After Pedro’s stem cell transplant, we settled in to wait. Wait for the stem cells to race to repair all that the chemo had killed. Wait for the doctors to discharge Pedro from the hospital. Wait for the release to return home to Montana.
Unfortunately, I had to wait in Bozeman while Pedro waited at his brother’s house, a 90-minute drive from the hospital. The delay frustrated me. I wanted a family reunion and a return to normalcy.
A couple of times a week we would try to talk via the Internet (remember that Skype hadn’t been invented yet, and computers didn’t come with cameras for video conferencing).
Pedro would chat with the girls and I would writhe in frustration at the poor graphics, the frozen images, and the inability to capture the subtle nuances of how he REALLY felt (part of this had nothing to do with technology and everything to do with the slow restoration of the use of the muscles in his face).
Had he gained any weight? Did he have any aches or pains that couldn’t be explained away by everyday occurrences? Had he sniffled? Did he get enough rest? Did his eye close all the way yet? (for months he had to sleep with a plastic guard taped over his eye because his eyelid wouldn’t close fully and caused his eye to dry out).
And the underlying question that picked and poked and nibbled at me all day long—was he still in remission? But, oh, I hoped. I hoped so hard it hurt. I spoke with confidence about the miracle God had performed in our lives—after all, Pedro had circled the drain on two occasions, and even the doctors and nurses agreed that he had experienced a miraculous recovery.
I hoped this reprieve, this miracle, would ‘stick’. That God really did intend to heal Pedro completely, even though I secretly doubted that we ‘deserved’ it. And maybe that was the crux of my worries. The problem that I quailed to ponder. Why? Why a miracle in Pedro’s life while other worthy people lost their battle with cancer?
Perhaps I suffered a bit from survivor’s guilt by proxy (after all, I had certainly suffered from chemo-brain by proxy). And so I waited with hope. I tried to draw near to God and not worry about his plan.
Hope acted as the thread that tethered my scattered thoughts and fears and kept me sane during those days of waiting. I knew that if the transplant failed, God still held me in his hands. We would be ok. I have a hope that burns within my heart of a new heaven and a new earth when God will vanquish all sickness and death. Yes, I had hope for the now and hope for the future.
Have you learned to wait for God? To wait with hope. Hope now and hope for the future. He’s calling you to wait with hope. Click To TweetFind more Comfort for Caregivers here.
