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Misty's Story

Misty LeBlanc’s story is and will always be at the core of Anthem of Hope. She was the first member of the movement and the first life impacted by its mission. Hers is most certainly a story of hope, but also one of loss; a story of strength, but also of sorrow. At its root, this is a story of rescue from a dark pit of despair; a rescue and restoration to a life of joy in the midst of suffering. It is a story that must be told. She will forever be an example of the value of caring friends and the power of hope found in Jesus.

I will always remember the time on our college campus when Misty described to me her first seizure. She said it was like she "forgot where she was" – strange, but nothing to worry about, we told ourselves. It wasn’t until the next time - when she lost feeling in her arm - that we knew this could be something serious and made an appointment to see a doctor. The diagnosis was our worst fears confirmed: a brain tumor, about the size of a golf ball. Within a short period of time, Misty went under the knife for a nine hour surgery during which she was required to stay awake. A speech professional sat and talked with her to check for slurring of words (which would signal that parts of her brain had been unintentionally harmed). This was a terrifying event for a 19 year old, but Misty made it through with no complications.

The successful surgery was a comfort, but a biopsy showed tumor activity that was pushing high grade. Misty was given a course of localized radiation treatment which effectively put her cancer into remission. Despite being out of school for a semester, Misty came back to graduate on time with her class, Suma Cum Laude.

The remission years were sweet. Misty and I got married, honeymooned in Mexico, bought a house, worked in jobs we both liked, and generally lived well. By 2005, we were ready for kids. Misty became pregnant without problems, but October of 2006 brought the turn we had dreaded. While well along in her pregnancy with Olivia, Misty began to have seizures. We chose to put off an MRI until shortly after she had given birth in case the scan would have had any negative effects on the baby. Early 2007 marked a new stage in life; another mass had been found growing in her brain and she began chemotherapy. This was something we could swallow though; God had always taken care of us, we were sure this would be the same. We lived that year with our new daughter and cancer was just another fact of life. Initial treatments held it at bay for almost eight months, but by the end of 2007, it was clear that the symptoms of tumor growth were back and worse. Everything started happening so quickly. In a matter of months, Misty endured 3 brain surgeries, tried (and failed) 3 chemotherapies, and was given a new and terrifying diagnosis: Glioblastoma, or GBM.

People don’t escape GBMs, or so our doctor told me. She said, "No one is ever cured from GBM; the only question is how long you can hold off the inevitable." And Misty knew the statistics all too well; for her this diagnosis was pretty grim. The days following became increasingly difficult. We found that as traditional treatments started to fail, the luxury of having our team of doctors agree was lost. This is really the beginning of the period in our lives I often recount as the “dark nights”. Misty was losing function in various parts of her body and we had little hope of any good outcome at all. We were placed in a position where big decisions were essentially ours to make and, due to a lack of medical consensus, no one could tell us if we were right or wrong. It didn’t seem to make sense that all the intelligence in the world couldn’t figure out a way to stop this disease.

In May of 2008, we helplessly watched as Misty lost almost all function in her right arm and right leg. Soon she wasn’t able to walk and because of where the tumor was in her brain, her speech became very impaired; she couldn’t say more than one or two word sentences. As paralysis set in, one side of her face began to hang lower than the other. I told her that she was still beautiful, but I don’t think she believed me. Misty was unable to care for our daughter or help around the house; this tore at her heart. Doctor visits became more frequent, and there was never any good news. We would wake up each day after many hours of sleep and still be exhausted from the emotional stress. This was it, when our home became nearly free of joy. We hit bottom physically, emotionally and spiritually. We had been abandoned by God; or so it felt.

It was a dark and difficult time for people around us as well. Our families were as downcast as we were; there was nothing we wanted to hear from anyone. Some friends retreated as they didn’t know how to respond. Other friends offered standard Christian clichés; these, while perhaps thoughtful, were useless and frankly angering. A select few found the courage to step up, meet our needs and offer themselves in service and love. Those people were the real heroes. They are the original manifestation of the Anthem of Hope mission. They facilitated change in our hearts and, by extension, the hearts of countless others. They knew that words like “God has it under control” and “Everything works together for good,” were not only meaningless, but were like salt in the wounds which already ran so deep. Those heroes knew how to approach us while in that dark place and open the door for us to walk through. They knew that they could not remain silent. Most of all, they knew to simply love us.

The support of friends was only able to bring us so far. As I said, the emotional trauma of being in such a place was overwhelming. Rescue from that place was seemingly impossible. But God made a way. In the middle of the night he lit a candle in our hearts to seek him. Some of those heroes I talked about gave us CDs with scriptures on healing and faith, or testimonies of people that had seen miracles. We got sermons on all sorts of topics and began to listen to music that was focused on God. These CDs were literally the catalyst for change in Misty. They provided the starting place for hope in her life; from there she grew. We got to a place where every hour of the day was either filled with the necessities of daily living or some aspect of spiritual growth. I took out the guitar and we sang every morning while Misty would just close her eyes and nod her head in agreement. We listened to sermons and testimonies every day and we literally listened to Scriptures while we slept. I can’t say there is any proof that hearing while sleeping does any good but that wasn’t the point. It was simply a way of involving God in every part of the day. We had no idea what to do so we ran after God.

The next few months were some of the most wonderful times in our lives. Somehow, in the midst of unimaginable pain, there was joy always increasing. We were enjoying our new daughter; I was home from work to care for Misty; we spent nearly every day with family and many times each week we found ourselves driving off to one of various local attractions. Although I had to carry Misty to and from the car, she was still vibrant, full of life and very much a part of our lives. She was again the life of the party to all who knew her. Her laugh brought uncontrollable elation. She had found a faith in Jesus that couldn’t be quenched and began to live a life of joy once again.

We were in a good place: emotionally stable, trusting God with the outcome and enjoying our days together. These times, though wonderful, were ultimately numbered. After a serious episode of seizures we were back in the hospital. After examining Misty the doctor pulled me outside; I could tell it was serious. I remember vividly the hallway in which we stood as he gave me the news: “It’s bad," he said. "Misty is not responding to any treatments.” I had seen the MRI from which the doctor had made his diagnosis; I knew where we were at. The cancer had taken over her brain; it was everywhere, like a weed. The doctor suggested that she probably had a couple weeks left to live. I walked back into the room, sat with Misty and told her what the doctor had said. She looked down and took a deep breath, seemingly to gain composure; after a brief moment our eyes connected. She cried just one tear. As she shook her head up and down to say, "Yes, it's okay," I asked her if she was trusting God; the nod I received in response was all the assurance I needed.

When we got home from the hospital, life continued as it had been; difficult, but joyful. For well over 2 months Misty continued to spend time with family, play with Olivia and worship God. I had been chronicling our days online for over a year at this point and there were quite a few readers. Misty’s faith was contagious. Her story spread like wildfire. Come September of 2008, there were over 10,000 people a day reading her story. I received thousands of emails from people who had been inspired by her faith. But on Sept 23, 2008, despite the literal thousands of people praying for her around the globe, Misty gracefully passed away. It was, of course, the hardest day of my life, but there, in that day, even in that hospital room, there was Joy. There was joy, because for some reason, God had given it to us. Perhaps it was a sense of purpose. We knew Misty’s life and struggle had touched so many. Little did we know that those thousands that had been touched were only a fraction of those who would be touched after she was gone. If you have made it this far, you have inevitably joined the ranks of people touched by her story. I’m there with you. In fact, I don’t think anyone has been touched more deeply than me. My life is eternally changed because of her strength, faith and love. She is missed, but remembered.

Respectully,
Darren LeBlanc