On 'angels' wings'

Prayer, family keep an unknown future from spoiling today's joy

"It takes two. I thought one was enough, it's not true; it takes two of us. You came through when the journey was rough. It took you. It took two of us. It takes care, it takes patience and fear and despair to change. Though you swear to change, who can tell if you do? It takes two."

— Stephen Sondheim, "Into the Woods"

It's 4:45 a.m., still dark, and Scott McKibbin stoops over in his driveway, silently loading bags into the family van, preparing for their trip to New Orleans and July's USA National Karate Federation championships.

The lights are ablaze inside the house as Barb moves from room to room, checking to see if her kids forgot anything, preparing to hit the road by 5. Her four children sit on the big couch downstairs, balls of energy.

"Zach, you have to stop with the jumping thing," says oldest sister Ashley. "Ian and I are calm."

"I know how to breakdance," Zach counters.

"'I'm younger,'" Ashley mimics . "'I'm funnier.'"

"Let's get an Ash sandwich!" Zach cries, moving to squash his sister into his younger brother.

"Zachary," Barb says, "are you getting out of control, buddy?"

"Yes!" comes the chorus, even from Zach.

The family is decked out in their matching black karate jackets, pumped for a tournament they hope will find Scott improving on his fifth-place finish at state in April, in which he competed with his children for the first time in nearly three years after a kidney cancer diagnosis.

But disease is an opponent Scott continues to spar. Two days before his family leaves for New Orleans, Scott undergoes a computerized tomography scan, probing his kidneys for any evidence to explain the warning signals his body is sending. He's in pain, he's tired, he can't go to the bathroom. Could it be kidney failure? The X-rays don't give up their secrets.

Telling his troubles only to Barb, Scott decides he'll make the trip no matter what.

"I resolved in my mind that absent somebody saying to me that you would die, they could assure me that going was going to be fatal in the next two weeks, I wasn't gonna miss this," Scott says. "They missed the trip to Norfolk the year I had (my second) surgery and I felt real bad about that. They worked really hard, they qualified, and they weren't able to go."

On days when Scott feels he can't get out of bed, can't force his body through another long day, Barb says, he describes the force that propels him as "angels' wings." Maybe divine intervention is at work now, keeping Scott awake for the long drive, helping him hold together as impossible thoughts pull at him.

"There are definitely times where I've felt that something picking me up and pulling me along where I just could not have done it on my own," Scott says. "In my faith and life system, that's my God helping me, giving me the energy and peace to be able to do that."

God at the wheel
Scott and Barb met as students at California State University, Long Beach. He was a senior working in the college bookstore when Barb walked in, a freshman. They were married in 1988, in a little church on a hill, in a little California town. It was the start of their religious renaissance.

The pastor there, David MacDonald, was a Texas pastor and a former stockbroker, Scott says, who'd gone from a "pretty bad dude to a street preacher" to the little church on the hill. He'd marry the two, Scott remembers, but he was going to counsel them and preach the Gospel to them.

At the time, Scott had negative impressions of organized religion. Scott's father died when he was 13. Afterward, Scott's mother moved him and his brother into a mission to live as she buckled under the mental strain of that loss.

"She had shut down, she had a nervous breakdown for want of a better term," Scott says. "When she wouldn't go downstairs to pray, they threw us out (of the mission). I was pretty angry."

Scott went to New York to live with his grandparents. He attended mass with his uncle, butfound a distance in Catholicism and a distance in his heart.

Ultimately, MacDonald's preaching moved Barb and Scott. They accepted Christ, they recommitted their lives. They were baptized in the church on the hill. Scott eventually was ordained a deacon in the Southern Baptist Church and has been devoted to various denominations ever since, serving as deacon, teacher, usher, "chief cook and bottle washer, whatever."

Today, God is where the family turns for their strength. Barb feels God watching over her family, helping her be a good mother, giving her patience, "and that's not always easy," she says. It's a steely will that's not her own, or a part of herself she's still discovering. Without it, Barb says, "she'd be a mess."

Scott sees himself as "a sinner saved by grace. By the grace of God go I." God has had a hand, he says, in his diagnosis, in his treatment, in every additional day he's given and what he's able to do with it. In that sense, cancer can be transformative, God is using him for a purpose.

"On the one hand, I can say if God is still behind me, why am I in so much pain?" Scott says. "(The Bible says) Paul was in so much pain and Paul asked three times (to be healed) and three times the answer was no. I had that thought myself. There is a reason why I'm in pain. Maybe it's made me appreciate certain things I never thought of before."

Sanctuary and support
Drive up to the Wellness House in Hinsdale and it's like you're coming upon a life-size doll house. The rooms inside are stocked with pillows and stuffed animals; there are rockers and couches to sink into, the aroma of baking cookies may emanate from the kitchen. It's a space designed for comfort, and it has been the McKibbin kids' "oasis and their safe island," Scott says. For more than two years they've been attending weekly support sessions, some getting individual counseling. And there's absolutely no charge for the services. When a family doesn't have the right words to describe their feelings, emotions can manifest themselves in subtle ways, says Nancee Biank, director of Children and Family Services at the Wellness House. Grades can slip, or kids can wake up with night terrors, or feel jealous toward siblings they believe may have gotten more time with a parent. "Cancer is becoming more chronic, so it can last three to five years for some families," Biank said. "That's half the life of a 10-year-old."

So activities are structured to make it easier to talk, she says, over art projects or decorating cookies. They get to know another kids, talk about things other than illness, Ashley says.

"They're not just cancer patients' kids," Ashley says. "They're Christians, they go to school. This one girl's band is number one in the country, or something."

"It just helps me understand that I'm not the only one," Michaela says. "They kinda help me get through it because we do projects a lot, make puzzles and stuff. I just get away from all that (cancer) stuff."

Zach sometimes shrugs off the Wellness House experience. He's adapted, he says. He knows what his dad's facing and wants to look on the bright side. Sometimes he wishes he didn't have to go every week. When he does, he helps the other kids.

"I just sort of listen," he says. "Just that they're thinking about their parents having cancer and it's at a point that they're having a hard time. And I've been at that point."

Scott has learned more about how to manage pain and picked up on techniques like massage. Barb takes the caregiver class, where she says "she's able to be frustrated, to express that and not be judged." It's hard, too, she says. You see couples who, only months before had never dreamed of being in the place someone else in the group was in. Then, suddenly, they're there. It's tragic, at times. It can be inspiring, too.

"God has put all kinds of people in our path," Scott says. "We've always helped out people. It's another position to accept the help."

Scott is trying to reach out to others through the Evangelical Free Church in Naperville, where the family has been members for seven years. Jud Olsen, minister of pastoral care, says Scott is the driving force behind Not Without Hope, a support group that is kind of a Wellness House west.

The goals, Olsen says, are to minister to cancer patients and their families through prayer and group meetings. After an initial burst following visits from former Major League pitcher and cancer survivor Dave Dravecky, interest has waned, Olsen admits. Scott keeps it going.

"He's been a tremendous role model for people around him," Olsen says. "He does come to talk, though he's a private person. He's well recognized as somebody who can contribute greatly to people who are facing cancer. He's been down the road and shows his compassion."

The community props the McKibbins up as well — neighbors, congregation members, teachers. The family jokes that during Scott's first surgery they sampled lots of the best homemade lasagne Naperville had to offer. They got dozens of the dish. "Scarred them for life," Scott jokes. The second surgery, the kids asked to be spared from the "evil lasagne." Hearts open to caring in the first place also tend to be open to humor. The support network obliged that wish.

Who's afraid of the c-word?
The McKibbins can't know this on this July day as the family pauses in the hallowed halls of Graceland or rolls through bayou country to the Gulf of Mexico — and they won't, still, for a matter of weeks following the tournament — but Scott's health woes of the moment are passing.

The pain he has been experiencing stems from an infection of the prostate gland. Tests indicate he is cancer-free, and weeks of antibiotics, while leaving him dizzy and altering his blood pressure, eventually bring him relief.

His regular October scan gives them more to think about, what Scott levelly classifies as a mixed bag. The left kidney, his problem child, looks good. But there appears to be a small spot on his right kidney, not on the surface but down in the middle of the organ.

It's a bummer, Scott says, because until now his right kidney has been pristine. In any case, the waiting game has begun again. They won't know if the spot gets larger until the next scan, another six months. Until then, imagining the outcomes — another surgery, freezing the tumor or cooking it with radio waves — is futile and frustrating.

Sometimes she gets angry with God, Barb says. But it's important in those instances, she says, to get your anger out and move on, to trust your faith.

"It gives me a peace, a peace that you can't have any other way," Barb says. "I know God has a plan; though we may not understand his plan, I know it's there. And if I didn't believe that I don't think I could get up in the morning. It may not always be what we want... God does answer prayers but the answer may be, 'No. I may not heal you, ever.' There's a reason for that, though we may never understand it in our human life."

The McKibbin kids rely on their parents as a filter for understanding what their father is experiencing. Ian goes to them with his worries; Michaela trusts their updates of Scott's tests. They want to keep communication open, Barb says, but they also want their children to lead normal, happy lives.

It's working. Their grades have stayed solid, Barb says. By Christmas, Zach is busy racking his brain for more gifts to add to his wish list, and trying to decipher the family's "surprise" vacation hints. Ian has grown into the family historian, collecting stories, like the time Scott sank a car in the Pacific Ocean off Cabrillo State Beach, or tales of his great-grandfather, an engineer on a World War II decoy plane for the Enola Gay.

"Cancer doesn't scare me," Ian says. "I know I could get it from my dad, but it doesn't scare me because he's been a really good role model. If I ever get cancer, I'd fight it the same way he did."

Ashley doesn't even like to say the word cancer, not even in prayer. She trusts faith as "her everything," and believes God has a plan — for her, for her dad, for everyone.

"It puts a label on him — 'he's a cancer patient, oh God,'" Ashley says. "He's more than that. I think that's what people forget."

Scott and Barb have learned not to plan too far ahead, to leave the schedule loose. But late in the year Scott's thoughts again turn to getting his body in shape, maybe taking a year or two off from public office. He could get the support group going again, play a role in the Birt-Hogg-Dube Family Alliance. He's watched other cancer patients wait — for a test, for a treatment, for more time. They die waiting.

"There's no doubt that my desire, my will to survive, is in large part due to the fact that if I can survive I want to see my kids get married, I want to see them go to college," Scott says. "If I have that much time then I would fight as long as it made sense for me to do so."

Saving his place
And so the family laughs looking back at it all: the trip to New Orleans: grins during mix-ups at the drive-through window; groans as Scott taps on his Blackberry; cheers as Ashley takes third place in sparring; gasps as Scott is brained by flung Mardi Gras beads during the closing ceremonies. All of the time: together.

John DiPasquale, founder of Illinois Shotokan Karate and in every sense sensei of his pack of more than 200 competitors at nationals, has watched the family from afar, the distance of a crowded convention center alive with kicking combatants, and from as close as a private conversation. He gets as much of a charge, he says, seeing a father devoted to his family and a leader devoted to the Naperville Park District (Scott is a park board member) as he does a student with a tenacious will to learn, and to succeed.

"I respect him for the fact that he's had struggles to overcome health issues and continues to get out there and work hard and struggle," DiPasquale says. "That's the discipline I was talking about. I don't care about the outcome. To me, if he competes, if he's competing, he's already a champion."

There is the usual mix of tournament anxiety. Their bags are moved — thrown, the kids say later — without their consent to make room for massage tables. Scott, the coach, feels every punch the kids block, every kick that gets through, the disappointment they absorb. The boys and Michaela do not come away with championships, or medals.

It comes time for Scott to enter the ring. The expectations are high. But then, aren't they always? Even ordinary moments are ones to admire, Barb says.

"I don't know how he gets up every day, goes to work and does what he does with the park board stuff," Barb says. "He's amazing. And he'll tell you he doesn't know how he makes it. But that's the man I married. The fighter."

This is not an ordinary moment. This is nationals. This is karate, the kata competition, a row of focused adults following precise and prescribed movements, carrying on an imaginary battle with the air in front of them, with whatever's inside of them.

Scott worries the kids will be bummed if he doesn't win. But the battle for their love was never a contest.

"It doesn't matter if he wins or loses, it's the experience," Michaela says.

"He's been through surgeries, a lot of medical stuff and as many drugs and switched jobs," Ian says. "It's a total victory."

"I think he actually came in first place," Zach says. "Because most adults are, 'Oh, it's just karate, I'll do it with my kids.' And he actually goes to tournaments with us. It's totally cool for him to compete."

"He's overcome so much," Ashley says. "He knows he can compete now."

Scott competes. The judges score his performance 7.8 out of 10. He finishes last in his age group. It's only a score. There are other numbers. That go beyond what percentage of a kidney remains, the months between a CT scan, the level of pain you're enduring. Like 5, like family.

"After I got done and I could look up there and the whole cheering section was up there, especially the kids," Scott says. "They had this very satisfied look on all their faces after I got done, and that was the best part, for me. That they felt like they were a part of it and I was able to do it I'm sure that was, for them, more a victory. Because they all coached me in the final round. And that was the best part."

Contact staff writer Colt Foutz at cfoutz@scn1.com or (630) 416-5196.

12/26/04