Say Hi to Jesus For Me, children with cancer, Christian faith

"Say Hi to Jesus For Me": Chapter 2

We took turns that night sleeping on the couch in Todd's room and sitting up with him. I had a tape recorder in the drawer of Todd's nightstand. Softly I played a tape of a recent service. It was barely audible, but it gave the room an air of worship.

For a long time I sat in the waiting room and listened to the night noises of the hospital. During the day the sixth floor had been quite a busy place- doctors, nurses, technicians and parents hurrying around, and children who were well enough to be out of bed roaming the halls on their scooters, wagons and wheelchairs. We heard their laughter as well as their cries.

But at night the sounds were different. The boy in the room next to ours was on a heart monitor. His heartbeat was very irregular. Beep….. beep………………….. beepbeep…………. beep… beepbeepbeepbeep….. beep…. When there was a pause, I prayed that another beep would follow. Then the monitor raced and the beeps were almost one continual sound.

Here and there I heard children crying. Some were lonely; others were in pain. My heart cried out to God: "Don't you hear these children crying? Where are you while all this is going on? Please help."

The answer came in the quietness of my heart, the assurance that He was there and that He knew. I felt His sadness and especially His loving presence.

The next day brought test upon tests. And always the doctor's explanations: "These tests carry a certain amount of risk. This and than could happen. But we need them." We signed each consent form.

The first test results were in. There was a tumor on Todd's left kidney. "A tumor!" The information sank in only bit by bit. The doctors knew of our need to receive and comprehend slowly. They only answered the questions we were ready to ask.

"Well then, is it malignant?" We hardly dared ask. "Yes?….. Well then, will you have to take the kidney?" They said they would, but assured us that Todd could get along perfectly well with one kidney.

Now more tests had to be taken. They advised us to go home, since Todd would be sedated and we could not be with him anyway. We left in a state of shock. In the car we cried as we realized "malignant" meant that dreaded disease: cancer. Our world came crashing in.

I thought I remembered that God had promised not to allow us to be tempted more than we are able to endure. When we got home, I pulled out our Bible and found the verse: "No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your strength, but with the temptation will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it." (1Cor. 10:13)

I told Dutch, "I don't know about you, but this is what I'm going to hang on to." We made some phone calls. My Mother was visiting relatives in Germany. We had called her earlier in the week to say Todd was in the hospital. Now we called again.

My cousin answered. "Yes," he said, "your mother is with us, but she's out trying to make arrangements for a flight home. It's very difficult to get the proper connections."
"Michael, please tell her to come home right away. Toddy has cancer."
Silence.
"Michael, did you hear me? Toddy has cancer. Will you tell mother?"
"Yes, yes, I'll tell her."
Mother said later that when she got back Michael had turned pale and could hardly bring out the words to tell her.

We tried to sleep, but soon went back to the hospital. Pastor Roufs was there with us again to hear the test results.

The doctor drew us a picture of the tumor surrounding the kidney and explained how they planned to remove it the next morning. Tears came to my eyes. I guess I had been putting up a good front, because Pastor Roufs was caught off guard when I broke down and cried.

We didn't tell Todd much when he arrived back in his room. We tried to assure him that everything would be OK. Around midnight the nurse put a tag on Todd's bed and explained that he was to have nothing by mouth before surgery. No water- nothing.

When morning came Dutch talked to the doctor one more time and asked him to please do all that he could. The doctor put his arms around Dutch and said, "We have children too." That was all we needed to hear to know he would do his best.

When the nurse came to take Todd to surgery, we went along as far as the elevator. He cried and didn't want to go. In the elevator he told the nurse he thought he was going to die.

The hours of waiting dragged on. Friends came to help us pass the time. Harvey even took off work to be with Dutch. Our inner turmoil was great. I burst out at my friend, Pam, "I do want the will of God for our lives, but not if it means that Todd has to die."

Finally we received word that all had gone well and that Todd would soon be out of recovery and back in his room. The doctor reported that the tumor had been very large, about three times the size of the kidney, but that it had been fully encapsulated. Also, lymph glands right next to the kidney were completely free of the disease. That offered much hope for Todd's complete recovery, since there was no visible evidence of the cancer having spread any further.

I looked forward to Todd's return from surgery with a certain amount of fear. I didn't know what to expect, what he would look like, and I dreaded seeing the wound. He was pale and sleepy when he came in, this little boy who was always so full of energy. He took shallow breaths. An IV was hooked to his arm. We had to move him very carefully.

He was in pain. Every move hurt. We forced on him the first injection for pain. When it was time for the next one, he fought hard, throwing himself around the bed to escape it. He became hysterical, pleading: "Please, Mom!!" "The shot just hurts for a little while, but then you will be more comfortable," I said. "No, please. I'll just hold your hand and squeeze it real hard when it hurts."

The doctor thought that if Todd felt so strongly about it he should be allowed to try to get along without injections. So Todd lay there and shivered from the pain. His knuckles turned white from squeezing my hand, but he kept right on refusing the shots.

Later, we found out why. When his dog King had been ill, we were careful not to mention the terms "put to sleep" and "shots" to him. We simply told him King had gone to heaven. (Dear Lord, are there animals in heaven?) But he must have heard us talk to others about King, for now he thought we were trying to give him shots to have him put to sleep also. That's why he was willing to endure the pain.