From Escaping Pain to Embracing It – by Amanda Hayhurst

I dug through the boxes of unwanted items scattered on my living room floor, which included worn and tattered clothes, mismatched glassware, and items from friends and family that would go into a yard sale the next morning. At the center of the room sat a few personal boxes I struggled to let go of. Inside were my older son’s clothing and toys I held on to for nearly seven years. Dreaming and praying God would gift us another child and envisioning his or her little body tucked inside the same tiny onesies. But reality just wasn’t catching up to my deepest longings. It was time to let go.

A couple of days after the yard sale, I didn’t quite feel like myself. I was fatigued and nauseous. I cried when my husband came home late from work. Emotional was an understatement. What’s wrong with me? Could it be… No, I couldn’t possibly be. Within minutes, I was off to the local Kroger to pick up a pregnancy test.

Too impatient to wait, I headed to the grocery store bathroom. And in that middle stall, two blue lines flashed before my eyes. I would soon give birth to the missing piece to our family, our precious and most joyful son, Reese. We adjusted to this new life of parenting two boys, and soon the pandemic began. By this time people had gone back to work and it was finally feeling like things were somewhat normal again, life changed for us again.

On a cool morning in December, I headed out the door to make a few sales calls. In the middle of my lunch meeting, I noticed several missed calls from my husband, Marcus. “Reese has small purple dots all over his legs,” he said. “He’s also spiked a fever. I’m taking him to the doctor.” We weren’t the kind of parents who took our kids to the doctor for every little thing, but this was different. Marcus took him to our pediatrician to be evaluated.

The blood work revealed Reese’s white blood cell count was over 80,000. My husband could tell by the look on the doctor’s face something was seriously wrong. We met at the house to head to Children’s Healthcare of Atlanta for further testing. Speeding down the highway, my mind raced with a thousand what-ifs. Panic fully sank in.

“The Hayhurst family?” the lady at the ER asked, waiting for us at the door. “Come with me,” she said. We were whisked off to a dimly lit room where we sat down on a tiny white bed. They hooked Reese up to an IV and took his blood. “The doctor will be in soon,” the nurse said.

Marcus stepped out to meet my mom in the parking lot. I called my dad, but just a few moments later, the doctor rushed in. I looked up, hoping with every ounce of my being she would say Reese was okay. “I’m so sorry to tell you this. But we examined Reese’s blood under a microscope. And based on what we’re seeing, your child has Leukemia.”

I fell. My arms limp, dropping my phone on the hospital bed. “No! It can’t be. Can you run more tests? Are you sure? Oh God, no!” I sat alone feeling shattered into a million pieces. Scattered and broken on the floor. Marcus walked in and I shared how our entire world would never be the same.

We curled up next to Reese. Holding him, caressing his cheeks, soaking the pillows with tears. I’ll never forget that day. In one fell swoop, our life was turned upside down. Cancer may affect other people but our family? This was never supposed to be our story. Especially not for my healthy, vibrant, thoroughly prayed-over two-year-old.

A few weeks after moving into the hospital, I sifted through the bags and gifts we’d received from people in our community. One of the items a nonprofit group brought was a little tube of ChapStick. What a strange thing to bring a grieving family, but that ChapStick ended up being the most practical thing I needed. My cracked lips were devoid of any and all moisture.

Unbeknownst to me, crying every day – several times a day, can cause pretty bad dehydration. As a serial pain escaper, I knew I had a choice to make as I embarked down the road of pediatric cancer. I could numb out, which felt more familiar and comfortable. Or I could feel every ounce of pain as it came, and the tears that came with it.

I distinctly remember wrestling through this with God early one morning at the chapel in the hospital. I snuck out of our room before Reese woke up, taking the elevator to the Starbucks on the first floor. An iced coffee in one hand and my Bible in the other. That particular morning, I arrived to an empty chapel. Dropping to my knees, I lifted my hands.

God, if I am going to go through this– you are not going to waste a single ounce of it. So I am choosing to feel it. All of it. No matter how painful it is. In God’s grace, He gave me a bedrock of wisdom early on. If God was going to redeem this story, I couldn’t selectively numb the parts I didn’t like. It was that day I decided to remove alcohol for a season. Knowing my tendencies to escape painful emotions and circumstances, I just couldn’t risk it.

God would become my source of comfort. Applying God’s unchanging Word to my ever-changing emotions anchored me. This rhythm of, I feel ______ yet I also know ______ became the rhythm I lived by.

I feel – Not equipped to handle something like this.

I know – God’s power is made perfect in my weakness.

I feel – Heartache and sorrow.

I know – God is close to the broken-hearted and saves those crushed in spirit.

I feel – Confused as to why this is happening to us, to Reese.

I know – When we trust God, we don’t need to understand because He sees what we don’t.

I feel – Afraid of the unknown.

I know – God didn’t give me a spirit of fear. But of power, love, and self-control.

I feel – Completely overwhelmed.

I know – When we pray, God fills us with a supernatural peace beyond our understanding.

I feel – More pain than I knew was humanly possible.

I know – God is THE comforter and will comfort us in our troubles so we can comfort others.

I feel – Physically and mentally exhausted.

I know – As we trust in the Lord, He will renew our weary strength.

I feel – This world isn’t fair.

I know – In this world, we will have tribulation, but Jesus has overcome the world.

When we do this, God can supernaturally meet us where we are. His life-giving breath responds to our feelings. When our raw emotions come in contact with the living Word of God, we become complete. “Equipped for every good work.” (2 Timothy 3:16-17)

In addition to the Leukemia diagnosis, Reese had something called the Philadelphia Chromosome. It essentially acted as a cancer cell-producing factory in the body. It complicated things, to say the least. Remission wouldn’t come as easy.

“We will call you back in three weeks with the results,” the doctor said. I hung up the phone and slowly placed it beside me, gazing down at Reese playing on the floor. The culmination of his grueling chemotherapy and multiple procedures rested on these results. Our family, along with our community, had flooded the throne room with prayers for our boy’s healing. Ugh, can’t we just get this over with?

I couldn’t fathom waiting three weeks to find out if our baby was in remission. Patiently waiting in line at the grocery store? I could manage that…for the most part. But waiting patiently when the stakes were this high? That was hard, if not impossible. In this daunting period of waiting, my stomach was all twisted up. My mind whisked me away to a place of paralysis. A place where the treatments up to this point have failed. Where the statistics say that based on his diagnosis, the likelihood of his biopsy being negative wasn’t likely.

But my faith said something else. My faith says in an instant, God can take what looks dismal and supernaturally heal. My faith says God will work all things for the good of those who love him. That He will never leave nor forsake us. My faith tells me I can find peace and contentment in His loving and merciful presence. And praise became the catalyst for this faith that sustained me.

When doing dishes and fear set in, I sat the plates aside and worshiped. When folding clothes and my mind began rehearsing unknowns, the laundry basket went down, and my hands up. Rehearsing who God is, what He has done, and what He can still do changes things. It commands our soul to move from a state of paralysis to power. (2 Timothy 1:7) Great comfort is received in the exaltation of God’s strength.

Sitting at our small kitchen table, I called the oncology team to confirm Reese’s appointment time. “Before I let you go,” the nurse said, “the results of the biopsy are already in. Do you want to know now?” I was completely taken aback. I could feel my body tensing up. My breathing, shallow. “Sure. I mean, yes. Now is good.” “Your baby is in remission!” she exclaimed.

I wept. My husband ran over to hug me. We cried happy tears in the kitchen, holding each other. Calling everyone we could to share the news of our son’s healing. I often say I would never want to watch my baby suffer like this again. But I would also never take back the lessons we learned in this season. Our perseverance grew leaps. Our faith grows stronger. We learned how precious time really is. Those were all great gifts. But the greatest gift? God’s presence. He meets us in our suffering in a way He doesn’t anywhere else. He was the reward. And He continues to be the reward.

Encouragement for Moms:

If your child or someone you love is battling cancer, I first want to say I am so sorry this happened to you. If I were standing across from you, I would reach out and give you the biggest hug. It’s not supposed to be this way. We live in a broken world, and this is not your fault.

I understand what it feels like to have the rug pulled out from under you. And three things helped me early on in my journey that I want to share that may help you too.

First, feel what you need to. If you feel this is unfair and you’re angry, tell God. He already knows. If you just need to cry, cry. Whatever you do, don’t stop talking to the Lord about it. He will meet you in those heartbreaking places like He doesn’t anywhere else. And only He can comfort you like no substance, distraction or person can.

Second, give yourself grace. A health scare is a powerful reminder that we are not superwomen. We can’t do it all. This new rhythm may be slower. You won’t get as much done. And that’s okay. You are only human. You only have so much capacity. And give others grace too. You will inevitably have someone with good intentions say something to try to comfort you, but it may end up hurting you. Just remember, people don’t know what to say. They want to alleviate the pain, but they can’t.

And lastly, when everything feels like it’s falling apart and changing, remember God doesn’t change. And His Word doesn’t change. Pick a verse and stand on it. Memorize it. Cling to it. It will become an anchor for you in this season.

Prayer for Moms:

Dear God,

We praise you and thank you that we are never alone. You are here with us and are acquainted with our grief. Father– bring supernatural comfort, a fresh renewing of strength, and a deep contentment in this season of uneasiness.

In the mighty name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

Could you relate to the emotions Amanda felt in her story? How do you deal with pain? Share in the comments!

Connect with Amanda:

Facebook – Amanda Hayhurst

Instagram – @amandahayhurstt

Want to hear more of Amanda’s story? Watch our Moms Night In Conversation on YouTube.

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