Journal: August–October 2002

This is a selected edition of Peter McKnight’s journal, written after his cancer diagnosis in August 2002. It has been shortened for length and privacy: some entries are left out altogether, and the ones kept are often cut. Names of friends, medical staff, and other third parties have been omitted or generalized. A cut within an entry is marked with an ellipsis in brackets, […], and a word standing in for a name is bracketed the same way.

Thursday, August 15

[…]

We were clearing the table when the phone rang. [Our doctor] said “I’ve looked at your test results, and there’s a problem. Can I come over?” Sitting in our living room, side by side on the edge of the sofa with Carolyn, [he] described what he had seen: a tumor on my pancreas; quite far along; inoperable. It had spread to other sites. “I’m so sorry, Peter. The outlook is not good.” I had seen enough of what cancer of the pancreas could do to know just how true that statement was.

[…]

A hug and a prayer later, [he] left, leaving Carolyn and me pondering how to pick up the pieces of a life that had so radically changed. One moment I had been wondering how much inconvenience would be involved in curing what had seemed like a minor problem. The next moment, I was contemplating how much time I might have left with my family.

The circumstances are so sudden and bizarre; so unexpected and unpreventable that I know instinctively that this thing is from God. For whatever reason, He has chosen me, my wife, and my sons to walk this road.

Friday, August 16

I slept little, Carolyn not at all. We talked much. There is fear, there are tears. I wake in the night with the terrifying realization that for my family, they lose me. They still have each other and they will walk close together. But for me, I lose all of them, all at once. A single death mourned by many versus multiple “deaths” mourned by me. This is not a good thought.

Psalm 121 keeps coming to mind in the dark watches of the night – I lift up my eyes unto the hills; from whence cometh my help? My help cometh from the Lord who made heaven and earth.

I know He hasn’t given me this as a punishment. I pray for courage to see it through in a way that will bring glory to Him and blessing to others. A few weeks ago I preached a sermon about saying “Yes” to God. Now He’s giving me a chance to practice what I preach. So far, I’m saying “Yes”. (There may be a time coming when I will shout “No” – I don’t know.) But while I’m saying “Yes”, I’m also asking “How?” Not “Why?”, just “How?” How will I react when the end comes near?

[…]

Saturday, August 17

We begin our much-anticipated family vacation. The cottage is every bit as charming and wonderful as always, only more so. I find myself savoring every moment, every sight, and every sense impression: the sun through the pines, the lapping of the lake against the dock. Carolyn and I lie on our backs on the gently rocking raft, watching the clouds sailing along, and realizing that this is something we NEVER do! Perhaps death has a way of making life more alive.

[…]

I want to be a blessing to others throughout this process, but I don’t want to grandstand my own dying. Above all, I don’t want to be a glib, evangelical “answer-man” spouting trite formulas.

I worry about how well I am dealing with this so far. Am I a plastic man – a phony, with no true feelings? Is this true peace I’m experiencing, or is it denial? I haven’t seen any sign of the stages of grief – does all that come later?

[…]

Sunday, August 25

[…]

We have found that we need hope in order to face this disease. If we come to believe that our situation is hopeless, we will succumb to despair and we will be powerless to live on. In spite of the grim medical prognosis, we need to believe that there is hope.

[…]

I don’t want to lose hope. It may be, from a diagnostic perspective, irrational to have hope. But as [one writer] has said, “Hope is independent of the apparatus of logic.”

So I cannot abandon hope, because hope is all I have. If I lose that, I lose everything.

Friday, September 13

We attended the chemotherapy orientation class [at the hospital] yesterday. A class I wish I could have skipped! They took us on a tour of the clinic, showing us where we would receive our chemo treatments. While the facility was bright and cheerfully furnished and decorated, it was a place I didn’t want to be. I found myself feeling a vague sense of dread, and also disbelief that this was about me. I am not visiting a patient; I am the patient.

Last night I had a vision, of sorts. I am not one to have visions, but I remember seeing clearly in my mind’s eye a picture of Jesus. He was wearing hospital scrubs, oddly enough! He was walking down the corridor of the oncology clinic, and beckoning me to follow him. Was this to mean that I was to walk with him into chemotherapy, with all its implications?

[…]

I want my death to glorify God, but I don’t want to die. I want to be like other people, other pastors, other husbands and fathers who get to see their children grow up, who get to hold their grandchildren on their knee, who get to hold their wives tenderly in their arms into old age. That’s what I want, but that’s what my circumstances are telling me I can’t have.

[…]

All I can do is follow. Follow Jesus into the cancer clinic. Follow Jesus into the chemotherapy chair.

[…]

Tuesday, September 17

[…]

At times like this, I seem to have a clarity of purpose and vision that makes me able to say that the issue of my physical healing is almost irrelevant to the working out of God’s greater purposes for my life. How I want to bring pleasure to Him in the way that I respond to this awesome challenge! I want to stand firm in faith no matter what happens to me.

But then, in my weaker moments, I waver with fear and doubt. I want to live – I want to grow old with my beloved Carolyn. I want to see my boys grow up and marry and have families. I want more time to pastor Erindale Bible Chapel! I love my life and my ministry (hear all the “my’s” in these sentences?) When apprehension about my medical condition gains the upper hand, I feel totally intimidated; ready to do just about anything to stay alive.

[…]

The future is all very much a mystery! So that leads me back to the hackneyed cliché: Take it one day at a time. If I can do that with God’s help, he will determine how many days he wants me to stick around. Simplistic, yet what other approach is there?

October 31

Now that my duties have been largely reduced to studying for and delivering sermons, I am finding such sheer joy in doing so. I find myself loving to study, loving to learn in order to communicate truth to God’s people. The preparing of Biblical messages is a delight! It is what I was created to do, and in the doing of it, I feel as though I am offering up a hymn of praise to God.

I don’t know how long I will be allowed to do this ministry, but I hope that it is a long time.