Not the First Miracle . . . or the Last
© 2007 by Jean-Christine LeGendre

Water Made Wine. The Healing of Lazarus. I’ve grown up hearing about these and other Biblical miracles, occurrences that surely inspired awe and wonder in the folks who had front-row seats. Even over the distance of centuries, I’ve felt my own fair share of awe and wonder while reading about how Jesus calmed the storm and fed the five thousand.

Yet as awe-inspiring as Biblical miracles are, not to mention all the other extraordinary happenings through the generations since--the incorruptibles, the stigmatists, the appearances and healings--these were occurrences that happened to others. They didn’t quite cross the distance into in my life. They never became real.

Until I encountered my own miracle.

God apparently wanted my attention. He got it. And the effect on my life ever since has been as extraordinary and momentous, as miraculous, as the effect on any of the Biblical heroes.

This miracle wasn’t my first, but it was the one that awakened me to the fact that miracles are real. They’re happening in my life every day and by recognizing them for what they are, they've become lanterns that are lighting my path to God’s will. Some miracles are big. Some are small. They come in all shapes and sizes, all miraculous and all with the potential to change lives.

I say potential because in today’s world, a world focused on squeezing in time to smell the roses while juggling days filled with familial duties, career responsibilities and social obligations, it’s all too easy to miss the miracles in every day.

My eye-opening miracle yanked me from the rush of my life as abruptly as if someone had stopped the clock. Suddenly Christmas preparations, holiday music recitals, family social obligations and my current deadline ceased to matter.

The fact that I might not live to see another Christmas did.

My miracle came camouflaged in the form of a staging cancer diagnosis. Long story short . . . the lung pain at Thanksgiving I dismissed as a bout with pneumonia yielded an X-ray with a shadow on my right lung that required further investigation.

December 15, 2004: I went to a local hospital for a CT scan.

December 22, 2004: I received the call from my doctor with the CT scan results. Trouble with three organs--thyroid, liver and lung. The spicolated mass in the upper right lobe of my lung appeared to be staging lung cancer. The radiologist couldn’t be certain if the cancer had spread to involve the other organs.

December 27, 2004: I attended daily mass with a dear friend who suggested I ask the priest to Anoint me before my next test.

December 29, 2004: back to the hospital for the PET scan.

January 4, 2005: received the doctor’s call with the PET scan results and my first bit of encouraging news. The liver definitely wasn’t involved, and there was no abnormal activity in the abdomen or pelvis. There was abnormal activity in my thyroid, but they couldn’t be sure it was involved with the lung until a tissue biopsy. But the PET scan supported the diagnosis of staging lung cancer with lymph nodes around my esophagus that were “lit up like a Christmas tree” in a pattern consistent with cancer rather than inflammation.

My doctor was really great. He walked this fine line between encouraging (“I made a call and was able to get you in with a great oncologist next Thursday!”) and pragmatic (“You need to understand that your results are very typical of staging lung cancer.”)

The oncologist proved to be not only great but caring and honest. I didn’t even have to go in for the appointment because this doctor generously reviewed my test results, agreed with the findings and told me to bypass him if I could get in with the world-class cancer research institute that just happens to be located in our town.

January 10, 2005: my dear friend arranged an appointment for me to pray with one of our parish priests who had a healing ministry. I wasn’t even sure what a healing ministry was, but this situation felt so big that I really only had one choice--figuring out how to cope with what was happening for the sake of my family.

God seemed my best bet.

January 12, 2005: my consultation at H. Lee Moffitt Cancer Research Institute with the oncology pulmonologist, which turned out to be only hours before the gathering of the thoracic conference for their monthly new patient consultation. This meeting only happens once a month, and all the doctors in the thoracic department review the new cases and weigh their opinions.

The pulmonologist called me right after the conference--a little before five P.M. They didn’t know what was happening in my thyroid but didn’t believe it was connected to my lung. All agreed that the lung mass and lymph nodes were cancer staging. The pulmonologist sent me to a thoracic surgeon.

January 17, 2005: I met with the thoracic surgeon, who was not only incredibly knowledgeable, but patient and kind. He was also a delight to talk with, which was a pure bonus. He took the time to help me understand exactly what was happening and his recommendation for treatment. I learned more about cancer (in terms I actually understood!) in that first meeting than I ever wanted to know, and he actually had me laughing and feeling better than I had felt since this whole process began.

His recommendation: bronchocopy, mediasthoscopy, right thoracotomy for lung resection. In a nutshell . . . he’d take out some lymph nodes first, and depending on what a biopsy revealed, he’d remove more lymph nodes or not before removing the upper lobe of my right lung. Everything would then be sent for a biopsy, and those findings would determine what needed to happen with chemo and radiation. I was looking at a week-long stay in the hospital, but after my recovery, I’d be good to go. This surgeon assured me that lots of folks live totally normal lives with only 1 ½ lungs. He didn’t want to let any more time lapse and scheduled the surgery for February 3, 2005. But first he needed a few more tests. And I needed to pray.

January 20, 2005: Prayed again with my parish priest.

January 21, 2005: Went in for an MRI--no additional problems! Signed all the consent forms for the surgery and received my pre and post op instructions--a ½ inch thick folder!

January 31, 2005: Went in for a CT scan. At this point my original CT scan was over a month old, and the surgeon wanted a new one before surgery to note any growth.

February 1, 2005: I was due to be admitted into the hospital at the crack of dawn on Wednesday, February 2, for all the pre-surgery labs, so my priest suggested we get together to pray the Divine Mercy Chaplet at 3 P.M. Not only was my dear friend coming to pray with us, but another kind woman who worked in the friary, too. (Christ reveals Himself through so many at my parish;-) Around 2: 15 P.M. as I was preparing to leave for our prayer appointment, the phone rang. I glanced at the caller I.D. and saw Moffitt across the display. Figuring it was a reminder call for my check-in, I picked up and was surprised to discover my surgeon on the other end of the line.

My immediate thought was: Wow. I’ve had surgeries before, but I’ve never had a surgeon call to check in with me before a surgery! Moffitt is SO first rate! But then the doctor said, “I know you were looking forward to being impressed by my incredible surgery skills, but I’m going to have to disappoint you.”

Then he went on to explain that Monday’s CT scan (and wasn’t he glad he’d ordered it!) showed that the 3.5 cm spicolated mass in my right lung had shrunk to 2.8 cm! Turns out that he suspected even on Monday when he’d first seen the test results, but he needed to wait until after Wednesday’s thoracic conference meeting with the other department specialists to discuss the unusual situation and how to proceed. Everyone agreed the surgeon shouldn’t go in yet. They had no explanation for why this mass had shrunk, and that changed everything.

“One thing I do know--cancer doesn’t resolve without treatment,” the surgeon told me. “I think we should skip surgery this week, start monitoring the mass and lymph nodes and see if we can figure out what’s going on.”

He didn’t have to ask me twice.

By the time I got off the phone with the surgeon, I was running late for my prayer appointment. I was still completely shell-shocked as I drove the short distance to the church, where I found my priest and prayer buddies awaiting me outside the chapel.

My dear friend took one look at me and knew something was up. “What happened?”

I promptly dissolved into tears. A miracle.

Our wonderful priest took control, kindly herding a bunch of sobbing women into the church to pray in thanksgiving. He finally sent me home with the generous offer to keep praying together as this situation unfolded, and I was still crying that night when my primary doctor called to share in my good news and tell me exactly what my priest did.

Keep praying. I did.

So began a year and a half of anxiety, uncertainty and fear that alternated with prayer, hope and a renewal of faith that changed my life. Over a year and a half filled with lots of tests but not a lot of explanations for lymph nodes that eventually returned to normal and a large spicolated mass that gradually disappeared, leaving behind scar tissue as a physical reminder of my miracle.

The year might have been short on rational medical explanations, but it certainly overflowed with Divine ones. And looking back it’s amazing to see God’s hand all over the unfolding events, starting with the abbreviated time frame from diagnosis to treatment.

Had Florida not had four hurricanes back-to-back, I wouldn’t have lost electricity at my home for a grand total of eleven days. I wouldn’t have gotten what I thought was a respiratory infection from all the creepy crawlies breeding in my non-functioning air conditioner ducts. I would probably have gone to the doctor in October to treat this supposed infection rather than deeming my time better spent getting our lives back in order and treating myself with some almost-expired antibiotics I had laying around from another illness.

Had I not switched primary doctors on a whim, I wouldn’t have been considered a new patient at Thanksgiving when I got sick again. This new doctor wouldn’t see me immediately, and I already knew from my first bout with this lung pain that it would only worsen if I didn’t get on an antibiotic ASAP. When his office recommended a walk-in clinic as an alternative, I grumbled but went.

Had I not gone to a walk-in clinic, which requires an X-ray as standard procedure, I’d have likely been placed on another round of antibiotics, which would have reduced the inflammation around the lung mass and eliminated the pain as it had the first time, and postponed finding out what was really happening in my lung for who knows how long?

Had it not been the holiday, the hospital wouldn’t have had so many cancellations, which enabled me to get a PET scan appointment on a dime.

Had I not had a cousin who worked at the cancer institute, I’d have never gotten an appointment as quickly as I did, and right before the monthly new patient conference, too.

Had it not been for the thoracic surgeon’s thoroughness, he might not have ordered another CT scan before surgery. We might have only learned of the effect prayer was having on my body after he’d removed half my lung.

I could go on and on with this, but I’m sure you get the idea.

All through this process, as I toted around a growing folder filled with films and test results between doctors and hospitals, I was amazed by how often medical professionals suggested I go home and keep praying. I was equally amazed by how many refused to say anything in the absence of any “rational” medical explanation. I was amazed at how loving the people at my church were as they prayed for my healing. I was amazed by how many people didn’t seem nearly as surprised as I was by the miracle God was performing in my life.

Over and over again I heard that I should write my story. As I’m a career writer, the suggestion made sense. But I write fiction. I create characters and worlds and tell stories. I don’t write about me.

I gave the idea a lot of thought and prayer and still couldn’t make the leap. What happened to me was miraculous. No question. But I couldn’t come up with any focus for my story, any slant, if you will. Here’s a person who had a miracle . . . well, that’s very cool and all, but as I’ve been learning firsthand, God is in the business of making miracles.

So what was special about me?

Nothing. That’s the best answer I could come up with. I was just one in a crowd of folks who went through the motions with my faith, attending mass on Sundays and Holy Days, satisfied I hadn’t outright murdered anyone or stolen anything, but not daring to look too closely at how my life lined up with Christ's. I simply hadn’t done anything special to earn this miracle.

And recognizing that truth helped me understand that my healing miracle wasn’t the most miraculous part of what had happened. My healing miracle was just a flashing neon sign that got my attention to change the life I’d been leading. The more I’ve grown in my faith, the more I realize that this is precisely what God does--He participates. He heals hearts and brings us closer to Him in so many different ways. The real miracle is how one big miracle helped me recognize the variety of miracles happening in my life and the lives of those around me.

That’s the story I want to write. It’s not my story, but everyone’s story--the story about how God guides our lives through the miracles happening to each of us every day.