I had just finished bouncing Sarah’s bed to help her fall asleep last night when I caught up with Anne, on the way to collapsing in bed herself.

Choking back tears, I said, “You know what’s the hardest question? Sarah asking, ‘Is mommy going to die?’”  Which explained why she didn’t want to pray for mommy; it would have forced her little heart to confront that fear.

Of course, all three of our children have posed that question to us separately, but there was something about my five year-old little girl asking me before bedtime prayers that did me in.

As much as everything in me wanted to, I couldn’t answer “no.” We don’t know, even if we believe the chances are very good.

And I sure as heck wasn’t going to answer “yes,” even though that is ultimately the accurate, correct response.

I wanted to look into Sarah’s tearful, fearful eyes and offer words of hope and comfort that wouldn’t fail her. Sharing this with Anne, I was encouraged – and relieved – to hear that her approach with the kids largely mirrored mine. Our answer had to reframe their question, and thus worldview, with a sweet understanding of who God is and how He is providing for us.

1. God loves and cares for Mommy. And He loves and cares for you, Jack, Luke and Sarah.
2. He made Mommy and knows exactly what’s going on with her, including the cancer*.
3. God can do anything, and He uses doctors and medicine to help heal Mommy.

We sang a song in church today that hit the nail on the head. If you haven’t heard it or are unfamiliar with the melody, Google it and listen. It’s good stuff.(see below)

Now for a fun, quick story…

Our Jack is a learner. He’s been curious about how the doctors would get the Ninja medicine into Anne. Knowing her son wouldn’t be satisfied with a vague answer (she had already tried that), Anne explained to Jack that they put a “port” in her chest through which they delivered the medicine. As soon as he heard this, Jack’s eyes bugged out and he exclaimed, “Wow! You’re going to be just like Ironman!”

Anne’s so glad to know she’s been elevated to superhero status.

*I’ve found such comfort in rereading Psalm 139, in which the poet extols the Lord who knows our words before they are spoken, our days before they came into being, and who is WITH us through it all).

I’m realizing that there’s this hard, weird phase between first receiving the diagnosis of cancer and the actual commencement of treatment. The best way I know to describe it is like taking your kids on a road trip in the minivan.

First of all, there’s some intrinsic flaw in every minivan that creates volume control problems in children. As soon as kids step through the automatic sliding door, they no longer can hear themselves talk. That, despite the fact that carmakers have made the interiors of minivans about as plush and quiet as a Lexus.

All of us drivers possess some measure of grace to tune out the ruckus, laughter explosions, and petty arguing. But at some point, the backseat noise starts beating you down. Staying focused on the road requires exponentially more concentration. You unknowingly ignore the GPS barking at you to turn right at Exit 293. You start tailing people in the right lane. The second loop of Frozen makes you long for a cool, quiet coffin. You feel the overwhelming urge to pull over, give the keys to your spouse, and walk the rest of the way by yourself. In the rain.

In this season, cancer creates noise through uncertainty. At times it’s loud…Did it spread? Will I die? What will happen to the kids?  At other times, it’s less clamorous…How will I respond to chemo? I’ve got to go wig-shopping? Can we keep our vacation plans? How do I keep working?

What I’m discovering is that for the Fletchers this season of uncertainty before the chemo, radiation, and surgery – when the physical pain for Anne will become the predominant form of suffering – is much tougher than I anticipated. Personally, the noise has caught up with me these last two days. I feel white-knuckled, distracted, disjointed, fatigued, and emotionally carved up into big chunks of worthlessness. In fact, yesterday I found myself wandering into the Avengers movie by myself at 6:00 p.m., and all I remember is that the Hulk fell in love with Black Widow.

The cancer has been yelling in the backseat for too long, but by the grace of God we continue to walk in faith that we have great doctors, and more importantly, we have a BIG Jesus who can quiet the noisy storm with only two words: “Be Still.”

Pray for the noise to diminish for us. For our rest and renewal. Even more, pray that we’d hear the comforting voice of our gentle Shepherd…

Psalm 23

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
²     He makes me lie down in green pastures.
He leads me beside still waters.
³     He restores my soul.
He leads me in paths of righteousness
    for his name’s sake.

⁴ Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
    I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
    your rod and your staff,
    they comfort me.

⁵ You prepare a table before me
    in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
    my cup overflows.
⁶ Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
    all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
    forever.

Anne and I have loved all of your thoughtful notes, brimming with encouragement, personal stories, prayers, and offers to help. If they’ve gone unanswered, please know they’re not ignored.  Between real estate, end of school events, doctor appointments, and all the other little life interruptions, it feels as though we are juggling one too many water balloons. So just as you are, please continue to bear with us – Anne and I are both keen on responding thoughtfully, meaningfully. 

One of my bestest friends – whose own father passed away from aggressive cancer just a few months ago – sent us a wonderful email this morning. I felt compelled to share a portion of it, not only for its pastoral tenderness, but also for its humor. You’ll quickly see why I think of him as a “brotha from anotha motha”…

Love is coming your way from Sunny New Hampshire, friends. I’ll pick up where your blog left off and say we are very relieved to know that the cancer — let’s just call it what it is: “Boob ISIS”—has not spread beyond any nodes. Mercies take on a new meaning in a convoluted scene like this, to be sure. As I’ve told Van, we are in the ring with you. If you need us, either of us will be on a plane to Raleigh. If I had boobs, I’d donate them.    

The news of containment is certainly good, and it’s worth poking fun at medical words with too many consonants in celebration (*Why can’t they just call it “Poke-ology?”) But the state of the union is still sobering, and the comfort and hope of your Savior will be needed in the many months to come.  

Having survived the phlebotomist attack today, I thought it was time I chime in.

I listen to people for a living. Well, not so much for a living, but it is a calling and a part time occupation for me as a counselor. These days, the white noise of hardships has ramped up and listening well to what is TRUE has been more of a challenge. There’s a lot of static in my heart–fears, health questions, concerns for children. This is where YOU all come into the picture. You all have been like a megaphone of truth-filled hope to my heart. Here is what you have been telling me…

There is nothing that can separate us from the love of Christ. Cancer included. Romans 8:35-39.

God does not hold out on us.  He is good.  He has ordained and is intimately involved in every single moment of my life, my children’s lives, my husband’s life. Not a hair can fall from my head without our Heavenly Father knowing it. (That is good news considering I will be going wig shopping soon.) Romans 8:28-34.

Jesus is limitless. The height, depth, length, and width of his love is boundless. And it’s mine. I have hit my self-resource limits, friends. They are shallow anyway, so I am joyfully wading into the deep love of Christ. Ephesians 3:16-19.

God draws near the brokenhearted. He counts our tears. He’s been counting a lot of mine the last few weeks. Thank you for weeping with me. Rejoicing in the secured hope that all things will be made new one day. Psalm 34:18, Psalm 56:8, Revelation 21:4.

There is nothing lost that will not be restored. I love what one breast cancer survivor friend shared with me–she gained more than was lost in her journey through cancer. That is encouraging stuff.  Joel 2:25, Philippians 3:7-11.

In the midst of suffering, God doesn’t just give resources, he give HIMSELF. I’ve been chewing on this a lot. Maker of Heaven and Earth WITH me. He certainly gives resources, too. My mom is moving in with us for the treatment season.  She’s a rock star. You all are feeding us for several months. My kids are going to have a terrific summer with all the offers of play dates. Grace and mercy have been full-on flowing.  Isaiah 43:1-2, Hebrews 4:16.

Wherever I am, God’s Spirit is there.  Even the far side of the sea. Even the MRI tube. I have a love/hate relationship with that amazing piece of technology that unfortunately feels like a casket. Even the long months of feeling icky ahead. Even the sleepless nights. EVEN THERE God’s everlasting presence is with me. Psalm 139.

God is faithful. Knowing this is true for my kiddos is deeply comforting as a mommy.  Psalm 117, 1 Corinthians 1:9.

The glory of Christ is evident in the church especially when a member is suffering and all the other members swarm in like a swat team to carry the burdens. We are swarmed and carried and we are ever grateful. Ephesians 3:10-13.

Keep on telling/texting/emailing this hope!  I’m listening!

Anne and I made a visit to her medical oncologist this morning, and the news continues to be at once heartening and sobering. We’ve got about 90% of the picture now, waiting only for the final results of a HER2 test before the doctors can release the ninjas. A follow-up appointment with Dr. Campbell is scheduled for next Monday, after which I’ll update all of you with details about our K.C.A plan. (“Kick Cancer’s @SS”)

Before we left, Dr. Campbell wanted Anne to have some standard blood work done. No big deal. Anne was called back to the lab, where one of the attending nurses began doing his thing on Anne’s veins.  As I sat there, I looked up and noticed the sign at the door entrance to the lab. It read…

“Phlebotomy”

PHLEBOTOMY?!

Holding back a mixture of laughter, puzzlement, and mild panic, I thought to myself, “My wife is having a phlebotomy. Does she know she’s having a phlebotomy?  Should I tell her?  Should I try to stop it?!”

In a rare display of sound judgment, I contained myself, waited for her to finish, and escorted her to the car. She, seemingly unfazed by her phlebotomy.

When I told her that she had just successfully survived a phlebotomy, she – not missing a beat – started laughing and said, “That’s hilarious. Can you imagine being asked, ‘Hey, what do you do for a living?’ and answering, ‘I’m a phlebotomist.‘”

That of course led to further rich discussion about the nature of being phlebotomized, if people grew up wanting to be phlebotomists, and how the word ranks up there with other melodious words like moist, mucus, bulbous, and orifice.

And that, my friends, is what I call a good visit to the oncologist.

Anne got in the car just now, and the first thing I asked her was “how do you feel after hearing the news?”

“Relieved. And exhausted,” she said with a half-smile.

Okay, so first the bad news. It looks as though there may be other spots in both breasts where the thief is hiding out. Little outposts, if you will. NO LIKEY.

As we listened to Duncan explain what he saw preliminarily – and gazed at his array of computer screens exploding with images – it became clear that Anne has a lot happening inside her knockers. (Wait. Did I just type that?!). Duncan put it so well: “Anne, you have complicated breasts.” That elicited a chuckle from all of three of us.

Before I go any further…

Modern medicine – the product of human ingenuity and innovation – is simply astounding sometimes.  I have no idea how Duncan was deciphering the images he was seeing, but it blew me away. So very thankful for doctors. And Duncan is a damn good radiologist, should you ever need to see one.

The good news – the GREAT news for Anne and me – is that the breast cancer doesn’t appear to have spread beyond her breasts and nodes.  HOORAY!  We’ll take it. That’s not the definitive word, but it certainly gives us reason to celebrate today. Prayers answered!

The road before us just got a little bit easier to see. Yes, it will involve chemo, and radiation, and surgery. In what order, to what degree, and for how long all remain to be determined. We know it will be hard, we know it will be exhausting, we know it will press us to lean on others a lot. The prognosis is better, but to quote a friend on Facebook, we want to beat cancer’s a#%. Aggressive treatment awaits, but it’s gonna work.

On our car ride back, we didn’t say much to each other, savoring a little quiet and the sense of relief that had washed over us. But Anne did say one thing that made me smile big, and I knew it would make its way to this blog post once I got her settled back at home…

With a sweet smile and wet eyes, she says, “Bubby, part of the reason I think I’m tired is because I’ve been completely overwhelmed by the love people have shown me these last few days. St. David’s, our church, our friends, your colleagues – I haven’t quite known what to do.”

I smiled and couldn’t think of a response. I know we’re going to need all of you in the coming year.

With gratitude and hope,

Van

Anne’s back with Dr. Duncan Rougier-Chapman getting an MRI as I type.

And I’m walking around in Harris Teeter at North Hills. Aimlessly.

Duncan wouldn’t allow me back into the room with Anne for my own safety. I had brain surgery for a ruptured artery in 2000, and they sowed me back up with metal. And you know, high powered magnets make metal move… Another story for another time.

My sweet wife. As I sat with her in the waiting room, I glanced over my shoulder as she filled out the paperwork. And it told the whole story.

I’m sure I’m breaking some sort of HIPAA rule by including this picture, but I don’t care.

Pray for us. After I find my way back out of Harris Teeter with food for my bride, I’ll be sitting down with her and Duncan to see and hear the results.

Please Lord, give us a good report.

  

When I was a little boy, inevitably there would be mornings when I did not want to get out of bed. 

Often it had less to do with sleepiness or fatigue and more to do with what the day held. A test at school. A hard swim practice. An after-school project I was dreading. 

Those mornings, when my Mom found me buried under the covers, clinging to the sheets as if they were some sort of shield against the evil day, she would sing me a song that had always had a way of reorienting my heart:

“This is the day, this is the day, that the Lord has made, that the Lord has made.

I will rejoice, I will rejoice, and be glad in it, and be glad in it. 

This is the day that the Lord has made! I will rejoice and be glad in it! 

This is the day, this is the day, that the Lord has made.”

When I woke up this morning and saw Anne curled in a fetal position (today she has her staging MRI to see if/where the cancer has spread), Mom’s wake-up song came back to me, and in my crackly morning voice, I softly sang it to her. 

Today isn’t an easy day. We’re hoping and praying the cancer hasn’t spread beyond the lymph nodes. But no matter what, this is the day that the Lord has made. 

And we can rejoice and be glad in it because our Heavenly Father loves Anne Fletcher. 

Knowing it would be cool and quiet, I ran over to the office to knock out some work before taking the kids to the pool.

So much for that…

Already there has been a such an outpouring of love and encouragement from you our friends and family – here, facebook, email, texts – that the only thing productive I’ve managed to do is streamline this blog site simply to facingthethief.com. Booyah.

THANK you, friends. This is one of those occasions where I am utterly content in my lack of productivity. Please don’t stop.

A funny story to share about our kids praying for mommy…

When we shared the news with Jack, Luke, and Sarah on Saturday morning, Anne and I thought they received it really well, all things considered. In the course of talking about mommy’s breast cancer, I explained to them that the medicine mommy had to take would actually make her feel icky, which was different than the medicine they took when they had tummy aches, colds, etc.  Anne chimed in that the medicine was like ninjas invading her body to fight off the cancer, which would make her tired. But that meant the ninjas were winning.

Of course, as you might imagine, the ninja theme went over quite well with the boys. When it was time to pray for mommy, Jack and Luke had no problem finding words to describe what they believed God would do in fighting the cancer with His ninja medicine. Their prayers were earnest, heartfelt, and refreshing reminders that our Heavenly Father hears and delights in our childlike prayers for healing, for help, for ninjas to beat up cancer.

Now back to being completely unproductive.

With love,

Van

I woke up this morning at 4:00 a.m.  For those of you who know me, that may not come as much of a surprise. The alarm often sounds around 5:00 a.m. (much to my wife’s chagrin) so I can drag myself to the pool.

But 4:00 a.m. is early. My wife Anne is heavy on my heart.

This past Wednesday, I held her hand as the doctor told her that the biopsy results revealed the lump in her breast was indeed malignant. And that the nasty cancer had spread to her lymph nodes as well.

The ten or so days leading up to this appointment had been hard. Fitful nights. Lots of tears. Pushing back fears. Grappling with the increasing likelihood that the lump wasn’t just a harmless freeloader. It’s a thief. An unwelcome intruder, hell-bent on pilfering the body as long as it’s allowed.

We don’t know if and to what extent the cancer has spread beyond the lymph nodes. We find out after Anne’s visit to the radiologist tomorrow. Needless to say, we are praying that the cancer is nowhere else to be found. We’ll keep you updated.

Anne and I are thankful for several things…

1. We have great doctors. Dr. Canale, Dr. Campbell, Dr. Rougier-Chapman. Best in their respective fields. It’s unbelievably comforting. If you want to capture the thief and throw him into prison for good, you want Batman, Wonder Woman, Superman fighting for you.
2. We have great support. Both sets of parents live a relatively short drive away (both of our mothers are breast cancer survivors, btw). Our church community has swarmed us. My uber-assistant Manning has been amazing. My company and colleagues have already stepped in when I’ve needed to step away from work. Near and far, our friends have expressed – and shown – the Fletchers love, care, and concern. From prepared vegan & gluten-free meals to Humdinger juices, you have quickly and specifically come alongside us in love.
3. We have a Heavenly Father who cares deeply for Anne. Cancer hasn’t caught Him by surprise. He isn’t freaked out. He isn’t thumbing through books about treatment, trying to get up to speed about how to heal Anne. Cancer is a flea that He can flick off His sleeve anytime He wants. More importantly, He loves Anne. He loves our children, Jack, Luke and Sarah. He’s given us words of hope, comfort, and joy that we can bank on, completely. He’s near to the broken-hearted, the suffering, those in pain. Like my wife Anne.

There are still plenty of unknowns ahead. We already know that chemo, radiation, and surgery are all likely treatments. Booooooo. Our hope is that by the end of this week, we will have a much clearer sense for what’s in store, along with a specific plan of attack.

Many of you have asked how you can help. THANK you. I’ve taken your offers seriously and given them some thought. Here are a few concrete ways…

1. Tell us how you are praying specifically. There’s something about knowing how and what you are praying that sweetly roots in our hearts and instills a greater measure of hope.
2. The Fletchers thrive on humor, love great stories, and welcome encouragement. Email us, post it here, share it in person.
3. Anne and I want this summer to be as normal and fun for the kids as possible. If you are planning an outing that you think Jack, Luke and/or Sarah would enjoy, feel free to reach out to Anne or me via phone or email. Grab ’em and go. 🙂
4. Keep sending me referrals. Most of you know I’m a Realtor whose business is based almost entirely on the referrals of friends and past clients. Keep them coming, please! I have several fantastic, experienced colleagues who have committed to stepping in to help if/when I’m unavailable (Sheri, Chip, Mary-Brett, Ivy), and I have the most amazing wingwoman in the person of Manning Pruden. Otherwise, it’s business as usual. Neither Anne nor I are going to let the thief prevent us from being faithful and diligent in our callings.
5. Rejoice and weep with us. This cancer journey is a roller-coaster, a turbulent flight, a guerilla-style skirmish on the street.

I’ll end this post with a passage of Scripture that our pastor Geoff Bradford shared with us last week..

Psalm 46

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. 2 Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way, though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea, 3  though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble at its swelling. 4 There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy habitation of the Most High. 5 God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved; God will help her when morning dawns. 6 The nations rage, the kingdoms totter; he utters his voice, the earth melts. 7 The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress. 8 Come, behold the works of the Lord, how he has brought desolations on the earth. 9 He makes wars cease to the end of the earth; he breaks the bow and shatters the spear; he burns the chariots with fire. 10 “Be still, and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth!” 11 The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.

With joy and hope,
Van