It's just an inflamed muscle.

I think it’s an inflamed muscle.  I must have said it a thousand times to a thousand different people I encountered that week.  It’s just an inflamed muscle.  

I noticed it on a Monday morning in April - the Monday before Easter.  Holy Week.  The girls and I were downstairs homeschooling away and I was chilly.  My hands were freezing, so I was rubbing them on my legs to warm them up when I noticed a lump - actually a big bulge - on my thigh.  I hadn’t noticed it before, but it was definitely there now.  MUST BE AN INFLAMED MUSCLE, I thought.  It was a bit tender, but nothing that caused any alarm, but I’d had some wonky bloodwork since early March that we were watching, so on the next day when the bulge was still there, I decided to run to MedCenter and let them confirm.  I figured they’d agree with me immediately - inflamed muscle - prescribe some anti-inflammatories, and I’d be on my way.

That was Tuesday. “I’m pretty sure it’s an inflamed muscle”, I said to the guy.  He just smiled and suggested we get it checked out.  On Thursday, I had an ultrasound.  “Will an ultrasound show an inflamed muscle?” I asked the tech person.  “Cause I’m sure it’s just an inflamed muscle.”  She just smiled and said nothing.  

Friday morning - Good Friday -  I got a call around 10:30.  Ultrasound was inconclusive, but they are working me in for an MRI at the hospital.  At noon.  Can you be there that fast?  “GOSH - we sure are jumping through a lot of hoops to confirm an inflamed muscle!  I mean, is this normal procedure?  But YES - I’ll be there.”

I walked into the imaging place just before noon.  

To the registration lady:  “Hey.  I’m here for an MRI.  But I’m sure it’s just an inflamed muscle.  I’m so sorry to bother y’all!”  She smiled and told me it would be just a minute.

To the young girl in scrubs who officially checked me in: “Oh - I need a plastic bracelet thing?  Okay.  That seems very official for an inflamed muscle.  Pretty sure I just need some anti-inflammatories and I”ll be fine.”  She smiled and told me to have a seat and they’d be right with me.

To the man who started my IV:  “GOSH.  I need an IV for this?  I hate IVs.  I hate needles.  I really am not fond of hospitals, medical rooms, blood pressure cuffs, thermometers, or bandaids.  I mean, does the contrast make an inflamed muscle show up better on the MRI? - OUCH, NO - I’M FINE -   Y’all must do a lot of MRIs for inflamed muscles, huh?  Cause those are pretty common, right?”  He just smiled at me and said, “Okay, Mrs. Powell, you’re all set.  They’ll come get you in a sec.”

To the two ladies in scrubs who do MRIs everyday and had to deal with me that day:  “MY GOODNESS - this seems like a really lot of fuss for an inflamed muscle.  Does my chart say it’s probably an inflamed muscle?  What does my chart say?”

Mrs. Powell, here are some ear plugs.  The machine gets pretty loud and you’ll need to put these in your ears.

    Oh, it’s fine.  I taught school for 25 years.  I can handle loud.  

Mrs. Powell - put the ear plugs in.  

    Oh.  Okay.

Mrs. Powell, it is VERY important that you NOT MOVE AT ALL during the procedure.  AT ALL.  So we are going to tape your feet together.

Before I could say anything, those pros at this pulled out the duct tape and started circling my On Clouds so fast.  I was on that table, feet taped together, foam in my ears…. and that’s when I started to feel a bit uneasy.   They asked me a bunch more questions about metal body parts, metal dental work, jewelry, etc.  No to all of that…. I’m good - I just have an inflamed muscle.

And then they left that room to go stand behind that glass wall and I could feel the table move.  I hate medical procedures of all kinds and moving tables that take you into a loud tunnel are for sure on that list,  so I squeezed my eyes tight and tried to take deep breaths without moving.  

Mrs. Powell, you’re doing great.  This first part will take about 15 minutes.  It’s going to be LOUD.  Do not move at all.  Okay, here we go.

That’s when I lost it.  Inside.  Cause I wasn’t supposed to move and all, so on the outside I was absolutely perfectly still.  But my mind and heart and soul and every cell in my body was HAVING A VERY HARD TIME.  Tears started to leak out of my tightly sealed eyeballs and I couldn’t wipe them away cause I had to be still, so they just streamed down the side of my face.  Big scared tears. I kept trying to breathe, but I was afraid I was going to move - so I was kinda holding my breath. A big lump formed in my throat and my heart was racing and the tears were really coming now and I was just a SCENE.

In my mind, I was frantic.  FRANTIC.  

Jesus!  I need you!  I need you!  I need you!  I need you!  HELP, Jesus!  Jesus!  Jesus!  Jesus!

And then a calm voice:  I’m here.

I did not open my eyes to see if he was physically sitting there, BUT WITH MY EYES CLOSED TIGHT I COULD SEE HIM AS CLEAR AS DAY.  He was sitting by my duct-taped feet, criss-cross applesauce, kinda hunched over cause we were in a tube and all.  He was RIGHT THERE.  Jesus.  

OH JESUS!  I’m so scared!  

“I know.” He said.  “I know.”

This thing is so loud and my feet are taped together and they keep reminding me not to move but I feel like I’m about to jump out of my skin and I’M STARTING TO THINK THIS IS NOT AN INFLAMED MUSCLE!  Lord, this is the WORST GOOD FRIDAY EVER!

And in that moment, I could see Him smile slightly.  It was one of those smiles that said, “I totally understand.”  He glanced over at my taped shoes and nodded.

I immediately heard what I’d said.  And at the exact same time, I was comforted and so very sorry. 

Oh, Jesus.  You know all about BAD Good Fridays, don’t you?  This is nothing compared to what you went through.  That must have been a horrible day.  Oh, Lord, I’m so sorry.  You gave everything for me on THAT Good Friday, and here you are again - on a day that you should enjoy extra praise and glory - sitting in this MRI tube with me.  How do you do it, Lord?  How do you keep showing up and sacrificing and comforting?  

Because you need me.  You needed me then.  And you need me now.  I am with you.  Always.

Mrs. Powell, you’re doing great.  This next part takes about 12 minutes and then we’re done.  Do not move.

OH, don’t worry.  Jesus is here with me.  Why would I EVER want to move?

I spent that next 12 minutes thanking Jesus PROFUSELY for climbing into that MRI tube with me on this VERY Good Friday.   And I also thanked Him for climbing up on that cross for me on that other Good Friday.

I was squalling at this point, and the ladies behind the glass came over the intercom two different times to reassure me and tell me I was doing okay.  But they didn’t know why I was crying.  I wasn’t crying because it was loud or cause I was scared or because my feet were taped together.  

I was crying because I was so very comforted by my Savior - who just keeps saving me over and over and over again - that my CUP WAS LITERALLY RUNNING OVER - right out of my eyeballs.

I needed Him long before I was born - to die on that cross on Good Friday and then to be RESURRECTED three days later.  I needed that.  I also needed him on Good Friday a lot of years later to comfort me and pat me on my duct-taped feet.  I needed that.  And, when I heard it was NOT an inflamed muscle but a giant tumor that was going to need to be surgically removed - I needed him again.  And since then - I’ve needed him again and again and again and again.

And HE IS THERE EVERY SINGLE TIME.

But He’s always been there.  He’s always here.  Even right now.

I’ve thought a lot recently about His presence.  He absolutely gets the perfect attendance reward, but I’ve so often been caught up in my own fear or sadness or even happiness and contentment to notice that He is RIGHT THERE.  Oh my.  

The tumor was benign.  The surgeon got it all.  In that good news, He was there.

Your bloodwork is still concerning.  Let’s go through some more procedures.  In that worrisome news, He was there.

You have leukemia. In that scary news, He was there.

You have very good treatment options.  In that hopeful news, He is there.

I’ve needed Jesus every day of my entire life.  I just didn’t REALLY dwell on it.

It took a tumor and leukemia to make me SO VERY AWARE of how MUCH I need Him.  He and I  talk and laugh about it all the time.  I probably wouldn’t have chosen CANCER to bring me closer to Jesus, but that’s what it’s done.  

I’ve always prayed.  I mean, I’ve always SAID PRAYERS.  But it’s different now.  It’s DEEPER now.  When I’m so scared I can’t catch my breath, He breathes for me.  When my mind is racing with worry, He calms me down.  He has surrounded me with people who are His hands and feet every single day.

He reminds me through His word to “Cast all my cares on Him” or that “He leadeth me beside still waters” or “I am fighting for you - just be still.”  I think all of this is SWELL. 

He’s right there in every procedure, every doctor’s visit, every blood draw, every time I take those two little life-saving pills.  He’s there.  Grinning.  I think He grins A LOT.  And He brings me peace.

I literally can not comprehend how anyone makes it through life - the good, the bad, the ugly - without Jesus.  

But I DO KNOW this.  When you’re in the MRI tube of life with duct tape around your feet and plugs in your ears and people yelling over the loudness that everything will be alright - JESUS brings peace.  He brings comfort.  He understands. 

He helps you figure out a way through it, AND THEN HE WALKS RIGHT THROUGH IT WITH YOU.  He climbs RIGHT UP IN THAT THING WITH YOU.  He sits there in that moment - criss-cross applesauce, all hunched over - and He will STAY THERE.  He’s not going anywhere.  

And THAT makes me GRIN.

Write it down.

He told me to write it down.  So I guess that’s what I’m going to do.

When I retired three years ago, the Lord whispered to me that I was to write. SOMEDAY, I would write SOMETHING - but He made it clear that it wasn’t time yet.  I was to focus on raising my kids (even the adult ones), getting our homeschool going strong, and just recovering from being a teacher for 25 years. 

He didn’t reveal at the time WHAT I’d write about….. I thought maybe a precious picture book or a devotional book for Moms!  Maybe I’d write about motherhood or homeschooling or adoption or travel!  I could write funny stories from all those years in the classroom! 

Nope.  Apparently not.

Apparently I am not going to write about any of those things - not now, anyway.

For now, I’m supposed to write about LEUKEMIA.

A few weeks ago, after months of bloodwork and concern, a bone marrow biopsy confirmed that I have Chronic Myeloid Leukemia.

And in the days following that scary diagnosis, I heard the Lord say, “Write it down.”

WHAT?!  No, no, no. Lord, nobody wants to read about leukemia.  Nobody wants to hear about the fear, the labs, the tests.  Nobody wants to know about the sleepless nights or the side effects of treatment. Nobody wants to learn about the science of DNA and chromosomes and translocations and the CRAP that’s going on in my bone marrow. Reading about LEUKEMIA will not make anybody LOL.

Lord, this will be a HORRIBLE read. I do NOT think this is a good idea.

Then, through the appointments and panic and worry and unknown, He began to show me…. 

Write about your MRI story (that’s a GREAT one). 

Write about the CRAP (my word, not God’s).

Write about PERSPECTIVE.

Write about MANNA.

Write about FINDING THE HELPERS.

Write about THAT WEEKEND - JUST YOU AND GOD.

Through the literature from the Leukemia Society that I have literally devoured and through the myriad of Youtube videos that I’ve watched about my problems, He pointed things out…..

Write about the LESSONS FROM THE MEDICINE.

Write about the STORIES OF OTHERS.

Write about HOPE.

And on and on and on. He's brought us through the last few months and these recent days - and they are all FILLED WITH STORIES.

So.  We write.

Many have asked how we are doing and the answer is actually SO FAR SO GOOD.  CML is a blood cancer that will be with me for the rest of my life - there’s no cure - and 25 years ago, I would have been given 3-5 years to live.  But the Lord has given smart people the ability to do great things - and medical folks discovered a chemotherapy pill that makes CML treatable! 

I started my meds four days ago, and so our new normal begins - which so far, has been very normal - maybe a bit slower and quieter, but I am ALL FOR THAT.

Are we scared? A bit.

Are we worried?  Yes.  Some days more than others.

Are we angry?  No.  

Are we grateful?  Getting there. (And I agree that’s a strange emotion during times like this.)

It’s just a weird time emotionally.  It actually occurred to me during church on Sunday that in all these months since I heard the word LEUKEMIA, I’ve never once asked God to heal me.  I haven’t asked that He fix things so that I don’t have CML.  It just never crossed my mind to pray that way.

What I HAVE very earnestly and continuously prayed for is PROTECTION as I begin treatment and PERSPECTIVE as I learn what things swirling around me REALLY matter.  I know He’s all up in this.  And I know that He has a reason. I know it.

So, instead of, “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME, LORD?”, it’s more like “Okay, this is what we’re doing.  Well, alrighty then.”

There are things to learn from this.  There are people to meet and stories to hear.  There are moments that I am supposed to cherish that maybe I would have missed if I weren’t forced to sit still.  There are sweet conversations to be had - mostly with Jesus.  There are miracles to celebrate and hope to ponder.  

And we will write it down.

Because He told me to.

And you’ll be glad to know that Lottie has actually discovered the CURE FOR CANCER during her 3rd grade science lesson.  She was learning about cells and vitamins and minerals and there was a picture of a cereal box on the screen - showing her how vitamins and minerals are listed right there on the ingredients list. She came running over - “MOM!  I know how you can fix your cancer!  You need more IRON - and that’s a mineral - and CEREAL has minerals - MOM!!!!  YOU JUST NEED TO EAT MORE CEREAL!!!”

Well, I guess that solves that problem.