The Six-Hour Drive That Changed My Life: Finding Faith Before I Had Answers

I didn't know what was ahead, but I knew Who was with me.

The Six-Hour Drive That Changed My Life: Finding Faith Before I Had Answers

There are some journeys you never forget. Finding faith before I had answers became part of one of those journeys.

Not because of where you were going, but because of who you became before you arrived.

One of those journeys began on a Memorial Day weekend in Virginia.

I had planned to spend time camping with my daughter and grandchildren. After months of feeling healthy again, life seemed wonderfully ordinary. I had recovered from surgery, the fibroid had been considered noncancerous, and I believed that difficult chapter of my life was behind me.

Then my phone rang.

My doctor's office told me I needed to come home immediately.

An ultrasound had found a large mass, and my doctor wanted me to have a stat MRI.

I didn't know exactly what was happening.

But I knew something was very wrong.

The MRI Changed Everything

I returned home and had the MRI.

Then I learned there wasn't just one mass.

There were three.

No one had officially told me that I had cancer yet. I didn't know exactly what type of cancer I might have, what the masses meant, or what would happen next.

But when I saw the number and size of the masses, I had a feeling I couldn't easily push away.

I thought:

This is cancer.

And then another thought came.

I could die.

Those were frightening thoughts to have when I still didn't have all the medical answers.

But the hardest part wasn't only being afraid.

It was suddenly realizing that I might not have unlimited time.

That realization changed what I thought about during the six-hour drive from Virginia to West Virginia.

I Got Back in the Car

I got into my car and started driving.

Six hours.

Virginia to West Virginia.

The highway stretched ahead of me, but my mind was somewhere else entirely.

The radio didn't matter.

The traffic didn't matter.

The ordinary things I had worried about before the MRI suddenly seemed very small.

My thoughts kept circling around one question:

"What happens now?"

I didn't have the answers.

But I had six hours to think.

Six hours to cry.

Six hours to pray.

Six hours to remember.

Six hours to face something I had spent much of my life trying not to think about.

Death.

I Thought About My Mother

Not long before this happened, I had been helping my mother face the end of her life.

She had been very sick.

One of the hardest conversations I have ever had was telling my mother that her body was failing her.

I remember her crying and telling me she didn't want to die.

I understood.

None of us wants to hear that our life may be coming to an end.

I remember trying to give my mother something I desperately needed myself at that moment.

Perspective.

I told her that we don't get to choose the day we are born.

And we usually don't get to choose the day we die.

But sometimes we can choose how we face whatever time we have left.

I encouraged her to make the decisions that were right for her and to think about what mattered most to her.

At the time, I never imagined that I would soon be sitting behind the wheel of my car asking myself those same questions.

But there I was.

Now I was the one wondering how much time I might have.

Now I was the one wondering what I would do if the MRI really was showing cancer.

Now I was the one thinking about what mattered most.

What Would I Do With the Time I Had Left?

That question became very real to me.

What would I do with the time I had left?

I thought about my children.

I thought about my grandchildren.

I thought about the birthdays I might miss.

The holidays I might not see.

The ordinary dinners.

The conversations.

The hugs.

The laughter.

The little things that never seem important until you wonder how many of them you have left.

I didn't want to leave.

I wasn't ready to leave.

I wanted more time.

I wanted to see my children continue their lives.

I wanted to watch my grandchildren grow.

I wanted more ordinary days.

I wanted to keep serving other people.

I wanted to keep writing.

I wanted to keep living the life God had given me.

And somewhere in that realization, fear and gratitude began sitting beside each other.

I was terrified.

But I was also grateful for the life I had already lived.

I Talked With God

During those six hours, I had one of the most honest conversations I have ever had with God.

There was no pretending.

No trying to sound strong.

No perfect words.

I told God I was afraid.

I told Him I didn't know what was coming.

I told Him I wanted to live.

I asked for strength.

I asked for peace.

And I had to make peace with something I didn't want to accept:

I might have cancer, and I might die.

That did not mean I wanted to die.

It did not mean I was giving up.

It meant I was acknowledging something I could not control.

There is a difference between accepting that something is possible and surrendering to it.

I was not surrendering my life.

I was surrendering my need to control the outcome.

That distinction became incredibly important.

I Couldn't Change the MRI

I couldn't go back and change what the MRI showed.

I couldn't make the masses disappear by worrying about them.

I couldn't force the doctors to give me answers before they had them.

I couldn't control what the pathology would eventually say.

I couldn't control what treatment might be required.

I couldn't control how long the journey would be.

But I could control one thing.

How I responded to what was happening.

That became my first step.

Not the treatment.

Not the surgery.

Not chemotherapy.

Not radiation.

Not knowing the future.

Just deciding how I would face the next thing in front of me.

I Decided I Wanted to Live

Somewhere during that drive, I made a decision.

I wanted to live.

I wanted to fight for more time.

I wanted more birthdays with my children.

I wanted more time with my grandchildren.

I wanted more ordinary mornings.

I wanted more conversations.

I wanted more opportunities to serve.

I wanted to continue the work God had placed in front of me.

I didn't know what fighting would look like yet.

I didn't know what treatments I would face.

I didn't know how sick I might become.

I didn't know whether my body would respond to treatment.

I only knew that if there was a path forward, I wanted to take it.

That decision didn't remove my fear.

It gave my fear somewhere to go.

I Called My Other Children

I was at my daughter's when I got the call.

I knew I couldn't carry what I was feeling alone.

I called my other children.

Those conversations were difficult.

How do you tell your children that doctors have found masses and that you believe something serious may be happening?

How do you say the words without terrifying them?

How do you remain a mother when you are scared yourself?

I didn't have perfect answers.

I just knew I needed the people I loved.

I also called a couple of friends who I knew would pray with me.

I needed people who would not simply tell me, “Everything will be fine.”

I needed people who could stand with me in the uncertainty.

People who would pray.

People who would listen.

People who would help me find strength when I didn't feel strong.

I Didn't Need to Pretend I Wasn't Afraid

One of the lessons I learned during that time is that faith doesn't mean you never feel fear.

I was afraid.

I cried.

I wondered what would happen to my family.

I thought about death.

I questioned what the future would look like.

And I prayed.

Those things can exist together.

Faith did not erase my fear.

It helped me walk through it.

The National Cancer Institute recognizes that people facing cancer may experience intense and changing emotions, including fear, uncertainty, sadness, and worry. It also notes that some people turn to faith or spirituality as part of how they cope.

For me, prayer was not an escape from reality.

It was how I faced reality.

I Had to Make Peace With What I Could Not Control

There are some things we can fight.

There are some things we can change.

There are some things we can prepare for.

And there are some things we simply cannot control.

I could seek medical care.

I could ask questions.

I could follow through with appointments.

I could make treatment decisions with my doctors.

I could take care of myself as best I could.

I could reach out to my family.

I could pray.

But I could not guarantee the outcome.

That was hard for me.

I like solving problems.

I like making plans.

I like knowing what comes next.

Cancer doesn't always give you that luxury.

Sometimes you have to take the next step without knowing where the entire road leads.

One Step at a Time

That became the way I would approach my cancer journey.

One step at a time.

I didn't need to know how I would get through five years.

I needed to get through the next appointment.

I didn't need to know how I would handle every treatment.

I needed to handle the treatment in front of me.

I didn't need to know how I would feel six months from then.

I needed to get through that day.

I didn't need to solve my entire future.

I needed to take the next step.

That way of thinking became a lifeline.

The Road Didn't Change

The strange thing about that drive is that the road itself didn't change.

The highway was still the highway.

The miles were still the miles.

Cars were still passing me.

The scenery was still outside my windows.

But I had changed.

When I started that drive, I was carrying fear and uncertainty.

Somewhere along the way, I began carrying something else.

Determination.

My circumstances hadn't become easier.

My diagnosis hadn't even been officially confirmed yet.

But I had decided that fear wasn't going to make every decision for me.

I Wasn't Ready to Say Goodbye

Thinking about death made me realize how much I still wanted from life.

I wasn't finished.

There were things I still wanted to do.

People I still wanted to love.

People I still wanted to encourage.

Stories I still wanted to tell.

Lessons I still wanted to share.

Grandchildren I wanted to watch grow.

And there were ordinary moments I had once taken for granted that suddenly seemed precious.

I wanted to live long enough to appreciate them.

That realization gave me a reason to keep moving forward.

Faith Gave Me Strength to Take the Next Step

I don't believe God promised me that cancer would be easy.

I don't believe faith means we will never suffer.

I don't believe prayer means we will always receive the answer we want.

But I believe God gave me strength when I didn't have enough of my own.

Sometimes that strength came through prayer.

Sometimes it came through my children.

Sometimes it came through friends who prayed with me.

Sometimes it came through a doctor who listened.

Sometimes it came through simply waking up the next morning and realizing:

I can take one more step.

That was enough.

The National Cancer Institute notes that people facing cancer may find support through family, friends, counselors, support groups, and members of their faith or spiritual community.

I found strength through a combination of those supports, but my relationship with God was at the center of how I faced what was happening.

The Diagnosis Came Later

Eventually, I would learn exactly what I was facing.

Stage IV uterine leiomyosarcoma.

A rare cancer I had never expected to hear about.

But something important happened before I ever received that official diagnosis.

I had already begun preparing my heart.

I had already told God I was afraid.

I had already thought about my children.

I had already considered what mattered most.

I had already decided that, if treatment was possible, I wanted to fight for my life.

I had already learned that I could face one terrifying day without knowing what the next year would bring.

That six-hour drive became the beginning of a mindset that would carry me through everything that followed.

The Fight Wasn't One Big Decision

People sometimes hear a cancer survivor say, “I decided to fight,” and imagine there was one dramatic moment when everything became clear.

For me, it wasn't like that.

The strength didn't arrive all at once.

It came in pieces.

One decision.

Then another.

One appointment.

Then another.

One treatment.

Then another.

One difficult day.

Then another morning.

I didn't conquer cancer in one moment.

I kept choosing to move forward.

That is very different.

There Were Days When I Was Strong

There were days when I felt determined.

There were days when I felt hopeful.

There were days when I could encourage other people.

And there were days when I was exhausted, frightened, angry, or overwhelmed.

Being courageous didn't mean I felt courageous every day.

It meant I kept taking the next step anyway.

That is something I wish more people understood about surviving cancer.

You don't have to feel strong every minute to be strong.

You don't have to feel hopeful every morning to still have hope.

You don't have to understand the entire journey to take the next step.

If You're Facing Frightening Medical News

If you're reading this because an MRI, scan, biopsy, or doctor's appointment has suddenly changed the way you look at your future, I want you to know something.

You don't have to solve your entire future today.

You may not even have all the information yet.

Take a breath.

Ask the next question.

Go to the next appointment.

Write down what you need to remember.

Let someone you trust sit beside you.

Tell your family what you need.

If faith is part of your life, pray.

If you need to cry, cry.

If you need help, ask for it.

You are allowed to be afraid.

You are allowed to be angry.

You are allowed to have questions.

You are allowed to hope.

And you are allowed to take this one step at a time.

What I Wish Someone Had Told Me

I wish someone had told me that accepting the possibility of death does not mean giving up on life.

I wish someone had told me that you can be terrified and still make courageous decisions.

I wish someone had told me that faith doesn't require pretending you aren't afraid.

I wish someone had told me that sometimes the people who help you survive the hardest moments are the ones who simply pray with you and stay beside you.

I wish someone had told me that I didn't need to know how the whole story would end before taking the next step.

Most of all, I wish someone had told me:

You don't have to carry tomorrow today.

What Helped Me Move Forward

Looking back, several things helped me begin moving through those first frightening days.

I talked to God.

Prayer gave me a place to put my fear when I couldn't carry it by myself.

I reached out to my children.

I didn't isolate myself from the people I loved.

I called friends who would pray with me.

I needed people who understood that sometimes the most helpful thing they could do was simply stand beside me in faith.

I allowed myself to think about what mattered.

My children.

My grandchildren.

My purpose.

My desire to live.

I focused on the next step.

Not the next five years.

Not every possible treatment.

Not every possible outcome.

Just the next step.

Hope for Today

That six-hour drive changed my life.

It didn't take away the fear.

It didn't give me all the answers.

It didn't change what the MRI had shown.

But it changed me.

Somewhere between Virginia and West Virginia, I stopped trying to control an outcome I couldn't control.

I began asking a different question.

Not:

“Why is this happening to me?”

But:

“How am I going to walk through this?”

And I knew I didn't have to walk alone.

God would be with me.

My family would be with me.

My praying friends would be with me.

My doctors would help guide the medical decisions.

And I would take the next step.

Then the next one.

Then the next.

That is how I got through the beginning.

And, in many ways, that is how I have continued to get through the years since.

One step at a time.

If You Are Where I Was

If you're sitting somewhere today, waiting for answers and afraid your life may be changing, I can't promise you what your medical future will look like.

I won't tell you that everything will be fine.

I won't tell you that you shouldn't be afraid.

But I can tell you what I learned.

Fear does not have to make every decision.

Uncertainty does not mean there is no hope.

Acceptance does not mean surrender.

Faith does not require you to pretend you're not hurting.

And you don't have to know the entire road before you begin walking it.

Sometimes all you need is enough strength for the next mile.

Then you find strength for the next one.

And then the next.

One step at a time is still moving forward.

A Prayer for the Person Who Is Afraid

If you are a person of faith and you're facing frightening medical news, perhaps this simple prayer will give you words when you don't know what to say:

God, I am afraid, and I don't know what is ahead.

Give me strength for today.

Give wisdom to the people caring for me.

Help me face the truth without losing hope.

Give my family strength as they walk beside me.

Help me release what I cannot control.

And give me the courage to take the next step.

Amen.

A Final Thought

I started that six-hour drive wondering whether I was driving home to face cancer.

I arrived knowing that, whatever the answer turned out to be, I wanted to live.

I didn't know then how many surgeries, treatments, setbacks, appointments, tears, prayers, victories, and ordinary days were ahead of me.

I only knew that I wasn't ready to stop living.

And that was enough to begin.

Sometimes courage isn't knowing that everything will be okay.

Sometimes courage is saying, “I don't know what tomorrow holds, but with God's help, I will face it one step at a time.”

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References

• National Cancer Institute: "Coping with Cancer", https://www.cancer.gov/about-cancer/coping

• National Cancer Institute: "Spirituality in Cancer Care", https://www.cancer.gov/about-cancer/coping/day-to-day/faith-and-spirituality

• National Cancer Institute: "Adjustment to Cancer: Anxiety and Distress", https://www.cancer.gov/about-cancer/coping/feelings

• National Cancer Institute: "Emotional and Social Support for People with Cancer", https://www.cancer.gov/about-cancer/coping/caregiver-support

• National Cancer Institute: "Family Caregivers in Cancer", https://www.cancer.gov/about-cancer/coping/family-friends/caregivers

• American Cancer Society: "Coping with Cancer", https://www.cancer.org/cancer/managing-cancer/making-treatment-decisions/coping-with-cancer.html

• American Cancer Society: "Spirituality and Cancer", https://www.cancer.org/cancer/managing-cancer/making-treatment-decisions/spirituality-and-cancer.html

• American Society of Clinical Oncology: "Coping With Cancer", https://www.cancer.net/coping-and-emotions

• American Society of Clinical Oncology: "Anxiety and Cancer", https://www.cancer.net/coping-and-emotions/anxiety-and-cancer

About the Author:

Deborah Ann Martin is the founder of Surviving Life Lessons, a published author, poet, speaker, and trainer with over 20 years of management experience across multiple industries. An MBA graduate, U.S. veteran, single mother, and rare cancer survivor, Deborah brings both professional expertise and lived experience to her writing on resilience, leadership, personal growth, and overcoming adversity. Her mission is to empower others with practical wisdom and real-life insight to navigate life’s challenges with strength and purpose.