Comfort in the corner

She was just a figure in the corner. When I walked in to the consultant’s room at the Oncology Department at Addenbrookes Hospital I didn’t even look at her face. We didn’t attend this appointment to see her. We had come to this appointment to hear what the consultant had to say. We were aware that his words would impact the days to come. His specialist opinion would inform us of the reality we were facing.

We had come prepared to hear the possibility that dad may need to lose his whole bladder. We had come prepared to hear what life may look like without a bladder. We even came prepared to hear that the cancer was ‘mysteriously’ gone. This was what we had prayed for. This was what we believed wholeheartedly that God could do. We didn’t come to this appointment expecting to hear the cancer was no longer localised to the bladder. We were told it had spread and it was aggressive. This meant no surgery would get rid of it. As the consultant explained all of this information to us everything in the room became a blur, except my dad’s face. I saw the disappointment of what he was hearing hit him so hard that it looked like he was struggling to swallow all this heartbreaking information. It was just like an episode of ‘Greys Anatomy’ when that horrible cancer conversation takes places and as soon as it is said out loud, all other conversation that follows is incomprehensible information, all mumbled and confusing. Thankfully my older brother was able to ask the necessary questions, but me…. I was shocked. It didn’t take long for my heart to become so heavy, a lump to appear at the back of my throat and my eyes to fill up with tears. Then the tears began to flow continuously, I tried to be strong and stop for my dad’s sake but I understood fully what the Consultant was saying and I was not prepared to hear any of this.

Within moments I felt a hand on my shoulder. It wasn’t my dad, nor was it my brother. It was the lady in the corner. The doctors were obviously aware of what the impact of this news could be and a Macmillan volunteer was requested to be there to offer support. I can’t even remember what her face looked like. I can’t even remember if I said thank you. But her presence meant the world to me. Her presence was comforting, reassuring and even though she was a stranger I knew there was support available for not just the patient with the cancer but also the family members. Her presence changed that moment. Her presence was needed. She was Comfort in the corner.

Us fundraising for Macmillan Cancer Support means others just like me and my incredible dad can get the support every person deserves. Cancer does not care about you but Macmillan do.

Please consider a donation today toward my 26 mile hike from Brighton to Eastbourne and let’s care for and support those living with cancer.

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/rebeccanaidoo

Behind the scenes

Yesterday (Thursday) as I got ready to train for the 26 mile hike I’m doing on 8th June to fundraise for Macmillan, I thought ‘the last thing I want to do right now is go out training in the rain’ I was tired! I’d had a long day at work. My eyes, my mind, my legs were tired. Just as I thought those thoughts I remembered my dad’s voice as I called him the morning of his first chemo appointment. I’m sure he didn’t feel like going for chemo, but he did it anyway. He did it for us, our children, that he might have a chance to fight this condition and stay with us for longer. To spoil us, to look after us, to love us more than he had already. He didn’t feel like it but he did it anyway. Thursday’s training was the most emotional yet. I’ve been tearful for the last 24 hours, thinking about what my dad went through, what others are going through . We have no idea the pain people are going through.

I remember one day last year, it was probably this time last year when dad was at an appointment and the consultant told us the cancer had spread. There was nothing more they could do. As soon as I got the news it was like everything zoomed in on this information but within a few moments the reality of immediate life was also right in front of me. I had two hungry children in front of me with nothing in the fridge to cook. We’d run out of milk and bread so I couldn’t even make them something simple. Despite the huge blow to me after hearing this news I had to pull myself together and get to Sainsbury’s. As I pushed the trolley around the store my mind was foggy, I had no focus and I must have bumped trolleys with so many people. I had no idea what I was doing there. The simplest task of just putting a few things in the trolley for dinner that night seemed like it was going to take me ages and I was getting more and more frustrated. My heart was aching, in pieces, I was losing my daddy.

We don’t see it but there’s people all around us walking around in pain. They still have to go out and about and do day to day jobs. They still need to go to the shops, drop off their kids to school, take their car to the garage, think about cooking dinner, travelling to work, going to the gym. There are people carrying so many worries and fears. Maybe a mortgage payment they can’t afford, an unknown diagnosis, family issues, debt. It’s made me realise you never really know the pain someone is carrying so we need to try our best to extend kindness.

Research shows that when someone extends kindness to us, we are more likely to extend it to others. Even witnessing an act of kindness between two other people makes it more likely that we will be kinder in our subsequent interactions with others.

There are so many ways each day in which we can choose to extend kindness to others – smiling or saying “good morning” to strangers we pass in the street, reaching out to a friend we know has been struggling with something difficult, listening carefully in conversations and then responding thoughtfully, choosing to let go of resentment (rather than nursing a grudge), responding to another’s hurtful behavior by pausing and trying to understand what might be going on for him/her (rather than passing judgment or reacting with a harsh or hurtful remark), or simply remembering to ask rather than demand and to say “please” and “thank you.”

All really simple but kind gestures we can incorporate into our daily lives.

Be kind. There’s a lot of pain in the world that can be healed by our kindness ❤️

(If you can, please do consider a donation towards my 26 mile hike Im doing in June, thank you x https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/rebeccanaidoo )

The Unwanted Part of My Story

And just like that, he was gone.

I’ve tried so many times since the day dad died to write a blog but grief has hit me in ways I never imagined.  This was the part of the story I never dared to imagine, nor wanted to ever write about.  My dad has gone.  This had become a part of my story, a part I never wanted

As I left him the day before to get the train back to London, I had this feeling in my gut that this may be the last time I would see him.  I cleared the room and we shared a few moments together, just him and me.  I whispered in his ears how much he meant to me and I prayed holding his hand, and sang an old hymn we would sing together ‘I surrender all.’

I cried the whole way back to London, every place I went reminded me of dad.  The station car park where he picked me up and dropped me off for two years, all the cafes and restaurants we’d been to together at Kings Cross Station, the way he’d walk, the way he’d love to talk to people.

The next day I went to work but my heart was so heavy.  I knew that as every moment passed dad’s health was deteriorating and there was nothing I could do. It was a long dark day.  That afternoon I was just about to take Judah swimming and I got the call.

In one moment everything changed. A deep cry from the depths of my heart accompanied by a new acute pain rose to the surface of my life.  A new chapter had begun.

In the days that followed I struggled to believe he was really gone.  His presence felt so tangible.  It felt so right to believe he was going to walk in at any moment and say ‘let’s have some tea’.  The house felt empty without him.  How could one person carry so much presence?  How could we continue without his presence?  As one specific day progressed I felt the day get darker and darker.   I knew what I believed but I found myself questioning it all.  I questioned my faith, I questioned his journey for the last 18 months, I questioned heaven.  The more I questioned the heavier my heart became.  The more I doubted the more confused I felt.  I had never felt so alone and in the dark as a I did that day.  The next morning a friend came to visit us and he said something that literally lifted the heaviness off me.  He said ‘in God’s love, grace and mercy, He took your dad home.’ 

Something clicked in me – Dad couldn’t carry on in his suffering with cancer, so in love and mercy God took him home.  God’s grace took him to heaven, where he no longer suffers but lives healed and pain-free, happy and whole.  This truth literally set me free to have faith again.  It reminded me that I live by faith and not what I see, I live by what I believe and that’s what makes me as a Christian different.  I believe that my dad lived a forgiven life – forgiven by Jesus, and the forgiven live an eternity with Jesus.  This was my belief and this was what I was choosing to live by.  As a ‘forgiven’ child of God, I too would see my dad again.

I love that my dad is in heaven but to be honest sometimes that hasn’t helped my pain of missing him.  Grief is much harder and heavier than I imagined.  Loss is painful.  I find I carry it everywhere I go, every moment of every day.  It’s changed me and it’s invaded a lots of spaces.  I’ve tried placing grief to one side but that hasn’t worked.  It’s coming with me and on the way it will inevitably change me but as it does I’m aware this doesn’t need to be negative.  It could mould me into a better person if I allow it to.  I’m intrigued to see who this ‘new me’ could look like.  

This Saturday marks what would have been my dad’s 70th birthday.  We were supposed to be celebrating together – my 40th and his 70th.  He said we would put up a marquee in the garden and have a big party!  He loved a good celebration.  So I’ve pushed myself to write this blog in honour of him.  In honour of the life he lived and continues to live in heaven. The fight was never about cancer.  The fight was always for his faith.  Right to the very end he never let go of his faith.  He’s taught me life’s most important lesson : when the unwanted parts of your story unfold, hold on to your faith and never let it go.  God’s light will shine into the darkest of situations.  Even the unwanted parts of your story combined with faith can cause you to rise x

 ❤️ his hands were always ready to lift in praise to God, even at his weakest ❤️

The Wilderness of Cancer

I don’t know what it feels like to have cancer. For some its short, for some its long, for some sadly its terminal. Observing my dad, family, and others in hospitals over the last 18 months has taught me a lot.  One thing I’ve learnt is that the journey can be long and lonely.

Even in my own journey of being the ‘daughter’ there have been times when it’s felt long and lonely.  My relationship with God means I have this promise that I’m never alone, and I know that, but there can be times when you’re physically alone with God and you’re aware of that.   It’s been in those times that I’ve dug deeper than ever into God and my Bible.

Back in March I was having a ‘down week’. We all have them right?  Everything feels too much, life feels like a drag, you try to lift yourself up but you can’t.   My husband Mel was going out to speak at a youth event that Friday evening.  He really wanted me to go with him.  He just wanted me to get out of the house, be in a different place, do something different.  I love how he’s cherished me during this time.  I agreed with him that it would be good for me to go out, but for that night I’d already planned to have a devotion time with God.  A devotion time with God is when I set aside time, and it’s just me, my Bible and an expectation to hear God speak to me.  That might sound strange to some, but it’s become a normal thing I do in my life, something I look forward to.  On this particular evening Mel was going to be out with Malachi and I intended to put Judah to bed early, so I could make the most of the time I had.  I lit a candle – only because I like candles and started reading Isaiah 43.  As I read, some words literally popped out at me.  I love it when this happens!  This is how God speaks to me, it’s happened many times before.  I knew those were the words I needed to focus on that night.

Isaiah 43:19

I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.

That word ‘wilderness’ just grabbed me.  That was what I felt cancer was like, it was like a wilderness.  It felt like a wild, uncultivated land we were in, like a desert.  There weren’t always clear roads. There weren’t always lots of people around.  The beginning of the journey looked very different to the middle of the journey.  Its often in the middle of your journey that you feel most alone.  It can be the messiest, and most painful time.  Lovely people may begin the journey with you but because the journey is long they can’t always stay with you.  The middle can be the most frustrating part because you long for the end.

This doesn’t necessarily just apply to the journey with cancer.  It could be the journey of marriage.  That wedding day, the start of this new adventure begins with beauty, extravagance, fun, laughter.  But for so many within a few weeks of marriage, the middle of that journey can look so very different.  There may be conflict, differences of opinions, clashes, and again you find yourself in a wilderness, a place you’ve never been before.  More than anything you just want resolve, you just want to get out of that wilderness into ‘happier’ place.

The funny thing is, it’s in your ‘wilderness’ where you learn the most.  As I read that night I sensed God say ‘I will ALWAYS make a way in the wilderness.’   That was it, that was all I needed to hear.  In those nine words, He had me.  He had my full attention and the heaviness I felt that week just lifted.  He was always going to make a way in the wilderness for me.  The next morning I called my dad and told him, ‘Dad, God’s going to make a way, He always has and He always will.’  Next I called my brother and I told him the same.  ‘We don’t need to worry about the future’ I told him ‘God’s going to make a way.’  In my heart there was this confidence that rose, as I began seeing all the ways God had made a way for us already.

The time mum and dad were feeling lonely and their friends called and said they were bringing over breakfast for them – God made a way!

The time dad needed fluid drained from his stomach but the hospital had no beds available.  We prayed and within 10 minutes a bed was ready – God made a way!

The time friends from New Zealand ordered fresh scones to be delivered to my house because they heard my pain – God made a way!

The countless number of people who have turned up at my parents house to pray with them, to encourage them – God made a way!

The friends and family continually asking how I’m doing, the encouraging songs, messages, verses people have sent  – God made a way!

The 76 year old man who woke up and prayed ‘Lord send me someone because I’m lonely,’  but then thought of my dad  and decided he’d been the one to make the home visit that day – He walked into the house, barely able to walk properly himself, but sat with dad, encouraged him by reading from the Bible and praying for him – God made a way!

The time I sat at Colour Conference with 10,000 ladies, yet feeling alone and heartbroken with what was happening around me and then I got a text from a friend saying ‘where are you? Are you here? I need to see you and pray with you.  She ran towards me, baby in tow and we just sobbed together and cried out to God!  It was messy, there was snot everywhere 😂, but there was unity – God made a way!

He always makes a way.  In that middle of the journey, He makes a way.  Sadly instead of looking at all the ‘ways’ God provides, we focus on the result.  The result of resolve, the result of healing, the result of completion, the result of ‘happiness’.  Could it be that the ‘middle’, this wilderness is more about revelation?  It reveals who you are.  It may reveal insecurities you have that you never knew you had.  It may reveal deep hidden fears.  It may reveal a real need for God and community, and in turn you may see God revealed to you in ways you never imagined.

Could we be someone’s way in the wilderness?  If we know someone experiencing cancer, or some other kind of wilderness, maybe we could make a huge difference in their lives.  Here’s some ideas I thought of that most people could do:

• An encouraging phone call

• Visiting that friend or family member and just listening them.  Your presence can be worth more than you would imagine

• Baking them a cake or any other type of food   – food does bring happiness!!  Find out what their favourite food/ drink is!

• Offer to help in practical ways

• Don’t wait for the person to tell you what they need, try to think about that yourself.  They have enough to think about

• Take the person out for a coffee, or a night out, or even just a walk in the park.

• Bring laughter into their life – a funny card, watch a funny movie together, tell them a funny story

Whatever we do, we need to do something. There are too many lonely people out there that need us to be used by God to make a way in their wilderness.

Deep Calls to deep

It’s not easy writing about something so personal.  I initially thought it would be straightforward but it’s not.  This blog has taken me so long to write.  There’s been times when I’ve felt motivated to write but then sat in front of the lap top not wanting to type the words you’re about to read because it was too painful to process.

The last six to seven months have been tough. Towards the end of September dad’s health got worse.  He’d just had a great 6 weeks of good health, riding the buses in London, going to fruit and vegetable markets, riding a bike at Center Parcs.  It seemed like everything was going so well.   But then in a matter of 7 days we began to notice that some things weren’t right and dad began to feel really unwell.  He had noticed his stomach begin to enlarge and it felt heavy to walk around.  It soon began to affect his breathing too.

Upon a routine visit to see his Oncologist, she noticed how much discomfort he was in and sent him straight to A+E.  Those calls are the worst.  When you’re far away and you can hear that someone you love is in pain and struggling to breathe.  I can’t begin to describe how I felt.  Sick, is the only descriptive word I can think of.  I felt sick that my dad was suffering, sick that there was nothing I could do to help.  I felt like every recent call had indicated that dad was deteriorating, quickly.  While at hospital they drained 7 litres of fluid from his stomach.  Can you imagine carrying 7 large Evian bottles of water in your stomach?  All of us were shocked that dad had been carrying this much fluid.  The cancer was now causing irritation in his stomach causing this accumulation of excess fluid and it needed to be drained.

The next day after work I crashed on the sofa. I’d had enough, my head was full, my emotions were frazzled, I couldn’t function. My eldest son, Malachi (12) came over to me and just held my hand.  He didn’t say a word. In that moment he knew, mum didn’t need words, she just needed someone to hold her hand.  His sensitivity to my needs during this time has been unbelievable.   That weekend we had been praying together with dad and Malachi told dad that as we were praying he saw a picture of an umbrella.  He said he sensed God was saying to dad that He would protect Him from the rain.  He even picked out a verse from the Bible about God’s protection and told his Grandad ‘you see, this is what God is saying to you.’  I’m seeing this adversity shape my son into a young man who is confident in God’s love for him, regardless of the circumstances.

For a few weeks it felt like wave after wave of sorrow and despair.

Psalm 42:7 

Deep calls to deep

    in the roar of your waterfalls;

all your waves and breakers

    have swept over me.

Deep within me I knew I needed God and that was what my daily conversation with God sounded like.  I need you God, I need you God, I NEED you God!  It was crystal clear to me that I couldn’t walk this journey without Him. From the depth of my heart – I hoped it would connect with the depth of God’s heart and cover the depth of my family’s pain.

I’ve seen mum and dad cry out from the depth of their hearts.  I think sometimes when we cry out to God we also become sensitive to hearing his voice.  I’ll never forget the very first appointment we had with Dad’s oncologist.  They had told us to come prepared with questions.  That morning was a sombre one.  We were still just getting our heads around what was happening.  As I put breakfast together Dad walked in and said, ‘listen, I’ve got something to tell you all.  This morning I was praying and I asked God whether I should ask the doctor how long I have to live.  God told me ‘ I’m the one who breathed life into you, so I’ll decide when its time for you to come home. Why ask the doctors?’

We all stood there amazed with what dad was saying. He spoke with such confidence, trusting in the words he had just heard.  The depth of God’s heart had reached the depth of his heart causing a deep courage to rise. This meant even if wave after wave was to crash against our hearts, there was an impenetrable connection with God that kept us anchored in hope.

Deep calls to deep.

Messy Thankfulness

In July we received some great news. Dad’s cancer had not progressed. It had stood still. As I heard those words I remembered what I learnt earlier that year. I had been reading about when Jesus calmed the storm and I had felt challenged to face storms as Jesus did. With calmness, authority, power and peace ( I wrote about the this in the blog called ‘Character of a Tumour’). I sensed God say He CAN stop the storms in our lives. With just one word the waves can stop crashing against the boat of our lives and the storm doesn’t need to progress. It can just come to a halt. As I heard the words ‘the cancer hasn’t progressed’ I was so relieved and I thanked God over and over again. The cancer had come to a halt. I know dad had chemotherapy and medically we would say that the treatment was effective but when you’re faced with only a 10-20% chance of it working, I couldn’t help but thank God that it worked for dad. I believe with my whole heart that He made this possible.

Over the next few days we began planning a BBQ – a small thank you get-together. For us it was the perfect opportunity to say thank you to friends and family that had supported us over the previous 10 months and an opportunity to collectively thank God. Some might think ‘why would you thank God when the cancer is still there?’ Technically there wasn’t full healing, the progression of the condition had simply stopped.

In my opinion we had every reason to be thankful. I was thankful that dad was feeling better. I was thankful his quality of life had improved. I was thankful to share more moments and memories with dad. I was thankful to see him thankful. That night dad shared his story. He talked about the dark lonely times and how God was with him and gave him hope. My dad’s face lit up as he spoke of his Friend, his Saviour who never left him, who carried him through this difficult time. He experienced a closeness to God he’d never experienced before. Dad was so happy and he wanted to everyone to hear how faithful and good God had been.

You see cancer is messy. Cancer is horrible. Cancer can be devastating. However it’s often in the mess where miracles happen (love this quote by Brene Brown). There were moments of leaning into God during this messy season that led to miracles. I think nowadays peace is a miracle. Coming to a place of being able to forgive yourself and forgive others can be seen as a miracle. Something deep that happens internally. Freedom is a miracle. To be going through a time of suffering yet being able to surrender that suffering to God knowing His ways are better than ours is liberating. It’s liberating knowing God’s got you, He’s in this with us. We’ve experienced the miracle of freedom in this time. As I watched mum and dad go through the mess of this season I saw them embrace peace, confidence and freedom. Something miraculous happened inside them. Something miraculous happened inside me!! Life became bigger, I saw the value of life, the temporary nature of life, the value of relationships, time, things I could take for granted. We often look for the big obvious miracles in life but what about the miracles that go on everyday?

We chose thankfulness because the opposite is being thankless and ungrateful. Surely all of us have something to be grateful for.

So I’ve decided, gratefulness needs to be part of my everyday life! Apparently there are great benefits to it too ( https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/what-mentally-strong-people-dont-do/ 201504/7-scientifically-proven-benefits-gratitude)

We don’t know what the future holds but we remain thankful.

Psalm 34: 1 I bless God every chance I get, my lungs expand with praise.

CONTROL

When tough times come do you run from God or do you stay and discover how you could grow as a person in those times?
The desire to run is so real though, especially when you feel broken.  When we initially heard the news that my dad had cancer, I found it so difficult to pray.  I knew it was the right thing to do but I just couldn’t do it.  The pain of what I was experiencing was just too much.  For me to pray meant that I needed to speak those words out.  I needed to speak about those things with God.  But I just couldn’t.  Instead I got people around me to pray.  To pray on my behalf, to say the things I was too hurt to say.  As I did that, the burden lightened but deep down I knew I needed to pray about this myself too.  It was like I was avoiding a conversation that needed to happen.  But still the pain of it stopped me.

One night I sat with my parents and we prayed together before they went off to bed.  ‘You pray’ said mum.  ‘Me pray?’  I thought.  This was the very thing I had been trying to avoid.  Caving inside I went for it.  You know when you’ve got to have that conversation you really don’t want to have and your heart starts beating really fast because you know you’ve got to say some things you’re going to find difficult to say?  That was where I was at.  That night I asked God to heal my dad.  I asked Him to strengthen him and us from the inside out.  I prayed God could do what only He could do – a miracle!  As I spoke to God a heaviness lifted off me.  The pain wasn’t mine to carry.  As I went to bed that night I felt relief, relief that I could talk to someone stronger than myself who could carry the weight of what was upon us.

That heaviness though, very sneakily took residence in my heart again so quickly.  Some days I would try to carry it all by myself, it would seem easier that way.  Or I would get so busy with life that I didn’t realise it was building inside me.  When I say heaviness I mean the weight of my emotions and the constant traffic jam of thoughts and questions.   Seeing dad in discomfort post chemotherapy can be horrible.   I wish I could take away the pain, I wish he didn’t have to suffer, I try to make sense of it all and then I go back and forth in conversations in my head.  I just wish it could all be different.

One week at church we sang the words to this song…..

I lift my hands to Heaven

Here my heart surrendered

I tell myself again

You are Lord of All

And though the seas are raging

You will speak and tame them

In you I find my rest

You are in control

As we sang that song the first time I stood, not singing along but just looking at the words, feeling so full of this heaviness.  I couldn’t bear to say those words to God, so I quickly went off to the toilets as I felt tears well up in my eyes and I became aware that I wasn’t going to be able to hold the tears back.  In that cubicle I cried my eyes out.  I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t give control to God.  I wanted control.  I wanted to make everything ok.  I wanted to do something so my dad would get better.  I wanted to make everything ok for my mum.  But the truth was I couldn’t.  I couldn’t take control.  I sobbed until I got to the point when I was ready to hand it over.  When you hand something over you literally surrender it.  When someone surrenders themselves to the police they lift their hands up as a sign of surrender.  When we were kids and we used to playfight, we used to have to shout ‘ I surrender!!’  to indicate we wanted to give up and we wanted the pain to stop.  There and then in that toilet cubicle I chose to surrender.  I lifted up my hands to God and asked him to ‘TAKE IT.’  From that day on I needed to make surrendering to God a daily thing, not just when it got too much or wait for it to get too much.  I had to surrender my pain, emotions, fragility, and brokenness to then rest in His promises to shine through me even on the darkest days.  Sounds easy but it’s crazy how real the resistance was in me to hand it over.  Probably because I like to take control, I like to fix things.  Only thing is there’s some things in life that are not for us to fix…….