Hello, I’m Holly Pope, and I am very honored to share my story with you. I want to tell you some of the things the Lord has revealed to me along the way, and how He is speaking to me more recently.
So, there is this subconscious belief most of us have which is something like, “If I am careful enough, responsible enough, informed enough, make the right calculated decisions, do the right things, really terrible things likely won’t happen to me or to the ones I love.” Sure, hard things are inevitable, but the most tragic of things, probably not. And perhaps this is a good place to live out of—we don’t want to live our lives in fear of the possibilities of the tragic things that could happen, but it is a secret contract most of us have with ourselves, at least I have had.
Before
It was almost four years ago. New Years Eve of 2019. Just months before the world was turned upside down with COVID. I had spent Christmas with packages at the foot of my bed, as I lay there with what seemed like bronchitis or pneumonia, drenched in sweat. I dragged myself to an urgent care and had a chest x-ray. I was 42. My husband, Andy, and I had slogged our way through infertility treatments several times–that ultimately didn’t work. We had adopted a beautiful, vibrant daughter who was 2. Despite her near-death experience during her delivery and stay in the NICU, she was now thriving.
Just three months prior to that New Year’s Eve in 2019, we had received a phone call—completely out of the blue—that a baby boy in Philadelphia would be born in a week and needed a home. We said, “Yes!” After a roller coaster of adoption-related events, we miraculously brought home our newborn son. I had just returned to my job in academia from my maternity leave. So, there we were, after 10 years of trying to have a child of our own, with our family at last complete. I was established in my career. Finally, I was living not just my hopes and dreams, but the hopes and dreams that God had provided.
How it All Went Down
During my time in Philadelphia when my son was born, I noticed a nagging cough that was getting worse. I thought it was fall allergies. Surely, this was ragweed or something like it. That’s what the doctor told me, so I began getting allergy shots that didn’t work, and later found myself in that urgent care exam room on New Year’s Eve. I overheard the physician in the hall. Expletives rolled off his tongue. It was his reaction to the results of my chest x ray. He came into the exam room and stammered as he said he suspected a “malignant tumor.” I called my husband from the parking lot, he rushed over to me. Later that day, a CT scan at Providence Hospital would confirm that there was a tumor. It was as large as my hand, spread out, wedged between my lungs and wrapped around the top of my heart. And all I could think was, “But I’m a mama….to babies.”
I wrote in Caring Bridge, an online journal, “‘Lord,’ I cried out to him, ‘I am just getting started. What are you doing? I can’t die now.'” I had checked all the boxes. Obedience in my own desert of planning for a family, check. Surrender to His plan, check. Trust in God in the dark places of grief, check. Cancer wrapped around my heart. Wait. No. This can’t be happening. How, Lord, could this be happening?
There was this moment when everything that was familiar–things like making grocery lists, thinking about work, reading books to my two-year-old–all of a sudden felt far away, like privileges on another planet.
And so there I was, trying to hold a bunch of anxious thoughts, trying to grasp the reality of the news. I really wanted to be holding my children and husband, but when I did, I just fell apart. Everything felt like it could be the last time. The last time we go on a walk or visit a friend. Was that the last Christmas? Will I be here to see my son turn 1 and my daughter turn 3?
“I know God is in this, but I don’t feel Him yet,” I wrote. And I didn’t. But there were times I noticed where my thoughts would turn to panic, then strangely the panic would stop. I remember telling my dad, “I know so many are praying because sometimes I feel big waves of peace.” This was not from myself, but from God hearing our prayers. I continued to write that day, “The oncologist told me, ‘We are hoping for a lymphoma.’ Out of a lot of the possibilities a lymphoma would be the most likely to be treatable. He hugged me and said, ‘I know you’re scared.’” I was. That day I had a biopsy, and a few days later the oncologist called and said results indicated Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Treatable.
The next couple of months were a whirlwind of chemo treatments and PET scans. I was feeling much better, confident even, that I was on a pretty fast track to healing. I had an appointment to go over PET scan results, and the oncologist said the tumor had gotten smaller but was still too healthy and the treatment was not working as he had hoped. I was devastated.
This is not the news I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear, “Just a little more chemo to go,” and this will all be behind me. Instead, I watched my doctor shake his head, as I shook mine in a deafening silence. I had to start the diagnosis process all over again. Due to the lackluster response to chemo, the doctors weren’t certain I even had Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Another biopsy, a switch in treatment plans, scrap what we had hoped, and plunge into the unknown, again. The statistics indicated my chance of survival at that time went from over 90% to around 10-15%. I wanted to believe God wanted me to live, but how the events were unfolding indicated otherwise. During this time, a friend sent me a devotional written by Richard Rhor, a Franciscan priest who had prostate cancer. When he was in a similar diagnostic spot as me, and he wrote this: “Prayer was both constant and impossible for much of this period.”
He said, “My best spiritual knowing almost always occurs after the fact, in the remembering. I realized that in the moments of diagnosis, doctor’s warnings, waiting, delays, and the surgery itself, I was as fragile, scared, and insecure as anybody would be. During the fact, you do not enjoy or trust your own strength at all, in fact, quite the opposite. You just cry out in various ways. Then God, for some wonderful reason, is able to fill the gap.”
I was afraid of dying, I was afraid of leaving my children and husband and the permanent consequences for their lives. The grief felt overwhelming. But Richard Rohr’s words normalized my experience. I often begged for prayer from others because I could hardly pray for myself. All I could muster was, “Lord, help.” And that was enough.
At a crossroads with my diagnosis and treatment, I decided to go to a cancer research hospital in Houston. This would require Andy and I to leave our children with loved ones for an undetermined amount of time. It would be the last time we would see them for eight months, although we had no idea at the time.
We did know this would not be a quick trip. We thought maybe for a few weeks, so Andy and I packed our things, borrowed an RV, and headed west.
The experts reviewed my case and said not to go home. I needed to be there for a stem cell transplant using their medications and expertise. It was my only hope for a cure. It would take months of chemo in Houston with the goal of eliminating all the cancer. There would then be another month in the hospital for the stem cell transplant with a high dose of chemo.
During that time our hearts ached for our children. We missed our kids’ birthdays and the list of firsts when children are 1 and 3 years old. Much of that fall and winter, I was in the hospital. Usually, I was there in a pattern of receiving chemo, then back to the RV for about a week, then re-admitted for usually a week due to fevers, then I would receive blood transfusions and antibiotics, then back to the RV. Then it was time for chemo again, and a week later the fevers would start… And the cycle would start again. Due to COVID restrictions, Andy wasn’t allowed to be with me for any chemo or any appointments.
Just when we thought surely things can’t get worse, they did. There were two hurricanes—at the same time—headed right to the gulf. Then in the winter, there was the Great Texas Freeze. The typical low temperature in Houston in February hovers around 50 degrees. But that particular February, there were eight consecutive days of freezing temperatures, getting down to 13 degrees, which broke records for the longest freezing streak in the state’s recorded history. The freeze led to massive power outages, including our little RV…which got very cold, very fast. Fortunately, we found warmth in the hospital. There was a conservative estimate of 246 deaths. Covid, hurricanes, a historic freeze, cancer. The shadows of death were closing in.
December 10th, I wrote:
It’s a slow wait with weighty expectations. I groaned, “Home.” ‘Tis the advent season. Christ is coming. Healing is coming. A return to family and friends is getting closer. “Those who sow with tears shall reap with joy.” We wait with hope.
As Charles Dickens said, “’It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Obviously, it was the worst of times. But how the best of times? Because God is good on His promises. It was usually in the waiting room that I knew He was there. I was always in the waiting room—for daily bloodwork, scan results, injections for nausea, scootin’ around in my house shoes. And some mornings before I would go, all wrapped up in my protective COVID gear, I would think, “This is dark. When will it stop? What a nightmare.” And I begged God to show up each day. And He did. Usually in the waiting room.
Because of COVID, patients didn’t have their trusty support people. So, we turned to each other. A needed conversation from the compassionate stranger, some other lost soul squinting at the directory trying to find where they were supposed to be, someone who was seasoned and savvy that was further along in their journey.
It’s like God was leaving His mana for me to pick up, and, little by little, it was enough to fill me each day. I could even share the feast in my basket to help feed others as they waited in the waiting room with me, and likewise, they fed me from their basket with their words of empathy and encouragement. The darkness gave way to light, and I came to wholeheartedly expect God to show up on this Holy Ground of the waiting room. His presence was with me. I looked for it constantly. In the waiting room area, there was an elevator.
I wrote in my journal:
I met an elderly woman in the elevator today after my appointment. She had a stem cell transplant 3 years ago, and said she was in complete isolation for a month in the hospital. I asked her, “How did you do it?” And she pointed up and joyfully said, “He got me through it, it was His strength.” She added, “All this changed me. I see everything differently. It’s all a gift, and now everyone I meet is a gift. Creation is a gift.” Maybe I was also asking her, “How am I going to do this?” She was the gift today—her words so wisely pointed me to the answer.
There He was. Through her, the Lord was speaking. How was I going to do this? With Him. As Rorh said, “Then God, for some wonderful reason, is able to fill the gap.” And he did. Over and over and over.
When it was time for the stem cell transplant, as it is customary at the hospital, we prayed over the precious stem cells that would sustain my life after the chemo. Then we watched and waited. Jesus Calling, a devotion written by Sarah Young while she suffered from Lyme disease, is written from the perspective of Jesus. She writes, “Wait quietly in my presence while my thoughts form silently in the depths of your being. It is there where I speak to you in Holy whispers.” He did exactly that at just the right times when we needed to know He was with us.
Here are just a couple of the ways I knew He was with me:
The morning sun, shining through the hospital window, formed a cross on the wall of my room.
We knew the stem cell treatment would be brutal. Andy was told he could stay with me, but because of
Covid he would not be allowed to leave the building for a month. He stayed with me the entire time.
After the transplant, I had another month of radiation—every day during the week. As I was told to “Not move a hair!” I laid in a body cast with my head in a hockey mask-like contraption bolted to the table. They blasted praise music over the speakers per my request. I would pray, Lord, find all the microscopic cancer cells that are undetectable and destroy them through this radiation. And He did. At last, we could go home. Like for real home, not the RV.
This past May, after a brief visit to Houston for a scan, I wrote:
Yesterday, I had a routine CT scan in Houston, and the nurse practitioner said, “Congratulations. This one is a milestone. Essentially, your lymphoma can’t come back.” I quickly texted Andy, “Cancer free in 2023.” I’ll return annually for scans, but that lymphoma ship has sailed.”
In my digital journal I wrote:
I was thinking today, just reflecting on the whole thing, and imagine, one day, when my kids are older and ask questions about what the pandemic was like or some questions about cancer, I’ll point them towards these posts. Not so much to tell them about how hard it was, but more to show them what love looks like.
I hope they take in the words you wrote that encouraged us, the prayers you left in the comments. And know how you prayed and your friends prayed. And so did their friends.
How you showed up at our house and wrapped your arms around me, laid your hands on me, and begged for healing.
You sat beside me as the chemo so slowly dripped.
I want them to know about the meals you left at the door in a cooler along with that extra watermelon you picked up at the farmers’ market each week.
When, in the early days of Covid, we couldn’t find diapers and formula nearby, I want them to know that we put out an urgent call and everything we needed, along with N-95 masks and gloves and toilet paper were left on our porch.
You left them gifts too, cared for them, and took them in when we had to go. My kids wore clothes that we never bought, played with toys I had never seen, and their bookshelves are still filled with their favorite books you gave them.
Because y’all have connections, we found love waiting on us in Houston when we arrived. Our clothes were washed and folded, Thanksgiving dinner was delivered, then when we needed it most, a washing machine just for RVs arrived on our steps. You boarded planes and waited in exam rooms.
I want them to know, every week while in the RV, you sent gifts, cards, gift cards, handmade crafts, a slide show of birthday wishes, heartfelt letters, including pictures of us as kids to remind me of the ‘oh so simple times.’
I wore the prayer shawls and pajamas you sent and snacked on Gummy Bears because you asked what I liked. And I want them to know that while you gave to us, you also generously bought our entire Christmas anonymously from “Santa”.
You saw my tears and shared yours too, let me vent, and we laughed. Usually all in the same conversation. And with my parents, you did the same. You cut our grass. Again and again. Mailed us our mail regularly. Checked our roof after it rained.
And when we returned, you surprised us with “Welcome Home” letters and banners in our yard. Then you held a parade and congregated in our front yard with the sweetest sounds of worship where heaven and earth for a moment collided.
This is what I hope they see. The community. Family. Our neighbors. Strangers. The church (ours and so many others). I want them to see, this is the body of Christ. These are His hands and feet and heart, moving and serving and loving. So, to my children, as we have turned this final page of this chapter and are now well into the next, know that this is our call- to reflect what we have so generously been given. So, thank you. For all of these things. And for showing me and my family what love is and does.
Still today, I will never begin to understand how God can turn the absolute horrific realities of my life for my good. More and more I realize the profound truth of the famous quote from CS Lewis, where speaking of Jesus, he writes, “Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good.”
But I do know this. It is He that is unfolding my life moment by moment, and there lies my hope.
My Call
When we returned home from Houston it seemed that we had left one hurricane, the cancer journey, and came home to another hurricane, our children. When we returned, we were strangers to our 1-year-old son. He didn’t know us. Our daughter had some deep wounds from us leaving her. We showed them over and over and over and over, that we were here to stay, no matter what, and thankfully, today they are whole again. Their healing was our mission.
The next mission goes back to the woman in the waiting room elevators who said, “All this changed me. I see everything differently. It’s all a gift…Creation is a gift.”
I have always been passionate about health disparities between ethnic groups. It’s reflected in my brown children and in my work in public health research for the past 20 years.
Professionally, colleagues and I often talk about the data that shows:
* Black people have the highest death rate and shortest survival of any racial or ethnic group for most cancers in the U.S., even though white people have the highest rate of new cancers.
* Cancer disparities are driven by a combination of inequities within and beyond the health system that are rooted in racism and discrimination, so Black people experience more delays in diagnosis and treatment and barriers to screening compared to white people.
* In South Carolina, these disparities are generally among the worst in the nation compared to other states due to the historical and present-day impacts of slavery.
*This is just about cancer, but the data says the same about race and heart disease, diabetes, infant mortality, maternal mortality, housing, education, and income.
But it’s one thing to know a statistic, it’s a whole other thing to be sitting beside a Black person in the waiting room who is offering me hope that I had prayed for, while I am sitting in a health care system that favors not being Black. Our systems, like health care, are run by excellent, compassionate people, no doubt. I’ve heard it put this way—it’s not that people set out to harm others for being Black. But the science shows that the problem is the way the structures have been arranged that benefit one group over another, so that some resources and access are more favorable to certain groups over others.
With all of life’s circumstances on my side, when I was told, “There is nothing more we can do for you,” in South Carolina, I had the means and education to get myself into a world-renowned research hospital where there were other treatment options. I had the privilege of deciding when I needed to leave one waiting room to get into another waiting room for different treatment options.
My prayer while I was getting treatment was: “Lord, I can’t unsee what I have seen. It’s all a gift…your creation of Black skin is a gift. Help me be part of the solution here, in South Carolina.”
During treatment, I lost my job at the university. But when I was well enough to work again and my children had healed from the impacts of us leaving them, I got a new job at USC where I now work with a team of people that are transforming healthcare in our state to help address the barriers, usually barriers that impact Black people more often than white people, so they can access and navigate high quality healthcare I took for granted before this experience. So that’s my mission–to be part of this transformation of healthcare happening in our state.
As God’s word says in Ephesians 2:10, We are God’s creation. He created us to belong to Jesus Christ. Now we can do good works. Long ago, God prepared these works for us to do.
It has been His plan all along.
I am thankful for the heart of the church for so many reasons. I’m part of a group where we are processing racism and the holy calling, as Osheta Moore says, to “follow Jesus, Prince of Peace, man of acquainted sorrows, flipper of tables, and king of kings who overcame sin and death on a cross not by power over dominion, but by power under love.” What will He do as He collectively moves our hearts? We watch and wait as He unfolds His plan.