Lava in a Hurricane

 The last month and half has been perhaps the most difficult of 2020.

It began with a scary symptom that made me question all of my healthy decisions. 

I called my doctor.  She scheduled appointments for mammograms, ultrasounds and a consultation at the Helen Graham Center.

Google was not my friend.

I was scared.  

The day came for a mammogram and a long ultrasound.  I saw the tech squint at the images.  She got quiet.  She walked out of the room to talk to the radiologist.  She left the images on the screen.  

Google made it worse.  She said papilloma, duct, and mass.

The radiologist came in and had the tech press the ultrasound into my body some more.  

“Is it debris?” he asked. “Press harder.  Does it move?”  He paused.  “Hmm.  It doesn’t move like debris. Hmm.”

Then he said the words I’d feared.  Biopsy.

They tried to rush me.  They wanted it done the next day.  They made it seem like it was an emergency.  

They didn’t know what it was.  It was abnormal.

But I was healthy!!!   I take vitamins, exercise, and don't smoke.

 There was no history of the C-word in my family.

After a bunch of back and forth with my health insurance and doctors, I was scheduled for a biopsy and an ensuing pathology study that my insurance would cover. (Use the wrong lab, and you pay thousands.)

I went to the Graham Center.  I met with a breast surgeon.  Why do I need a breast surgeon?  There’s a mass.  What kind of mass?  What do you mean?

They gave me a plan.  Biopsy first. Labs second.  Diagnosis after that.  If the labs were inconclusive MRI next.

Really 2020?  Really?  I have a family that needs me, kids to be raised, an office to run, and a life to live.  I’m thinking about how I was going to manage this.  The doctors were acting like something was really wrong.

Suddenly, I couldn’t see life past my biopsy day.

Biopsy day came.   The surgeon told me that he was going to perform a procedure on two areas of my breast?  Two areas?  But....wait a minute.   There was another area behind the mass.  Just a needle aspiration.  Depending on the results, he’d biopsy that too.

The instrument they used to extract the mass sounded like a drill.  It felt like a drill. I swear they drilled into my soul.

They patched me up, put me on restrictions, and told me to come back in a week.  No karate.  No heavy lifting.  Wear a sports bra for three days.  My husband was Nurse Vincent.

I felt like I was navigating a hurricane on lava in outer space.  I actually said  that out loud on a drive to work.  As soon as I uttered the words.  I heard God’s voice.  “Leslie, I’m bigger.  If you are navigating a hurricane on lava in outer space, I’ve got you.  I’ll either change you to handle the impossible circumstances, or I’ll change the circumstances so that you can navigate them.”  

I got to a place where my posture with God was one of trust.  Whatever the doctor said to me when the labs came back, I was trusting God.  My response was going to be rooted in my trust in a God who created the entire universe.  It didn’t mean I wasn’t scared. 

 It meant that no matter what that lab reports said, I trusted the God who has sustained me through moments and things I should not have survived.

In the interim, a treasured member of my church died in an horrific accident. How do I trust God when something like that happens? You just do.

Stressed out at work.  Trust God.

Over-scheduled and double booked.  Trust God.

Disrespectful people who lack of boundaries.  Trust God.

Water heater replacement that dips into my savings.  Trust God.

Elevated cholesterol.  Trust God.  (Stop eating all that charcuterie, and go back to overnight oats.)

That was just seven days.

A week later, I waited quietly for the doctor to come back to the exam room.  He quietly loped into the room with  a file and sat down.

“Well, it’s not cancer.”

Four words that stunned me to silence.   The mass was benign.  No surgery needed to remove it unless I wanted it.

I walked out to the check out window, still stunned.  When I said, “I’m here to check out,”  the woman asked, “ When are we scheduling your surgery?”  

“No surgery,” I replied.  “Just checking out.”

Both women behind the desk whipped around and looked at me with bright smiles.  “That’s not something we hear a lot. Congratulations.  That’s good news.”

Trying not to let the tears fall I said, “It is.”  I paused.  “Do I have a co-pay?”

“Not for a post-op.”

I smiled.  “Okay.  Thank you for all that you guys do.  This was a scary experience.  You guys made it less so.”

I got to to the parking lot and texted the small circle who knew what I was going through.  My sister friend from church told me to call her, just to hear my voice.  Of course, there was a whole blubbering conversation.  I’m a crier.  I am.  

Was I happy that it wasn’t cancer?  Overjoyed.  But that wasn’t why I was crying.  I was crying because my relationship with God reached a new level.

Six weeks of utter terror (during a pandemic that had already brought two COVID scares) pulled me closer to God. I stopped asking for the perfect result and accepted that He was bigger than any problem.  Our responses to things that happen to us are measures of where we are with God.  

It’s not always good news. (This time it was.) Circumstances change and bad things happen.  It’s got nothing to do with how good you are.  God can use difficult moments in our lives to deepen our intimacy with Him.  Now, I don’t just hold on to Him when things get tough or I get scared. My arms remain tangled around God’s neck.

 I don’t put my feet down on anything but His promises because life is navigating a hurricane on lava in outer space.