Jesus healed me from colon cancer just eight months after my mom passed away from the same disease. When doctors discovered her cancer, the tumor was the size of a tennis ball. When they found mine, it was the size of a baby’s head—at least, that’s how the doctor described it.
I had watched my mom fight a long, painful two-year battle. She was a strong believer and often said she was “believing for her healing.” Yet privately, she would confess to me that she wasn’t sure what she had done wrong for God to give her cancer.
I told her, “Mom, God didn’t give you cancer.” But I also knew why her healing never came. She couldn’t bring herself to forgive—especially not my dad, who had hurt her deeply for years, nor certain family members she felt had wronged her. She had walked with the Lord for many years, but to her, forgiveness seemed too simple, almost unfair.
I believe this struggle came from wrong teaching about the love of God, from well-meaning but misguided preachers who had unintentionally planted distorted ideas. Coupled with a lifetime of rejection, those wrong beliefs kept her from stepping into the freedom Jesus had already provided.
I watched my mom fight desperately for her life, placing much of her hope in chemotherapy, even as her condition worsened and the cancer spread. To this day, I often say my mother didn’t die from cancer—she died from chemotherapy. I swore that if I ever got cancer, I would never go through it.
But my mother was determined to live for us, her children. She worried constantly that my father—who was notoriously bad with money—might remarry and squander everything she had worked so hard to provide. I was desperate for her to live too, because she was the glue that held our family together.
Growing up, our home life was often tense. My parents fought constantly—sometimes over the pressures of running the family business, but also because my father struggled with anger he couldn’t control.
When my mom became ill, my husband, our 10-year-old daughter, and I lived upstairs in their large house, while my parents stayed downstairs. My father had asked me to “come home” and help him run the business that my mom had mostly carried on her own. At first, she wasn’t happy about it—she didn’t want me drawn into the stress of life with my dad. But later, she told me how grateful she was to have me there to help care for her.
My father did what he could, but he was too entangled in his own demons and fears to ever make her the true priority she needed to be.
Words can’t truly capture what it’s like to watch your own mother die an agonizing death. At the time, I was also struggling in my marriage, and just like my mom, I found myself consumed by negative thoughts. Fear, worry, and unforgiveness kept me awake at night, making it hard to pray with any real faith.
When she finally took her last breath, I felt a wave of relief that her suffering was over. But almost instantly, I was overcome with guilt for feeling that way. My relationship with my father unraveled further after her death, as I carried bitterness toward him for the way he had treated her. Only later would I come to see that he, too, was battling unhealed wounds and demons that made it impossible for him to love her—or us—the way he wanted to. But at the time, all I could see was the pain.
Exactly one week after her memorial service, I felt a strange, dull ache on the right side of my belly. I dismissed it as indigestion, something I had struggled with all my life. Over the next eight months, the ache would come and go, sometimes intensifying into pain, but never lasting long enough for me to think it was serious.
Then came weeks of persistent diarrhea and rapid weight loss. Even then, I didn’t think much of it—even though these were the same signs my mother had ignored. I think I was in denial. Finally, I went to the doctor, assuming I had a bladder infection. She ran a urine test and then suggested a blood test “just to eliminate anything sinister.” I agreed, went on with my day, and didn’t even bother to pick up the bladder infection medication from the pharmacy.
The next morning when I arrived at my office, the night watchman rushed to my car. He said the doctor had called several times, urgently trying to reach me. I had my cell phone switched off and was running late, still oblivious to the seriousness of it all. I called her immediately, and she answered on the first ring:
“Carol, you need to drop everything and either call an ambulance or get someone to drive you to the hospital right now.”
Tests revealed a massive tumor the size of a baby’s head lodged in my colon. Emergency surgery was the only option.
That was the beginning of a line of miracles. The surgeons removed the tumor along with 31 centimeters of my colon. The first miracle: I didn’t need a colostomy bag.
The surgery lasted several hours. I spent days in a high-care ward, fed through tubes, waiting for the biopsy results. The waiting was unbearable. Finally, my surgeon came to see me. I woke up to his kind face leaning over me, his hand gently holding mine. Knowing how recently I had lost my mother, he had tears in his eyes when he told me the tumor was cancerous. He tried to encourage me, but all I could hear were the words: “You have cancer.” They echoed endlessly in my mind.
The next miracle came in the form of a beautiful Christian nurse. As soon as the doctor left, she came and prayed with me, speaking healing scriptures over me. Fear and torment still plagued me, especially at night. Thoughts swirled: Who will take care of my little girl if I die? How will she cope? Will I suffer the same way my mom did? Sleep became impossible. Eventually, the doctor prescribed sleeping tablets, which helped, but deep down I wished I had been stronger at taking every thought captive to the truth—that by His stripes I was already healed, and I didn’t need to fear.
Still, God knew what I needed. That nurse was His gift to me, a messenger of His presence. And when I was moved to the general ward, He surrounded me with even more encouragement. Friends and members of my church family came daily to pray, to lift me up, and to remind me of God’s promises.
A week after I returned home, I had an appointment with the oncologist to discuss treatment. Now I was the one with cancer, and though I had always sworn I would never undergo chemotherapy, without the revelation yet that my healing was already complete, I considered it. All I could think about was my little girl, only ten years old. I was determined to fight for her sake.
But then came the miracle that changed everything. The oncologist looked at me and said they had removed every bit of cancer from my body with the surgery. I was cancer-free.
It took hours for the reality to sink in. Me? Cancer-free? It was a miracle I hadn’t even dared to hope for. God, in His mercy and grace—despite my doubts, fears, and unbelief—had completely healed me.
And I can tell you today: God is still in the miracle-working business. You just have to believe Him and His Word. He is faithful. He is true to it.
Tales from the Tangled Trail 