Responding in Faith to Cancer

Cancer victims discuss how their faith and their churches have impacted their journey

A Gift from God - by Mike Venable

     On June 11, 2009 I had my left kidney and 12 lymph nodes removed in a surgery to rid my body of renal cell carcinoma. Although the cancer was removed during the surgery, I live with the daily fear that it will return in my lungs, my brain or my bones. Kidney cancer is fairly rare, mostly misunderstood and is quite often a death sentence. Sometimes, as in my case, kidney cancer is discovered serendipitously, and one is given what my surgeon called "a gift from God."
     That pronouncement from the man in whose hands I would soon be placing my very life was the first instance of a faith-buoying experience during my illness. I've said many times that knowing my principal caregiver is a man of faith went a long way toward making me realize that something other than good medicine was going to be needed for my best possible outcome.
     Not only is my surgeon a man of faith, literally hundreds of my friends and thousands of their friends have enveloped me in a sea of prayers that are still being sent up today. Even if my faith hadn't been the kind of faith that was rooted in a belief of a higher power, the palpable life force I believe I've received from this thousands-strong prayer army demands my recognition. As I stand here today, I'm a believer in the faith filled prayers of sincere people. When people engage their God and beg for your life and health it will bring your faith to the front and center of your consciousness.
     Has the experience changed me? Without doubt! I am in the process of remaking my physical being. I'm doing a better job of caring for this vessel God has given me in which to carry out my earthly life. Part of this journey includes the newly gained perspective of the realness of my faith.
     Because of the large volume of writings I have posted through my Care Pages and my blog, I've become the go-to guy for quite a few of the people who are reading. My discussions of sleep apnea, nutrition and cancer have touched a great number of people. I see this as my ministry, to pay forward the pastoral care I've received from so many during the time I was sick. I have been given considerably more than I can possibly give back in a dozen lifetimes.

     My church is always present in my life. Always. Ours is a tiny Episcopal parish in Seale, Ala., and if you've never been a part of a truly small church, you really can't begin to understand what I'm talking about. Our church is so small that when our children were still living at home (and being made to go to church every Sunday morning), our family represented as much as 60% of a typical Sunday headcount. When you're a member of a truly small church, your church is always there for you.
     It was my priest who I initially felt wasn't "there enough" for me. We had a bit of a rocky start to our relationship that still felt like five miles of dirt road when I got my diagnosis. He and I just didn't gee or haw. I'll take at least half of the blame for our not-so-great relationship.
     One afternoon, about a week after I returned from Emory University Hospital he came to our home, served us Holy Communion and prayed with us for our comfort and my healing. One of the things Fr. Wells has brought to our little church was something that initially caused me some angst. I was uncomfortable with his "healing service" where everyone in the church gathers around the sick one - until I became the sick one.
     The power I felt that Sunday morning sitting there with those hands on my flesh, those hands that belonged to all those people who loved me, moved me beyond my ability to describe it. Maybe I was "testing positive for Baptist" that morning. The next time I'm facing down a health challenge, I'll look forward to receiving that very much atypical Episcopalian "laying on of hands."
     After my surgery, Fr. Wells has been an exemplary priest. As soon as I was able to start exercising, we have begun a twice-per-week "spiritual exercise" bike ride on the RiverWalk. On those rides, we talk about spiritual things, music, sports and things that irritate us. We're exactly the same age and we have some of the same challenges with our weight and level of fitness. We've opened our hearts to each other and have become fast friends. I'm happy we've had this rejuvenation of our relationship.

you can reach Mike Venable at mike@columbusandthevalley.com

A Source of Strength - by Jill Tigner (wife of Mike Venable)

     My personal faith was very present as we moved through the discovery, diagnosis and treatment of Mike's cancer last summer. I did a lot of praying and enlisted friends and family to do the same. On the day of the surgery, as I sat in the surgical waiting room, I was praying that the extent of the surgery would be minimal. The doctor said that he would take a couple of lymph nodes near the site of the tumor and if they were clear, then only the tumor and a small portion of Mike's kidney would be removed. This would be the best possible scenario and no further treatment would be required.
     After what seemed like an eternity and much longer than I'd been told it would take, I received the call that the lymph nodes were involved and they, along with many more surrounding them, plus the entire kidney would have to be removed. This was the outcome that we most feared as it meant that the cancer had moved beyond the tumor.
     That night when Mike was back in his hospital room and it was just the two of us, we held each other and had a really good cry. But even in that cry, neither of us ever asked, "Why me, God?" We just continued to pray for strength to handle whatever lay ahead. And He has given us that strength - day in and day out.

     St. Matthew's in-the-Pines Episcopal is a very small, close-knit church family. When I say small I mean small. On a normal Sunday we will have 10-18 people so we know everyone in our church very well. From the time that we shared the news of Mike's impending surgery until today, our church family has prayed for Mike's healing. It has been a source of strength to hear his name called by different people each Sunday as we pray the Prayers of the People.
     Our church family was diligent about checking updates and posting messages of encouragement on Mike's CarePage from the moment following his surgery. It buoyed us as we faced those first days at Emory following the operation.
     When we returned home, many of them brought meals or just came to visit. This really boosted Mike's spirits to have visitors. Mike was on a zero fat diet at first and these dear friends, prepared fat-free food and brought it to us. They also offered to stay with him when I needed to go in to the office before I felt comfortable leaving him.
     Before Mike's illness, I never thought anything about it when I cooked for someone who was ill or had a death in the family, sent a card, or made a phone call. But when you are the recipient of those acts of kindness, it takes on an entirely different feeling. It was humbling but also gave me great strength to feel that outpouring of love. I guess this is just what we do for each other. If we can help another person who has a need, then that is what we are called by God to do.

you can reach Jill Tigner at jill@columbusandthevalley.com

A Bad Baptist Faces Mortality - by Bill Chappell

     When I agreed to write about spirituality in the context of living with cancer, I underestimated the difficulty of the assignment. On one hand, I'm well qualified, I suppose, having been diagnosed with testicular cancer in 1983, 1984, and 1990, as well as accompanying my wife through a bout with breast cancer in 1988 and her current diagnosis of carcinoid metastasis. The spirituality part, though, is something with which I'm uncomfortable talking and writing. I was raised (virtually born, you might say) in the Southern Baptist church and still believe in its tenets as I understand them - free will, "priesthood of the believer," and "once saved always saved," and, incidentally, congregational governance. But in conventional church-going terms I am a bad Baptist.
     There's nothing like the cancer diagnosis to bring you face to face with mortality; in my case it was the first time, at age 34, despite the usual risky behavior of youth and a rear-echelon tour in Vietnam. My experience and my education taught me that everyone faces the end of life, as sad as it may be to contemplate in the first person. I didn't pray for an exception to the rule but hoped that its enforcement might be delayed for a time - privately I thought I would have sold my soul for a guaranteed year in 1983 but even then I didn't believe that God made bargains like that.
     The best response I could muster, then and later, is that life on earth is limited even at its longest ("For my days vanish like smoke"said the Psalmist). Given that fact, the best part of our nature is expressed by conducting oneself with fortitude (my mother's word), which I take to encompass courage and patience, so that you can claim like St. Paul to have fought the good fight. I thought of this as moving from "why me?" to "why not me?"
     So I weathered my troubles admirably? In the words of Hemingway's character, it would be pretty to think so. I must report, however, that this state of mind has been a transient refuge. The further I got from each face-off with mortality, the less frequently I would find myself there. "Why me?" thinking kept surfacing. I made the matter worse by adding cancer to my list of injustices which I sought to anesthetize with alcohol. I was told once that I was courting death via the bottle and there is truth in the observation. (I recognize the paradox but cannot resolve it.) As luck would have it, my body survived "hitting bottom" and I followed direction to the company of people like myself whose sobriety depends on responding realistically and responsibly to a world we cannot control. Sounds a lot like fortitude, doesn't it?

you can reach Bill Chappell at chappell_bill@colstate.edu

Unexpected Places - by Delane Chappell

     Life takes us into some of the most unexpected places. In the spring of 1983, it sucked my family into a health and medical vortex that we would have never believed possible. My husband, Bill at age 34 was diagnosed with testicular cancer that had metastasized into three large tumors in his chest and abdomen. He was given a 50 percent chance of survival. Our lives revolved around his treatment schedule, which included surgery and heavy doses of chemotherapy both in Columbus and at Indiana University Hospital in Indianapolis under the care of world-renown Dr. Lawrence Einhorn, who later treated cyclist Lance Armstrong.
     We had just moved into a house in Lakebottom that we intended to remodel, using up most of our savings. I was a stay-at-home mom of daughter, Jennifer age 3 and Will, 11 months. When I first heard the news about Bill, I went numb. How could this be? We were too young to have this happen. Then, my thoughts went straight to the "what ifs." What if Bill died? I didn't have a job so how would I take care of the children and me? I wasn't panicking, but I was skating close to the edge. I credit Mr. John's ice cream and lots of loving friends and family for pulling me through those early days.
     Then, I took a deep breath and went into action, trying my best to "fix" it. I kept our lives moving along, but it didn't take long for me to learn I had no control over what was happening. I remember very vividly the day I prayed "Lord, this is just too big for me. I need to turn it over to you." I learned that God is a patient God because I'd turn it over to Him, only to snatch it back again and again.
     It was during this time that I started a running dialogue with God, one that continues today. At first, I prayed for God to let Bill live. Later, as we struggled through a recurrence in 1984 and 1990, I still prayed for Bill to live, but I also prayed for God to give me and our children the strength to handle whatever might come. I prayed for the strength to give him up if that was God's will.
     God sent me hope from many sources. One in particular touched me deeply. One evening I received a phone call from a principal of a school, telling me that he had heard of our troubles and that if I needed a job all I had to do was call him. (I have a master's degree in education and at that time a Georgia teaching certificate.) I didn't take him up on the offer, but it assured me that I could find work. God worked through so many people - those who mowed our grass, who brought food, who took care of our children, who wrote notes and made phone calls of encouragement, who gave hugs. At Christmas, someone even sent money anonymously for us to use just for Christmas presents.
     I hate to admit that my faith was this weak, but there were times when I asked God for a burning bush, and when I did He provided one. The most poignant occurred one weekend when we went to the beach. Being too weak for beach walking, Bill enjoyed the ocean from a chair on the balcony while I walked on the edge of the Gulf. As I walked, I asked God for some visible proof that he was hearing and responding to my prayers. I looked down and there was a perfect sand dollar right at my feet. As I walked, more sand dollars, all perfect and all different sizes, floated in front of me. When other beach walkers asked where I found them, I realized that this was my burning bush.
     I first learned about faith at my maternal grandmother's knees. Nannie Anthony Snowden's faith was simple - no complex theology for her. God was real. He loved us and would walk beside us through our joys and sorrows. Our job was to love and trust in him. In my mind's eye, I can still see her kneeling by her bedside talking to God and asking for his grace and mercy.
     It is the kind of faith I've strived for in my life - the faith of a child. I've felt God's presence in the flight of a butterfly, the laugh of a child, the softness of a kitten, the hug of a friend, in the beauty of a wildflower, in the abiding love of my husband and in so many other places.
     My spirituality was haphazard before Bill's cancer. But it was through this experience with Bill and my own bout with breast cancer in 1988 that my faith started to grow, and I learned to trust God and to seek His will in my life. Still, I'm sure there are many days when God just rolls his eyes and reminds Himself that I am a work in progress.

you can reach Delane Chappell at dchappell@pilink.org