by MEREDITH M. GRIFFITH
Sounder contributor
It is a rare gift to be told you are dying.
In May 2006 I was diagnosed with stage IV non-Hodgkins lymphoma and given a 25 percent chance of being alive in five years. I was 26, and our baby girl was 10 months old.
I’d been in excruciating pain for months, unable to walk normally, laying awake nights shaking and sweating despite narcotic painkillers.
Finally, an MRI turned up tumors scattered throughout my body, with a six-inch tumor growing through my pelvic bone. I was sent immediately to St. Joseph’s for a biopsy. I phoned my family in shock.
On Orcas awaiting biopsy results, spring was surreal. The doctors feared it was fatal.
Emotions ricocheted. I can’t leave my sweet new baby without a mommy. I can’t leave my beloved husband as a single father.
I did my own pounding on the gates of heaven. I’m not leaving. Okay, I’m not leaving unless you promise they’re going to be okay without me.
But like a strong current beneath our grief ran an impossible, inexplicable and illogical peace that all would be well. Not that I would necessarily live – but that all would be well.
I could fill a book with the kindnesses of that time. I have never felt so loved. Friends came over to gather around me and pray. They brought vitamins, a juicer, cards, flowers, meals and supplies to clean our bathroom. I was told that hundreds of praying people around the country were asking for my life. Islanders held a bake sale and started a bank account to help with medical bills. Our landlords refused payment.
We found out it was lymphoma, and began chemotherapy with an overnight antibody infusion. After a hellish reaction, I found the next morning that I could walk almost normally. The first miracle.
The next few months were a revolving blur of surgery to install a port to my jugular, rounds of chemotherapy that left me too weak to hold a phone and $6,000 injections of a white blood cell-boosting drug that felt like getting hit by a truck. The best way to cuddle my baby was to let her crawl on me.
Seattle pals were gracious when I puked on their floor. When my hair fell out, a friend on a pilgrimage to Santiago shaved her head. If the tumors weren’t gone after eight chemo cycles, my last chance would be a desperate and risky bone marrow transplant.
During this time, a friend wrote, “Mer, you have always had a warrior in you, and now is the time to let her rise to full height. All of the strength of will, focus, passion and love that you’ve always known was in you must now rise, converge and storm this cancer.”
That December, after my last chemotherapy, scans showed no trace of malignancy.
I’ve been in remission now for six years. If I hadn’t such a thick skull, I would wake up daily dazzled and thankful instead of chafing at my limited energy. When I happen to remember, the realization of grace shoots through me and I am floored again by the kindness we have been shown. I don’t know why I am alive; but I know that every day is an incredible gift.
Because in truth, we are all dying; our limited days are precious.
To you who are now fighting for your lives in the dreadful, horrific immediacy of cancer, I pray that you will find immeasurable peace in the valley of the shadow. Fight this with all that you are and with every good thing you love. I found strength in everyday acts of kindness and the support of our faith community. And to you who are fighting alongside, your strongest weapon may be to show your survivor that they are loved.
