There is a crack in everything

I’ve had a lot of time on my hands since Christmas. Mostly I spend it lying in bed or sacked out on the couch, mindlessly watching TV. Sometimes something good is on Fox, other times I just channel surf to pass the time. It might sound unproductive, and prior to the cancer arriving I would have agreed, but lying in bed so often has given me the opportunity to think about a lot of things. These thoughts are the blueprints for my future. A future that is radically different to the one I envisaged 5 months ago.

When I was diagnosed someone told me that after the initial shock subsided I would get very angry. I forget who said it but it doesn’t really matter. They were wrong. As bizarre as it may sound, I feel like this cancer is quite possibly one of the best things that has ever happened to me. Yes, the treatment is horrible and my life (as I knew it) has been put on hold indefinitely, but it has made me really re-evaluate a lot of the things I once held dear. It’s made me appreciate my family and friends so much more and realise that possessions mean squat when you’re faced with the real possibility of dying. Most importantly, it has made me so very aware that the God I believe in is so much bigger and so much closer to me than I ever could have imagined.

Through history God has had many names, one of them being Immanuel, meaning ‘God with us’. I have never known that to be more true than right now.

In the song ‘Hallelujah’, Leonard Cohen sings…

There’s a blaze of light in every word
It doesn’t matter which are heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah.

I think it’s safe to say that my Hallelujah falls under the ‘broken’ category.

There’s little about me that would instill theologians or bishops or popes with enough confidence to pronounce it of the “holy” variety.

But that’s ok with me.

I’m quite happy to be nothing and nobody… for a number of reasons actually… but primarily because when it’s your time to stand up and do your thing, and you’re a nothing and a nobody, the somethings and the someones never see you coming. And there’s nothing quite so effective as a blindside sucker punch.

I don’t know why this cancer is here. I have to trust that God’s ways are higher than my own and whatever the reason there will be immense good that will come from it, one way or another, and that somehow this trial will become the foundation for great things done for God. Woven into the fabric of my life will be an understanding of what it is to suffer, and from that understanding will flow compassion and mercy.

Psalm 139:15-16 says this:

¹⁵ My frame was not hidden from you
when I was made in the secret place.
When I was woven together in the depths of the earth,

¹⁶ your eyes saw my unformed body.
All the days ordained for me
were written in your book
before one of them came to be.

So while this disease and all that comes with it may seem chaotic, I know there is method in the madness. Not my methods, but the methods of a God who holds the universe in His hands… who knew me from the moment I was conceived in the womb…. who has walked beside me every day of my soon to be 35 years on this earth. I don’t understand everything that’s happening and it’s quite possible I never will…. not while I inhabit this body anyway….. but I know that whatever happens, God is in control and he has promised he will never leave me or forsake me. (Hebrews 13:5)

Or, as it is translated in The Message:

“…God assured us, “I’ll never let you down, never walk off and leave you,” (so) we can boldly quote,

God is there, ready to help;
I’m fearless no matter what.
Who or what can get to me?”

I don’t know about you but that gives me a tremendous amount of confidence that everything is going to be alright. Who or what can get to me? Certainly not cancer.

Because of His goodness to me I will sing Hallelujah.

Hallelujah because I am responding so well to treatment. So well, in fact, that my nurses can’t wait to give me my blood results each time they come in.

Hallelujah because I have a wife who loves me and is standing with me in this battle… never flinching.

Hallelujah because I have two beautiful, healthy children who think their Daddy is the best Daddy in the world, even when his brain is messed up from the chemo drugs.

Hallelujah because my God walks beside me and fights the battle for me. He commands his angels concerning me and they guard me carefully. He is my fortress, my hiding place while the battle for my life rages around me. He stands between me and the sickness that would seek to take my life and says to the sickness “no further… you will not harm him”.

Hallelujah because I am still alive…. and will be for many decades to come.

There are so many reasons to sing Hallelujah…. so many…. and as long as I have air in my lungs you will hear my Hallelujah.

Whatever you see in me that you think is good comes from Heaven.

It’s not my doing…. it’s His.

The truth is…

If I didn’t have Rachel I would let the cancer take me.

I know where I’m going when I die so if I was alone… why wait?

Cody and Jakob are special… of course. They are an incredibly precious gift and I love them dearly. I look at them and sometimes can’t quite believe they came from me…. that they’re my sons and I am their father…. and I would die for them…. probably kill for them too while we’re being truthful.

But without Rachel they wouldn’t be here.

This treatment is starting to take its toll on me not just physically but mentally and emotionally…. actually, mostly mentally and emotionally. Even though the cancer is dying it is exacting a heavy price on me and my family on its way out.

Some days I’m Jekyll. Some days I’m Hyde.

But mostly I’m Hyde…. and I can’t control it.

I feel like Charlie Gordon in the book ‘Flowers for Algernon’. He knows he’s eventually going to lose his intelligence and clarity and return to his diminished mental state. He starts to see it happening before his very eyes as the effects of his experimental operation wear off and knows there’s nothing he can do about it. Once the transition is complete he feels he doesn’t fit in and moves away. I’m not losing anything permanently but while I’m on the chemo there’s certainly a few marbles that have escaped from the bag. It’s intensely frustrating, feeling it happen, and I often lash out.

I dread going to the hospital for my infusions. If you’ve had any form of chemotherapy you’ll understand. In my case, the 6 days after it are a constant fight not to vomit, not to cough myself raw, not to snap at any sound that exceeds normal everyday sound levels, not to succumb to the side effects that come from being pumped full of poison for 50 hours straight.

Chemotherapy is a generic term for any chemical treatment. In my case, more specifically, it’s called Cytotoxic therapy.

Cyto = Cell. Toxic = Deadly. You do the math.

But…. better dread than dead, right?

God, I am aching for this to be over. My heart hurts with the knowledge of what I am putting Rachel through.

Rachel,

My wife. My lover. My best friend. I’m sorry you have to walk this road with me. I know you never dreamed of this when you looked at me on our wedding day and with all of Heaven watching, pledged me your love.

You’re strength is inspiring and your devotion is compelling. One day, somehow, I will make this up to you.

I would die for you…. I will live for you.

I’ve been trying to write something intelligent since Christmas day. It hasn’t really been happening. Catching my thoughts has been like Mr. Miyagi trying to catch a fly with chopsticks in the Karate Kid. Apparently it’s known as “chemo brain” and is a well documented occurrence. Still, it doesn’t make me feel that great to know I’m not functioning 100% in the head. I feel a little like the crazy Irishman in Braveheart.

I had round 6 of my chemotherapy on the 4th of January. It was supposed to be my last but after meeting with my Oncologist yesterday it has been decided that while the treatment is working so well it should continue. So far I have had 300 hours worth of infusions. In two days time this will have increased to 350 hours as I am currently hooked up to my ‘takeaway’ chemo…. a little bottle containing a drug called 5FU or Fluorouracil, which is mixed with a dose of Folic Acid. Inside the bottle is a small balloon which slowly deflates over 46 hours, pumping the drug into my body. It’s a well established cancer treatment, about 40 years old. It makes my face burn from the inside while I am connected to it. Temporary but still unpleasant. It also make me cough a lot and absolutely burns my throat something fierce.

Combined with this I also receive a drug called Irinotecan. All the colour drains from my body while this drug goes in. I see it right before my eyes. It’s quite unsettling but I am getting used to it. It brings with it waves of exhaustion and nausea during the infusion. Apparently it has two main side effects. One being diarrhea (which I am not getting, thankfully) and the other being extreme suppression of the immune system.

This is the scary one.

When I received my first infusion my immune system crashed. I picked up an infection from somewhere which turned septic and left me in quite a vulnerable state. Thankfully I still had some white blood cells and neutrophils rolling around in my body. If not, it’s quite likely I would have died. Since then my blood cell counts have been good. Low, but within acceptable tolerances for someone being poisoned every two weeks. Funny how you can have cancer in your body but end up dying from something as simple as someone sneezing near you.

The third drug in the mix is a drug called Avastin. Avastin is not classed as a chemical drug, it’s known as a biologic. When a tumor gets too big to feed itself via osmosis it sends out a ‘request’ for new blood vessels so it can tap into the blood stream and keep feeding, keep growing. Avastin recognises this signal and blocks it, effectively starving the tumours. The only downside I have experienced with Avastin so far is that because it stops the creation of new blood vessels it takes weeks for my body to heal something as basic as a paper cut.

There’s a serious amount of irony involved in my being able to receive Avastin. Number one is that an old high school friend of mine works for the company that makes it. His day job is to physically manufacture the drug in the lab. Second, Avastin costs about $5,000 Australian dollars per hit. So far I’ve had 7 of them…. $35,000 worth. Thankfully the Australian government has added Avastin to the Pharmaceutical Benefits Scheme (PBS) and now it only costs me $32.50 each time. The irony? In 2008 I edited a number of videos that were used to lobby the government to have it added to the PBS and in July 2009, 3 months before I was diagnosed, it was successfully added to the PBS.

Can you spell “providence”?

So, each time I go into the Oncology ward to have my chemo the first thing they do, besides sticking the needle into my porta-cath, is take blood. This serves a triple purpose: one is to see if my white blood cells and neutrophils are high enough to cope with the treatment. If not, the treatment is halted. So far this hasn’t been necessary. Two is to see if my liver is functioning ok. So far, despite the fact that on my October 6 scan it was covered in tumours, my liver is functioning perfectly. Three is to check my cancer markers…. the numbers.

I live for these numbers.

I started out at 4,323.00 in my bloodstream and 88.0 in my bowel. I am now down to 750.00 in my bloodstream and 42.3 in my bowel. The target is less than 3.o and 37 respectively.

I’m getting close.

I was a little bit disappointed that my round 5 levels didn’t drop further than they did but my nurse told me they rarely get to see a patient respond the way I am responding…. so, given the alternative (i.e. death) I decided to keep my mouth shut and be thankful that the cancer is retreating…. even if it’s not as fast as I would like.

I will do whatever it takes to get well. I will fight with everything I have…. until my heart caves in and my body returns to the dust from which it came. I’m not giving up, no matter how weary I feel, no matter how sick I get, no matter how much it feels like I’m losing my mind, no matter how much I long for a “normal” life again. No matter what.

Until my King calls me home.

Tomorrow I go in for round 5 of my chemotherapy treatment, more blood tests and hopefully, come Thursday… Christmas Eve, more good news.

I’m happy I’m nearing the end of my treatment… for now at least. So far I’ve gone through 200 hours of chemo infusions and I have another 100 to go. Knowing what lies ahead in the immediate 72 hours after the infusion doesn’t fill me with a lot of Christmas cheer but knowing that the cancer is retreating…. well…. there are just no words for that…. even though it means I’ll be not much more than a ghost to my family on Christmas day.

I’ve been working all week, which is great news for our bank account and I’ve had a number of jobs confirmed for 2010 which is great. They will help us get back on our feet financially after all of this is done and dusted.

I don’t have anything terribly inspiring to write this time….. I’ve just been thinking how I’d really like to be able to kick this cancer in the nuts, like physically, for real. And then, when it’s doubled over in agony, a quick knee to the face. Yep…. that should do it.

I hope you all have a beautiful time this Christmas with your families and loved ones, be it white and crisp or blue skies and beaches.

And for the cancer, yes,  even cancer…. here’s my Christmas message to you.

(Feel free to turn it UP and jump around like a madman….. I am.)

I’m struggling tonight.

The nausea is hanging around longer than usual.

Longer than usual.

Like any of this is “usual”.

The smell of the drugs is seeping out of my pores… making me want to puke, and to be really honest, I’m feeling quite emotional.

Part of my way of dealing with this disease is to not give it any more credit than it deserves. I don’t dwell on it any more than I need to. I treat this cancer as an adversary. There is not a shred of diplomacy here… it’s all out war and any weapon is acceptable.

If you have an eye for detail and grammar, you may or may not have noticed that when I use the word ‘cancer’ I don’t capitalise it, even though it’s a noun and it would be grammatically correct to do so.

I don’t give it any respect. It deserves none.

A small thing I know, but small things make my life beautiful these days.

Maybe I’m emotional because I’m tired. The tired I only discovered existed after I started receiving my infusions. The kind of tired that is not satiated by sleep or rest. The kind of tired that just knocks you on your back and pins you down until it is good and ready to go home.

Maybe.

Maybe I’m emotional because I got some more blood results back on Thursday. They showed my blood stream markers had dropped another 1,100 points… from 2,777 to 1,666… and that my bowel markers had dropped another 10 points to 52.5…. just 15 points off “normal”. It’s certainly a good reason to get emotional. I cried when the nurse brought them to me. I was amazed and so, so thankful. Maybe that’s the reason?

Maybe.

Tonight, in New Zealand, after ten years my brother-in-law’s band is playing their last ever show. Right about now they will be walking out onto an Auckland stage to play in front of a sold out crowd. I was really hoping to get there and had it been possible to schedule it for my ‘off’ week I would have been there for sure. But he and his wife are leaving for the UK in 2 more days and they’ll be gone for a year or so….. so it wasn’t possible.

But I’m listening to their music anyway, as I do, and one of the songs is really getting to me. It’s like it was written for me. Like they looked forward in time and saw my illness and then wrote down all the things that would go through my mind once I found I could not continue to live the life I had been living. The life I had before cancer showed up.

This life of mine was once defined
By the kind of things I’d leave behind
I once was lost, now I’m found
My rescue came and brought me safe and sound

Oh Eastern sun you come undone
Over Western skies right before my eyes

All my days I’ve been finding ways
Of searching for a better way
Come what may, all my days
I’m searching for a better way back home

Please slow this ride, it moves too fast
I’ve lost control in the past.
These days slip away as evening falls
And if I hold on too tight, I’ll lose it all

Oh Eastern sun you come undone
Over Western skies right before my eyes

All my days I’ve been finding ways
Of searching for a better way
Come what may, all my days
I’m searching for a better way back home

Let the past decay, watch it fall away
Far away, there to stay
No more half black, half white.
No more half wrong, half right
Now I’m searching for a better way.

Maybe I’m emotional because I finally, truly understand the incredible price that was paid for my life.

Maybe I’m emotional because I realise that, up until this sickness arrived, I had been living a very inward looking life.

Maybe I’m emotional because I am being given a chance to do better…. to find a better way.

No more half black, half white. No more half wrong, half right.

Heaven is watching….. make it count.

I go in for round four of my chemotherapy tomorrow. To be honest I don’t want to go. Not because I don’t want to get better but because the path to getting better makes me feel pretty damn crappy for about a week. It’s a small price to pay, but it’s still a high cost in comparison to say… the flu or a cold. Either of those is treated by some brightly coloured and easily ingested tablets. Not so for my therapy.

I’m not getting any of the side effects the doctors warned me about, which is amazing in and of itself. But it messes with my mind a lot. And I can smell the drugs seeping from my pores the entire week…. and that smell makes me feel physically ill.

I am keen, however, to see the results from my last set of bloods. It’s been two weeks and I’m more than curious.

I’ve had a good week this week. I’ve worked four days out of seven and even established a new client in the process who was very understanding and unbelievably flexible in regards to what weeks I could and could not work. The entire place was so nice to me and so accommodating… I was quite surprised but not so surprised as when one of the designers came into my suite and introduced himself.

We got talking and he asked politely if I could give him some more detail about what I was dealing with in regards to the cancer. Some people feel awkward asking me about it but, truth be told, I have no problem discussing it. It’s not something to be ashamed of. This fight was not of my choosing but as long as it’s here I am most certainly up for it.

Our conversation continued until he asked me if I had “a faith”. To which I replied that yes, I do. I follow Christ. He immediately smiled and said he knew it, just by the way I was talking about my future in the face of a potentially terminal disease. He then asked me if he could pray for me, which I thought was just awesome. So in the quiet of the colour grading suite with nothing but the sound of fans from various pieces of hi-tech gadgetry whirring away in the background, he puts his hand on my stomach and begins to pray. Not a big, loud prayer. He wasn’t trying to conjure anything up. He just quietly asked God to remove the cancer from my body, like he does it every day.

Immediately the room was filled with peace.

I know this peace. I have felt it many times before. It rests on my body like a warm blanket and surrounds me like a soft duvet.

Rest. Comfort. Ease.

It brings all of these and more.

And it got me thinking….

Since being diagnosed with this stupid disease the support and help that has come our way has been nothing short of amazing. For someone like me who often spends a lot of time (happily) on my own, mostly oblivious to the things going on around me, it has impacted me deeply to know that so many people care about what happens to me. Unfortunately though, there have been a handful of comments sent my way that just do not sit well with me.

I know their intentions are good and that they genuinely do care about my well being but when someone says that maybe I should “check my heart” for things like unforgiveness, bitterness and pride or perhaps investigate my family line to see if those things (or worse indiscretions) are buried in my family history, as that may be the cause of my cancer… well…. I’m sorry but I just want to flip you the bird.

I am not being punished here. This cancer has not been placed upon me as the consequences of something I may or may not have done in the past.

My God does not delight in spiteful retribution. If you think he does then maybe we’re not talking about the same God.

I serve a God who has promised me he will never leave me or forsake me. A God from whom I cannot escape, no matter how hard I run the other way at times. A God whose love for me sent him willingly to the most barbaric and painful of deaths…. crucified on a cross….. in my place.

In my place.

John 15:13 says this:

“Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for another.”

Somehow the concept of someone who willingly died in my place and the idea of that same someone sitting high up in the sky zapping naughty people with terminal diseases just does not gel. Not now, not ever.

When I was first diagnosed I called up one of my best friends and we went out for coffee. He told me he had been praying about the situation the night before and had asked God why this was happening. He felt the answer was this:

John 9:1-5 (The Message)

“Walking down the street, Jesus saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked, “Rabbi, who sinned: this man or his parents, causing him to be born blind?” Jesus said, “You’re asking the wrong question. You’re looking for someone to blame. There is no such cause-effect here. Look instead for what God can do.”

So while I understand that these people are on my side, the way they’ve gone about expressing it makes me recoil violently.

This idea has been floating around in my head since day one so here it is…. my line in the sand:

When you come to me or my family there is now a dress code in effect. Come to us wearing Faith and Hope and you will be warmly welcomed. Come to us wearing Fear and Doubt and you will be politely asked to leave. This Dress Code will be strictly enforced.

No exceptions.

This is quite literally life or death for me.

This is not some Saturday afternoon paintball fun. This is akin to landing on the beaches of Normandy. My enemy has established a strong hold on my body. Not happy to just mess up my bowel, it marched on my liver. Statistically speaking my condition is not a good place to be. For me to entertain the thought of anything other than a victory here is to concede defeat and I may as well go and lay down in a corner somewhere and wait to die.

Let me tell you this now…. I will not lay down.

I will fight this thing until it is dead. The only one dying around here is cancer. Kristian Anderson will die an old man, peacefully, in his sleep.

How do I know this? Because I know who my God is and what I mean to Him.

For anyone who believes that God is a cranky old man, looking to dish out punishment on us poor, unsuspecting mortals, let me tell you now… he is not like that.

Love is not like that.

All around is chaos and madness

Can’t help feeling nothing more than sadness

Only choice… to face it the best I can.

There are some things in this life that I will never understand. As long I wear this frail coating of flesh and blood, as long as the fragility of my own humanity covers me… I will never understand.

This morning I got news that some good friends of ours lost their little girl. There had been complications and surgery whilst still in the womb was scheduled for this morning. But it wasn’t to be and she came in the night, far too early, and only graced us with her presence for an hour before being gently carried to the Father’s side…. in the arms of an angel.

To me, this is the definition of unfair.

Is it fair for me to have cancer?

Maybe.

Depends who you speak to.

I’m 34, an adult… and my hands are dirty.

But not this little one. She was innocent. As innocent as it gets. I can’t even begin to imagine the pain that is enveloping our friends right now. And try as I might, there’s nothing I can do to ease it for them. One day I’m sure I will be able to comprehend all of this but that day is not today.

How long, O Lord, how long?

Son of David….. have mercy.

Back in January this year the house next door to us was sold and the family that lived there moved out. The new owner was keen to meet his new neighbours and so on Australia Day he threw a street party. Free Beer, free BBQ and a jumping castle for the kids. The whole street rocked up and for a lot of us it was our first introduction to each other. On that day we met Tony and Brenda and their family from Minnesota in the USA. They were not only new to our street but also to the country. We got talking and it turns out they recently started attending our church too. (That’s what happens in a big church… you often don’t notice new people.) Since that day we have become great friends. Their generosity and hospitality is humbling and we’re truly honoured to call them our friends.

On Friday night we were invited over for Thanksgiving dinner. I wasn’t feeling too flash so Rach went over with the boys. This current round of chemotherapy has been a little more taxing on me than the last one. More nausea and a lot more tiredness, plus it’s been quite hot, so I ended up making an appearance an hour or so later after I’d woken up from a nap. We had a great time and there was some amazing food and a pumpkin pie that was something else… all home cooked.

Tony and Brenda’s family have a tradition of writing in permanent marker on a big white cloth all the things they are thankful for that year and they invited me and Rachel to write on it.

It got me thinking…. what am I thankful for?

I came up with a list a mile long. Rachel, Cody and Jakob were obviously up there on top as well as all of our friends and family who are upholding us in prayer and supporting us with meals and finances.

But ultimately I came to the conclusion that I had so much to be thankful for that I just couldn’t write it all down.

Inside my body is something that has no other purpose but to kill me. It’s called cancer and it’s a really nasty piece of work. But instead of bitching and moaning I find myself waking up every day thankful for one simple fact:

I’m alive.

I’m writing this to honour my wife, Rachel. I’ve just had round three of my chemo and thought it best to get this down ‘on paper’, as it were, before I head into the next few days of vapor-like existence as the drugs work their way through my system.

When I was single and stupid I asked God to make sure I never married a New Zealander or a singer. I have no idea why I said that but it’s true, I did. I’m so glad he saw through the stupidity of my ‘request’ and decided to ignore it… instead, bringing me an incredible woman who was, in fact, both of the things I thought I wanted to avoid. How right He was and how grateful I am.

Rach loves her homeland, Aotearoa…. land of the long white cloud…. and over the years I too have grown to love it. In particular, the Maori culture. It is all at once beautiful and ferocious. Passionate and noble. Creative and soulful.

So, as a skinny white guy from Australia, I’ll put my best Haka face on and stand up in defense of my whanau, my family, and  say this…..

Au, au, aue, ha! – This is my time! This is my moment!

Ka tū te Ihiihi – Stand up to the fear

Ka tū te Wanawana – Stand up to the terror

Ki runga ki te rangi – To the sky above!

E tū iho nei, tū iho nei, hī! – Fight up there, high up there. Yeah!

Ponga rā! – The shadows fall!

Ponga rā! – Darkness falls!

Ka mate, ka mate – I die, I die

Ka ora’ Ka ora’ – I live, I live

Ka mate, ka mate – I die, I die

Ka ora’ Ka ora’ – I live, I live

Tēnei te tangata pūhuruhuru – This is the man

Nāna i tiki mai whakawhiti te rā – Who caused the sun to shine again for me

Upane… Upane – Up the ladder, Up the ladder

Upane Kaupane – Up to the top

Whiti te rā! – The sun shines!

Hī! – Rise!

I think Tana Umaga does it best….. and I like to think the angels going to battle for me look a little like this before they bring some pain to my enemy’s doorstep. If I could stand physically in front of my cancer, this is what I would do…. this is what it would see.

Game on.