Learning to be a patient

I still remember the date. Sunday, August 24, 2025. I was travelling with my husband to Rockland, Ontario, where he was scheduled to preach at a little French church. For some time I had felt discomfort in my abdominal area, but discussions with my doctor usually concluded with the suggestion that it was due to minor issues like food intolerances. But on that day I felt that something was seriously wrong and, as the congregation started singing, my tears flowed. The words of the French song, which I was hearing for the first time, spoke to my situation: “And even though I feel fragile and even though it’s difficult, I will still sing glory to the Eternal One.” I was grateful that I was in the front row and hoped that no one noticed my sadness.

Upon returning home, I decided to lie down and get some rest, but sleep was impossible because whenever I took a deep breath, I felt pain in my right side. At that point, I got up and asked my husband to take me to the emergency at the local hospital. In the morning, I received the bad news. I had two fairly large tumours, one in my cervix and the other in my liver.

Good care

In September, I got the official diagnosis: stage IV uterine cancer. Even though I felt prepared to die, it was still hard to hear those words coming from the oncologist.

Through tears, I asked her: “Will I still be alive in one month?”

“Oh, yes!” she replied compassionately. The plan was to begin chemotherapy right away in an attempt to shrink the tumours.

However, complications soon followed and a two-week hospital stay. Since I had never before needed to be in the hospital for a serious illness or operation, this was an eye-opener. I was impressed not only with the dedication of the doctors and nurses, but also of the support staff. It wasn’t hard to discern whether an employee was just there for the job or truly motivated to serve patients. For many of these people, what they were doing was not just a job – it was a vocation.

I think of one orderly in particular, whom I’ll call Brian, who regularly wheeled my hospital bed downstairs for tests. Brian engaged me in cheerful conversation, telling me about his life and talking about the upcoming Christmas holiday. He had been doing this job for fifty years and had no intention of stopping! Then there was the man who came in to clean my room every morning, a middle-aged Moroccan immigrant. During my studies in France, when I was in my twenties, I often ate at a restaurant where many Moroccan Jewish students dined, so I had a good time talking with this gentleman about couscous and the cuisine of that region. The lady who brought my breakfast tray with a cheery “Good morning!” was always concerned about how I was feeling. I realized that every employee in a hospital, from the surgeons right down to the floor scrubbers, was important to the well-being of the patients.

Treasured verses

During my hospital stay, I became very thankful for the Scriptures that I had memorized in childhood. A local Christian camp had a program in which a child could earn a week at camp by memorizing a set number of verses. My hardworking parents didn’t have much extra cash for such activities, so my sisters and I jumped at the opportunity. Now, years later, as I lay in my hospital bed at night, these same Bible verses came back to comfort me.

Sometimes one may not have a Bible nearby, or it’s inconvenient, or one is physically incapable of getting up to look for a Bible. These are the times when the Word of God will come to your mind to point you to the one who is our ultimate Comforter.