The Fog

A number of years ago, when we lived in Illinois, just across the Mississippi River from St. Louis, Missouri, we drove back to Michigan at Christmas time. It usually took us about nine hours to make the trip from our home in Illinois to my childhood home in Midland, Michigan. We found it best to make our trips to Michigan by driving through the night. This came with a number of advantages that made the drive go more smoothly: sleeping children, fewer bathroom and food stops, significantly less traffic, and smooth sailing through Chicago. I have always been a night owl and usually have no problem staying up with the assistance of some caffeine.

On this particular trip, we hit dense fog thirty minutes into our journey. Driving on the expressway in dense fog at night has to be some of the most nerve-wracking driving that exists. On this particular trip, the fog did not lift for eight hours. When driving through dense fog, you find yourself laser-focused on the road in front of you. Visibility is limited to a few feet, and you are in a heightened state of awareness, always ready to slam on the brakes should you need to. Your eyes are constantly searching for taillights in front of you. Everything else around you is obscured by a cloudy haze.

Dealing with a cancer diagnosis is similar in many ways to driving through dense fog. When you become the caretaker of a child with cancer, you become laser-focused on their situation. You are always looking ahead, trying to prepare yourself for what is next. You become hyper aware of every detail of the treatment plan. You are constantly on guard for any sign of secondary illness, knowing that you may have to drop everything and get the person under your care to the hospital for an undetermined amount of time. You learn a brand-new vocabulary full of medical terms and the names of various prescription drugs. You become intimately acquainted with various medical procedures and can recall on demand what specific drugs have been taken and when, when your child last ate or drank, and how much was consumed, when the last bowel movement took place, and any other change in your child’s health however minor it may be.

Everything else in your life seems to be obscured by a dense, cloudy fog. You forget things like what day of the week it is, significant dates such as birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays. You seem to be unable to recall important commitments and obligations. You struggle to focus on the mundane decisions of life such as what to eat for dinner, and what outfit you should wear to work the next day. When you get to work, you find it nearly impossible to focus on what you need to get done. Responding to texts, emails, and voicemails with clarity becomes something that seems to require an enormous amount of effort. Important balls get dropped causing others in your organization to scramble to pick up the pieces. And you start to wonder if you’ve become a liability instead of an asset. You begin to beg God for the grace and the clarity to get things done. And yet each day seems to be a struggle.

You struggle to keep up with the needs of your other family members while dealing with the reality that they are each hurting as well. You fight to stay on top of your children’s schedules and activities. You desperately try to make sure you are present with each of your children to help them process what they are going through. You notice changes in their behavior that are, no doubt, linked to the pressures the entire family is under. But you struggle to know how best to help them navigate the enormous changes that are affecting the entire family. You plead with God for wisdom on a daily basis.

During all of this, emotions run thin, tempers flare, and tears are shed both openly and behind closed doors. You feel like an emotional basket case, and at times struggle just to function. I have a friend named Mark whose son went through the same type of leukemia that Michael has about fifteen years ago. I sent him a text on Tuesday of this past week asking him if during his journey with his son’s cancer he ever felt like he was completely falling apart. Because that’s what I felt like that day. Never in my life have I struggled to function like I have recently. Sarah has experienced this fog too for a number of weeks, but her fog seems to have lifted. Mine hasn’t yet.

Mark sent me a text on Wednesday, and shared Isaiah 43:1-2 with me. “But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. For I am the Lord your God…”

I know this was written to the nation of Israel, but the truths still apply. The Lord has created me, formed me in my mother’s womb, redeemed me, called me by name, and I am His. And He has promised never to leave me or forsake me. At times I feel consumed by this trial. Over and over again over the last few months, I have come to the Lord broken, at the end of my resources, and without answers. And it is then that my loving heavenly Father carries me. I don’t know when my personal fog will lift. Some days are better than others. But I know my God is walking with me through it and He has already been wherever this journey is going to take me and my family. I am trying by His grace to rest in His presence and love.