A living testimony by Kathy Grimme
Dear Brothers & Sisters in Christ,
I have no other explanation to offer as to why am still here; except, that I’m surviving cancer by God’s grace. In 2015, I was diagnosed with a rare and particularly aggressive type of cancer called Epithelioid Angiosarcoma. The initial biopsy came from a bump that was sitting on my leg for approximately eight years when I first noticed it. It took three months to diagnose because none of the pathology databases in the Philippines carried the profile for this type of cancer. In fact, the largest case study we’ve found so far had 18 cases, with a handful more individual cases here and there.
I read in a medical journal that 56% of the patients with my type of cancer die in three years. I’m on my fourth year. Thank, God. My doctors like to tell me that I’ve gone through some of the toughest chemo regimens they can give for my kind of cancer. Most people stop after a few rounds. I can tell you that strength and determination sometimes aren’t enough when you feel beaten up and can’t even muster the courage to get off the couch for weeks. All you can say is, “Lord, I offer you my pain”. There’s faith that one day, things will get better.
I am not stronger or more resolved than the other patients I know. A good friend taught me a phrase that has helped me through all this: “Not I can, but He can.” By His grace, I survived a total of sixteen rounds of chemo in my life—eight in Manila and eight here.
We often ask, “Why me?” I’ve asked myself that question countless times in the last four years, and there has never been an answer. So I started asking myself “What is the purpose of my existence at this point?” I realized that, because my children are small, and we’re new immigrants, the purpose at this time is to build a community around them. Friends who can be like family (like all of you who have lent us much needed strength in these trying times). All of you have been part and parcel of this gift.
When I figured out my current purpose, I realized that every single event in my life has led me exactly to this point. Every experience and encounter has prepared me for this. If that is so, then there must be a plan. If He has a plan for me, then there must be a reason why I am here and why I’m going through this.
There must be a reason why you are here, too. Finding your purpose might answer the question as to why things happen, though some of what we understand as our purposes do change over time. I’m still trying to fully understand my new purpose.
So what have I learned fighting this cancer twice in four years?
Cancer, such as it is, taught me that there is beauty in knowing that life is fragile and finite. Confronting death gave me a sense of clarity. It has helped me understand what are really important in the end—faith, family, and friends. Everything else melts away. Little things stopped stressing me out because they become inconsequential. Prayers become deeper and more meaningful. In the course of fighting cancer, I did get better at some point. I was in remission for a year and a half before it returned. We thought we were done, so I’ll also be the first to tell you that it’s easy to lose your focus once death becomes less imminent.
The other thing I’ve learned is that good news and bad news are all in your head. All that the doctors give you is information. You decide how you want to frame the information you receive. More relevant information helps you make better decisions. I read everything I could about my kind of cancer, and researched like crazy before making a decision. Prior to receiving my diagnosis, I had already decided I was going to be open with my loved ones regarding my fight against cancer, and I was going to be the most positive person I ever knew. If all I could do was beat the drum in this battle we were all fighting, I wanted to make sure it was to the tune of hope and courage, instead of fear and despair. When the doctors finally told me it was Epithelioid Angiosarcoma, I said, “Thank you, at least now we know what it is and we can do something about it.” When the doctors told me that, “There is no protocol for curative intent” which is a fancy way of telling me that there’s no cure for my kind of cancer, I told them I was going to be their miracle case, and that we would fight this fight at the right time and in the right way. You can be positive and still be realistic.
You know, my father always said it takes the same effort to dream big as it does to dream small, so you might as well dream big. In the same sense, it takes exactly the same effort to find something to complain about or to count your blessings, to cry or to laugh. Choosing to discover your blessings is a conscious decision that becomes a habit and then a reality. Once you find the first few little miracles, the others become easier to see.
When I first met the doctors here (in The Netherlands), they wouldn’t even talk to me about surgery or possible amputation. They didn’t know how fast it was going to go this time around. On my first appointment, I had a bump, smaller than a pea, on the seam of my scar. A couple of weeks later, there were five on my lower leg. A CT scan of my thigh revealed three more, making a total of at least eight tumors. They told me that if it showed up in my lungs, it would be pointless to amputate. The additional tumors in my thigh sent me straight to chemo even if we had prepared for radiation. My oncologist said that, among my fairly limited set of options, was to do chemo under a palliative setting until I couldn’t do chemo anymore due to neuropathy.
Neuropathy sucks. At some point, it becomes permanent and you can’t button your buttons anymore, or walk.
We prepared the kids for my possible death. We read them stories about how love lives on even if we can’t see our loved ones. We cried a lot and we prayed a lot, too. The prayer that Jesus said at Gethsemane resonated with me. Mark 14:36— “Abba” he said, “everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will.” Not my will but Yours be done.
If you can’t fight it, at least, pray for courage, right?
At a retreat organized by the FCC Gouda in March 2019, Father Marcel said something beautiful. He said, “God is your Father, ask Him to grant you what you really want. Talk to Him like you would your own father.” And I was filled with so much hope. Our prayers changed to “Dear Lord, we pray for complete healing, for the gift of life. Please grant us the grace and courage to follow Your Will (and this is the important part) WHATEVER IT MAY BE.” I didn’t want the kids to be angry with God just in case I died.
I believe that God sends us people to help us with His miracles. Having a community to turn to is like having a reservoir of courage, inspiration and strength. We couldn’t have gotten this far without the help of those who have been sent our way. With my husband John, and my kids, I found reason to live. I couldn’t have done it without them. With family and friends cheering me on, I found courage and inspiration. My doctors and nurses are helping me find a path to healing—they’re instruments of God, too. With Him, I found purpose, hope, and life. Every time I’d lose courage, I’d listen for God’s messages for me in the mass. Every single time, He delivered much needed courage through the readings, the Gospel, the homily, and sometimes, even in the songs sung at mass.
In fight two, round six, they told us that chemo seemed to arrest my cancer, that no tumors have been found beyond my leg making an amputation possible. Thank, God. When I told my family, a dear aunt asked me to reconsider the amputation and just pray. She said it was going to be hard to walk with just one leg. In jest, I told her it would be harder to walk if I’m dead. Little did they know that my greatest fear was the doctor telling me that an amputation was no longer possible—this might mean that I would be waiting to die. It’s better to be one-legged than dead.
When I prayed to God to grant me the gift of life, I did so without conditions. I am a sinner, so between us, there were neither bargains nor promises I might not be able to keep.
I grew up with a Benedictine education, with the motto: Ora et Labora (prayer and work). Chemo and the ensuing amputation were the work required for the miracle we prayed for. In exchange for my leg, I get to live a little longer—isn’t that great?
A lot of us pray, hoping for a miracle served on a silver platter, and I’m not sure if it works that way. In Filipino, we have a saying, “Nasa Diyos ang awa, nasa tao ang gawa (mercy rests with the Lord, but we still need to do our share to make it happen).”
He and I are a team: He takes care of the big stuff, I take care of the small stuff.
To help prepare ourselves and our children for the amputation, my husband and I looked for funny or inspiring amputee stories. We listed the things we looked forward to once I recovered. We did this in the weeks before I even checked into the hospital. It was vastly easier to prepare them for the upcoming surgery than it was trying to prepare them for my potential death.
Allowing myself to laugh at our situation allowed other people to have fun, too. They amputated my leg on the 18th of October (2019). Crazy as it may seem, I was the happiest person on my floor. It took some work, but most of the time, our nurses were laughing with us—at the very least, most were smiling. When they rolled me into the operating complex, all of my doctors were grinning from ear to ear. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the home-baked apple pies I insisted on bringing, or the fact that I was cracking amputation-related jokes in the pre-operative room.They all laughed when I said their procedure was definitely the quickest, guaranteed weight-loss program I’ve ever come across.
Two weeks after the operation, the pathology report was released. All the cancerous tumors from the resection on my thigh were “dead,” and so were most of most of the tumors on my lower leg. Whatever lesions survived chemotherapy was gone thanks to the amputation. My doctor told us that there was a high possibility that we finally beat cancer. It’s incredible. God has delivered in the most amazing way.
What words do we usually associate with miracles? Joy, light and peace. I wanted that for all of us because I believe that joy promotes healing. Joy turned what was potentially the scariest event in my life into such an amazing experience. It also sets us on the right foot towards this next chapter of our journey, (pun intended), with a smile on our faces, and peace in our hearts.
It’s October, and I’m going to end with a short story about my dad. He passed away from colon cancer in January 2018. The doctors told us he had about two months left. He loved my mom so much that he wanted her to know he tried everything he could to live. So we took the next plane to Singapore, to see if there were options there.
We were greeted by a devoutly Catholic Chinese-Singaporean, Uber driver who, as it happened, was also the official transporter of Our Lady of Fatima in Singapore. He told my dad that he (my dad) was lucky. Our lady had sat exactly where he was sitting. Timothy, our driver, took us to our hotel so we could rest for the night, and for the first time ever, I heard my dad praying the rosary. You know that he didn’t pray the rosary often because he would say, “Joyful mystery number one” continue with the Our Father, ten Hail Marys, and a Glory Be. He would then continue with, “Joyful mystery number two” and so on. My mom asked him if he knew what the actual mysteries were, and he replied: “No, but I’m sure God knows.”
The next day, at 5 AM, he asked Timothy if he could bring us to see Our Lady of Fatima. You know how Filipinos love wiping the image with their handkerchiefs? Well, beside Our Lady was a sign “Please do not touch Our Lady, She will touch you.” There, he received a scapular which he never took off. My father was so moved that he became a devotee to Our Lady of Fatima.
Eventually, the doctor recommended chemotherapy. The doctor pulled me aside to explain that while things looked dire, hope was important and that I shouldn’t let my father know that he was on a reduced amount. We went home and continued the protocol there. Chemo did a good job of controlling his cancer, but it didn’t give him the quality of life he wanted. We stopped after three rounds.
In the months between that fateful September day and his passing, Papa learned the mysteries of the rosary, and he learned to surrender to the Lord. He spent the rest of the time preparing us for the inevitable. He told us everything we needed to hear from him, and we were able to tell him everything we needed to say. It was from him that I learned that there is also grace in acceptance. He was so comfortable with his situation, he was even making bets with the nurses about when he was going to die. He said Saturday, 6 PM.
When we brought him to the hospital for the last time, he was delirious, and in between directing his “photoshoots” and asking us to order food for his guests, he’d pray the Hail Mary (or at least part of it). My dad passed away a few days later, on the sixth of January—if you’re looking for bonus points as a Catholic for date of death, he got them all. It was the Feast Day of the Epiphany, the last day of Christmas, on the first Saturday of the year. Some Marian devotees believe that Mama Mary brings to heaven those who die on the first Saturday of the month. He won that bet, too. He left at 5:56 PM.
That’s our story. We hope that you, too, can fight your fear with faith and remain unbroken.
His Grace is enough.
Thank you for listening,
Kathy