A Prescription for a Brave Heart

Today is our last day this side of chemotherapy as treatment begins first thing in the morning. We decided to participate in a clinical trial at the Cleveland Clinic that aims to be even more effective than the standard care for lymphoma. Most patients receive what is commonly referred to as R-CHOP, which is a sequence of 5 drugs administered one day every 3 weeks for 6 cycles. This trial introduces carfilzomib up front in addition to R-CHOP, which is FDA approved for multiple myeloma but not yet for lymphoma. So instead of 1 day treatments, we'll go for 3 days in a row every 3 weeks over the next 18 weeks. And so it begins. Now that the physical pain from my surgery is beginning to lessen (wish I could heal as fast as The Flash), naturally people are asking me how I mentally feel staring down the barrel of chemo. While I don't feel overwhelmingly anxious about the path ahead, I'll be honest that there is a strange feeling that combines pregame jitters with the more profound and lasting vulnerability of my mortality. I'm sure once we get on the playing field, we'll find our rhythm as chemo does its work. Obviously there is the long list of uncertain side effects that makes me wonder which ones my body will choose to embrace or defy. But I think the reason I pause and reflect a bit more today is why so many people in our circle have also been doing the same over the last week or two. The words cancer and chemo simply carry a weight that compels us to consider two things: 1) the totality of my life up to this point, and 2) how much life is left. I think it is normal for all of us think about both the past and the future when we realize that we are not immortal, whether we go through our own trials or see them experienced through others we love. How much of a difference has my life made so far, and will I still have time to make a lasting impact down the road? To me, God very specifically designs and uses these moments to draw us to Himself as we confront the reality of dying someday. Last month I felt the need to watch Braveheart after 20 years (this movie was made in 1995?!) Following a series of passionate and inspiring battles to fight in the name of freedom, William Wallace is finally captured by the king of England who despises not only the man but the hope he symbolizes. The princess and daughter-in-law of the king was taken by William Wallace and pleaded with him to show allegiance to the king so that he might receive mercy. Refusing to compromise his principles, she sobbed "You will die, and it will be awful." Mel Gibson stands firm in response and replies "Every man dies. Not every man really lives." That line echoes to me in the weeks since watching it, and I hope it rings true for you too. Have I really lived, and am I prepared for the day my name is called? If not, what must I do today to change course toward significance, purpose, and hope? My personal prescription for a brave heart to endure both sides of yesterday and tomorrow is found in Philippians 4: "Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice. Let your reasonableness be known to everyone. The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." I know God will guard and protect me through the next 18 weeks and beyond, and I can approach His throne with confidence since he's right there at hand (meaning holding my hand). But I also rejoice in the Lord and give Him thanks for exactly where I'm at the day before facing chemo. It is beyond understanding, but I feel His purpose and His presence more than ever - it's tangible and real. Jesus not only gives me significance for my life up to this point, but I am motivated more than ever to charge ahead and finish the race strong. No matter how many miles remain.