The Life Miraculous

In which our Heroine lives the Miracle.

            Yesterday, a woman said quite frankly to me, “You know you’re a walking miracle, right?”  It’s funny that she said that, because yes, I am aware of this fact.  It is this awareness that made me pause and re-read page 3 of Leif Enger’s Peace Like a River several times just a few days ago,

“Let me say something about the word: miracle.  For too long it’s been used to characterize things or events that, though pleasant, are entirely normal.  Peeping chicks at Easter time, spring generally, a clear sunrise after an overcast week—a miracle, people say, as if they’ve been educated from greeting cards.  I’m sorry, but nope.  Such things are worth our notice every day of the week, but to call them miracles evaporates the strength of the word. 

“Real miracles bother people, like strange sudden pains unknown in medical literature.  It’s true: They rebut every rule all we good citizens take comfort in.  Lazarus obeying orders and climbing up out of the grave—now there’s a miracle and you can bet it upset a lot of folks who were standing around at the time.  When a person dies, the earth is generally unwilling to cough him back up.  A miracle contradicts the will of earth.

"…People fear miracles because they fear being changed—though ignoring them will change you also… No miracle happens without a witness.  Someone to declare, Here’s what I saw.  Here’s how it went.  Make out of it what you will.”

           From my standpoint, the statement rings clear and true.  Miracles are things like having relatively no symptoms or swelling even though you have a baseball-sized tumor in your brain.  Or the kind of healing that physical therapists shake their head in amazement at.  I especially appreciate the miracle of literally having my medical information fit snugly into position alongside an answer to personal prayer.  I knew from personal revelation that I would be fine, and it seemed that my pathology report was just trotting to keep up.  It’s not often that a particularly aggressive form of cancer changes its mind and decides to lie dormant.  No, my grave hadn’t been dug yet, and so the earth never had to literally cough me up.  Nevertheless, I see my situation as a contradiction of the will of the earth: my dust-to-dust limbs currently have strength.  In this way and others, I sense miraculous change in myself, as well as in many around me.  These things I witness, and more.  

What's the Word, Bird?

In which our Heroine embodies the word Miracle. 

Every morning I wake expecting a normal and healthy day.  Contrary to what you might think, I don’t open my eyes to cancer-tinted daylight.  The first thing I hear is generally the happy cooing of my child in contrast to bells tolling sorrowfully for my imminent Poe-like death.  In my daily activities, I am careful of not exerting myself too much, but generally feel quite well.  In fact, there is still a part of me that is surprised when friends see me at church and ask how I’m doing.  Every single time it happens, the VCR in my mind has to spin the tape back to a certain surgical event.  And then it automatically stops and plays a specific scene—mostly imaginary—showing my cancer cells now sitting stagnant against my brain, but with the potential for virulent, burgeoning growth. 

I appreciate every expressed worry, every heartfelt interest in what’s going on in my life, but I have to admit that it’s a bit of a jolt.  It must be that I am an adept at creating my own “just fine” reality.  The real surprise came yesterday when I met someone new.  I began explaining that I’d had a brain tumor and surgery recently.  He didn’t understand what I was saying.  There I was, looking as normal as anyone else, standing straight and tall on sturdy legs saying that I had cancer.  “Oh wait, the surgery is still coming?” he said.  “No.  I had it already…” my mind traced furiously back trying to come up with a date, “maybe seven, eight weeks ago?”  Okay, the date is actually closer to nine, I think, but you get the picture.  The man’s mouth literally dropped open in astonishment.  Still gaping, he turned to his wife, already a friend of mine, for confirmation.  All she said was, “It’s a miracle.”  Yes, that’s the word: Miracle.

In case you were wondering, I don’t feel different even though I know my life is miraculous. I still wake feeling the same as before everything happened: relaxed, warm, a little drowsy, eager for a shower and a new day, and ultimately human.  Is it a part of the human condition to wake this way rather than to open our eyes feeling like a miracle?