To my dear Friends:
The Cyclone, at Magic Mountain, is one of my favorite roller coasters. A replica of the one in Long Beach, it is made of wood so it isn't as jarring as others are and has some very interesting moves to it. It also sounds like a cyclone, which makes it even more fun.
I'm too old to ride roller coasters any more, but that doesn't mean that I have forgotten the reasons I like them. Roller coasters always come back to the beginning. The ride is exhilarating though too short. When you are done, you are exhausted, but ready to go again. Most importantly, you do better if you just relax and go along for the ride. I like to try to just sit in the seat, not hold on, and be as quiet as possible.
The ride is not about me, it is about the circuitous path of the car. It is about faith that the car will not fly off the track or crush into a pancake at the bottom of the highest hill. It is a testimony to the creator of the roller coaster to build something that will withstand the stress.
I also like the fact that it is gravity driven as much as possible. I don't think we respect gravity very much. It is a powerful force. If you don't think so, just look in the mirror. Everything you don't like about yourself is caused by gravity.
Then there is the grind of the first uphill. The sheer power and effort necessary to make it to the top of the hill. It wouldn't have the same feel if it quietly moved into position to start the run.
I remember one day Magic Mountain was almost deserted. I rode that coaster for three hours without ever getting off. The last few times, I was exhausted but felt called to continue until I knew it was over. Don't ask me how I knew it was over, I just did. When I climbed out of the car, I could barely walk and my feet hummed. So did my butt.
Many times, we speak of life as a roller coaster ride and in some ways, it is. There are many turns, uphills and down hills. Rarely, when we call it such, do we mean it in a positive way. I think we miss the fun that way.
This cancer certainly fits the vision of a roller coaster. The arduous uphill climb at the beginning of each run reminds me of how I feel each time we start new treatments. Every new chemotherapy is a time of prayer and questioning. Often the emotions are so strong that they rattle in my head. The trip is demanding and even though I know there is a top, I cannot see it or anticipate its height. I must just listen and feel the difficulty of the climb.
Each treatment is a rollercoaster that continues on a set path that does not change, but always surprises me. I have been around this treatment circuit four times. I don't have a sense of being done so I can't leave the car. I try to relax and move with the path but at times, I just have to hold on tight.
There is both wonderment and fear each time. I anticipate the turns incorrectly. What I remember as easy, all of a sudden, seems harsh and sharp. Then the turns that jerked me around last time seem to have smoothed out. How, I wonder, does the path seem so different when, as I look back, I see that it is the same.
Some of the downhills are exhilarating and some are just to relax. When chemo sessions end and scans show progress, I feel the slide down the hill. I should probably raise my arms and yell with the rest of them but I have a hard time relaxing and letting myself fall. I know that the downhill is only to build speed for the rest of the run. The anticipation takes the rest out of it for me. Cancer, at least mine, does not end. There is no valley to rest in. The downhill just adds energy so I can make the next climb or buzz through the turns. There is much apprehension with every downhill.
The turns will wrench your whole body if you are not ready for them and yet they are the interesting part of the ride. The turns in this cancer have been so sharp at times that I have not been able to hold on; a surgical second looked showed the chemo had failed to slow the cancer, an allergic reaction to one of the chemos, and now the damage to my digestive system makes most days a challenge. Yet, some of the turns are smooth and enjoyable. Right now, in spite of digestive problems, I am strong and able to work. To be outside working all day is a real gift. To look across our yard and see the textures of the scenery as the things we planned grow and bloom beautifully, astounds me. Turns can cause me to lose my composure and begin to panic or excite me with wonderful praise. It seems like I can understand the cancer but I had not planned for the turns. How do I handle them?
Just when I think the ride is over, the cancer grows again, and we do it all over. In fact, the ride never stops; it just slows down to let others on. This chronic disease has not let up from its inception. I try to sit back and let the ride take me where it will but there are times when it frightens me. It can be too violent, too demanding, and too quiet to trust. The only way I can sit back is in the arms of Christ. As I pray, I see myself sitting in His lap as He rides the roller coaster with me. He cushions the jar of the ride, holds me close on the downhills, and wraps His arms around me on the turns so I don't hit the sides. He even covers my eyes at the top of the hill. He is warm and gentle. He will not let go of me. There is no time that I have to worry. He is after all, the creator.
Help me to remember this picture. It is hard, at times, to remember that I am not alone. Lee is always with me, I know that, but I need to remember the intimate relationship I have with Christ. He is the only one that can truly share my fears before I even experience them. He alone knows the next turn, when the uphill will start and how far the downhill will go. Please pray that I will keep that vision.
With all my love
Marj.
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