It was the Monday morning before Thanksgiving and I find myself yet again sitting in the lobby of Duke Cancer center. It is weekly chemo infusion #6 of 10, after which I go on a once-a-month maintenance schedule if all goes well. At the end of this protocol, we will check to see if the cancer is still active in my bone marrow, and if it is, we will switch to the latest and greatest leukemia drug, ABT199, and hope my body will respond positively to that chemical. So far so good, as the current cocktail of medicine is working and my blood counts are stable.
Sitting in the waiting area, I count 4 people with bandanas on to cover their bald heads, three people with oxygen tubes in their nose, and two people in wheel chairs. All of us are waiting for our chemotherapy treatment this morning.
I notice that I am numb, and out of the numbness, a question arises:
Why me?
And I sit there in my own little world; in my story and experiences and battle. I sit in silence and wonder.
Why me?
It took seconds, but it felt like 30 minutes of silence in my head, just sitting there with the weight of that question on my heart. There were no words, just this depth and weight and heaviness.
The questions began to take shape. And once they materialized, they kept coming hard and fast.
Why are the toxic chemo drugs working for me, but not for 50% of the people with the same disease resulting in doctors telling them to get their affairs in order because there is no cure?
Why me, able to celebrate thanksgiving with my beautiful wife and her mother, our healthy 6 year old children born 2 months premature, my oldest daughter, her husband, and their baby in her womb?
What about so many families separated this holiday; our military personnel stationed around the world, or those people in hospice, emergency rooms and the neonatal intensive care units across the country?
Why me, able to serve a 20+ pound turkey with enough fixings to feed an entire preschool, and then enough to have leftovers for the next four days?
What about the elderly in nursing homes, or the homeless, the folks at the local soup kitchen that will enjoy a hot meal on thanksgiving, but go back to living in the streets as temperatures dip below freezing in the December winter?
Why me, sleeping with the proud comfort of knowing that my oldest son is safe and situated on scholarship at Vanderbilt University eating a prepared meal with his brothers on the football team and my other daughter is with her husband enjoying the holiday with his family?
What about parents of missing children, parents of runaways or with children abducted and forced into the sex trafficking around the world?
Why isn’t my family part of the Syrian refugee crisis, or the Latino influx from Mexico, families trying to escape violence and find a way for a safer life?
“Stop. Stop. Stop.” My mind screams at me. It is too much.
Why them and not me? Why me with the blessings so extraordinary and them with the hardships unimaginable?
BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD...
I do not know why. Not sure I will have these answers on this side of eternity. And that is ok; it has to be.
I do know that I am thankful, thankful to the point of tears. I am humbled to a heavy heart. I am appreciative and beholden to a sovereign God who does in fact know the answers to all the questions we have.
I also know that if we appreciate and are thankful for what we have, there is joy. I know if we are present to where we are, no matter the circumstances, our perspective is keener.
I do not have many answers, but I do know that love and appreciation are most appropriate this week of giving thanks. My prayer for all of us is this:
Lord, between meals and holidays and shopping in a frenzy, may we all intentionally stop and deeply appreciate all that we have, in seasons of want, and in seasons of abundance.
Amen and amen.