What is it like to be in a battle for your life, and how can friends come alongside and help?

The room was dark; the staff had gone home. Only minutes earlier a host of doctors and technicians had been scurrying about, sinking long needles into various places in my back before passing my body in and out of a CAT-scan machine. Finally, having located the target, a technician used a large syringe to withdraw fluid.

After months of physical agony and intense frustration, we would have some answers about the incredible pain in my back. We would know why I hadn't been getting better, but worse.

Suddenly a young doctor burst through the door. Hurrying to my side, he said, "Hello, Mrs. Frähm. My name is Dr. S_____. I'm a surgeon. In fact, I'm late for surgery right now. Mrs. Frähm, I hate to tell you this, but you have advanced breast cancer. You need a mastectomy, and I can fit you in at 5:30 p.m. tomorrow. OK?"

Upstairs in my hospital room, my husband listened to the same shocking news from an oncologist. Stunned and emotionally overwhelmed, he managed to ask only one question: "How long does she have?"

"I'm not going to pull any punches; you need to know the truth," answered the oncologist. "Most people who have cancer as advanced as your wife's die within two years."

Back in my room, Dave and I clung to each other and wept. Was this really happening to us? We began to mourn my death.

Scenes of Despair

From the moment I was diagnosed, events unfolded like an eerie, surrealistic movie: My skeleton is displayed on a light board and I see black spots covering my skull, spine, ribs, and pelvic bones. The spots are tumors that have eaten holes in my bones. One large tumor has eaten a stress fracture into my spine. Will I lose the use of my legs? … I endure monotonous hours in the doctor's office while yet another bag of cancer-fighting chemicals slowly drips into my veins. I always leave feeling like I've been hit with a sledge hammer… . I stand in the shower staring at handfuls of long, brown hair by my feet… . The nurse tells me I have become immune to the chemotherapy I've been taking for a year. My cancer rate has risen considerably. I run to the bathroom and sob my heart out.

My last hope, from a medical viewpoint, is a bone marrow transplant. I go to Omaha, Nebraska, for the transplant. I don't know it yet, but I will lie in this hospital bed for fifty-two days.

I'm still bald. My body is swollen because my kidneys are failing. Three long tubes run into my chest, an oxygen tube is in my nose. My skin, a leathery brown, is covered with a purple rash. The skin has fallen off of my blistered lips; my nails, eyebrows, and eyelashes are gone. My mother stands vigil in mask, rubber gloves, gown, and booties while four machines pump blood and chemicals into my body.

The night I am wheeled out of isolation for emergency lung surgery, Dave takes our children in his arms and tells them I'm not expected to live. Miraculously, I recover.

Several weeks later, a doctor enters the isolation room where my husband and mother are waiting with me. The doctor takes my hand in her rubber gloves, and with tears streaming down her face she says, "I'm so sorry. The tests show there is still a lot of cancer in your bone marrow. I'm afraid the procedure just didn't work for you."

Roller Coaster Emotions

It's difficult to describe my emotions when I finally knew that all medical hope was gone. My reactions were not neat and orderly. They sloshed around in a big pail, spilling out all over, making a mess.

I was only thirty-five years old, and yet the future looked so bleak. I deeply mourned the loss of my breast. I felt like an animal who had chewed off his leg to escape a trap.

I felt angry and betrayed. Only eleven months earlier my mammograph had pronounced me free of cancer. All my life I had carefully avoided all kinds of things that I'd heard would be detrimental to my health. It was like finding out after years of diligently brushing my teeth that toothbrushes cause cavities.

I wanted to strangle my doctors for failing to diagnose me earlier. Why was I allowed to suffer so long, given pretty pills for unrelated ailments, when I was being eaten alive by cancer?

And what about God? Where was He in all of this? He could have protected me, but He didn't. I thought He'd let me down. I questioned His fairness in allowing this to happen. I was disappointed with Him, but I knew deep down that I needed Him in my corner if I was going to survive. To whom else could I turn if I couldn't turn to God?

Guilt ran a close second to anger. Not only was I physically unable to care for my seven- and ten-year-old children, but they were terrified they might lose me. I wanted so much to hold them and comfort them—to show them there was nothing to be afraid of. But there really was a "boogie man" hiding under the bed.

The hardest thing of all was to see my family suffer. My kids blamed themselves for what was happening to me. Their grades at school dipped. They began to display separation anxiety and certain obsessive behaviors. Dave was like a zombie just going through the motions, afraid to look at what might lie ahead for him as a widower with two young children. Each day brought him heaviness of heart. Each new pain in my body brought worried concern.

While all the emotions washed back and forth across my heart, questions filled my mind. What if it really was my time to go to Heaven? Did I want to fight God's will? Should I try to beat this cancer, or should I just resign myself to death? I kept looking for signs. None came.

After studying Scripture, I concluded that no one knows when the day of his death will be. Only God knows that. "Our bodies are like gardens," my husband pointed out. "Yours is full of weeds and needs tending. Your job is to work hard at taking care of it until God takes it back."

I quit looking for a sign and determined to do my best to win back my health. Even so, I was tormented by fear and desperate for hope. I looked everywhere for reason to believe that I could beat the odds. I found encouragement in the stories of the biblical David overcoming his enemies. I also found hope in books written by fellow cancer patients who had won their war on the disease.

The Turning Point

Early on in my battle with cancer I'd read of the link between diet and disease. It was now time to give that a shot; I had nothing to lose. Under the guidance of a Christian nutritional consultant, I began a strict regimen of detoxification, diet, and supplements. Five weeks later, tests by my oncologist revealed no trace of cancer! He was flabbergasted.

"When you returned from the transplant with cancer still in your marrow," he said, "I honestly thought you were doomed. The only thing I can attribute it to is your diet or divine intervention." My husband and I know that God worked a miracle. But we also have learned a great deal about biblical stewardship of our bodies through diet and nutrition.

There are no guarantees in battling cancer; not everyone in a similar situation will have the same results. God has a different plan for each of us. But many people have fought their way back to health, even from the point of death.

Unfortunately, rather than encourage cancer patients to keep fighting, those closest to them often treat them as if they are on their way out. How can people, including doctors, family members, and friends encourage someone with a life-threatening illness?

Stay involved.

Perhaps the single most important help to someone battling a life-threatening disease is to have people around him who will treat him as a living, breathing person with a future. I am proof that cancer need not be an automatic death sentence.

One of my best friends later admitted that during my lowest times, when my future looked most bleak, she purposely stayed away. She was afraid of getting too close—of experiencing too much pain if I should die. She was protecting herself. I understood that. But such an attitude from a friend is devastating.

Ask and listen.

Early in my war on cancer my husband and I visited with an out-of-town friend. Not once did he ask about my cancer and how I was doing. I knew he cared, but he simply never asked. It was as if he thought the subject taboo, undoubtedly too painful for me to discuss. Or perhaps he was just protecting himself from the awkwardness of not knowing what to say. But I wanted and needed to have him ask me how I was doing and what I was feeling.

Listen more, talk less.

A neighbor who had experienced breast cancer herself came by to "cheer me up." She'd had a small tumor removed, followed by a short treatment of radiation. Cancer, for her, had been little more than a small bump on the highway of life. Her "cancer-is-a-piece-of-cake" attitude, although well intended, left me angry. I was in stage four, the worst. They'd told me I was terminal. My breast was gone, I had a tube hanging out of my chest, I was losing my hair, and I was facing death. I don't think she even asked about the details of my condition, so intent was she on "comforting" me. Had her story been similar to mine, I would have jumped for joy that somebody else had "walked through the valley of the shadow of death" and lived to tell about it. Since it wasn't, I wish she'd have listened more and talked less.

Pray in their presence.

Thank goodness for the small-group fellowship my husband and I were already part of when I was diagnosed with cancer. Although they knew very little about the disease, these friends knew that we needed prayer. Several of them committed to pray for me every day. On two occasions this group of twelve to fifteen friends gathered around me, placing their hands on my body, and prayed. I felt incredibly buoyed, both emotionally and spiritually. It's important to pray for someone; but it's just as important to pray with him.

Find practical ways to "take a load off."

When a person is diagnosed with a life-threatening disease, the details of daily living tend to take a back seat. Motivation to keep the toilets scrubbed and the lawn mowed disappear. I can't tell you how much I appreciated friends who periodically showed up at my door to do the daily homemaking tasks I couldn't do. I was doubly grateful when they called ahead of time, suggested a time when they'd like to come over, and asked for a list of things I needed to have done.

Providing a meal was a great way to help during the weeks immediately following my mastectomy and hospitalization. It helped if the meal was packaged in disposable containers, since it was difficult for my family to try to keep track of what serving dish belonged to whom, and to return it. We especially appreciated the person who asked about dietary concerns.

Send a card.

There's nothing more encouraging than knowing you're remembered. Just send a nice, little card with a brief note says that you care. Don't try to cheer up the person with well-meaning, but empty phrases along the lines of "Don't worry, be happy!"

What helped me the most was when people said they were praying. I felt they were going to bat for me before the Lord. And if they shared a verse that was particularly meaningful to me, I'd often jot it down in my journal.

Send money.

The financial burden of fighting a degenerative disease like cancer can be crushing. The emotional fallout of increasing financial pressures is extremely counterproductive to the cancer-fighting process. Even with insurance, we were in debt several thousands of dollars, due to uncovered medical bills and related costs. Although some might feel ambivalent about receiving monetary help, one of the nicest things friends did for us was send a check to help alleviate some of the burden.

Send a book.

When I was first diagnosed with cancer, I was hungry for hope. I searched for stories of cancer survivors—men and women who had found a way to beat their disease. Such books became encouraging friends. So send books that are realistic and compassionate, yet hopeful.

Cancer warriors need a constant diet of hope. Being excluded from intimate relationships by friends or family members sends a very clear message: You're "hopeless"—you're a "goner." The challenge of winning a personal war on cancer is made easier when others support you through prayer and involvement in your day-to-day battle.

© Copyright 2005 Smalley Relationship Center

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