Operation Attitude

GOD'S SECRET WEAPON: HUMORBy J. Lissner

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 J. Lissner
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4490-1279-3

Chapter One

Words cannot describe the mind-numbing fear and confusion I felt when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. At the time, I was already emotionally drained from worrying about the end of my marriage, my kids, my finances, and going back to work.

I still had my faith, but as the year dragged on, my situation felt more and more precarious. I wasn't even carrying my own health insurance. That was through my soon to be ex-husband's company. I was frazzled and discouraged. I prayed tearfully for Christ to help me find the peace and joy Scripture promises. And what did I hear?

"Conehead."

I couldn't see any connection between my struggles and some crazy comedy about aliens with heads shaped like cones. How could that be God's answer to my coping with cancer? I kept getting an image of me sitting in the treatment room wearing a conehead. I continued to ask God what looking and acting like a fool could possibly accomplish.

It took me awhile to accept this as The Almighty's solution. For obvious reasons, I thought I'd misinterpreted the message. Discernment can be very difficult in prayer. I prayed again and again. One word kept coming to mind. "Conehead." I thought the chemotherapy drugs were causing serious side effects. Yet, still I got, "Conehead." Day after day, I received the same stupid answer.

Finally I figured I'd give the Old Boy the benefit of the doubt. I purchased a conehead and some crazy wigs and wore them to my cancer treatments. The goofy outfits helped refocus my thoughts. The more positive and upbeat I was, the more positive and upbeat those around me were. It was strange, perhaps not as strange as what I was wearing, but the transformation was truly miraculous. Instead of being depressed, we were laughing together. Others may have laughed at me instead of with me, but I don't get hung up on syntax. Fun is fun and joy is joy. When you're sick or depressed, it doesn't matter where it comes from, humor can heal.

I'd never done anything outrageous before. I was relatively normal; at least I thought I was. Accepting the conehead solution was not easy, especially at a time when my entire future was questionable. Many people have similar experiences. They receive lots of major challenges all at the same time. Like me, they become overwhelmed.

For me, 1999 was a difficult year of mind-boggling portions. Yet, it turned out to be a great blessing. Not because it was easy, but because I learned how to face challenges, big and little. God works things out according to His purpose, but I have to cooperate. My part was controlling my thoughts and reactions. How I thought and acted made a huge difference-much more than I expected. I was called to use humor and a positive attitude to weather my storms of life. Through God's grace, I received joy and peace in the midst of my struggles and you can too.

I had been a stay-at-home mom for nine years when I separated from my husband in 1998. It was a pivotal time in my faith journey. I needed to learn to trust God, His love for me, and His ability to care for me. My first act of letting go was tithing. My household income dropped by two-thirds after the separation. I stayed in the same house with most of the same expenses. It seemed like a terrible time to increase giving, but I took the leap of faith anyway. I believe that is one reason I have been so blessed.

I had no desire to return to my previous career in banking. I wanted to work at home to be available for my young sons. I felt it was finally time to invest in my dream of becoming an author. I cut back everything that wasn't essential. As long as no unexpected expenses came up, I could make ends meet. Finances were tight, but I was home with my boys and publishing my first novel.

In the spring of 1999, I went in for my annual pap smear. I was feeling fine. I had no reason to see a doctor. I saw the physician's assistant instead. While I was spread-eagle in the stirrups, my PA suggested I get a baseline mammogram.

I said, "Yes," without thinking, which is what one does in that position. My first mammogram was supposed to be a baseline. It never occurred to me it would show problems. I expected to get a postcard in the mail stating my test was normal.

I had spent years writing my first novel. I was ecstatic to finally be not just a writer, but, drum roll ... an author. One morning I was meeting a marketing man at my house. We were sitting at my dining room table. I had the phone beside me. I intended to take a call from my son's doctor and then turn off the phone.

About half an hour into the meeting, the phone rang, except it was my doctor's office. They had found some questionable cells on my mammogram. They wanted to schedule a biopsy to check for cancer. I was caught completely off guard. I'd never given the test a second thought. I didn't feel I could ask which breast in front of Mr. Marketing. I was too flustered to think clearly. I told him I had to take the call and ushered him out the door. So much for professionalism.

The mammogram showed a small cluster of suspicious cells. On the X-rays, they looked like a bunch of white dots, each the size of large grains of sand. I scheduled the biopsy and did some research. Ninety-seven percent of biopsies come back benign. I figured I'd take those odds. I was young. I was healthy and didn't fall into any big risk groups. Plus, my lifestyle should have reduced my chances of cancer. I never drank alcohol, never smoked, had two kids before the age of thirty, breast-fed both boys, and had no family history of breast cancer.

My only reservation was I'd heard the procedure could be painful. I called my mom. She agreed to come in town and help with my young sons after the biopsy. (I'll be referring to her as just plain, old Mom from here forward. For the sake privacy, I have given everyone in this book a pet name. Their names reflect who they are or what they do.)

The biopsy was an interesting procedure. I actually found it fascinating. It must be my minor in biology. Dr. Squeeze 'Em Up (you'll understand why I call him that in a moment) had me strapped to a table. The table was tilted until I was staring at the floor. My suspicious cells were on the left underside. The tilted position gave the doctor access to the tissue. I'm hanging there, and there was plenty hanging, I assure you. The tech put my left breast between two clear plastic mammogram plates. The plates were pressed together tightly. So I'm upside down, and what's hanging was squeezed between two plates. Comfy, huh?

Then the fun started. Directed by the mammogram image, the doctor maneuvered a needle through my breast to the questionable spots. He suctioned out a number of tissue samples. I could hear the little vacuum suctioning away. The whole procedure didn't take long. When I peeked at the petri dish, there were about twenty snakes of flesh. They looked like they came out of a small coffee stirrer.

At the end of the procedure, the nurse said she normally wrapped patients with an Ace bandage. Due to my location and exceptional size, an Ace bandage wouldn't help. I was instructed to wear a bra for twenty-four hours. I walked out absolutely fine. I could easily have taken care of my kids. I apologized to Mom for driving four hours for nothing. I wasn't the least bit concerned I had cancer. We went out to lunch and had a great time.

My follow-up visit was the following...