Day 11 This morning we’re up early in order to make it to the hospital for a brain scan.This is the last test we hope. We get there and check in at the front desk, but are told that the test will be done in another part of the hospital. Why is everything so hard? It feels like we can’t even catch a break getting to an appointment. It’s striking to me as we pass a huge sign that proclaims the facilities commitment to help in our healing. that one of their claims is “To help you find your way”. We can barely find our way to the department we’re supposed to go to. Hospitals are a confusing maze that seem to be as much an obstacle course as anything. Everybody we pass in the hall is wrapped up in their world. They talk about their lives as we shuffle by, it all seems so normal. They float along in a world that seems like a long ago memory. We are still determined to claim and receive healing for Sis from God. God’s the only one that seems to feel like He can actually do anything about cancer. Are doctors simply afraid to offer any hope? They all claim to know how important it is to have hope. They keep telling us that attitude is everything, but they just don’t offer any help with it. They have pamplets about it. Everything they do seems to be modeled after running a business. Business hours, voice mail, forms to fill out. They might as well be fixing transmissions. When Sis is done we have to kill a little time so we go to the main lobby. Wait ... wait ... wait. We’re holding fast to the promises God has made about healing. We talk about it to each other. We look at every angle of it, dissecting it, absorbing it. This hospital is a faith based hospital, but the only sign of God I can see in the lobby is a rack of brochures in the corner, hidden near the door. We have an appointment with our oncologist to go over the results of the brain scan. Sure enough, there’s evidence of cancer. I gaurantee you will never be prepared for that feeling. The bleakness. We’re hearing all of this and it’s like a slow motion nightmare. I pace, Sis stares and tries to concentrate. It’s a fitful, halting conversation with a doctor when you’re talking about these things. He’s got a hard job to do. He doesn’t want to say what he has to say, but he has to. we’ve been forced to face “quality of life” issues. He was telling us about the potential complications we were facing, and describing the ways he would go about treating the complications, and the tumors. You could feel that he had no faith in his treatments. He gave us his best case scenario, only at our urging, and admitted it would be considered miraculous. Two years, and he didn’t paint it as a pretty picture. He seemed to be really hoping for a year, but it wasn’t hard to see he doubted it. He had more of a, “Let’s try radiation on your brain, and a couple of months of chemo. If that doesn’t kill you I think a year of survival would be considered a success ”. He also added that she could expect to lose the use of limbs, have headaches, and seizures. Sis wanted to know about the quality of life. You see, we’ve experienced the heinous march of cancer before. My sister, my darling, lovely little sister died of cancer three years ago. It’s horrible. God is our only option now. We need a miracle. We’re believing for a miracle. we have no choice. Medicine has nothing to offer us. <back