Chemo Communion

Merry Christmas, Dear Ones. 

I’m hooked up to my chemo infusion as I write. Stephan and I are handing the laptop back and forth. The good news: today is Red Devil #4, the last of my eight-week run. Next up, Taxol, every week, for three months. But that doesn’t start until January 4. 

Today we’re celebrating.

The bad news: Red Devil’s got me by the scruff. Who would have thought eye lashes fall into your eyes, not out? And what’s with nose hairs? When did they become so important?

But losing hair really isn’t so bad compared to the psychological toll. Turns out my body recognizes “Chemo Day” before my brain does. My oncology nurse calls it “anticipatory nausea.” I know—it sounds so wimpy—but the data on post traumatic stress in people dealing with life-threatening illnesses is a real thing. Cancer patients experience stress in their body even before their brain has a chance to catch up. 

Migraines. 

Tears. 

Dark thoughts. 

Nasusea. 

And more nausea.

The worst is the overwhelming feeling of loss and dread. Sneaks up on you. Like a bony tap on the shoulder.

All this drove me to my knees for a few days. So I called my friend Ashlee with an idea. Ashlee co-leads Mars Hill Bible (no, not the infamous one in Seattle). She’s my pastor, which includes talking me off a cliff during the dark days. 😇

My conversation with Ashlee went something like this…

“Ashlee, I have an idea—maybe it’s crazy. I have chemo coming up on Tuesday and I can already feel my body and mind begin to react to what’s coming. I am dreading it—the pain, the nausea, the diabolical thoughts. I don’t want Red Devil to be the only thing running through my veins. What do you think about giving me the Eucharist while they give me chemo?”

Wait a minute, back up: the Eucharist?

Yeah, I get it. The “Eucharist,” or “Communion,” can conjure up a range of feelings and questions. For a lot of people, it’s tradition. For others, the bread and wine symbolize the body and blood of Christ. For some, the Eucharist is more than symbolic: it’s the real presence of God.

Honestly, until cancer, I’ve hovered around the first two.

Stephan says the sacrifice of Jesus is penultimate, while union with God is ultimate. That’s just his way of saying the point of Eucharist is to experience the tangible love of God made possible by the advent of Christmas and the sacrifice of Easter.

I like that. 

Even better, I like Flannery O’Connor’s take.

Flannery was a literary phenomenon who battled life-threatening lupus. She was also a devout Catholic who attended Mass daily, believing that the “body and blood of Christ” were part of what was keeping her alive. One evening, another famous author suggested it would be far more open-minded, and less threatening to others, to think of the Eucharist as a “great, wonderful, powerful symbol.”

Flannery’s response came swiftly: “Well, if it is only a symbol, then to hell with it.” 

Ashlee’s answer came swiftly too when I pitched my idea of communion during chemo: 

“Yes. Yes. Yes! What time do you want me there?”

Ashlee brought a simple wooden cup and bowl, along with her grandfather’s worn book of prayer. In the chemo bay at St. Mary’s hospital, we confessed, we prayed, we took the bread and wine as the chemo cocktail dripped into my veins. 

Then Ashlee stopped, took my hand and said, “Emmanuel.”

Then she said again: “Emmanuel, Belinda. Emmanuel.” 

God with us. 

I am with Flannery. In the reality of loss, suffering and pain there is no symbolic middle ground. Either Jesus is in my veins, tangible, present, right next to Red Devil, or he is not. 

Today, as I take chemo communion again, and welcome the deep peace that confounds all understanding, I pray the tangible presence of God is with you my friends. May you experience the crazy, extravagant, messy love of God in your veins no matter what you’re facing. 

You are a gift. 

God with me.

God with you.