been a groundbreaking study of brain cancer showing that if you received chemo and radiation simultaneously it would significantly increase your life span. And he flipped open the report and showed us a graph with geometric lines of life and death. Two trial groups were represented. One received only a single form of treatment. The other both. Clearly you wanted to be on Team Simultaneous. And to my great relief, I was already signed up on that roster.

“Significant increase in life span.” It sounded like somebody had found the fountain of youth for cancer victims. Suddenly we’re smiling. The oncologist is smiling. Happy Disney blue birds appeared above our heads chirping a smiling song as Snow White in a nurse frock waltzed her way in to the exam room singing “If Your Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands.” I clapped like a flamenco dancer.

Soon we’re cha cha’ing out of the office all grins when I asked, “Could I have a copy of the report?” I wanted to read more happy details about my soon-to-be prolonged life. Dr. Cheerful made me a copy.

“Glioblastoma, the most common primary brain tumor in adults, is usually rapidly fatal.”

That was the opening line of the report. Bluebirds started dropping dead all around me. Don’t panic. A couple of paragraphs later it said, “. . . survival is generally less than one year from the time of the diagnosis.” No“Happily ever after” there. Instead I’m starting to feel like I’m drowning in doom. And then, hallelujah, I finally got to the graph page, a beacon of hope in this medical shop of horrors. The graph will throw me a lifeline of good news. But bad news had another twist of the knife. The glioblastoma cancer patients who participated in this trial? When the researcher followed up with them after 28 months, “480 patients (84 percent) had died.” Now I’m completely undone, horrified. First for those “patients” – people just like me whose hopes were undoubtedly just like mine. Second, because of the scalding realization that I’m not reading a “report” anymore, I’m reading my obituary.

The coup de grace was delivered just before the graph. I was still holding out hope in the doctor’s fabled “significant increase in life span.” And here it finally came. The total life span gain of the simultaneous therapy approach: “The median survival benefit was 2.5 months.”

Wait. Are you serious? Not 10 years or 5; not even 2.5 years. 75 days. That’s it. I felt like the victim of a drive by data shooting. I’m history, dead man walking. All I could think about was where to hide the report from Paula. Which I actually did. Not rational, just desperate.

The thought then crossed my mind of shortening my oncologist’s “median survival benefit.” Snow White was going down too. But I got past that, and the 30 days of chemo / radiation, all the while wondering, What will the next MRI on my brain show?

I debated, a lot, whether to drag you through all of the above. But there is a reason: the follow up MRI on my brain is finally on the books. And if you understand the medical realities revealed above, then perhaps you will understand what’s next, what’s happening now.

I actually thought that I was ready for this MRI. As one of my eloquent writer friends would say, “You so crazy.” And she’d be right. Because the moment Paula called and told me the date, I mean the instant, the nerves inside me fried. “Ok, that’s great, Paula, thanks for letting me know,” I squeaked out over a tightening throat. I was driving home at the time and kept asking, What’s happening? Why am I feeling this way? And it finally hit me.

I know the date. And, normally, you’re not supposed to know that date. The date when you stand a very good chance, medically speaking, of being told about your death. The 84%. The rapidly fatal. I prefer ignorance is bliss, but“December 2nd” took that away and replaced it with an unnatural, unwanted awareness.

Because grade 4 glioblastoma tumors are so hard to kill and so good at killing, the doctor wants me to have an MRI every three months. If the Lord chooses to heal me, it appears that I’ll rediscover that truth in three-month increments for the rest of my life. Starting with December 2nd.

More of the “New Normal” that is redefining our lives, but not our faith. The result of the MRI will be explained to us on December 8th. Once again, Paula and I will be holding on to each other’s hand pretty tight. We know you’ll be there with us. Thanks for having our back in prayer.

Father, Lee's a treasure to you but also to all of us who've had the pleasure to know him. Please, God, show Him and us your mighty hand of mercy and power. Please heal Lee. Let the healing serve as a mighty witness to your glory. We ask for your divine touch, your healing touch, your merciful touch. We ask it all in the Name, Authority, and Blood of Jesus Christ who is the same yesterday, today, and forever. Amen.