Friday, October 31, 2014


When you raise your family with intentionality, with the goal of forging an interconnectedness between the members that is strong and unwavering, you step right onto the set of It's A Wonderful Life.

[George, in his alternate universe, is taken by angel Clarence to the cemetery where he has discovered his brother Harry's tombstone

Clarence: [explaining] Your brother, Harry Bailey, broke through the ice and was drowned at the age of nine. 
George Bailey: That's a lie! Harry Bailey went to war! He got the Congressional Medal of Honor! He saved the lives of every man on that transport! 
Clarence: Every man on that transport died. Harry wasn't there to save them, because you weren't there to save Harry. 
Clarence: Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives.

We all know the message. So many lives in Bedford Falls were affected by one man because George touched lives who then touched more lives who then touched more lives. George's life was never about just himself.

None of ours is.

The import of that lesson has not been lost on me. And this past week, as Dick and Sam and I took 24 hours to make some life-and-death decisions, I knew I could not choose any option on my own. It would be much easier for me to say, "Listen, this cancer and its treatment and side effects are mine and mine alone, and I will be the final decision maker about whether or not to forgo treatment."

Oh, yes, much easier.

But interconnectedness means that that decision affects the rest of two other's lives. It determines, perhaps, whether my husband has a wife and whether my son has a mom. Those are two roles which I do not take lightly. My life affects theirs and their futures. My choices without their being on board, turn me into a selfish wife and mother. 

And so we converged with prayer and discussion. And we found ourselves morphing into a classic Venn diagram. Dick being circle A, Sam being circle B and me being the AB overlap in the middle.

It is important for me to respect and honor the feelings of these two men who mean the world to me. And we finally found an answer which does that. Sam gets what he needs, Dick gets what he needs, and I am willing to orchestrate it all. I am very satisfied with the plan we have laid out.

I am going to try to get a consult with the makers of this current chemo I am on that is making life miserable. I will find out whether or not the clinical trials ever indicated a lessening of the side effects. I will find out whether or not there is a new drug that may be available to try.

Sam would like me to try to stay on this drug until my next scan to determine if, even at this low dose, it is shrinking any tumors. That could be 6 weeks or so. As ready as I am to get off this drug, I will do that for him.

We have agreed that if this drug is my only medical option right now, that it has taken my quality of life, and that it is not worth taking. Between the nausea and body aches and severe constipation and abdominal pain, spending most of the day on the sofa, it has robbed me of my life.

And we have agreed that at that point, we will take the faith in healing that we have held fast to for 4 years, and put it all in God's hands. We know He could have healed me even taking treatment, but He has not yet. If I am not on any treatment, He certainly gets all the glory!! Dick is very ready for this step of faith. I am too. 

I am not naive enough to claim that normal human fear will not enter our hearts if we abandon treatment. It may try to whisper to us, but fear will not live in that decision.

And so we have a plan of attack. Solicit additional information, look at other med options, and then, if necessary, get off the chemo.

I am ready to live life again. I have no desire to die. While I know heaven awaits me someday, I am very much NOT ready to go there right now. I have so many plans and dreams for the next phase of Dick's and my life. We pray that we can walk out those dreams together.

Wednesday, October 22, 2014


If there has been a low point in 4 years of having cancer, it is right now. I am dealing with far too much to handle. Does God allow more than we can handle? Yes. For me, it is right now. I had to decrease the already-decreased dose of chemo to less than half the recommended dose because of severe constipation again. The chemo makes me feel foggy and queasy and lethargic and all the laxatives I have to take are making my stomach "off." I am jittery from who-knows-what, and can no longer read. If you know me and books, I need say no more. Every tiny bit of food makes my stomach feel as if I have just had a 10-course meal. 

I am not functioning well at all right now. 

I hear Satan in my head, "The cancer is eating you up. Take care of things."
I hear God in my head, "Trust me, Daughter. Trust me."

For exactly 8 weeks now, life has been surreal. Between the chemo tries and the radiation and its side effects, I have literally "lost" two months. God gave me an amazing 3 days of grace and quasi-normal-feelings to bury my father. Before and after that is a blur. I long to be a wife and mom and teacher again. I am just surviving right now.

It all bears the angst-producing question; do I give up everything? get off all chemo? A very tough call, folks.

On April 15, 1978, my mom gave me a book entitled FAITH IS. It is worn, and for many years sat in a drawer. I found it again recently and find it tremendously comforting. I have it open to these two pages:

FAITH IS.....expecting a sea of golden grain from the bleak, barren, endless fields--watered only by my tears --where I walk alone.

FAITH IS.....claiming God's strength to accept and endure weariness, pain, decline---patiently.

I am in a weird sort of bubble of desperation right now and am not knowing what to do. I am trusting that God will make it clear to me what is happening.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014


The visions started the week after Dad died. They were not hazy or indistinct. They were vivid and detailed. They lay on the surface of my mind in bed, and they swirl around me when I walk.

My "healing party." 

My "to God be all the glory" celebration.

The season I have had faith will be manifested in my life for 4 years now.

I have been asking God lately, "Does this mean it is soon?" He does not answer me. I would not need to hold onto faith if He spoke, would I.

Satan has done his level best to derail me in the past 6 weeks. Growing tumors, and new ones encapsulating my life-giving bronchial artery have, from a medical point of view, all but removed my name from the short-list of possible-but-not-really names eligible for divine healing. Medically speaking, my cancer is accelerating.

That reality sent me down into the abyss for the entire month of September and the first week of October, as the side effects of a let's-try-radiation desperation measure wreaked havoc on my body and soul. As my brother Mike so aptly puts it, I've been walking in the bottom of the bird cage. 

But I see small improvements daily, and find myself walking steadily OUT of the bottom of the bird cage. And I am washing the doo-doo off the bottom of my shoes right in the devil's face.

And as I climb, the Holy Spirit has given me these visions. Visions that mock medical reality. Visions of life and joy and celebrating God's faithfulness to a woman who deserves nothing, but has hung on for dear life, knowing that God is true to His promises, and He promises deliverance.

I already have roles assigned. I have Sam on drums, Gretchen and my friend Ju and Dick singing praise songs with the band, my awesome pastor Steve giving the introduction, me introducing the 6 people who have been inside my inner-inner circle for 4 years and without whom I would not be alive, Dick and me giving our healing testimony.

I see it all clearly.

I even have food ideas swirling about for this event.

It is as real to me as my family or my home. And I know it will come to pass.

Because Psalm 91 (and dozens more references) promises redemption from all Satan can hand me. And all I need to do is to continue to love my God and trust Him with my whole heart.

Psalm 91:14-16


Tuesday, October 7, 2014


Until you lose a parent, you have no idea how difficult it is to say everything you want to say about them. And I know I cannot and will not and don't have to. Because nothing was left unsaid between my dad and me. We have always shared a very deep dad/daughter bond, and it was a constant in both our lives. Dad knew how I felt about him as a father. I have no regrets of unsaid feelings or words.

My last conversation with him, 6 days before he died, was precious. He said things to me that felt "final" and since nothing about his health had changed, I asked him why he was saying these things. He said, "I think the end is near." 

He knew.

And so our final phone conversation was one I will forever cherish. Only my husband knows what he said and it will remain that way forever. When things took a drastic turn 5 days later, my family held the phone up to Dad's ear so I could say my goodbye to him. His eyes were open and they said he smiled afterwards. He knew it was me. He heard my words. That was one of the hardest moments of my life. Telling your pop goodbye forever. The pain was searing. But he deserved my final words of thanks for being such an amazing dad and my reassurance that he could "go" anytime he needed to.

My dad was a man of few words, but had a strong and impressionable presence in his family's life. He was a husband and father, a Poppy-Ed, doctor, photographer, brother and uncle, reader, fisherman, woodsman, hunter, game player, and all-around intelligent and wise man. He was the best-read man I've ever known.

Dad (Poppy-Ed) with his newest great-granddaughter Hazel Pat. 
He adored his 7 grandkids and 6 great-grands.
Dad was as precise as a human could be. He was a meticulous manager of his expenses and he kept every single tax statement and W-2 form he ever received. He kept up his checkbook with military precision and would stew if Mom forgot to register a check she took from the checkbook. Which was often. (I have suggested to my son never to share a checking account with a spouse. Dick and I never even considered merging our checkbooks. He saw no sense in it either. I think God created husbands and wives to share many things, but not checking accounts!)

Dad was honest as the day is long. If there is anything honest in me, it is because I am Ed's daughter. The sense of honesty was so instilled in me that when, after the first year of Dick's and my clinic's opening, we owed one-cent to the IRS, I insisted we write the check for that amount and send it off to Ogden, Utah. Dad would have done that. Because of him, I give back incorrect over-payments that of course would be delightful to keep, and give honest feedback when asked.

Dick said about Dad the day he died, "Some men are known for their strong handshakes. Eddie had strong hugs. When he hugged you, he really hugged you." I love that, and it is so true. Dad was a hugger and a kisser and never held either back.

I'll never forget the one trip we took alone together. He and mom were headed out to Salt Lake City for a medical conference, and just before they left, Mom broke her leg and could not go. He asked me to go with him and we had a wonderful 3 days together. After his daily meetings, we explored the Wasatch Mountains and ate in interesting restaurants, toured the Mormon Tabernacle, and simply enjoyed being together. Such a great memory.

Was my dad perfect? Heck no. Like anybody else, he could be short-tempered, judgmental or cranky. But in his imperfections, he was the perfect shepherd of our family. He was the right dad, the right husband. He was God's perfect choice for us.

Dad was an extraordinary doctor and one well-loved by his patients. He practiced in the days before "bean counters" told physicians how to practice their craft, and thus, he was known to take a quart of chicken soup in payment for an office visit when that was the right choice, and made many-per-week house calls to needy patients. He was a wonderful listener and hugger with his patients.

One of the words that kept being written about Dad in cards we received was that he was always a gentleman. Yes, he was. We see less of that in today's world.

I called him Sonny often. I have no remembrance of exactly when and why the nickname started, but Dad gave me all the letters he had saved from me during college, and some are addressed to Sonny Boy and Pat Hieb, so it has been a long time!! It was just a little special something that we shared.

I realize that as I sit here, I have hundreds of memories vying for space, and it strikes me as absurd that I am even attempting to write about them. There is no amount of space that would be great enough.The memories are alive and they are piercing right now, but they are sweet, so sweet. 

In my mind's eye I see family vacations where the oft-said, "If I have to stop this car and turn around......." defined his discipline of fighting children in the back seat. I remember duck shorts and posed pictures and our springer spaniel Maggie curled up in bed next to him. I see him skating on the Pipestem River, on the roofs of all our homes, cleaning out the eaves, and bringing the gramas over to our house for Sunday dinners. I see him singing Ho Ho Kravi Do to my newborn son in the hospital and coming to my cabin to put up tongue and groove boards in my bunk house. I see him walleye fishing and I see him driving in his Envoy down to Texas in the winters. I see him in every decade of my life, larger than life in his own inimitable quiet way, guiding, encouraging, loving.

I do not know how to go through the rest of my life fatherless. I have loved him and needed him for my entire life. I do not know what the color of this new path will turn out to be. I miss him so much. Waves of longing for him wash over me two or three times each day, and I know this is normal, but knowing it is normal does not lessen the longing. It will always be unresolved. Death ends a life but not a relationship. The only thing that makes it tolerable is knowing that I will see him again for eternity.

I will end here with my eulogy to my dad:

Like my father, I am a writer and not a speaker. I will say more about my dad on my blog because these spoken words do not come easily.

When I was little, the Kulm relatives called me Little Eddie. Apparently I looked very Hiebish as a toddler.

Today I am the child who bears most of my dad's characteristics:
-his short left leg
-his introverted personality
-his preference to reading any book over going to any party
-his anal precision keeping a checkbook
-his need for a clean car
-his attempt to live out the motto "less is more"

But I have more in me than Dad's passion for great novels and his distaste for messy car interiors.

He is in the bone of my spine, keeping me pointed true north.

He is in my blood, coursing through me with life-giving support and encouragement.

His voice is in my head, whispering ever-present wisdom.

My dad is in every beat of my heart.

This Little Eddie was loved by her dad more than any girl deserved to be loved, and he blessed my life beyond measure.

Edwin O. Hieb
Forever in our hearts

Wednesday, October 1, 2014


My precious dad died a week ago today, on what would have been his parents' 91st wedding anniversary. I am still emotionally raw from losing him, and have so much to write about him, but it will need to wait. My head is not clear enough right now to write.

I have hit my low point in this radiation treatment, and the next 7 days, I am told, will be the worst. The side effects are wretched, and have me at 98 pounds, with little food or drink going down. Today they had to give me an IV after treatment...I was so weak. They will give me IV's for the next two days. They will order more IV's here over the weekend if needed. The effects of the treatment are cumulative and even though I only have 2 left, I am told I will need to walk through another week of this low. 

I am on the sofa most of the day, listening to music, trying to take sips and tiny bites of food every hour, thinking about Dad, longing for his arms to hug me just one more time, reading my Bible. It feels like a place of brokenness, but in some ways it has been sacred. Jesus is my only refuge right now. Only God can bring me forth to full restoration of my body. And my soul.

I will not let this miserable chapter convince me that God does not intend to heal me. My faith has been weak some days, but it is there, shrouded with the truths that Scripture shows me.

A passage in the book of Joel tells me that God will "redeem the years that the locusts have stolen." 

And so He will.