Diagnosed Redeemed by the Grace of God

My name is Kent Frost, I am 40 years old and his is my story. I was brought up at Wilmar Heights Baptist Church on Victoria Park Ave right across the street from my grandparents Vic and Dorothy Williams. The first 10 years were reasonably uneventful I went to church every Sunday was baptized mainly because my friends were going to do this and I did not want to be left out. In `those early days I remember a sense that God wanted me to serve Him in some way and shared this dream with friends and family often. It was no secret that Kent Frost wanted to be a preacher. In my early teens my parents decided to move us to a newly built church closer to home with a young peoples group. We began attending Churchill Heights Baptist Church and got very involved.

During my 10th year I experienced sexual abuse, which became an ongoing issue that would cloud everything I did for the next 7 years and would haunt me in my adult life. My parents sent me from doctor to psychiatrist then back to doctors trying to understand what caused this well-adjusted intelligent child to become a frightened, miserable young man who slowly receded into himself.
I had heard the term fag and queer used against me since I was very young, school kids, siblings and yes even the young people at my new church! I knew I was different or unique and saw no reason to change that. I may have cared more than the average kid about how I looked, dressed, spoke and was a neat freak. I was flamboyant, a bit loud, more than just a little on the talkative side and had a real flair for the dramatic. I want to stress that at this point in my life I did not know or understand what the term fag and queer meant.

At 17 years old I seriously considered taking my life, it was at that point I decided to leave home. I was not running TOWARDS a homosexual lifestyle I was running AWAY from abuse not even thinking about where I was going or what might happen to me, all I could see was the need to run. I had run away numerous times before but I knew it would be different this time. I took my backpack, stole some of dad's "secret" stash of cash and I ran. I ran through the ravine behind our house determined not to look back. I got on the Go train and off I went to downtown Toronto. At the time all I could think of was " I was free at last" or so it seemed.

In an instant I had become a street kid. I met a man who befriended me that first night. He invited me to go for a drink at a place called "Chaps"; I politely explained apologetically that I did not like country music. He laughed at me and explained that Chaps was a gay bar, cheap beer, no i.d. required and a cool crowd. I was shocked that there were people living openly like this and that had a place to go, sadly I was to find out the focus of much of their lifestyle was a bar.
I was surprised over the years at the number of men and women I met who felt ostracized from their families and churches. Those first days and weeks you slowly begin to realize nothing will be the same again. It was over, no more church, no more sisters to wake in the morning, no more playing, no more laughter, there was going to be no salvation from this decision. No "amber alert", no search party, no tearful reunion, and the most painful of all - no apologies or explanations for what had happened to me. During the ongoing abuse I felt all of it must have been my fault, something I had brought upon myself. Somehow the deafening silence was a confirmation of those thoughts.

During the following few years I would move from place to place, always a hard worker always believing no matter how dark it got that God wanted more from me. Thankfully, I was good at computers, software and numbers and gradually worked my way up to a successful career all of it with a grade 10 education.
My partner at the time and I bought and sold real estate and built a comfortable middle class existence together but still that voice I had heard most of my life was always speaking to me about the path I had chosen. I decided to get involved as a volunteer in the area of palliative care as a volunteer. Friends were dying of Aids all around me and because of my Christian upbringing I wanted to help them and their families. It was a journey that saw me work with 85 families all one year, every patient dying. I really thought God would somehow show me mercy and save me through my good works.

August 2nd, 1989 does not stand out for me as my older sister's birthday but as the day I found out I was HIV +, I was 23 years old and my doctor with tears in his eyes explained I could very well be dead from Aids by Christmas. I remember little of the walk back to my apartment, little of the discussions with friends but I DO remember thinking - this is it, this is all there is? Had I struggled for most of my life just to die alone, in a hospital, surrounded by fear, with no one to hold me or to care for me?

As my health began to fail because of an AIDS related cancer I pushed on and accepted a very senior position in a large firm as Controller. I had arrived, first class travel, large budgets and staff. I would go to chemotherapy on Thursday afternoon and be back in my office by Monday fighting to keep it all together.

I successfully beat that occurrence and was faced with treatment decisions regarding my HIV. I had never been very comfortable with the choices the medical community were offering, most of my friends were dying or dead and I saw no visible proof any of these treatments were working. I decided to do nothing but get on with my life and deal with health situations as they arose.

Doing things my way seemed to work, my career was really taking off and I transferred to Montreal as my role in the company expanded. Little did I know disaster was looming. The first sign of trouble was in October 2003, I was in a teleconference and was speaking to a board member. I was forming words in my head but only grunts were coming out of my mouth.

Thinking I was overworked I went home and laid down, as I lay there a sense of dread overcame me, something drove me to get up and call out for help. By the time the ambulance arrived I could no longer speak or walk; later I was to find I could no longer write as well. I would spend the next six months painfully relearning all these skills before I could return to work.

The doctor's words were not promising, the virus had made its way into my brain and an MRI showed permanent damage had occurred. There was also the possibility it would only get worse. The fatigue, memory problems, mood changes and other small things I had been ignoring for some time now were signs of dementia related to the HIV.

I remember giving up hope of ever being normal again, the terror associated with the word dementia and the knowledge of what that could mean for my future. I was ill, trying to manage my career and my partner was leaving me all at the same time, I was looking for anything to help me get through it. And that's when it happened - it was so innocent - it was just this one time - just one hit - just one line - and suddenly it all seemed so clear to me - COCAINE.

A friend suggested cocaine would help my fatigue so I would have the energy to go out with him one evening, it would change my mood in an instant. That night COCAINE convinced me it could change my life.
The company I worked for revealed to me it was going public and the demands on me continued to grow. I was always fighting something, fatigue, work, relationship, money there was always something wearing me down. I thought, why not try a quick line of cocaine in the bathroom to help me focus better! Before I knew it the trips to the bathroom were becoming more and more frequent.

Eventually the combination of health, work, relationship and cocaine made it all come crashing down. No longer were the lines of coke I snuck in the washroom enough, I lost my job, my partner left and I sat at home hoping the next hit I did would fix it all and things would return to normal.

I had begun on a path to sheer hell that would teeter on the brink of madness. I became severely paranoid and began to display manic behavior. It became harder and harder to live in the real world. A nursing team assigned by a caring doctor I had in Montreal came to see me at the house one day, she drew blood work, we talked and she used a portable sharps container to dispose of a needle she had used and left it at the house.

I had NEVER used a syringe but there I was about to try it on myself anyway. Again the cocaine convinced me this was the true fix. This could not fail; it would be the answer! Not knowing what I was doing I jabbed myself several times having watched the nurse and finally got it, I did not know what I was doing and injected almost ½ gram into my veins.

I knew deep down what I was doing, I was trying to finally end the voices, guilt, pain, self-doubt and hatred once and for all - it was suicide.
The drugs, emotional problems and disease had all come together in that moment and I wanted out. I survived that attempt and was sent home, an empty house and still the same situation I had just tried to escape from. I would sit in my room rarely leaving it, I had stopped eating and would shoot up each time thinking this would be the one that would make me feel great, I would get up and fix everything. I was in and out of hospital fighting infections in my hands and feet as I struggled to find veins to use each time. Right arm, right hand, left arm, and left hand, left foot, right foot each failed hit causing my weakened body to become infected.

Trips to the hospital, a small break with no cocaine while I was treated with IV antibiotics - then back out only to start the cycle all over again. No more did I hear God's still small voice for my body was failing fast. Everything I had worked so hard to achieve was gone and so again I decided to commit suicide. This time I would use more cocaine, l remember the feeling as the cocaine began to paralyze my muscles, my organs shutting down and my throat closing. I was making this deafening groaning noise that seemed to come from the depths of my insides, had I finally done it right?

Again I would awake in the ICU unit of an emergency department, I was still alive I can't describe how I felt because I was in a constant haze of cocaine and other drugs administered to help me, but again was sent home to exactly the same environment.
During Christmas 2005 I was too stoned to even put up a tree and even if I did there was nothing to put under it. Friends finally put it up and decorated it before leaving to visit their families. The fun Kent Frost was long gone and so were most of the friends, the party was no longer enjoyable and they had moved on to other things. During that Christmas I laid on my couch for almost a week without moving once.

It was at this darkest time that friends called from Toronto realizing how desperate I was, they drove to Montreal packed me up and had me back in Toronto within 24 hours. Little did they or I know that action was going to change my life for eternity. My first objective was get the drugs under control, from that day forward I stopped using IV drugs but still struggled with the same issues, they had packed up and come along for the ride.

I started coming to Churchill Heights again with my mom; I remember my first visit after being away so many years. Those glass doors opened and the music poured out, the energy in the place was electric and I was truly surprised.

I was not the same person I was when I left but Churchill Heights had changed just as much - I for the worse - Churchill for the better! Pastor John had spoken to me a few times but I still was not ready to hear what God had to say to me.

By March 2006 I was now attending weekly and really enjoying the worship service and the preaching. I was starting to feel ill after what had seemed to be an improvement upon my return, my weight was increasing and each day I saw positive changes. I thought I had the flu and spent a week in and out of bed, one night I woke unable to breathe, bathed in sweat my heart racing so fast it was pounding in my head. The ambulance rushed me to hospital my heart rate out of control, my lungs burning as I fought for air.

During the next 36 hours struggling to breathe even with the aid of oxygen, my heart rate still very unstable my thought was, I had come home to die. Slowly as I thought about this and wondering if I was ready for it, thinking about the people who would be left behind I suddenly realized it, GOD was not finished with Kent Frost. How many times was I going to stumble to the brink before I would stop trying to figure it out, shut up and listen?

And then, there it was amongst the beeps and sounds of a hospital, that voice had never really left me. That voice and my longing for God just kept getting pushed aside by my own agenda. But now here I was between the wheezing, coughing and pain hearing that so familiar voice still there waiting to speak.

I could hear the voice clearer than I ever had before, was it possible that after all my years of running and rebellion that Jesus was going to come right here - and speak to me.

Could it be true that I need do nothing at all but give my life to Jesus Christ and let Him take on my battle? There was a deep sadness as I thought maybe I had the answer but would still face death this last time. I cried out and asked God with every piece of my DNA, I begged him to help me. The next day Pastor John and my mother came to hospital and for the next 4 hours John answered questions and explained the wonderful truth that Jesus Christ became my substitute, that Jesus Christ took my sin in his body to the cross.

It was right there in that hot cramped emergency room that Jesus Christ truly entered into my life. The Holy Spirit was there, Jesus Christ came to me - as I was - where I was - and confirmed to me that should He decide today to take me home then Heaven with Him was where He would take me, this was the real deal.

Eventually I was sent home with a failing heart, lungs still struggling and a new diagnosis of advanced stage cancer. Once again after all the years of struggle I was going to beat the odds so it would seem. I remember getting a discharge paper with follow up appointments and a list of medications I would require. The only word missing on that piece of paper the doctor could not have diagnosed was REDEEMED.

How many years had so many prayed for me, probably sometimes not even knowing anymore what to pray for. How many years had my mother prayed for my safety and my eternal salvation, how many friends joining her in that prayer, 23 years of asking and 23 years of waiting. How easy would it be to eventually move on to others on the list, or give up in frustration when the answer doesn't seem to come? Do we judge God based only on his last prayer which in your mind may have gone unanswered?


By Kent Frost
Used with permission
frost.kent@gmail.com

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