Recently in Fighting cancer and heart failure Category

God bless you.
My faith that God will completely heal me from brain cancer, prostate cancer and end-stage congestive heart failure owes some of its support to my daddy, the late Rev. Anderson Douglas Banks, Sr.
In 1951, daddy, then 40, was driving through a rain storm from our hometown, Indianapolis, Ind., on U.S. highway 24, on his way to Nashville, Tenn., for a board meeting of the National Baptist Convention, USA, Incorp.
When he came across two women trying to push their bogged-down car out of roadside mud, just outside of Paducah, Ky., the Christian and gentleman in him refused to let him pass by on the other side. So he stopped and ran across the road to help.
Thanks to his 5-9, 230-pound frame, daddy succeeded in pushing the car sufficiently forward to gain traction and spin its tires out of the mud. The women went on their way. His good deed done, daddy says he then pushed his luck and tried to run back across the highway to his car. But the rain and an apparent bend in the road blinded him from seeing a pickup truck that hit him and propelled him some 25 feet through the air.
When daddy landed and would-be rescuers came to him, he lay unconscious on the ground, bleeding profusely from compound fractures of both legs. Unable to feel his pulse, the rescuers concluded he was dead and called an ambulance to take him to the nearest funeral home.
But during the slow trip to the mortuary, one of the ambulance attendants saw him move a finger, examined him, found a pulse and had the driver to turn on the siren and change his destination from the funeral home and speed to the nearest hospital.
After hours of emergency surgery and pints of blood transfusions, daddy's life was saved.
When the news of his accident reached home within hours, my mama, the late Sarah Loraine Sanders-Banks, announced its arrival with a ear-piercing scream that woke up her four sons and two daughters.
I awake to find her standing in the frame of our opened front door, looking up to the gray, rainy, early-morning sky, crying and praying in epileptic anguish.
"Your daddy's been in a bad accident and they don't think he'll live," mama said. "We all gotta pray."
We joined her in tears and prayers as my older sisters Maude Lee and Lue Kuicious hugged and consoled her.
Within a couple of days, daddy regained consciousness, but remained in critical condition. When his condition was stabilized and ungraded and he was transferred to Indianapolis, he says his chief doctor gave him a grave prognosis.
"You're lucky to be alive because you had been severely injured," the doctor said, "had lost a lot of blood and your heart had stopped beating temporarily. You'll live. But it will take a miracle for you to ever walk again. And if you do, it will be with the aid of crutches or a walking cane."
I was eight years old at the time and I remember the great jubilation when they brought daddy home and camped him in a hospital bed in the dinning room, so that he could better receive visitors. My mama and we children waited on him and bathed him in prayers around the clock. It was doing that time that I was called to preach at the age of nine.
Within six months of his return home, daddy recovered well enough to return to the pulpit at the Mt. Carmel Baptist church, where he was pastor. But he preached from a wheel chair with both his legs in casks. Members shouted for joy each time he preached.
A few months later, he preached, aided by crutches. Members shouted even more vociferously.
A few months later, daddy would shed his casks and preached with the aid of a walking cane. The shouting grew more madly with mama leading the joyful wrecking crew.
A few months later, daddy was able to stand flat-footed, preach with even more power and no tear glands of true believers could withstand seeing and hearing him without unleashing torrential praise.
Thereafter, for the remaining 20 years of his life, that miraculous recovery was the principal testimony that daddy used to close his sermons until he died from a stroke in 1974 at the age of 63.
That testimony was branded into the hearts, minds and souls of me and my siblings. Again, at the time of his convalescence, I was called to preach. Daddy and I then became a tag team, preaching and fighting the devil bare-handed, slaying satanic dragons and combing Mississippi cotton fields for sinners after daddy had lost his pastorage in Mississippi and moved his family back to Lyon, Miss., to live in the same house where I had been born with the aid of a midwife.
Life was hard at times in those days as daddy pastored four churches, that held services once a month. Plus, we sharecropped 15 acres of cotton for a couple of years to make ends meet. Daddy pastored the poor, who paid him with farm produce and game when they could not pay him money.
Mama died at the age of 42 from blood poisoning after unknowingly carrying a dead fetus, her 13th child, in her womb for a couple of weeks. Daddy greeted the news of her death by sitting on the steps of the front porch of our house (the church parsonage) in Lyon and unleashed a crying scream I'd never heard before, have never heard since and don't want to. Death had parted him from his loving wife of 23 years.
Mama never lived long enough to see one of her eight surviving children get married or have one of us to take her out, or invite her over, for dinner. To this very day, I cry when I recall how mama--an old-schooled housewife who could cook, iron, wash (with scrub board), sew, keep house, make the most beautiful quilts--lived so little and died so young.
After her funeral, her brothers and sisters wanted to parcel out her children because they didn't think a traveling preacher like daddy could do a good job of raising us. But daddy refused to break us up. He had promised mama that he would keep us all together.
"There's not a step child in the bunch," he'd often say.
In 1956, daddy left the Liberty Baptist Church in Lyon to become pastor of Antioch Baptist Church in Kansas City, Kansas. There, as liberated refugees from the Mississippi cotton fields and the ruthless racism of the South, my sisters and brothers and I found new hope and great opportunity to upgrade our lives north of the Mason-Dixon line.
But the testimony of how the Lord raised my daddy from the dead and healed him of crippling injuries, suffered while playing good Samaritan on a rain-drenched Kentucky highway, has remained, for me, an abiding anthem of my faith. And it is from that miracle that I draw confidence that the same God who delivered him will deliver me for all the world to see.
I'm ready to accept whatever God's final decision is. In the interim, I want Him to get glory out of my aches and pains, my losses and gains. I am a healing in progress. The brain cancer has been ruled benign. The prostate cancer, despite resultant incidents of painful and embarrassing incontinence, is being effectively treated with radioactive seeds. And my heart is strong enough to no longer warrant an emergency heart transplant.
God bless you!
Praise the Lord.
Hallelujah!
Thank you Jesus!

God bless you.
Three months ago, when news of my newest health issues hit my former hometown of Kansas City, Kan., I got a lot of calls and get-well cards from former high school classmates, who have assured me ever since that they have been praying for God to heal me from my brain cancer, prostate cancer and end-stage congestive heart failure. Indeed, God is doing just that.
But the closest I've ever been to a reunion of my Sumner High School graduating class of 1961 came last Sunday when 30 of my former classmates came to hear me preach at the Strangers Rest Baptist Church in KCK, where my brother, the Rev. Jimmie Lee Banks, is pastor.
My good friend, Joann Ferguson Kendall, with the help of Annette Williams, was kind enough to call a couple of days in advance and inform fellow classmates that I would be preaching. I was extremely surprised, pleased and encouraged to see so many faces that I had not seen in 47 years and that gathering reminded me of how blessed I am.
Class reunions help many of us to count and relish our blessings as we see how we and our classmates have handled the many challenges of life since graduation. Especially hardships. Perhaps, you, too, have been equally touched by such reunions.
You've never met them. But nobody could have had better high school classmates than I had in the likes of Joann, Jimmie Lee (who was so smart he skipped a grade to be in the same class I was), his wife the former Alice Yates, Annette, Shelby Johnson, Lemuel Norman, Beverly Fouse, Henry Briscoe, Lurie Horton, Robert Scroggins, Carolyn Officer-Cook, Wiletta Easley, Herman Love, Jackie Brown, Margaret McGilbray, Sam Fennell, Annette St. Jean, Margaret McCluney and so many more. Former underclassmen present Sunday included Dr. Bertram Caruthers, an highly accomplished dematologist, my wife Joyce and Betty Maddox.
Many of our classmates, as old folks used to say, died before time. We lost some in the Vietnam War and some from the Vietnam War after they came home with drug addictions and assorted other afflictions that proved terminal. Others died young from cancer, heart attacks, auto accidents, violent crimes and other accidents. Most of my classmates, who got married, suffered at least two divorces and have been single ever since. Bad marriages can be hard, but good, teachers.
I especially hate to see so many of our fine black women unable to find good husbands, who are willing to love them, work hard, respect them, help raise their children and preserve their marriages. Too many are looking for wives to be their meal tickets, second mothers or punching bags. So I agree wholeheartedly with the exhortations of Presidential candidate Barack Obama. It's the same thing I preach about again and again as I look out from the pulpit and see that women make up 85 percent of the congregations I preach to. They are the backbone of our churches and families. And that's the raw, ugly, but honest ,truth.

God bless you.
Today (Monday, June 30), my wife, Joyce, and I celebrate our 40th wedding anniversary.
Those are shouting numbers that remind me how blessed I am to find a woman to put up with me that long.
They don't make too many marriages like ours anymore. So ours to truly extraordinary.
Right now, it's 6:28 a.m. Sunday (June 29) as I write this entry. Some 20 feet in back of me, Joyce, my beautiful, adorable, tender and sweet Kansas City honeybabysugarpie, is power-walking on our family-room treadmill as I await my turn in our fight against fat. Around 10 a.m., we leave for Mt. Pisgah Missionary Baptist Church in Chicago, where Pastor Joseph Jackson has invited me to preach and I shall preach about "The Inseparable Love of God."
While I first thank God for blessing me to have Joyce put up with me as my wife for 40 years, after she had been my girlfriend for seven, I second thank God for blessing me to be alive for this day.
Just three months ago, when I was diagnosed with end-staged congestive heart failure (requiring a heart transplant), brain cancer and prostate cancer, and my heart was so weak I could not walk 10 steps, eat a meal or wash my face without stopping to catch my breath, I was scared to death for my life.
Yes, that's right.
Me, Lacy J. Banks, the fiery preacher, the Mr. Tough Guy and brave sportswriter for the Chicago Sun-Times for 36 years--I was scared. I even doubted whether I could outlive this triple dose of doom to see today.
But by the healing grace and mercy of Almighty God, the prayers of His saints, the care of competent doctors like Dr. Allen Anderson, Dr. Valluvan Jeevanandam, Dr. Glenn Gerber, Dr. Brian Moran, Dr. Jim Flaherty and, now, Dr. John Alverdy, the love and care, among others, of my wife, first and foremost, and the application of my faith and common sense, I am a very impressive "healing in progress."
Now, here you are, my loyal readers and faithful prayer partners--you have accepted my invitation, through this blog, to watch God work. Through your hundreds of emailed comments and through your more than 50,000 silents hits on my blog, making it one of the tops in this distinguished big-city newspaper, you let me know that there are still a lot of caring and sharing people in the world.
God bless you.
Before I give you a more detailed update on my health situation, I want to hand out a round of thanks.

God bless you.
Few things teach us the priceless value of life better than sickness and death.
Ever since doctors diagnosed me three months ago with suffering from life-threatening brain cancer, prostate cancer and end-stage congestive heart failure, I have been greatly inspired to appreciate the fact I'm still alive and being healed while so many others are playing life cheap with murder and suicide.
It reminds me of that wise saying that, in substance, says it's a shame that youth is wasted on young people.
Life is good.
Love is good.
Why aren't young people loving more so that they can live longer and better?
Indeed, we older peopl were equally guilty in our youth. Misguided by poverty, ignorance, immaturity, gangs, guns, substance abuse or hopelessness, we also ignorantly wasted many opportunities and made bad decisions that set us back.
If we had known then what we know now ,and exercised that wisdom responsibly, we would have had more money, better health, better security and more to look forward to today.
So when I view my solo suffering against the backdrop of our society's seething savagery, it moves me to echo those ol' top-hit Marvin Gaye lyrics: "What's goin' on?....Makes me wanna holler....throw up my hands."

God Bless you.
A milestone was reached today when Monica Giles and Fannie Oliver co-posted the 200th comment for this blogs.

It reads as follows:

"God bless you.
Helloooooooo Rev. Banks!

Greetings from Fannie Oliver and myself.
Loving and missing you! GOD IS GOOD AND STILL IN CHARGE!
Tell Joyce we said hello, and we will be praying for you and your family.

Love,
Monica"
Banks' response: Congratulations for posting the 200th comment on this blog. Also, thanks for your prayers and best wishes.

Some four weeks ago, My 100th comment came from a reader named John: It read:

LACY,

i HAVE ALWAYS ENJOYED YOUR WRITING AND MY WIFE AND I ARE BOTH ACTIVE PARTIPANTS AT THE CANCER WELLNESS
CENTER IN NORTHBROOK.IN OUR SPIRITUAL SUPPORT GROUP WE ARE VIEWING OPRAH'S INTERVIEW WITH ECKHARDT TOLLE AND READING HIS NEW BOOK..A NEW EARTH. PERSONALLY I FIND IT EXTREMELY HELPFUL TO ME. I WISH
YOU WELL."

My very first entry came from my youngest daughter Natasha. She submitted it as soon as she heard I was blogging and really didn't know she woud be the first. Here was her entry:

"I am very excited about the blog. This will be groundbreaking. I love you and await for God's healing."

God bless you.
Attending Game 5 of the NBA Finals Sunday night in Los Angeles was a relative paradise because it was like old times without having to work and sweat deadlines and it was enjoyed, for the first time, with my wife Joyce as we were special guests of the NBA and the Lakers, who won 103-98 and now trail 3-2 in the best-of-seven series which returns to Boston for sixth and, if necessary, seventh game.
My wife accompanied me for two reasons. First, she's very sensitive about my health issues and wanted to be by my side, instead of 1,735 miles away, in case something went wrong. Second, she loves California, especially Los Angeles, where we have enjoyed some of our best vacations..
We got the star treatment that started with fifth-row seats behind courtside. This enabled my wife to gleefully see the stellar likes of Jack Nicholson, Denzel Washington, Sean (formerly alias "Puff Daddy") Combs, Damon Wayans and others. But the real thrills came from my fellow veteran journalists like John Jackson, Sam Smith, Michael Wilbon, Bill Walton, David Aldridge, Stephen A. Smith, Howard Beck, Marc Spears, Ailene Voisin, Helene Elliott, Ric Bucher, Brad Townsend and others who greeted me with smiling hugs as I introduced them to my wife.
"It's nice to see people still remember a dinosaur like me," I said.
"You're no dinosaur," Aldridge said to my ego's delight. "You're an icon."
In April, when doctors gave me the dire diagnosis that I had brain cancer, prostate cancer and end-stage congestive heart failure, I started making a list of things I definitely wanted to do with my wife just in case I didn't survive the summer. They included a trip to one NBA Finals, which I had covered exclusively for some 27 years for the Sun-Times, a trip back home to Kansas City so that I could take my wife to see her aging mother, and the celebration of our 40th wedding anniversary, which we already had planned last year to do in Hawaii.
"Oh don't worry," NBA veteran chief publicist Brian McIntyre told me. "You'll be seeing many more NBA Finals and we can always find you a ticket."
I am a pioneer in the diversity aspect of NBA newspaper coverage. I've not only covered the NBA for 40 years as an Ebony magazine sports editor and as a Sun-Times reporter, but the late Larry Whiteside, David Dupree and I were to the first black beat writers to cover the NBA for major American newspapers.
I also integrated the news staffs of the Kansas City Star, the Indianapolis Star and the Indianapolis News before the become the first black to work fulltime for the Sun-Times as a sports columnist and reporter. Consequently, the National Association of Black Journalists have chosen to honor me in July by presently to me its first Larry Whiteside Award when it holds its annual convention here in Chicago.

God bless you.
I thank God for my healing in progress from the life-threatening brain cancer, end-stage congestive heart failure and prostate cancer.
But I want to make it clear that I don't want God healing me for nothing. No. First, I intend to pay Him back. Yes, I don't want to just get and not give. I will pay God back by praying, preaching and praising better than I ever have.
Actually, I'm already doing those things while I'm being healed. What better way for me to show my thanks than to promote God and His Kingdom by urging people to seek Him while He can be found and to call upon Him while He is near and give Him His deserved glory.
Second, I don't want Him to heal me for doing nothing, either. Understand? I don't want to be heal just to sit and chill and selfishly and privately wallow in the thrills and frills of the healing. No, I want to be healed to get back out and enjoy life to the fullest and help make life better for others.
I get this idea from a good friend, Stan Ketcik. It was so excellent that I decided to share it with the rest of you and I want each of you to share back with the rest of us.
There is healing power in setting future goals and wishes for yourself. They fuel the drive to survive and thrive.
Here was Stan's comment:

Dear Lacy,
Your journey of healing is inspirational!!! I have a suggestion. I think you should make a list
of interesting things that you would like to do for the next 15 to 20 years. The list would
consist of things you would like to do, places you would like to see, and goals that you woul
like to accomplish. I think that a list like that will help you on the road to recovery, and give you
a lot of specific things to look forward to on your road to healing. I look forward to seeing you
cover sports again, and reading your stories for many years to come. Have a phenomenal
day!!!
Stan Ketcik
************************

Banks' response: Great idea, Stan! I love you mannnn! Great idea! Why didn't I think of that before? That kind of mindset fuels the survival instinct. Incentives. Visions. Aspirations. Hope. Yes, Stan, yes. I feel good about this. Here are some of my key plans and wishes for the future:

1. Get totalIy healed of my cancers and bad heart so that I can see all my doctors
shake their heads, grin and say, "Well I'll be doggone!"
2. Give (along with my wife) our daughters Noelle and Natasha away in marriage