Sometimes we need the darkness to appreciate the light
This is the season to give thanks for all of the blessings that
we have received throughout the year: my wife and I have held onto
our jobs through this recession (so far); we just got our first
high-definition TV (it’s so clear it’s like I had corrective eye
surgery); our children are generally well-behaved (unless one of
them defeats the other in a football video game and starts
taunting).
Sometimes we need the darkness to appreciate the light
This is the season to give thanks for all of the blessings that we have received throughout the year: my wife and I have held onto our jobs through this recession (so far); we just got our first high-definition TV (it’s so clear it’s like I had corrective eye surgery); our children are generally well-behaved (unless one of them defeats the other in a football video game and starts taunting).
Life is good. Sometimes, though, despite the multiple blessings we enjoy, we need a harsh reminder of what’s really important. My wife and I got that a few weeks ago.
It is said that it is darkest before the dawn, that we don’t know what we’ve got until it’s gone, and the grass is always greener on the other side. In other words, we need to realize just how good we have it instead of sweating the small stuff.
During a routine physical about a month ago, the doctor noticed that my youngest son’s lymph nodes were inflamed. The day before, he had complained of some collarbone pain, so we thought it was related to a recess injury or some other active boy-type thing.
The swollen nodes, however, prompted a blood test to make sure nothing else was wrong. Immediately, though we wouldn’t say it to each other, my wife and I thought the worst, while hoping for the best.
I checked on the Web and read that 90-something percent of swollen lymph node cases are the result of a minor infection. It’s just our body doing its job. However, a small percentage of cases are something worse – like lymphoma.
We assured our son that the blood test, while inconvenient and a bit painful, was a standard procedure. I didn’t show him how scared I was for him, for that would only make it worse. We never mentioned the worst-case scenario.
After a few days and no word from the doctor, we started to feel better about the situation. No news was good news.
Then, one day when I was about to leave campus after a day of teaching, my wife called me in tears saying that our son had to be taken to Stanford Children’s Hospital “tomorrow” to be checked by an oncologist.
I’m no medical expert, but I know that Stanford is world-renowned for its treatment of children’s medical issues and I know that an oncologist is a cancer doctor.
The next 12 hours were a blur as we once again prayed for the best. My emotions ranged from anger (“How can an otherwise healthy kid get sick?”) to solemn reflection (“Lord, I’ll gladly take whatever he has. Make me sick instead of him, please.”)
The day of the doctor’s visit, we told our son that he was going to Stanford for some more tests because that was the best hospital in the world for kids. We didn’t explain what an oncologist is or what lymphoma means.
On the ride up to Palo Alto our silent prayers continued. We put our best face on the situation so as not to worry our son.
Once at the hospital, we went through two screening stations to make sure we had not been exposed to or were carrying a flu bug, then it was off to the waiting room. This is where it really got tough to keep in together.
Children ranging from those who just started walking to those who appeared to be in high school walked by us as we waited our turn. Their heads were bald from chemotherapy and some of them were wearing knit caps. They were sick; really sick; and it made us worry even more.
After a long, thorough check by a doctoral resident and an oncologist, we got the official diagnosis. “He’s a normal, healthy boy who apparently had an infection that caused his lymph nodes to swell,” we were told. Next to the birth of my children, it was the happiest moment of my life.
The feeling of relief after a day and night of stress was the best feeling, ever. Our prayers were answered and we were reminded just how precious every single moment is.
How lucky were we to have a healthy child? How unfair is it that the other parents we passed in the hall had to deal with such a burden? What does it all mean? No one has those answers.
The whole incident, in retrospect, served as a needed – though scary – reminder that all too often we take our lives and our blessings for granted. It also reminded me that I need to be more thankful, not so much for what I have but for who I have.
My prayers of a healthy diagnosis for my son have changed into prayers of thanks for all of the blessings I have been given in this life. I also do my best to direct some of those prayerful thoughts to the parents who didn’t get the diagnosis they had hoped for.
There is a reason for all of this, I’m sure. We just aren’t told what it is while we’re here. And while we’re here, we shouldn’t wait until things go bad to remember all that is good.
Adam Breen writes a blog at http://thebreenblog.blogspot.com and teaches newspaper and journalism classes at San Benito High School. He is a reporter at The Pinnacle and former editor of The Free Lance.
