The Next Right Thing

As her family endures her little boy's medical crisis, Carmen Lappe worries about how to hope, how to pray, and how to accept God's will.

Right now, my son Damien is sleeping peacefully in his hospital bed, slumbering through a scene that is anything but peaceful.

There’s a needle in the port in his chest.

There are tubes lying gently across his chest.

There’s a gentle tick-tick-tick from the machine as his chemo is infused.

I glance out the window and am greeted by beautiful Kinnick Stadium, the home of Iowa Hawkeye football. I've been to many games there, but this view of the field from the 11th floor of the University of Iowa Stead Family Children’s Hospital is one I never dreamed I’d have. If you know anything about Hawkeye Football, you know that at the end of the first quarter of every home game, everyone stops to wave at the children in the hospital receiving treatment. It’s an awe-inspiring, emotional moment. Now we’re one of those families.

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After an MRI to investigate the source of Damien’s vision challenges, he was diagnosed with a brain tumor on February 8. Though the doctors are confident the tumor is benign, the path of treatment so far has meant numerous appointments, surgery to install a port in his chest, and weekly trips for blood work and infusions of chemotherapy. It’s been overwhelming, yet strangely and horribly routine.

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What’s also astounding is the love, prayers, and support we’ve received from family, friends, our parish community, coworkers, and even complete strangers. To realize the enormity of the faith and love that surrounds us has been humbling! A friend of mine recently told me that she’s offering a weekly Rosary for our family. “I didn’t grow up Catholic, so I’ve never prayed the Rosary. But as I pray for your family, I’m learning!”

I’m most thankful for the prayers and sacrifices offered for our family because my faith has certainly been shaken and prayer is more difficult than ever. I wish my prayer could flow like a gentle stream but ever since February 8, it’s felt more like a drain that’s stopped up. The water is there, but it can’t flow freely. I am exhausted and embittered that we still have to carry on with our normal, daily routine as if there’s nothing ordinary about what we’re up against.

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Trying to connect with the Lord feels precipitous, like a deep crevasse that is completely impassable. I’m not angry with Him and I’m not asking why. I trust in His steadfast love and unending goodness because they’ve carried me through to this moment. I will continue to trust in this love because I know he is with us; every person, every act of love surrounding us right now is evidence of His marvelous love. From the strangers we’ll never know offering Rosaries to the doctors and nurses providing compassionate care and comfort every week … they are all manifesting the love of our good, good Father.

I believe in miracles and of course I want one for our son. But I am afraid to ask for one. What if the miracle we need isn’t in God’s Will? I am afraid my already fragile faith will be shattered ... and I don’t want to lose the faith that has sustained me: the faith instilled in me by my parents and other loved ones who have gone before me. I don’t want to become lukewarm or apathetic to the Lord of my life. I’m trying to have hope, but what if I don't know how to hope right now?

Because what if the chemo isn’t successful and the tumor continues to grow?

What if more tumors are found?

What if he needs a biopsy, which is horribly risky and invasive?

How might this affect the rest of his life?

If the answer to our prayers for complete healing is "no" or "not yet," then we adjust course, do the next right thing, and trust that in the midst of it all, we're being made saints.

And I know I can do that. I can do that for our son.

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If the answer to our prayers for complete healing is "no" or "not yet," then we adjust course, do the next right thing, and trust that in the midst of it all, we're being made saints. #CatholicMom

Having an anxiety disorder is okay. Being concerned for my son and our family is okay. Allowing worry or fear to consume me is not. A letter from St. Paul to the Philippians reminds us of this:

Have no anxiety at all, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, make your requests known to God. Then the peace of God that surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:6-7)

As I read these words over and over and over again, I’m taken back to our wedding on July 13, 2013. This was the second reading during our wedding Mass and as we approach our 10th wedding anniversary, it feels more relevant than ever to our family.

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Prayer and thanksgiving, handing it all over to God, receiving His peace and letting it penetrate every aspect of our lives…we’re trying, Lord. I’m trying.

Damien—I got you, wee man. I may not know our next steps, but I know who holds all our tomorrows.

Gemma—I’m so proud of your steadfast prayers for your family. You’re showing me how it’s done, Bunny. Keep it up. Stay close to Jesus.

Jeff—there’s nothing we can’t handle together and with the help of the Spirit. You’ve been my strength and my inspiration every day. Never change, love.

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