From Depths We Rise Page 3

  While the thought seemingly came from nowhere, I believe it was God preparing my heart for the earth-shattering news we were moments away from receiving. It was the calm before the storm. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what was about to happen, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that life was about to change. Drastically. I tried to steady myself and prepare my heart for what that just might be. I felt the uneasiness penetrating my entire body, and it frightened me. For my husband’s sake, I tried to clothe myself in strength, yet on the inside I was begging for peace.

  We arrived at the doctor’s office and were quickly rushed back to a small room to await the results. We waited and waited. Finally a nurse popped her head in to say the doctor was reading the scan now and should be back in about five minutes. Only it wasn’t five minutes. Five minutes became thirty minutes. As time wore on, my worry began to grow. What was going on?

  We heard the small, quick knock at the door signaling the doctor’s impending entrance. Finally, I thought.

  The doctor walked in and noticed me.

  “Well, I remember you,” he said to me weakly.

  “Yeah…” I laughed. “Kidney stones,” I said with a smile to the doctor who had been my savior two years prior when I was sick with the painful stones.

  He did not smile back. He looked straight to my husband.

  “Sir, you have kidney cancer,” he said bluntly.

  What? Time stood still. Like the cliché everyone says, it really does feel like a bad dream. All at once I felt confused, dizzy, and disoriented. It was as if the room were closing in on me. I struggled to stand. I kept waiting for the doctor to say, “Just kidding,” as sick as that would be. He never did.

  “There is a large mass on your left kidney. It has been growing for quite some time.”

  I looked at Joel. He looked down to the floor and back at the doctor again. He didn’t say a word, shed a tear, or show emotion. He was blank.

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “When we asked you to go get a CT scan, we never in a million years would have guessed it was this. You are so young and healthy.”

  He was right. Joel was in his early thirties and had never been healthier. He had just trained for and completed a half marathon and lost forty pounds doing so.

  I didn’t know what to do. I rose from my chair, stood beside Joel, and began to rub his back. He looked at me, giving me a slight smile as if to reassure me. I felt like I had been punched in the gut. All these thoughts came at me in full force. You hear the word cancer and automatically think of it as a death sentence.

  You will never be a mom like you had dreamed. You are going to be a widow in your twenties. You will have to deal with life without your best friend. What are you going to do? The thoughts were assaulting me left and right. I couldn’t let it show.

  They took us to another room and showed us the CT scan pictures of the nearly seven-pound tumor in my husband’s abdomen. As my legs started to give out, someone shoved a chair underneath me. Tissues magically appeared in my hand. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

  The doctor cleared his throat and told us the survival rate would be fifty-fifty. How did we wake up this morning and get dressed for work like any other day, and now here we were talking about survival rates for my husband? This was unreal.

  I finally cleared my head enough to gather the questions I wished to ask.

  “Will he lose his kidney?”

  “Absolutely,” the doctor said. “It is totally engulfed by the cancer. He has more than likely been functioning off one kidney for quite a while.”

  “How long do you think he has had the cancer?”

  “If I had to guess…,” he speculated, “years.”

  “I am a visual person,” I told him. “What are we talking about sizewise? Like the size of a golf ball?”

  He paused and then ever so slowly stated, “More like the size of a football.”

  We sat stunned. There was nothing more to say.

  We left the room and walked past the front desk as another group of nurses gave condolences with their eyes as we passed.

  Tears poured down my face as we held hands and walked to our car.

  I turned to Joel. “We are going to beat this, JoJo,” I told him.

  He nodded a weak yes.

  “Joel, we are going to beat this,” I stated again. “There are plenty of people who get this news and it turns out okay. You are going to live. We are going to make it through this.”

  The shock was evident on his face as he slowly, yet silently, nodded in agreement.

  CHAPTER 2

  Not Again

  We walked slowly hand in hand down the beach, soft sand under our toes and waves breaking at our feet. The sun was setting, painting the sky a beautiful haze of deep oranges, purples, and pinks. Life was good. We were a few months removed from the most difficult year of our life. Joel had been through a surgery to remove the kidney and the cancer that had engulfed it. A year of intense chemo followed, along with flights back and forth to be monitored at a top cancer hospital in Houston, Texas.

  He was recently given a clean bill of health and told the cancer was in remission. It had been a long road, but we were celebrating its end. We believed cancer was firmly behind us.

  Many asked us how we got through this time of such hardship. Well, it wasn’t easy. Cancer tests every bit of endurance you have within you. It places a strain on every area of your life, but the area it attacks relentlessly is your faith. Questions abounded inside as to why we had to walk this road, and fatigue set in when we felt we couldn’t do it alone. That is when we realized we weren’t doing it alone. Looking back, we lovingly referred to the days of cancer as the best worst days of our life because as difficult as they were, they were the moments that changed us forever in the loveliest ways. It caused us to cling to each other like never before. Even more so, it caused us to cling to the Lord like never before. In these moments He wasn’t just words on a page, or a God in the heavens. He was Father, He was friend, He was grace, He was strength. He was all we needed.

  In a practical sense, though, life would never return to “normal.” We found ourselves settling back into a routine. Joel was now employed again at the company where we both worked and was set to begin work in a few weeks. He was elated. We were celebrating our victory by taking the trip to Puerto Rico that had been derailed by the cancer. Ever since we first met, he had told me he couldn’t wait to take me one day. It didn’t disappoint. We lay by the beach sunning and eating to our hearts’ content. One of my favorite days was spent walking the cobbled streets of Old San Juan taking pictures of landmarks. We went to the bio bay, went snorkeling, and spent the day on a catamaran. The most favorite landmark of Joel’s was the El Morro Fort, or as he simply called it, “The Fort.” As a child this was one of his favorite places to go and explore. We even have a sassy picture of him posing there in all his 1980s glory.

  “When we have a baby we totally have to bring him to this fort one day,” he told me.

  His eyes were lit up like a Christmas tree that trip, not only because of where we were but also because of what was just around the corner. We had decided once we returned from our trip we were going to go back to the fertility clinic and use the sperm we had stored to finally start our family. Knowing chemo could render a man sterile, we made the choice pre-chemo to have some frozen. We didn’t know it then, but it was a decision that would change our lives and allow us the option to start a family quickly after cancer.

  Our plans had been on pause for a year, and we didn’t want to wait any longer to start our family. I was apprehensive. I knew IVF could be a complicated process and didn’t always work. Joel couldn’t be convinced otherwise.

  “It’s going to work, baby,” he would smile and tell me. “Really, it is. Trust me.”

  He was right.

  Two months later, after a long, difficult round of IVF, we got the phone call with the news we had been waiting five years to receive.

&
nbsp; “Congratulations, you are pregnant!”

  I couldn’t believe our dream had finally come true. We were going to be parents. All the years of dreaming of this moment, praying, begging, standing, and now our promise had come. To a new child entering the world I would be known as “Mommy” and my husband as “Daddy.” Our own little family was being created just as we had always wanted. We had endured a lot of pain to arrive here, but every bit of it was now worth it. I never knew if I would have this opportunity to love someone greater than myself and Joel. My heart was so very thankful for this gift—the gift of life.

  Two weeks later we were at the doctor’s office, having an ultrasound performed, when we received even better news.

  “What would you think about having twins?” the doctor said with a huge smile on his face.

  “Are you serious?” I exclaimed.

  “Well, I wouldn’t joke about something like that,” he said wryly.

  I looked at Joel and laughed at the shocked expression on his face. He recovered quickly, and his shock turned to sheer joy.

  We walked hand in hand to the car with the ultrasound pictures in tow. We had left many a doctor’s visit hand in hand in tears, but now we were leaving with hearts exploding with happiness. Not only one baby, but two. We could barely contain our excitement.

  “Twins,” Joel kept saying over and over again, shaking his head in elated disbelief.

  For ten glorious weeks I would hold on to my belly and talk to my babies—the babies we had prayed for and pleaded for—and the fact that they were here seemed beyond belief. I would wake up in the night to pray for these babies, pleading with God to keep them healthy and safe. As mothers of twins will tell you, the two babies sometimes start to take on the identity of one. Yes, they are separate individuals, but they come together as one glorious, breathtaking package. And from the very first moment, I loved and wanted both of them with every last fiber of my being.

  When I was eleven weeks pregnant we went for a routine ultrasound. We were one week away from getting through the first trimester, breathing a sigh of relief, and sharing our amazing news with the world. The doctor came in, said hello, and got to work. I turned my head to the right to look at the screen. I immediately saw my first precious baby. Wow, how he had grown! In just a few weeks he had gone from a small little bean to now looking like a real baby. I saw his little heart beating. Relief. The doctor moved the wand around, looking for the second baby. He looked. He looked. The room was silent. Too silent.

  He turned to me and said, “Well, I am sure you have heard of a vanishing twin. This is common in IVF.”

  In that moment I knew exactly what he meant. My two babies had now become one baby. I felt slow tears rolling down my face as the nurse handed me a tissue.

  “It’s okay,” the doctor said. “It really is better this way. A single pregnancy will be better on you and your baby than a twin one would’ve been.”

  What? How on earth could he say such a thing? I had fought so long and so hard for these babies. Both were loved. Both were wanted. My life never seemed to take the easy route to get anywhere. It didn’t matter to me how hard a twin pregnancy would be. From the moment I heard two heartbeats, I was ready to move heaven and earth to hold two lives in my arms. I felt like the Lord had doubled our blessing. Now it felt as if half of it was being cruelly ripped away.

  He tried in vain to make me realize what a fabulous consolation prize I had won, yet I was unmoved.

  Sensing my sorrow, he stiffly patted me on the leg and exited the room quickly, letting me fall apart alone.

  The room was empty. My heart was empty. I started to dress, as Joel sat silently, not knowing what to say. In that moment I wept. In the hours to come I wept. In the days to come I wept. Vanish—how could my baby just vanish, my child I had wanted more than anything in my life? It was growing, it was developing, its heart was beating, and now it was gone.

  Before we left, the doctor explained to us that this was normal and many times both twins weren’t strong enough to make it on their own so one twin would give its life so the other could grow. My precious little hero baby.

  I would never get to see my baby on this earth. I would never get to hold him in my arms. I would never get to throw him a birthday party or shower his cheeks with kisses. The promise of knowing I would see him one day didn’t change how badly I was already missing him now. Life had seemed unfair before, but this seemed so very senseless. My heart was heavy with loss. The pain I felt over my child I had never really known took my breath away. Life would find a way to move forward, as it always does, but there would always be something missing because someone was.

  In the days to come, I was a wreck. I fell into a dark place. From the moment of conception, it was always two babies in my mind. They were separate but they were one, a package deal, each wanted. All my hopes and dreams for my two babies were now being consolidated to one child, and it just didn’t feel right. In losing one, it felt like I had lost them both. Since death had visited me, it felt like all the life had left as well. How could grief and joy coexist?

  It felt wrong to be happy for my child who remained, yet it felt wrong not to be happy for my child that remained. I wanted to honor my loss, but deep down I knew I couldn’t do it by refusing all joy and choosing sorrow. I didn’t know how I would, but I knew we are to honor death by living life. By trading our ashes for beauty. By trading our mourning for joy. By choosing to rise. For me, there was no other choice.

  Six nights later we attended Christmas Eve service at our church. We came home, and I sat down in the chair. I felt something wet. I shouldn’t be feeling anything wet. I went to the bathroom. Blood was pouring out of my body and was all over my clothes. Blood, bright red blood; I will never forget the sight. After the ultrasound the doctor told me in the case of vanishing twins you won’t bleed, and if I did I should immediately go to the hospital. This wasn’t just light bleeding—this was everywhere, and it was so frightening.

  In that moment I felt like I had just lost the second baby. My empty heart now felt even emptier; all those days of IVF shots, doctor’s appointments, ultrasounds, tears, prayers, all for nothing. My loss didn’t just entail one child; my body was now getting rid of the second one as well.

  I screamed for Joel. He ran into the bathroom and saw the blood. He went silent.

  “I’m miscarrying the second baby,” I stated, as plainly as I would state that I am done with my plate. I sounded numb; I felt numb.

  “What do we do?” he asked.

  “We need to go to the ER,” I responded.

  He knelt down beside me and assured me no matter what, everything was going to be okay. I didn’t believe him.

  We loaded up in the car and headed to the ER. As we walked through the doors, the waiting room was empty. Why would it be full? It was Christmas Eve. People were supposed to be at home celebrating with their families, not sitting in a stark room with broken hearts and streaming tears.

  They took me to a room, took my vitals, took blood, asked questions…and more questions…and more questions…. They told me the doctor would be there in a moment to do my ultrasound. A few moments later, he was there, and so was the jelly as he moved the wand around.

  And then I saw it, a small flicker of light.

  Boom, boom, boom.

  A heartbeat. I could hardly believe my eyes. My child. My one remaining child still lived. He hadn’t left us like his brother or sister had. He was there, he was alive, and he was strong. Relief washed over every part of me. With each beat of his heart, mine was filling with hope again—hope that this baby’s life was just beginning and would grow into all that the Lord had for him—hope that he was still being formed and fashioned, and one day his great purpose would be fulfilled on this earth with me by his side. We weren’t going to have to say good-bye; one day we would get to say hello.

  Two days later we had one more ultrasound in our doctor’s office where he confirmed our sweet baby was still alive in
my womb. The baby was measuring correctly, moving all around, and even appeared to wave to us. In an instant, everything changed. I went from total despair and indifference to wanting this baby with all I had. It snapped me from depression and made me realize how hard I needed to fight to bring this baby into the world. I had felt the sting of the punch, but I would not stay down. The depths would not take anything more than they already had. I had so deeply wanted life, and I would fight for it with all I had.

  The doctor said everything looked great and I should carry the baby to term. My, what this child had made it through to get to us. He was a fighter. We didn’t know the gender yet, but I told Joel he would be a boy named Milo—our little soldier.

  Our hearts were broken for the child we lost, but a blessing still remained in my womb. For that we were so very thankful.

  We could not be more thrilled to finally be pregnant. This had been a dream of both of ours since the beginning of our marriage. So many times it looked like it might remain just that—a dream. We had been dealt such a bad hand, but finally it appeared to be turning around. Joel was thrilled the entire pregnancy. He would laugh with delight when we would see our ultrasound pictures, and he would talk to my belly endlessly. He doted on me and made sure to take care of my every need so I could get rest. It was definitely some of the happiest nine months of our life together. We were thrilled to be done with cancer and chemo and ready to move on to the amazing life that we had in store. For ones who had been through so much, we were finally feeling blessed and like things were turning around for our good. Our family had walked through tragedy and loss and the winding road of disappointment that life had not gone as planned. Never would we stop moving forward and seeking to conquer all that life had thrown our way. We believed we had seen the worst of it. We had lived in the depths of despair, and it finally seemed as if we were able to breathe again.