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| Letters from Dr. Les Morgan, Mission Co-Worker, Bangladesh (A Ministry Supported by Covenant) |
To
Our Supporting Churches and Friends: Crying in My
Sleep Yesterday I spent the afternoon with my son Everett in his hospital room at the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. He is recovering from his latest round of chemotherapy--high-dose ifosfamide and etoposide, a second-line regimen used in the treatment of Ewing's sarcoma. Last week we learned that Everett had not responded to a new experimental drug he had received for the past month; and as his tumor had previously become resistant to the first-line chemotherapy, his doctor recommended we move to this next line of treatment. The regimen is highly toxic and requires hospitalization to manage the side effects, mainly damage to the kidneys. He was in the hospital six days and got to come home today. After two weeks of rest and recovery, he'll go back in the hospital for the next round of chemotherapy. We had hoped and prayed that last month's treatment with the new experimental drug would work; but the follow-up scans showed that, despite the treatment, Everett's tumor had increased in size. That was difficult news for us, because it means that Everett now faces a quite complicated and uncertain course with no easy medical outcome. Friday night was especially hard for me, as Everett lay in the hospital receiving his chemotherapy. Sleep is a time when my mind integrates the information it has received and evaluates the problems it faces; and not infrequently I will wake up in the morning with a solution to a difficult problem or a way through a complicated situation. And the more my heart is oriented towards God, the closer I feel that solution is to his will. But Friday night was unusual, for the next morning there was waiting for me no solution, no counsel from God. Instead, I woke up crying and knew I had been crying even in my sleep. One thing is clear to me: I must concentrate on helping Everett and my family, especially over the next few weeks until we know he is responding to the current chemotherapy. So I have cancelled my work-related travel engagements and am planning some special things to do with him. The Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) World Mission offices to which we relate have been quite supportive of Cindy and me by allowing us the time we need to be with our son. I wish there were a way, other than through our letters, that we could express our deep gratitude to them and to all of you who have been so helpful. Yours, Les
Dr. Leslie Y. Morgan
To Our
Supporting Churches and Friends: A Time for Hope Dear Brothers and Sisters, Our son Everett, 22, is in his third cycle of chemotherapy for Ewing's sarcoma of the left pelvis, diagnosed in September. Each cycle lasts 21 days: the first five days he receives intravenous infusions of high-dose chemotherapeutic drugs, then the next sixteen days he recovers from those drugs' toxic side-effects. Although the drugs kill fast-growing cancer cells, they just as effectively kill fast-growing normal cells, such as bone marrow cells and cells in the lining of the mouth and GI tract; and it takes time for those vital tissues to recover from the insult of chemotherapy. During the recovery period, Everett makes almost daily visits to the hospital, so that his doctors can monitor his progress and treat any secondary illnesses that may arise during his weakened state. He must also use the time to replenish his body's minerals and calories. The goal is to help him recover enough to be able to tolerate the next round of chemotherapy. So for each 21-day cycle, there is a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to break down and a time to build up. For everything there is a season, and for Everett, now is the time for chemotherapy. It is also a time for hope. Just before Everett started his third cycle of chemotherapy, his doctors repeated some scans that indicated he is having a good response to treatment. An MRI showed the tumor has reduced in size, and a PET scan revealed greatly diminished metabolic activity in the tumor, meaning we can expect it to shrink much further. Everett's oncologist, Dr. Joseph Ludwig, reminded us that because of the size and location of the cancer, treatment is still very difficult. But we have reason to hope. Tomorrow as the church begins its season of hope--the celebration of the Advent and Incarnation of Christ, the Savior of the world--our hope is that God will use the doctors, nurses, and medicines of the MD Anderson Cancer Center to save our son. Every night at bedtime, we place our hands on Everett and pray that God will touch him with his healing power and remove every last cancer cell from his body. That is what Advent is about: the hope of real differences made manifest in people's lives. Our years of directly facing human suffering in Bangladesh, and now our experience in caring for our seriously ill child, have taught Cindy and me that Christian hope is not about the fulfillment of vague and obscure desires. Hope, like the Incarnation, is about flesh and blood, things we can see with our eyes and touch with our hands; and in Christ, God invites us to hope and pray in those concrete terms. For that is how he cares for his people. I am reminded of that hope every time I walk into our apartment here in Houston. Strung across the ceiling of our living room, that is also Everett's bedroom, are scores of cards from many of you. As Everett lies in bed and looks up, he sees all those messages of hope that encourage him during this time of chemotherapy. And each night as Cindy and I sit by his bed, put our hands on him, and pray for his healing, all those cards, like angels, announce to us the good news that God is with us in our suffering, that we should not be afraid, and that now is a time for hope. Yours,
Les |
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Letter from Lance & Elizabeth Edwards,
members of Covenant |
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