Into the Fire

Here's the latest from literary agent and good guy Lee Hough who's battled and survived brain cancer:

Hello to my band of merry witnesses!

Yesterday:

The radiation oncology doctor came in – a great guy, someone we like. He went through the normal questions you always get asked at first, “Seizures?” No. “Headaches?” No. “Dizziness?” No. “Dogs shedding a lot?” Yes. And on it went, zip, zap, fine, good. And then he closed my file and said, “Have you thought about getting an MRI soon?”

This is one of those moments when all sound fades and if Rod Serling, Mr. Twilight Zone himself, had walked in it would not have surprised me in the least. Without saying a word, I turned and looked at Paula with one of those Did he actually just say that? looks. Then turned back to the doctor and said, “We did already; and we were supposed to get the results from you today.” Nanosecond synapse are firing the message that he doesn’t have the report – we’re not going to find out the results today – I don’t think I can take this – prepare for heart toexplode, SOS, wife will burst into flames and I’ll be given her ashes at the front desk on my way out. What’s the proper Christian response? I can’t think clearly, so it kind of comes in staccato bursts: Don’t hurt doctor, nice doctor. Nice Lee,good boy. I’m reaching critical mass just when the doctor reopened my file and offers that sometimes the staff forgets to put the results on top. My faculties are shutting down and I’ve gone mute, which is probably best. But my mind has a few words left in its vocabulary: Forgets? An MRI? A person’s life is hanging in the balance and they forget? Still waiting as he flips page after page. Still mercifully mute.

“Here it is.” OH MY LORD. I’m going to need a heart transplant later. I can practically smell smoke where Paula is sitting. There’s just one paragraph on a page. He’s reading the report – I’m trying to read him. Is it life? Is it death? Tick tock, tick tock. All my body functions, including breathing, have suspended until further notice.

“Looks good, you’re fine.” My hearing starts to come back. And speech. “No cancer? It’s clean?”

“Yes, clear. There’s a cyst from the surgery. Normal and nothing to be worried about. Also some burned tissue, but again, that’s normal. You’re good.” He said some other words, but I’m starting to lose my hearing again. No cancer. OH MY LORD! Thank you, Jesus. The doctor closes the file and starts to get up signaling time to go. This is all happening so fast that it’s almost surreal. Whoa, wait, I can’t let it go just yet. “Doc, I just want to hear it one more time.” He got a big grin on his face, looked at me and said, “You are cancer free.” OH MY LORD!

I shook the doc’s hand. Paula gave this 6’4’’ giant a hug. And then we walked out into the lobby without a word. Hold it. Wait. Not yet. We took the thumbs up picture that was on the Caring Bridge yesterday in kind of a daze. Then calmly walked out of the lobby around a wall and then grabbed each other in a hug with tears starting to flow. And I’m not talking about your cuddly hug thing. This was love expressed in that raw fierceness when you know you’ve just sidestepped disaster. You don’t let go. Oh my beautiful, strong, Paula.

And the news started trickling out. One friend wrote, “I just yelled out so loud in my hair salon that one of the stylists dropped her dryer!” And another said, “I’m dancing in my office and the dogs are barking and we’re celebrating before Jesus!” There were texts, pictures, videos, calls, Caring Bridge notes all day long. I can’t figure out if I’m crying because of being told I’m cancer free or because of this amazing love that the Lord is pouring out through all of you. Who cares?!

Seizures? Yes. “Have you thought about getting an MRI soon?”

Headaches? Yes. “Sometimes the staff forgets to put the report on top.”

Dizziness? Yes. Waiting and watching as the doctor reads the script for my life in front of me.

Deliriously Happy? Yes. “You're cancer free.”

OH MY LORD! I keep tearing up at the drop of a hat. To all my merry band of witnesses: Thank you for this extraordinary gift – and I’m not talking about the good news. I’m talking about you and your prayers.

Don’t drop your dryers and keep them doggies howling.

Love you.

God, you're faithful, mighty, and loving. Thank you for the healing you've ordained thus far. We continue to ask for complete healing for Lee and many years of fruitful service to your kingdom. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.