A friend who is a barista at a drive-through java joint told me over the weekend that it makes her go bonkers when people want to emotionally dump on her during the 2 minutes they are waiting for their coffee.
"Just tell me what you want to drink - I am not a counseling service!" she said.
Thusly, after I ordered my drink this morning, I gave her a toothy grin and threw out:
"So I just need to tell you how my marriage is falling apart!"
Her face froze for a second and then she saw my grin and remembered our conversation. I immediately realized what a marvelously stupid thing that was to say. God has abundantly blessed me - profoundly, deliciously, incredibly - with an amazing husband. What a reckless way for me to honor that blessing, especially when marital strife is the source of a tremendous amount of pain for many, many people. It is its own horrific catastrophe, and requires the same amount of superhuman grace that I received last year during mine.
(When my friend handed me my drink, she paid me a sweet compliment by saying she would know the world was ending if she heard me say those words for real about my hubby and me. Amen, sister!)
Last weekend I learned that one of the women who helped us in the first weeks of my breast cancer diagnosis - an active woman in her 40s with kids at home - has herself been diagnosed with breast cancer. I don't know her well - she doesn't live in the same town - yet she showed us sincere kindness and offered a heartfelt hug in January 2012. I'm scheduled to bring her a meal this Friday, and my prayer this week is that God will provide earnest words of encouragement that will make her feel stronger.
"Don’t use foul or abusive language. Let everything you say be good and helpful, so that your words will be an encouragement to those who hear them." Ephesians 4:29
Because let me tell you, dear peeps - it is vastly better to say something instead of nothing. If you know someone well enough to know their name and speak a couple of sentences to them: Acknowledge that you care about their catastrophe. Use simple words and few sentences. If you think this person is having a hard time dealing or you might use stupid words (like I did this morning), put it in a card, note or email. It is terrifying to feel like your news is so bad That It Must Not Be Acknowledged In Any Way.
This January marks two years since my initial operation to get that cancerous tumor out. We are planning a trek to somewhere warm again. We are still paying off our cancer bills, and have opted to defer some routine house maintenance stuff so we can go. I know which one makes for infinitely better family memories, that's for darn sure.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Sunday, November 3, 2013
The secret of content
Isn't this photo lovely? It was just made public. We girls attended this wedding on July 1. We were approached by the photographer, who said one of the groom's family had asked for our photo.
As I look at this captured moment, my brain is flooded with thoughts.
On this day, Bella was one day from turning 5 years old.
Kate has my eyes.
Did the person who requested the photo want a picture of me in case I kick it?
Doggone, it's nice to have hair again.
Thank you, Jesus, that I am alive right now.
A couple of weeks ago, I negotiated a deal to stop Googling "triple negative breast cancer." Or "recurrence rates," "cancer of the spine" or "brain cancer." I go through spells where I cannot seem to consume enough information about What The Future Might Hold For Me. I told my husband I was going to make my c-word media blackout last a week.
"How about you make it a month," he asked with a grin. It was a pact.
When I look at a photo like this, I feel such a wave of thanksgiving that I am overwhelmed with how God has profoundly blessed me and our family. Whether the cancer ever comes back or not. Isn't that crazy cool?
"I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or want. I can do all this through him who gives me strength." Philippians 4:12-13
Although my daily prayer is for a long life with these girlies and my handsome hubs, I'm so glad to know that Jesus is the secret of contentedness. I frequently miss the mark in thought and deed, but I'm really glad to know where I should be looking.
This Friday I'll be checking in with my oncologist - part of the Full Meal Cancer Deal is that you get to see your cancer doc and surgeon twice a year each for a while. However, like I said to my husband a few nights ago: "How great not to be driving to Anchorage once a week for chemo, huh? Seriously! How great is THAT?!!"
Pretty marvelous indeed.
Monday, August 5, 2013
How can it get any worse?
Last week at the girls' soccer practices, another mom lamented to me about how she and her husband had to replace the roof of a house they are trying to sell in the Lower 48.
"It's the worst!!!" she seethed, and she meant it. "I mean, really: how can it get any worse? Why don't you just go out and hit my car in the parking lot?"
It's ironic that she would say that to me, because a few weeks ago I was involved in a fender bender that was absolutely 100 percent my fault. It resulted in a broken taillight to a man's truck and a hefty dent for me. I was very apprehensive that he was going to come unglued. I offered a heartfelt apology, and then emphatically restated it.
Then he told me: "Stop. This is not worthy of you or me being upset. This is a little thing. And I know what a big thing is."
Before he had the chance to say anything else, I said I understood - I had gone through cancer treatment last year and I got what he was saying. He agreed with me - he said I did seem to know what he meant. Then he offered: "I lost an adult son just more than a decade ago myself, so I also get what big things are. This little accident is nothing - don't let it ruin your day."
"The unfolding of your words gives light; it gives understanding to the simple." Psalm 119:130
Suddenly the broken taillight and the big dent were peanuts. In a few moments, this yucky situation was upended in to being a blessing. No one had been hurt. No one was dead. No was was battling cancer, or making a running list of songs in her iphone to be played at her memorial service. And doggone, I was getting schooled in remembering that.
Back at the soccer field, I actually considered taking this woman up on her offer to give her a big juicy dent in her car. After my own recent fender bender experience, I had plenty of answers to her rhetorical question: How can it get any worse?
You could get cancer.
Or your husband could get cancer.
Or one of your kids could die.
I am certain that if presented with these other options, this mother would have agreed with me 1000 percent. However, I remained silent as the mom vented. I'm not sure if it's possible to wholly understand how easy it is for these alternatives to happen until you've lived it. To the rest of the world, options like that sound like mean-spirited hyperbole.
I'll also confess: I remained quiet because I hate the idea of being known as the woman with the sweeping violin crescendo following her everywhere she goes. She had cancer and watch out - she will relate it to everything in her life.
"It's the worst!!!" she seethed, and she meant it. "I mean, really: how can it get any worse? Why don't you just go out and hit my car in the parking lot?"
It's ironic that she would say that to me, because a few weeks ago I was involved in a fender bender that was absolutely 100 percent my fault. It resulted in a broken taillight to a man's truck and a hefty dent for me. I was very apprehensive that he was going to come unglued. I offered a heartfelt apology, and then emphatically restated it.
Then he told me: "Stop. This is not worthy of you or me being upset. This is a little thing. And I know what a big thing is."
Before he had the chance to say anything else, I said I understood - I had gone through cancer treatment last year and I got what he was saying. He agreed with me - he said I did seem to know what he meant. Then he offered: "I lost an adult son just more than a decade ago myself, so I also get what big things are. This little accident is nothing - don't let it ruin your day."
"The unfolding of your words gives light; it gives understanding to the simple." Psalm 119:130
Suddenly the broken taillight and the big dent were peanuts. In a few moments, this yucky situation was upended in to being a blessing. No one had been hurt. No one was dead. No was was battling cancer, or making a running list of songs in her iphone to be played at her memorial service. And doggone, I was getting schooled in remembering that.
Back at the soccer field, I actually considered taking this woman up on her offer to give her a big juicy dent in her car. After my own recent fender bender experience, I had plenty of answers to her rhetorical question: How can it get any worse?
You could get cancer.
Or your husband could get cancer.
Or one of your kids could die.
I am certain that if presented with these other options, this mother would have agreed with me 1000 percent. However, I remained silent as the mom vented. I'm not sure if it's possible to wholly understand how easy it is for these alternatives to happen until you've lived it. To the rest of the world, options like that sound like mean-spirited hyperbole.
I'll also confess: I remained quiet because I hate the idea of being known as the woman with the sweeping violin crescendo following her everywhere she goes. She had cancer and watch out - she will relate it to everything in her life.
God has a purpose for everything - He seriously and really does. Although I hated going through last year, I love the delicious dose of perspective it has allowed me. Erasing cancer and the related experiences from my brain minimizes what God is trying to do through and because of it.
The man and the taillight? At the scene we agreed it was likely going to cost a few hundred bucks because of the damage. He called a week later and said he was able to find another, and he and his buddy installed it. Could I write him a check for $50?
It seemed like a tiny price to pay for the valuable reminder I'd been given.
Friday, June 14, 2013
Still looking good
MRI results are back. The wonderful words "unchanged," "nonaggressive" and "appears benign" were on it. Thank you, Lord! My oncologist said more scans are in my future, but so it goes.
Monday, June 10, 2013
Broccoli, swiss chard, leaf lettuce - oh my!
"Kale, broccoli, swiss chard, leaf lettuce - wow," the grocery clerk/store manager said as each item rolled by on the conveyer belt. "You eat HEALTHY. I'm impressed!"
I handed her my cloth bags for carryout and said dryly, "Yeah, well, I went through breast cancer last year and sheese louise, there's nothing like that to make you eat healthy so you can be a lean, mean, cancer-fighting machine."
When she gaped at me I thought, "Uh oh." Sometimes the C-word can be little touchy. I opened up my mouth with the full intent of babbling to mask the silence. Instead she filled it by saying that she herself had battled cancer.
We cancer chicks are everywhere.
"I even needed a port," she said, drawing her shirt down an inch to reveal the collar bone scar many of us cancer chicks share. Without realizing my hand was doing it, I felt myself tug down my own shirt a fraction, and exclaim: "ME, TOO!!!"
While writing my check, I told her that before I was diagnosed with cancer, I had always wondered if I would be one of those people who looked at God and said, "Why me??!!" when confronted with that kind of Code Red Circumstance. But instead, I said, the year was so profoundly full of blessing for me and my family that it never occurred to me that I should question my circumstances. We were so well loved and provided for in some really unexpected ways.
(I will tell you plainly that when we were wondering whether our daughter could be ill, that blessing seemed a lot more remote, but God's provision was still sharply, even painfully, evident.)
I looked up from my check. Her eyes were full of tears, and she was clutching my cloth bags to her chest. All my groceries had been bagged in plastic thanks to the bag boy (more for the stash), and that's OK! I get her response. Going through last year made me feel the most vulnerable of my life.
Today I'm going to Anchorage to get an MRI. It was supposed to wait until this fall, but my docs decided that they would like to get a six-month scan (my first MRI was in January). I am gloriously ready to step off this medical freight train that I have been riding, but going through last year equipped me to feel a peace about these MRIs now. After weekly treatment last year, this kind of thing feels like a vacation.
"Lord, You are my portion
and my cup of blessing;
I handed her my cloth bags for carryout and said dryly, "Yeah, well, I went through breast cancer last year and sheese louise, there's nothing like that to make you eat healthy so you can be a lean, mean, cancer-fighting machine."
When she gaped at me I thought, "Uh oh." Sometimes the C-word can be little touchy. I opened up my mouth with the full intent of babbling to mask the silence. Instead she filled it by saying that she herself had battled cancer.
We cancer chicks are everywhere.
"I even needed a port," she said, drawing her shirt down an inch to reveal the collar bone scar many of us cancer chicks share. Without realizing my hand was doing it, I felt myself tug down my own shirt a fraction, and exclaim: "ME, TOO!!!"
While writing my check, I told her that before I was diagnosed with cancer, I had always wondered if I would be one of those people who looked at God and said, "Why me??!!" when confronted with that kind of Code Red Circumstance. But instead, I said, the year was so profoundly full of blessing for me and my family that it never occurred to me that I should question my circumstances. We were so well loved and provided for in some really unexpected ways.
(I will tell you plainly that when we were wondering whether our daughter could be ill, that blessing seemed a lot more remote, but God's provision was still sharply, even painfully, evident.)
I looked up from my check. Her eyes were full of tears, and she was clutching my cloth bags to her chest. All my groceries had been bagged in plastic thanks to the bag boy (more for the stash), and that's OK! I get her response. Going through last year made me feel the most vulnerable of my life.
This last weekend, we climbed a bit of Mt. Marathon. I kept marveling out loud to my hubby at how my body was even capable of making that kind of a hike. One year ago today, I was just shy of four weeks of being done with chemo. I was as bald as bald can be and I felt weariness to my bones de profoundis.
But that feels like 10 years ago now. I wish I could whisper encouragement to myself a year ago that I would be readying for my first 5K, and actually able to run 3.2 miles without stopping (which I did for the very first time last week). The mouth sores will be gone, I would tell myself, and you will be climbing mountains and using mascara again on eyelashes that have finally grown back! However, that kind of knowledge also wouldn't have permitted me to lean on Jesus the way that I did.
Today I'm going to Anchorage to get an MRI. It was supposed to wait until this fall, but my docs decided that they would like to get a six-month scan (my first MRI was in January). I am gloriously ready to step off this medical freight train that I have been riding, but going through last year equipped me to feel a peace about these MRIs now. After weekly treatment last year, this kind of thing feels like a vacation.
"Lord, You are my portion
and my cup of blessing;
You hold my future."
Psalm 16:5
I'll post the MRI results soon after I receive them. Thanks for your prayers, dear peeps!
Psalm 16:5
I'll post the MRI results soon after I receive them. Thanks for your prayers, dear peeps!
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Gorgeously boring
This image speaks to me!
I was on that happy little ship in 2012, and the whale - well - you can imagine what that represents. I still search for my post-cancer sea legs sometimes, nearly 18 months following diagnosis.
"Wait on the Lord. Take heart, be strong. Wait on the Lord." Psalms 27:14
A lot has happened since I last wrote. A neurosurgeon said my spinal mass is probably benign (YAY!!); another MRI is scheduled in six months to confirm. A sweet friend started and finished cancer treatment. A classmate from high school suddenly died from a traumatic head injury. Less staggering - I finished my master gardening class. Bella "graduated" from her preschool - she starts kindergarten this fall. My sweet husband is nearing completion on the Bloom Room. Kate got glasses.
I love the "less staggering" parts of life now - I adore boring. Once chemo was done and I was de-boobed last fall, I thought: "OK, life. I'm ready to get back to you." But I marvel at how the gal who stumbled in to cancer at the beginning of last year is not the same one writing this now.
For example, when my husband and I were first married, it torked me to no end when he put sweaty, inside out socks and T-shirts in the laundry hamper.
I. HATED. IT.
As a "compromise," I would happily wash said clothing and fold them (still inside out). It was up to him to fix them when he put them on.
I don't do that any more. I make sure they're right when they get folded. Because, doggone, this man solidly stood beside me through a nasty, fingernail-falling-off time of my life. I'm thankful that God has blessed me with this man, and the very least that blessing deserves is some correctly folded laundry.
I. HATED. IT.
As a "compromise," I would happily wash said clothing and fold them (still inside out). It was up to him to fix them when he put them on.
I don't do that any more. I make sure they're right when they get folded. Because, doggone, this man solidly stood beside me through a nasty, fingernail-falling-off time of my life. I'm thankful that God has blessed me with this man, and the very least that blessing deserves is some correctly folded laundry.
This is something else that's different about me: I have gotten in to shape. I'm sharing this screenshot of my phone, because I hit a milestone. When I began exercising last fall following the mastectomy, I told my hubby that my goal was a 12-minute mile. While I'm three seconds shy of that goal, this is still a big deal. I know it's not Flo-Jo speed, but for Slo-Mo me - wow. I'm so thankful God has granted me the energy to exercise.
Last month, Kate's first grade class had swimming lessons for a week. I debated being a parent helper in the water, but decided it was most wise to arrive after lessons each day to help get kids dressed and back to school. The kids are used to seeing me help out each week in the classroom, and they razzed me for not getting in the water.
"Maybe next year," I told them.
Although I can honestly say that I have not missed my boobs one whit (their absence is one of my favorite sources of comedy to my family and close friends), I did not want to be on the receiving end of 20 questions about why they were missing. After last year, I do my very best to avoid any unnecessary drama. That's something else new about me - I used to revel in life's unexpected dips and twirls with a "bring it ON" cheer. Now I am incredibly thankful for these times of calm.
Yep. I once said that benign is beautiful (and boy, is it ever), but boring looks pretty gorgeous, too.
Although I can honestly say that I have not missed my boobs one whit (their absence is one of my favorite sources of comedy to my family and close friends), I did not want to be on the receiving end of 20 questions about why they were missing. After last year, I do my very best to avoid any unnecessary drama. That's something else new about me - I used to revel in life's unexpected dips and twirls with a "bring it ON" cheer. Now I am incredibly thankful for these times of calm.
Yep. I once said that benign is beautiful (and boy, is it ever), but boring looks pretty gorgeous, too.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Little spiders
My husband is returning tonight after being gone all week in Texas for work-related training. The first night he was away, a 4-year-old cutie arrived at my bedside at 3 a.m.
"Momma, can I snuggle?" she asked, her brow knit and wild brown curls everywhere. "There are wittle spy-duhrs in my bed."
Bella has a slight speech impediment (and she's not even the left-handed one). Is it wrong that I encourage it sometimes? I will be sad when it goes away, because doggone, it's adorable.
I told her to climb in on my husband's side, and she settled right down. In the morning, I leaned within inches of her face and watched her sleep for a few minutes. Wittle spyduhrs indeed.
But it's got me thinking about my own little imaginary spiders. Those breathlessly terrifying little things that skitter around in my head when I least expect it. With my hubby away, I have been having a horrible time sleeping - twice I have woken up in the middle of a medical nightmare. One dream involved an oncologist telling me that I was getting cancer again because I wasn't drinking enough water (I came fully awake at the bathroom faucet, gulping at the tap). The other one involved something similar, but thankfully, I didn't leave the bed for that one.
I turned 39 at the beginning of this week. People have been asking me: Was it a fabulous birthday? I had to tell them that I have honestly had better celebrations. My husband was away, and the week had been tough for other reasons. But after 2012, I told them, this birthday felt like a razor sharp blessing just the same. I think all future birthdays will feel that way! If the Lord wills, there will be a lot of them.
Then today, I got the worst kind of phone call. One of my dearest, true-blue friends is having a family crisis that is unbearably painful. The kind of turmoil that you cannot anticipate and will not go away in weeks or months. I told her that I love her and would be by her side, no matter what. She could call me any time - daily, day or night, many times a day and I am praying for her. I ached with how much I just wanted to get on a plane and hold her in my arms.
I realized later - I had voiced to my friend what God does for me daily. And for all of us who trust Him! He is at my side, and will not leave me. He is accessible daily, day or night, many times a day. I talk to God often, but sometimes ... in the middle of the night ... I forget that He's still right there and He's not going anywhere. He is an awesome, all-mighty, most excellent spider killer that way.
This Friday, I am meeting with my oncologist for the first time since last October. It was a routine, post-treatment appointment but now that the whole spinal mass thing has happened, we'll have plenty to talk about. I have been steeling myself for this appointment in case I hear stuff I don't want to hear, but after today's phone call, all those thoughts seem really, really ... little. God has got this, just like He has that family, in the palm of His hand.
On Sunday, we did all things "T" for my kids' Sunday school class - and this week's memory verse is so apt. It's one I've mentioned before - I've sure come to understand it a lot better these last many months:
"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding." Proverbs 3:5
Amen.
"Momma, can I snuggle?" she asked, her brow knit and wild brown curls everywhere. "There are wittle spy-duhrs in my bed."
Bella has a slight speech impediment (and she's not even the left-handed one). Is it wrong that I encourage it sometimes? I will be sad when it goes away, because doggone, it's adorable.
I told her to climb in on my husband's side, and she settled right down. In the morning, I leaned within inches of her face and watched her sleep for a few minutes. Wittle spyduhrs indeed.
But it's got me thinking about my own little imaginary spiders. Those breathlessly terrifying little things that skitter around in my head when I least expect it. With my hubby away, I have been having a horrible time sleeping - twice I have woken up in the middle of a medical nightmare. One dream involved an oncologist telling me that I was getting cancer again because I wasn't drinking enough water (I came fully awake at the bathroom faucet, gulping at the tap). The other one involved something similar, but thankfully, I didn't leave the bed for that one.
I turned 39 at the beginning of this week. People have been asking me: Was it a fabulous birthday? I had to tell them that I have honestly had better celebrations. My husband was away, and the week had been tough for other reasons. But after 2012, I told them, this birthday felt like a razor sharp blessing just the same. I think all future birthdays will feel that way! If the Lord wills, there will be a lot of them.
Then today, I got the worst kind of phone call. One of my dearest, true-blue friends is having a family crisis that is unbearably painful. The kind of turmoil that you cannot anticipate and will not go away in weeks or months. I told her that I love her and would be by her side, no matter what. She could call me any time - daily, day or night, many times a day and I am praying for her. I ached with how much I just wanted to get on a plane and hold her in my arms.
I realized later - I had voiced to my friend what God does for me daily. And for all of us who trust Him! He is at my side, and will not leave me. He is accessible daily, day or night, many times a day. I talk to God often, but sometimes ... in the middle of the night ... I forget that He's still right there and He's not going anywhere. He is an awesome, all-mighty, most excellent spider killer that way.
This Friday, I am meeting with my oncologist for the first time since last October. It was a routine, post-treatment appointment but now that the whole spinal mass thing has happened, we'll have plenty to talk about. I have been steeling myself for this appointment in case I hear stuff I don't want to hear, but after today's phone call, all those thoughts seem really, really ... little. God has got this, just like He has that family, in the palm of His hand.
On Sunday, we did all things "T" for my kids' Sunday school class - and this week's memory verse is so apt. It's one I've mentioned before - I've sure come to understand it a lot better these last many months:
"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding." Proverbs 3:5
Amen.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
MRI results
Good mews! Unchanged epidural mass at T11-12 appears non-aggressive. They recommend follow up MRI in 3 months. Yahoo!!
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Being quiet and killing giants
Tomorrow I am getting the follow-up MRI for the spinal mass that was detected back in January. Here is how the initial radiology report put it in summary:
I do the children's Sunday school program at our church, so each week I come up with a short lesson and craft for the kids ages 2 - 9. We are going through the letters of the alphabet (last week was "P" so we talked about how Jesus is the Prince of Peace and He loves it when people pray). I was worried that this week would be difficult - "Q, Q, Q," I thought at the beginning of the week. "What am I going to do with that?!" - but it turned out God had some powerful encouragement in it for me.
We talked about what it means to be quiet with God. In the case of Elijah, he was at the end of his rope and on the run for his life from Queen Jezebel's henchmen. He was ready to quit. After many days of travel, Elijah was directed by God to wait for His presence. A huge wind, earthquake and fire came (which seems like the perfect dramatic entrance for an all-powerful God to me). But God wasn't in any of those things. Instead, He came as a soft whisper.
If you know me one iota, you know that I don't do "still" very well. So as I have approached tomorrow's follow-up MRI these last couple of weeks, I have done the most faith-filled thing possible: Over-fill my days with activity to the point of chaos and exhaustion. Busy minds aren't very good at dwelling on things, I have reasoned.
Earlier this week I told a dear friend that I was doing great, and had been staying super busy but "in a good way." However, I realize now that it's not been so good. I am scared spitless that this "thing" on my spine is cancer metastasis. No amount of "noise" changes that.
Face the giant, I am telling myself tonight. Be quiet. Trust! Listen.
I'll update this blog when I get results or additional direction on what's next. I suspect either a biopsy will be done at some point or additional MRI monitoring.
In the meantime, one more lesson I will remember for some time: 2-year-olds spit out quinoa if they have never eaten it before. Good to know!
I do the children's Sunday school program at our church, so each week I come up with a short lesson and craft for the kids ages 2 - 9. We are going through the letters of the alphabet (last week was "P" so we talked about how Jesus is the Prince of Peace and He loves it when people pray). I was worried that this week would be difficult - "Q, Q, Q," I thought at the beginning of the week. "What am I going to do with that?!" - but it turned out God had some powerful encouragement in it for me.
We talked about what it means to be quiet with God. In the case of Elijah, he was at the end of his rope and on the run for his life from Queen Jezebel's henchmen. He was ready to quit. After many days of travel, Elijah was directed by God to wait for His presence. A huge wind, earthquake and fire came (which seems like the perfect dramatic entrance for an all-powerful God to me). But God wasn't in any of those things. Instead, He came as a soft whisper.
If you know me one iota, you know that I don't do "still" very well. So as I have approached tomorrow's follow-up MRI these last couple of weeks, I have done the most faith-filled thing possible: Over-fill my days with activity to the point of chaos and exhaustion. Busy minds aren't very good at dwelling on things, I have reasoned.
Following today's Sunday school lesson on Elijah, the visiting pastor gave a terrifically awesome sermon on David and Goliath. I have heard this part of 1 Samuel preached many times. But God's Word spoke to me so powerfully and personally today that I wanted to weep with thanks.
"What are your giants?" asked the pastor in closing. In my mind, I whispered: Cancer. But I realized the real answer was fear. Total, abject terror that I am about to do another dance with a most unwelcome dance partner. The pastor encouraged us to allow God to take care of our giants the way He used David to take care of Goliath.
Earlier this week I told a dear friend that I was doing great, and had been staying super busy but "in a good way." However, I realize now that it's not been so good. I am scared spitless that this "thing" on my spine is cancer metastasis. No amount of "noise" changes that.
Face the giant, I am telling myself tonight. Be quiet. Trust! Listen.
I'll update this blog when I get results or additional direction on what's next. I suspect either a biopsy will be done at some point or additional MRI monitoring.
In the meantime, one more lesson I will remember for some time: 2-year-olds spit out quinoa if they have never eaten it before. Good to know!
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Beautifully, happily flawed
A year ago tonight I was at home, physically and emotionally reeling after my first chemo. I am almost humming with jubilance that I am reflecting on this in the past tense, a whole 365 days later.
Then I immediately think of people I personally know who have been diagnosed with cancer since my own treatment ended. It makes me feel a lot less jubilant, that's for sure.
While I wait to take the follow-up MRI that will check out the "thing" on my spine (it's scheduled for March 11), God has encouraged me with some blessed interactions with other people. "Chemo brain," as it's called, is a common condition that affects people who have taken (or are taking) those powerful poisons designed to kill the cancer.
And boy, it got me big time. Space Cadet Brown - that was me for months while I was on the dope. I have experienced some SCB brain cramps since treatment that have made me wonder if I have permanent brain damage caused by the drugs. Or a brain tumor. "Cancer" is what my mind whispers when weird stuff happens with my body.
"Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you." 1 Peter 5:7
God, always present and infinitely knowing, has comforted me by reminding me of something important.
Just yesterday, I was talking with a mom outside my 4-year-old's preschool. She looks down at her hand, suddenly frantic, and begins to scan the front seat of her car. She opens up the back door of her sedan, and peers between her kids' car seats. I ask if she has lost something.
"My car keys. They were just here. UGH! Maybe I left them inside the preschool," she says.
I ask her: "Isn't your car running? Could your keys be in it?"
Just minutes before I had overheard a different mom apologizing to another one for completely spacing their long-running weekly playdate. And over coffee, I listened to a dear friend tell the beginning of an obviously fabulous story about her daughter only to forget what had happened to make it so funny.
Thank you, God. Thank you for showing me that healthy people are still ... people.
I have always been loathe to admit the following, but I have come to take profound comfort in this statement: I am a flawed human being. I am not perfect. I get headaches, back aches and sometimes I get distracted. It doesn't mean that I have a brain tumor. Or that the one in my spine is cancer, necessarily.
A year ago, before I switched oncologists, I was asked to participate in a study about "chemo brain." Although my participation didn't work out, the results of a similar study were published in December. I was interested to read that "chemo brain" seems to start before treatment has even begun.
Really, it confirmed what I have long suspected: Perhaps chemo brain is not caused so much from the poison as it is the extreme mental stress of receiving this terrifying diagnosis and all the horrific weight it carries for not only yourself, but your mate, sweet children, friends and family. I find that comforting! At least it's not permanent brain damage.
Being more flawed than usual but beautifully alive? Happy to do it. Thank you, Lord God, for more opportunities to realize that I am absolutely not most excellent You!
Then I immediately think of people I personally know who have been diagnosed with cancer since my own treatment ended. It makes me feel a lot less jubilant, that's for sure.
While I wait to take the follow-up MRI that will check out the "thing" on my spine (it's scheduled for March 11), God has encouraged me with some blessed interactions with other people. "Chemo brain," as it's called, is a common condition that affects people who have taken (or are taking) those powerful poisons designed to kill the cancer.
And boy, it got me big time. Space Cadet Brown - that was me for months while I was on the dope. I have experienced some SCB brain cramps since treatment that have made me wonder if I have permanent brain damage caused by the drugs. Or a brain tumor. "Cancer" is what my mind whispers when weird stuff happens with my body.
"Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you." 1 Peter 5:7
God, always present and infinitely knowing, has comforted me by reminding me of something important.
Just yesterday, I was talking with a mom outside my 4-year-old's preschool. She looks down at her hand, suddenly frantic, and begins to scan the front seat of her car. She opens up the back door of her sedan, and peers between her kids' car seats. I ask if she has lost something.
"My car keys. They were just here. UGH! Maybe I left them inside the preschool," she says.
I ask her: "Isn't your car running? Could your keys be in it?"
Just minutes before I had overheard a different mom apologizing to another one for completely spacing their long-running weekly playdate. And over coffee, I listened to a dear friend tell the beginning of an obviously fabulous story about her daughter only to forget what had happened to make it so funny.
Thank you, God. Thank you for showing me that healthy people are still ... people.
I have always been loathe to admit the following, but I have come to take profound comfort in this statement: I am a flawed human being. I am not perfect. I get headaches, back aches and sometimes I get distracted. It doesn't mean that I have a brain tumor. Or that the one in my spine is cancer, necessarily.
A year ago, before I switched oncologists, I was asked to participate in a study about "chemo brain." Although my participation didn't work out, the results of a similar study were published in December. I was interested to read that "chemo brain" seems to start before treatment has even begun.
Really, it confirmed what I have long suspected: Perhaps chemo brain is not caused so much from the poison as it is the extreme mental stress of receiving this terrifying diagnosis and all the horrific weight it carries for not only yourself, but your mate, sweet children, friends and family. I find that comforting! At least it's not permanent brain damage.
Being more flawed than usual but beautifully alive? Happy to do it. Thank you, Lord God, for more opportunities to realize that I am absolutely not most excellent You!
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Good news, pretty much
The results of the MRI/CT scans came back today. There is no evidence of metatastic cancer in the blood work or scans (WOO HOO!!). There is, however, a 3.2 cm seemingly benign "mass" on my spine.
I received this info on my cell phone by text from my oncologist. This type of communication might turn off some people but I appreciate how quickly I am able to dialogue with him.
"Yikes?" I texted back.
He wrote that he feels pretty confident that this is nothing to worry about. We'll be doing a follow-up MRI in about four weeks just to be certain.
My hubby and I are not overly worried about it. But if you think of it, please join us in praying that this "thing" (my oncologist's technical term for it) is as harmless as it appears right now.
I received this info on my cell phone by text from my oncologist. This type of communication might turn off some people but I appreciate how quickly I am able to dialogue with him.
"Yikes?" I texted back.
He wrote that he feels pretty confident that this is nothing to worry about. We'll be doing a follow-up MRI in about four weeks just to be certain.
My hubby and I are not overly worried about it. But if you think of it, please join us in praying that this "thing" (my oncologist's technical term for it) is as harmless as it appears right now.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Getting our balance back
We are still bathing in the glow of Hawaii.
Wallowing in the warmth, surrounded by the lush green and gorgeous beaches, was nothing short of divine. The break from our state's frigidity was a TREAT and after 2012's wild tilt-a-whirl ride, it was so incredibly needed. I told my hubby after a few days of sun: "I can feel an almost physical shift happening inside of me. What IS that?"
It took me a bit to realize that this is what rediscovering our equilibrium felt like.
We drank in the family time, and every thrilling discovery we made along the way. Turtles, lava tubes, geckos, fantastic snorkeling - ahhhhhhh. It was perfect. Here's some photo awesomeness:
"Now listen, you who say, 'Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.' Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, 'If it is the Lord's will, we will live and do this or that.'"James 4:13-15
This week I'm going in for an MRI and maybe CT scan. We're hopeful for continued good news - I pray that if it's God's will, my life will be long and cancer free. I have many ideas for fabulous slumber parts for these girls, and momma-daughter shopping trips! I'm thanking God for His continued grace-filled provision along the way, and will post the results of my scan the same day I get them myself.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
A year ago
Wow: 365 days ago today, I was given that glorious diagnosis that plunked me onto an entirely new course that I wasn't expecting. Not just me, but my two gorgeous girls and beautiful husband. My hubby and I both agree that it feels like five years have passed instead of just one - so, so much driving, feeling utterly exhausted and thinking about cancer!
Thusly, I am especially thankful to be celebrating this "anniversary" in Kona, where we are reveling in being cancer free and God's awesome provision to our family. On beaches. In the sun. Tomorrow, in lava tubes!
May your 2013 be full of excellent health.
Thusly, I am especially thankful to be celebrating this "anniversary" in Kona, where we are reveling in being cancer free and God's awesome provision to our family. On beaches. In the sun. Tomorrow, in lava tubes!
May your 2013 be full of excellent health.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)