A Spring of Joy

This will be a pretty raw post, because that’s where I am, so consider yourself forewarned.

Raw. Bloodied. Beaten. Wounded. Exhausted.

Another round begins… more scans, more blood work, more appointments, more follow up and more surgery.

It’s long and it’s complicated, and I am completely overwhelmed.

I saw a specialist this week who is sending me for several follow up scans. She’s the one that looked at me and said, “Because you’re at such a high risk for recurrence… blah, blah, blah….”

I didn’t hear much after that. I knew that was the case, but it is honestly the first time a doctor has voiced it to me. I felt an enormous wave of dizziness engulf me. High risk for recurrence. I find myself working through acceptance all over again just in a very different way.

She is having me do a centi-mammography scan. That’s where they inject a tracer dye into your foot vein (yes, I said foot vein) and it shows cancer on the cellular level. They are checking my healthy breast. That will be sometime in May.

It was at that point I found I couldn’t breathe. I’ve always had a hate-hate relationship with needles. Ever since my five hour torture session with the vampires at the hospital, it’s been escalated to panic attacks. I’ve been nauseated ever since she mentioned it. It is a terror on a level I can’t even begin to explain. (Please, don’t tell me, “I hate needles, too.” This goes far beyond hatred. This is counseling level struggle–and yes, I’ve seen the cancer center counselor numerous times about it.)

And the pain I’ve been having since surgery? She confirmed. It is chronic pain. Chronic. As in it will never go away.

She is also concerned about my risk for ovarian cancer. Thus another surgery. A preventative one. That will be sometime soon, too, although I have to call and make the necessary appointments to make it happen. And I have to figure out when I can fit that into my schedule.

My schedule. I need to pursue physical therapy for my lymphedema which isn’t clearing up. I need to make an eye appointment for the constant tearing that’s happening in my eyes (another chemo side effect). I don’t even know where or when to fit those in.

And on top of all this, we are taking sweet Ash to the pediatric rheumatologist in May because he is in so much pain and discomfort. He hasn’t slept a night through in months.

How do I do all this?

I know this is all “good”… it’s proactive… it’s to help keep that recurrence from coming.

When I heard that I was clear from cancer two months ago, I convinced myself that by May we’d be done. I’d be moving on.

I am watching the death of another dream, and I am done in.

Done in, y’all.

For the first time since this all began almost three years ago, I am questioning whether I really believe anything I’ve written. I am questioning God. His very being. Who He is.

And that makes me cry. All the time.

Because of all the things that I suffer through, this is the one thing I do not think I can handle. I cannot handle uncertainty in my faith in Him. I know the irony in this… that my even saying I can’t handle Him not being here is proof that He is.

So I spend my days alone, hiding tears from my children, taking ragged breaths and trying to give them normalcy in the midst of chaos.

My arsenal is bare, and I have had no time to replenish before the next wave of battle hit.

Raw. Bloodied. Beaten. Wounded. Exhausted. Uncertain. Alone.

That is me.

A sweet mom from our sons’ school emailed me today and wrote very simply, “I am praying for a peaceful heart.”

Will you pray for this, too? I just long for peace.

“PEACE. It does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble or hard work. It means to be in the midst of those things and still be calm in your heart.” ~Unknown