Jodi's Story

How can such great gifts come from such tragedy?T

he tragedy of that phone call on your oldest daughter's eighth birthday saying, "I'm sorry to tell you this, but your biopsy tested for cancer." You immediately fear that your three children will grow up without a mother. Your loving husband takes you in his arms and shares your tears, tries to calm your fears while battling his own. The gift of performing self-breast exams and having your doctor really listen to you - ordering a mammogram even though she doesn't feel anything suspicious. The tragedy of having a mastectomy at age thirty-four. Your surgeon tells you that you are not a candidate for reconstruction. You are too thin and he had to remove so much tissue that he was barely able to staple your incision closed. The gift of your cancer being confined to your breast with clean lymph nodes. The tragedy of the cancer being "high grade" and so widespread throughout your breast that it is within 2mm of your chest wall. You are told that you will now need radiation every day for six weeks complete with fatigue and severe burn and blistering. The gift that you don't need chemotherapy. Everyone keeps telling you how "lucky" you are. It isn't luck. It is the tender mercies of a loving Heavenly Father. The gift of life you feel when your oncologist says, "If you hadn't caught this when you did, it would have been widespread throughout your body within six months." The tragedy when she tells you that you are high risk for a recurrence. You pray every night that your cancer won't return. The ugly eight inch battle scar running across your chest reminds you every day of just how far you have come.

The tragedy of receiving another phone call telling you that your husband has been in a rollover car accident - only five days after your mastectomy. The tragedy of him being taken to the ER in an ambulance and spending a month recovering from head and internal injuries. The gift that his injuries aren't more severe. The gift that he is alive!

The tragedy of being told that your five pound newborn has a rare, life-threatening congenital heart defect and needs emergency surgery. You feel your heart breaking into a million pieces as the OR tech says, "You had better kiss your little girl goodbye, because you may never see her again." The agonizing, uncontrollable sobs that erupt as you hand your baby over to the doctors at the operating room doors. The gift that she not only survives surgery, but thrives. You realize how blessed you are when the nurse caring for your daughter says, "I have never seen a baby recover from this type of surgery this quickly in my 25 years of being a nurse." The gift of being able to take your baby girl home, oxygen and all, but the tragedy of not knowing what the future holds for her. The tragedy of a sweet little girl living in the shadow of doctors and hospitals - of hearing her heart-wrenching cries, "Mommy, Mommy, I'm scared, I'm scared! What are they going to do to me?!" - realizing this is neither the first nor the last time you will hear such cries; realizing you can do nothing to stop the pain. The gift of three happy years before learning that your daughter needs another major heart surgery. This devastating news comes on the heels of your final radiation treatment. You're overwhelmed with gratitude as your daughter again makes a remarkably recovery. Humbly, her heart surgeon tells you, "You have been given a gift. Only four other times in seventeen years have I seen this type of surgery go this well." The gift of once again taking your daughter home, oxygen, medications, and all. The tragedy of her doctors telling you that she will never be "cured", that she will likely need additional heart surgery in the future. The tragedy of daily wondering what kind of life she will be able to live, of worrying that she will get pneumonia - again. The gift of being able to kiss, hold, feel, and breathe your daughter. The gift of a beautiful little girl who is incredibly happy, compassionate, insightful.

The tragedy of your husband suffering a debilitating knee injury only five weeks after your daughter's heart surgery. The tragedy of his needing to miss six weeks of work to have reconstructive knee surgery. The gift that although he is unable to work you can still keep your health insurance. You are left speechless when your nine-year-old daughter asks, "Why do these things keep happening to our family? When will something bad happen to me?"

The gift of being able to give back - helping to organize a support group for families affected by congenital heart defects. You feel great joy as you organize the first ever "heart camp" in the Intermountain West area for heart children and their families.

The gift of life. Having encountered the fragility of life firsthand, you understand just how precious a gift life is. The gift of joy - of refusing to let the uncertainties of tomorrow dim your joy for today. Because, life is all about the journey and the joy you can find along the way.