It's been almost five years since the start of this journey that has been anything but dull and all of adventurous.
My father was diagnosed with Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis (PSC) some 19 years ago while living in Indiana. I was about two so my parents had only been married about three years. They went through a hard time at first with different complications including Dad's first introduction to extreme jaundice and weight loss, but when it seemed that the doctors had fixed what they could Mom and Dad went on with their new family. Then about five years ago we realized that all along the liver disease had been quietly doing its damage over the years, closing off bile ducts, shutting down blood flow through the liver, and beginning to cause jaundice once again. Dad's first doctors were in denial as far as his original diagnosis in Indiana went. We had to see a few people before anyone knew what to do with us. Then we found a gastroenterologist, and his secretary, who became the first taste of mercy on our journey. They walked with us as far as they were able and then lead us to the next group of doctors once Dad had progressed beyond their means of aid. It was that doctor who first told us that a liver transplant might lay ahead.
Four years ago I started keeping tabs on Dad's digression according to the school year calendar. It seemed that like clockwork he would yearly end up in the hospital during the last three months of school--specifically March and April. Though there were other evidences of mercy along the way, I think for me that was one of the chief. School was my first taste of community. Had our little hospital visits been at any other time I don't think I would have realized that as I do now. My friends and their families were the pillars that kept our hands raised and our gazes upturned.
My senior year of high school Dad had some stints put into his liver so the things could flow properly. That summer he had his colon taken out and was given an ileostomy, a waste bag of sorts.
My first year of college things started with a bleed, the a transfusion gone wrong, then a stint revision. From there we were told that we were heading for our transplant hospital to await a transplant, but not before Dad could experience a wild ride being weaned off the ventilator ending with a mild heart attack. But once again God graced us by surrounding us with people—Mom’s family kept the kids, our church family mowed the lawn, fed the cat, and took out the trash, and our school family…they never ceased to love, call, or bring food, give me their gas card, cell phone, or car. We didn’t get our transplant that year, but that’s another grace story.
Second year at school I remember an interesting infection. I don’t think the doctors ever figured out what the source of it was, but Dad did get to visit his favorite hotel because of it. His primary transplant doctor was going to suggest to the medical board to move Dad up on the list pretty drastically. We didn’t hear anything for over a month—it was a no go. But that summer—last summer—was the start of another gracious relationship. Dad applied a little closer to home and to a hospital that wasn’t so big to be placed on their transplant list. They accepted us and immediately our place on the list shot almost to the top.
It’s March. I’m at school thinking it’s time for something to happen. At the beginning of the month I had been a bit wearied by the duration of the journey, but amazed and grateful at how many people still asked about Dad and said that they were still praying. March 13, I’d had plenty of time to think about it but when the time came, I had no idea what to do with myself when Dad called to say that the hospital had a liver for him. I called a few close friends and e-mailed the network of Prayer Warriors Dad had asked me to notify. I waited through the night until Mom called around 6:30 her time Sunday morning to tell me that the liver was a definite match and Dad was going in for surgery. I called a couple more people and headed to the home of a good friend who was going to drive to North Carolina with me. As if the calls, the e-mails, the prayers, the food, the child care, the money, the phone, the car, the yard work and taking out the trash weren’t enough to show me how much God was taking care of us and loved us through the little detail of the big experiences—as if that weren’t enough, I was completely blown away by my friend’s offer to come home with me and help in whatever way was needed.
We were an hour away from the hospital when Mom called to say that the doctor would be out in about thirty minutes to give a report of how the surgery went. At that point we started praying the he could wait until we got there because I wanted to be with Mom when we heard. At the hospital it took me a few seconds to spot Mom in the little cluster of friends surrounding her. And it wasn’t even ten minutes later, after exchanging moisty-eyed greetings and big hugs that the doctor came out to talk with family. Talk about timing. Mom shared with our friends how the doctors thought it would take all day because of Dad’s interesting anatomy, but that once they were in things were better that ever anticipated. Through tears of relief, joy, gratitude, and hope Mom asked if we could all hold hands and sing the doxology:
Praise God from whom all blessing flow
Praise Him all creatures here below
Praise Him above ye heavenly hosts
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen.
God is good—all the time. And at that moment we all knew it was true. Not just for that moment but it had been true when Dad was first diagnosed, when we were told we needed a transplant, when friends brought casseroles and bread, when two friends from our transplant support group died on the same day, when a friend’s mom shows up at our hospital some three hours away at the gloomiest point in our journey, when the church family shows up to take the kids to the park, when Dad had a mild heart attack, when we were lead every step of the way to those doctors, nurses, and transplant coordinators who were to care for Dad when the time came. All the time God is good.
The Shore family has in no way come to the end of our journey. It’s true that every step of the way the journey has prepared us for the climax. Taking into consideration that the rabbit-trails are indeed the point, I think a lot of what makes a destination so much more profound is what you learn or experience as you journey. It takes something like a bumpy road to be genuinely grateful for stationary solitude. If anything, we’ve reached a commencement. We’ve grown through first hand lesson on faith, hope, and love. We’ve been stretched and taught about offering a sacrifice of praise. We’ve learned how abundant God's grace is, and it never ceases to amaze us that He chooses to manifest that grace through people most often.
We’ve no idea what the future hold, but then again that’s not a new concept is it. We’ll continue to take one day at a time. We’ll dream a little more, plan a little more, hope a lot more, trust a lot more and see what God has in store. The things we do know: God is good all the time and covenant community is His most precious means of grace bearing tangible evidence to that fact.
That’s our story and you’re such a big part of it. Blessings in grace. Amy and fam