The Great Physician

Almost 3 years ago, on Valentine's Day 2005, we called my parents to tell them that I had given birth to our third child. That night, my parents called us to tell us that my dad had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.

Pancreatic cancer, called the silent killer, has the lowest survival rate of all cancers. My dad was told that if he had a successful Whipple (resection) surgery, he could possibly live for 6 months to 1 year. His surgery was not successful. Within a few weeks of his diagnosis, he was barely able to get off the couch and looked like he was, well, dying. His skin was yellowed and hanging off his gaunt frame. His energy was gone and his voice was weak. But his eyes still sparkled. My brother flew in from Los Angeles, and we all gathered at my parents house the weekend of Memorial day. We spent hours talking, singing and praying together. A man of strong and unwavering faith, my father often ended up comforting us, his children. Although we all knew God was able to heal him, we also prepared ourselves for what we had been told was certain death. After a devestatingly painful round of chemotherapy, my dad decided not to do the remaining round. His doctors told him there were no remaining therapies available. He was given weeks to live.

Over the next 2 years, he was in and out of doctor's offices and hospitals wavering between barely living and some pretty good times. He would get stronger and start to eat again, only to have a relapse, lose 10 pounds and be back to extreme exhaustion. Every test continued to show the cancer growing. Every surgery was viewed as simply an extension; a temporary assuagement of pain.

In December 2006, the doctors decided a temporary stint my father had needed to be replaced. He was told it would be a quick surgery and he would be home the next day. During prayer the night before the surgery, my father felt God speak directly to him and tell him that he needed to trust in Him. God told my father that he would be in the hospital for 7 days and that he would be sent home to die. The next day, when the doctors opened him up to replace the stint, they found that the cancer had mastitized throughout his body. It had covered the stint to the degree that the stint was surrounded by what the doctors described as "cement." They were unable to successfully finish the surgery. As this stint was necessary for his liver to function, they had to immediately rush him into another procedure. He had a drainage tube installed- without anesthesia! 7 days later he was sent home. The doctors advised my parents numerous times to call Hospice because my father had only days to live. My father's response every time was that God would decide when it was his time. He was not afraid to die, at times he welcomed the idea, but he knew that nothing the doctors could do would save him if God called for him, and nothing the cancer could do would kill him if God was not ready for him.

This summer, my dad once again went in for surgery to have the drainage tube replaced. They had never put in a permanent one because they had expected him to die within days. Finally, after realizing my dad was still around, they scheduled the surgery for July. After the surgery, where it was once again confirmed that the cancer had continued to spread, my father almost died. As he was coming out of the anesthesia, his heart stopped. For several minutes, the doctors frantically worked to revive him, rushing my mother out of the room. My father has since described his feelings of those moments to me and his disappointment at not being with Jesus is palpable.

It was during that surgery and the follow-up visits that he revealed to his doctors a shocking revelation. He had stopped taking his medication nearly 3 months before. He had been taking enzymes to allow his food to digest, pain medication and reflux medication (perhaps more, those are just the ones I'm aware of). The digestive medication was particularly necessary. Without it, his food would take days instead of hours to digest as his liver was hardly functioning. But the Lord had clearly told him to stop taking his medication. Naturally, his doctors scoffed and scolded telling him he would lose weight rapidly without his medication. But, since he was not yet dead, they told him to come back in 3 months, instead of the usual 1 month.

Last Wednesday, my father returned to the oncologist. His doctor entered the room reading Dad's chart. He told my dad there must be a mistake with his weight. "No," my dad replied, "it's correct." The doctor insisted my father could not possibly have gained 18 pounds in 3 months. "Yes," my dad replied, "I weigh myself everyday." He confirmed that he was still medication free and left for the gastroenterologist's office. The doctor read my dad's blood work results with utter disbelief. He told my dad that no doctor in the world could find any trace of cancer in his test results. On paper, the cancer is gone! It is only this week that my dad revealed to me that when the Lord told him to stop taking his medication, He also told him that he would be healed. The physician ordered a cat scan to confirm what the tests already show. But as my dad so eloquently put it, "The cat scan will show one of two things; either He has healed me, or He hasn't healed me yet."

What a mighty God we serve.


*Update March 2008- The cat scan results are in and there is no cancer at all! It is completely gone!