Time to Burn the Ship

If you're just joining the party, I'd recommend reading my first post as a primer, which includes a few disclaimers and housekeeping items of note.
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The legend goes that when Spanish conquistador Hernan Cortes arrived in Mexico in the early 1500s, he ordered his men to burn the ships. As the leader, he wasn't going to give his men a way out, to second-guess their mission. They were moving forward no matter what. There would be no going back.

A couple weeks ago, I got a card in the mail from my friend, Venita (the same woman who inspired the naming of this blog over 15 years ago and introduced me to author Kate Bowler, with whom I am now obsessed). She offered up some encouraging words, and at the bottom she wrote:

You will make the right decision for you and once you do - burn the boat and don't look back.

With tears in my eyes, I put the card down, knowing deep down even then what I needed to do next.

I texted her and simply said, "The words I didn't know I needed to hear. Thank you."

Yet despite those words, I naturally did what anyone would do when contemplating the prospect of having her skull cut open and part of her brain removed, all while hoping she doesn't die in the process or shortly thereafter (ya know, no biggie): 

I procrastinated. 

I hemmed. 

I hawed. 

I swore.

I avoided.

I journaled.

I questioned.

I waffled.

I second-guessed.

I read.

I debated.

I cried.

I probably swore some more.  

I prayed.

I watched Hallmark. 

Everything I was reading in the research indicated that having surgery to remove as much of the tumor as safely as possible improved long-term outcomes. Both neurosurgeons that I got opinions from recommended it. 

Everything was pointing in the direction of surgery.

But really what I was hung up on was this lingering question, "But what if..."

But what if there's some piece of information out there that I don't have that would change the outcome of this decision, some piece of information that I come across later that makes me look back and think, "If only I had known then what I know now"?

But what if I go with one healthcare system, only to realize later I should have gone with the other?

But what if all these risks associated with the surgery actually happen?

But what if I choose wrong?

And in that wrestling, the Lord ever so gently revealed the flaw in my thinking:

I thought control rested in my hands.

I remember telling a friend when things first unfolded and I got the diagnosis, cancer in and of itself felt oddly underwhelming to me. I thought to myself, "People get cancer every day. This is not a novel part of the human experience. There's nothing new to see here. This is just life. We live in a broken world and I'm not exempt from suffering and pain. It just is and there's nothing I can do about it. I trust God is in control and it's all in his hands."

Because in my mind, I didn't get to vote on whether I got cancer. It happened. For whatever reason, it happened. Those first few weeks, I felt shockingly calm and at peace. It was like I was giving cancer a firm shoulder shrug and walking away saying, "Meh."

But then - but then - 

The conversations with medical providers took a sharp left toward the prospect and realities of surgery. 

And then my thinking changed. 

Then I bought the notion that things no longer rested in God's hands, but mine, and that somehow I could choose wrong. It was up to me to figure out how to navigate the minefield and make sure I came out on the other side of this mess alive.

I went from thinking God was in control to thinking I was in control.

As soon as that shift in thinking occurred, even subconsciously, my anxiety shifted with it.  The tighter I held onto the notion that I was in control, the higher my anxieties climbed. The two went hand in hand.

I was reading Kate Bowler's book No Cure For Being Human one night in the midst of all this processing. I got to a point in the story that made me close the book and have a good cry until I finally just fell asleep. She was contemplating the prospect of her own surgery (she was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer). A friend offered her these words, which, through the power of the pen and a sovereign God, were really words meant for me:

Here's something I do with my patients. I tell them to mark the date. You've made a decision based on all the information you have right now. Next week there might be a new treatment or a new setback and all the reasons why you chose this might seem obsolete. You could drive yourself crazy wondering What if or I should have...But right now, in this moment, you know that this is the best you can do with the information you have. You have to give the yourself the gift of saying, 'I couldn't have known...' This decision, like all decisions, must stand in time, for better or for worse.

So, decided to give myself the gift of saying 'I couldn't have known...,' acknowledged the fact that I wasn't in control but God was, and I marked the time.

Tuesday, March 19, 2024, at 11:44 am.

Time to burn the ship.

I called the neurosurgeon and informed him I would move forward with the surgery.

It's a decision that will stand in time, at a particular point, in a particular place, based on information I had at that time, not on information I will have in one month, two months, one year, or ten years.

There can be no going back. 

And there can be no looking back.

I have to trust that God is sovereign and in control. 

Not me. 

Otherwise, I will wear myself out. 

"Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?" (Matthew 6:26-27)

I don't possess the power to add a single hour to my life. 

Every second of my life is ordained by God.

Either I trust him with that truth or I don't. 

Wringing my hands out over the prospect of this surgery gets me nowhere. It literally is wasted energy and an exercise in futility. 

So, instead, I'm going to light a match, burn the ship, and not look back.

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Functional updates:

I'll try to carve out space in each post to provide updates on where I am in the process. So, if you're just here for the nuts and bolts, in the future you can slide straight here to the bottom and skip my idle wanderings above.

I guess, technically, I could just say 'See above,' but for those that want the nuts and bolts facts:

I have elected to maintain care and treatment through the healthcare system where I first went to the ER, who has been primary all along, rather than going with the local university. I felt they were well-matched systems, and I didn't see glaring discrepancies either in their recommendations or the level of care I would receive at either institution. That part of the decision making-process was one part gut, one part comparison of facts, and two parts freaking-make-a-decision-already. 

Surgery is scheduled for April 16. I will do a final round of MRIs on April 15 so that we have up-to-date imaging in preparation for surgery the next day. The neurosurgeon anticipates the surgery will last 2-4 hours and I will be in the hospital an equal number of days. 

As a precursor to those days, I am going to humbly request now on the front-end of anyone local: please don't come to the hospital to visit. Priority one will be my recovery and that's hard enough to do when there is a constant stream of medical providers (when I was in the hospital for the first go-round, the tally of providers landed at nearly fifty. 5-0. Fifty.), let alone a constant stream of visitors.

My plan is to have my brother serve as back-up communicator on the blog while I'm out of commission, but we make no guarantees on the frequency of updates. You'll just have to be good boys and girls and wait patiently. We'll do our best to push out information when we can.

I continue to be overwhelmed by the outpouring of encouragement and love from friends, family and colleagues. It really is humbling, and it has reduced me to snot and tears on more than one occasion. You'd think it's Christmas around here with the way care packages and cards are arriving in the mail. I have no doubt these next few weeks will be still be filled with moments of doubt and second-guessing. I'm human. But thoughtful texts, cards, and emails continue to bolster me, reminding me of the things I need to hear most. Thank you to those of you that have reached out. I'm so grateful for you. 💕

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PS: Want to leave a comment? If you select "Anonymous" and if you're comfortable, would you mind including your name directly in the body of your comment? That way I know who you are!