Scripture says that we should choose things in this life that earthly destruction cannot take from us, like moth, rust, or leaves. It says to store in heaven those things which cannot be touched. Loosen the grip on the earthly; hold firmly firmly to that which is eternal.
And today, as my pulmonologist came into my room speaking the words I did not want to hear, I thought about what the scripture had to say. The IPF is spreading so rapidly that it has already reached both lungs at the top and my heart. Now, I need to hold firmly to that which is eternal.
The train keeps moving on....steadfast and heavy.
This picture floods me with emotion. It is as if every tear I have ever shed over this disease has been stopped dead in its tracks by Christ. I cling to the verse: He will wipe away from them every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; neither will there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain, any more. The first things have passed away. Revelation 21:4.
I, and many of you who are reading this, are ready for this to come – not death, but with death the ending of crying and pain. I don’t remember when I saw this photo for the first time. But I have gone back and back to it. It is so startlingly powerful sometimes I can hardly take my eyes away.
But here on earth? My tears continue to flow and flow. For there is nothing more to do except the most important thing and that is to hold firmly and tightly to God’s promise of eternal salvation. I feel I am being pushed to say: it is open to everyone. And the way to that heavenly home is to confess your sins to God, accept Christ as the Son of God and ask Him in to your life. I know for some of you I sound like an old country preacher but these are the tenets that I hold true. Only those who believe will go to heaven. I know that sounds so not PC but scripture also says, “I am THE way The truth and THE life. No one comes to the Father except through me (Christ). John 14:6.
I want you all to be there with me. He does too.
I stumbled upon an article written by an ED physician that was so insightful, so spot on that I wanted to quote portions of it to you. It was written by Louis M. Profeta, MD. Not only is he an Emergency Room physician, he is also an author and public speaker on the topic of spirituality in medicine. And if you don’t mind me saying so, spirituality in healthcare organizations is sorely needed. The title of the article is: I Know You Love Me – So Let Me Die. He begins like this:
In the old days, she would be propped up on a comfy pillow, in fresh cleaned sheets under the corner window where she would in days gone past watch her children play. Soup would boil on the stove just in case she felt like a sip or two. Perhaps the radio softly played Al Jolson or Glenn Miller, flowers sat on the nightstand, and family quietly came and went. These were her last days. Spent with familiar sounds, in a familiar room, with familiar smells that gave her a final chance to summon memories that will help carry her away. She might have offered a hint of a smile or a soft squeeze of the hand but it was all right if she didn’t. She lost her own words to tell us that it’s OK to just let her die, but she trusted us to be her voice and we took that trust to heart.
You see, that’s how she used to die. We saw our elderly different then….
This is how we used to see her before we became blinded by the endless tones of monitors and whirrs of machines, buzzers, buttons and tubes that can add five years to a shell of a body that was entrusted to us and should have been allowed to pass quietly propped up in a corner room, under a window, scents of homemade soup in case she wanted a sip.
You see now we can breathe for her, eat for her and even pee for her. Once you have those three things covered she can, instead of being gently cradled under that corner window, be placed in a nursing home and penned in cage of bed rails and soft restraints meant to “keep her safe.”
She can be fed a steady diet of Ensure through a tube directly into her stomach and she can be kept alive until her limbs contract and her skin thins so much that a simple bump into that bed rail can literally open her up until her exposed tendons are staring into the eyes of an eager medical student looking for a chance to sew. She can be kept alive until her bladder is chronically infected, until antibiotic resistant diarrhea flows and pools in her diaper so much that it erodes her buttocks. The fat padding around her tailbone and hips are consumed and ulcers open up exposing the underlying bone, which now becomes ripe for infection…
Although he is specifically writing about elderly patients, I know he extends it to those of us who have terminal illnesses. I commented (one of more than 500 on this posting) that I was 35 and dying of terminal lung cancer and idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. And, I wrote that I am a mother to three amazing children. I also wrote that I am choosing to die at home with family under the care of hospice because that is how my grandmother chose to die.
In the old days, she would be propped up on a comfy pillow, in fresh cleaned sheets under the corner window where she would in days gone past watch her children play. Soup would boil on the stove just in case she felt like a sip or two. Perhaps the radio softly played Al Jolson or Glenn Miller, flowers sat on the nightstand, and family quietly came and went. These were her last days. Spent with familiar sounds, in a familiar room, with familiar smells that gave her a final chance to summon memories that will help carry her away. She might have offered a hint of a smile or a soft squeeze of the hand but it was all right if she didn’t. She lost her own words to tell us that it’s OK to just let her die, but she trusted us to be her voice and we took that trust to heart.
You see, that’s how she used to die. We saw our elderly different then….
This is how we used to see her before we became blinded by the endless tones of monitors and whirrs of machines, buzzers, buttons and tubes that can add five years to a shell of a body that was entrusted to us and should have been allowed to pass quietly propped up in a corner room, under a window, scents of homemade soup in case she wanted a sip.
You see now we can breathe for her, eat for her and even pee for her. Once you have those three things covered she can, instead of being gently cradled under that corner window, be placed in a nursing home and penned in cage of bed rails and soft restraints meant to “keep her safe.”
She can be fed a steady diet of Ensure through a tube directly into her stomach and she can be kept alive until her limbs contract and her skin thins so much that a simple bump into that bed rail can literally open her up until her exposed tendons are staring into the eyes of an eager medical student looking for a chance to sew. She can be kept alive until her bladder is chronically infected, until antibiotic resistant diarrhea flows and pools in her diaper so much that it erodes her buttocks. The fat padding around her tailbone and hips are consumed and ulcers open up exposing the underlying bone, which now becomes ripe for infection…
Although he is specifically writing about elderly patients, I know he extends it to those of us who have terminal illnesses. I commented (one of more than 500 on this posting) that I was 35 and dying of terminal lung cancer and idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. And, I wrote that I am a mother to three amazing children. I also wrote that I am choosing to die at home with family under the care of hospice because that is how my grandmother chose to die.
The story though simple, was relatable. Loved, like Rabbit, I feel tattered and torn from the surgeries over the years and sometimes when I look in the mirror (though the older I get the less I look) I don’t like what I see. I completely understand how Rabbit felt. The upside is if this is what it takes to be real, I have arrived.
And then when he is tossed on the garbage heap for burning, I felt such empathy – I have had intermittent thoughts of having been tossed in to the “no longer needed pile” in the last few years.
When he begins to cry and the fairy comes to whisk him away to the forest so that he can be real, the Fairy states, “You were only real to the boy. Now you will be real to everyone.” I thought as I read, is the forest allegorical to heaven? I will just sit here and believe that it is as we are told we will have new bodies, a new home and there will be no more tears in heaven.
I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side,
spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts
for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength.
I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck
of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.
Then, someone at my side says, “There, she is gone.”
Gone where?
Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast,
hull and spar as she was when she left my side.
And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.
Her diminished size is in me — not in her.
And, just at the moment when someone says, “There, she is gone,”
there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices
ready to take up the glad shout, “Here she comes!”
And that is dying…
Love you all and truly mean it and God loves you too,
Shanna xoxo
Here is the link to our Go Fund Me Page to help with medical and travel expenses: gofund.me/hope4shanna2016
Official blog Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/shannabananahealthandfitness
Official prayer warrior page for my fight against lung cancer: facebook.com/hope4shanna
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