#Faith #Hope #Love #cancer And the greatest of these...

I assumed everyone lived with hope. Otherwise, how could one survive? These last few weeks I've learned what it is to live without hope. This is not a place anyone could survive for long. I learned what it is like to live with a bleakness in your heart so horrible just waking up was a nightmare. A soul that was once filled with happiness had experienced a depth of sadness so deep it was impossible to convey the sorrow. I assumed we would be together forever. 

My husband was diagnosed with stage four esophageal #cancer six months ago. He has mets to his liver, lungs, bone, and a multiple of lymph nodes. I spoke with his oncologist who gave me the heads up news that there was no hope. Not a bit of hope. Nothing, nada, zip and zilch.

No hope? 

We've lived our lives on hope. We've believed in things most people would have assumed were impossible. The birth of our daughter at fifteen, marriage at sixteen, the struggle for education. Learning compassion, empathy, and love from the very people who said we would not make it. 

Hope is my life. Is our life. 

When the oncologist gave us no hope, I still had hope, though the creeping sensation of hopelessness smothered us both. This is the most frightening sensation we've ever experienced. We've always believed that if you had hope you could win. This  doctor was firm in his diagnosis. I begged him: Then there is no hope?

None. 

And then the phone call: Your husband has a strange gene on his cancer sells. One we can target with biologics, we think. 

Second opinion at UC Davis. We are spooned more hope. Somehow, the husband's cancer cells were able to put up a mirror that told his white blood cells his cancer was not cancer. As odd as that sounds, it is true. Cancer cells can disguise themselves and in Dennis' case, they had done well and his white blood cells were pissed. 

Dennis' vertebra were collapsing and we both were terrified. The phone call gave us hope. More tests and the results were back. Biologics were an answer. All day Saturday we were in the emergency room. His lungs were filling with fluid and pneumonia. Antibiotics, pain medication and then the consultation: 

You're husband has advanced cancer. 

We know. 

How long does he have? 

Weeks, the oncologist said. 

I am going to send you home. 

Home was full of unanswered questions, pain, and more narcotics. Strong ones that still the mind and emotions. 

Monday, another phone call: We're going to start treatment Wednesday. 

Today. 

We were at the hospital ahead of time. Biologic therapy is new. It was just given the green light for esophageal cancer last week. Yes, last week.  We wondered if it would help his lungs, his spine and shoulder, liver and esophagus. Maybe, we're told. 

Our ambulatory care unit knows us both very well. We tried to coordinate my Remicade with his chemotherapy. Most of the time we were able to do so. Some of the nurses wanted us to adopt them. We love each one of them. We prayed while we were there. Hard, soft, crying, drying our eyes. 

And once again, we wait.