It is currently 1:10 am and I have church in the morning. I’m supposed to be singing; I need my rest, but I can’t sleep.
I keep thinking about my grandmother.
It has been a few years since we first got the news that she had been diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. It was horrible, heartbreaking news. My mind has so far repressed any memories of that day that the only thing I recall is sitting in the backseat of my mom’s car as she listened to my aunt tell her what I had feared for weeks.
It was so hard. She went into treatments right away. My grandfather was by her side. He cooked and did laundry and cared for her in a way I had never witnessed before. She got so weak; and in those moments, I clung to my God and all my faith was in Him. Someone said to me, “I never thought she would go this soon.” I thought…this is what it is to not have God, to not have hope. Without God, there is no hope – for healing, for good, for His saving grace. Without God, there is the end and nothing else.
She was so strong during those times. She fought through it and went through all the treatments the doctors threw at her. On my dad’s side, I’m still one of the babies. I’m not privy to the special, detailed information that my aunt, my uncle, and my dad have. I only have the bits – the parts that I really needed to know: mama has cancer, shes’s going through treatment, she’s getting better, she’s getting worse…then finally, she’s going to be okay.
My grandmother started moving around again, getting things done on her own. She cooked our Friday night dinners, she did the laundry, she went out with my grandfather, she watched after my little cousins.
Her arm started to hurt her. It’s nothing…it’s nothing.
She would try massaging it. She tried to put a heat pack on it. Eventually, she couldn’t move it anymore because it hurt too much. She still did everything she could do…but with one hand only and the other in a sling.
The doctor found cancer in her arm. Surgery. To remove the bone and replace it with a metal rod. Bionic grandma. It spread even more. More treatment.
She’s been weak. Talking hopeless talk. I helped her to the washroom the other night a couple of weeks ago, and she could barely keep her eyes open and barely stand to go to the washroom.
I sit with her. I look at her while she sleeps, praising God every time her chest rises and falls and rises again. I stroke her arm and pray for her.
She’s out of bed again. She sat with us at dinner time this past Friday. Boyfriend shaved her head at her request, because her hair is starting to fall out again.
I haven’t let myself be sad. I know how easily that sadness can overtake me. Instead I cling to the hope I have in my Lord. The reassurance I get from how He healed her years ago, from his faithfulness in my life and in the lives of my family.
She is a stubborn fighter. She’ll get through this.
I believe it.
I claim it.
I thank God for healing her.