A Spring of Joy

The past couple weeks have passed in a bleary haze of either pain medication, nightmarish dreams or tears. I am struggling to put to words the answer to the kind questions y’all ask—“How are you? What have you learned? What do you need? What is the plan for treatment?”

A week before my surgery, I started in on my new treatment regimen. I wrote of that. Of the horror of the injections… of the infusion day… of the oral chemo. Y’all, I can’t describe the mental battle I was going through each day when I would pour those six orange horse pills into their prescription bottle lid (because I am to avoid touching them if I can). To ingest them knowing how I would feel? How do I?

I can’t.

Those words have repeated in my mind like a vinyl record that has hit a scratch. I felt stuck. Hopeless.

And yet.

We move forward.

The treatment gave me an itchy, red, and sometimes oozy rash on my face and feet. Fatigue overcame, and I struggled with a malaise that would find me curled in a ball on the couch saying to myself, “Just one foot on the floor. Just start with one foot on the floor. You can do it. You can.” This would take an hour. How do I?

I can’t.

And yet.

We move forward.

Last Monday my surgery went well. The nurse who prepped me was quite the interesting character. I’m not sure I’ve been called “Lovey” before and definitely not the number of times she called me that in the space of the hour she was with me. Lying on my bed, IV started and saline pumping, I texted my parents to give my love to my children… all the while fighting the dreaded fear of “what if I don’t wake up?” How do I?

I can’t.

And yet.

We move forward.

The surgery went fine. They weren’t able to remove the whole lesion because it’s not encapsulated and is invasive. They rushed me (and I mean RUSHED me) through recovery—I do not exaggerate, y’all. I couldn’t form a complete sentence and they were telling me to put my clothes on. What. The. Heck? Brian slowed them down a bit, and I was eventually on my way home to warm blankets and pillows and a snuggly pup and Mama and Daddy who took care of every detail so I could just rest and recover.

Recovery went well. Friends brought meals and the postman brought letters of encouragement and my phone rang to welcome the voices of far away friends and Friday I ventured out to have lunch with dear, dear friends who drove an hour and a half just to be with us. I can’t tell y’all how it feels, to be loved this way. How do I?

I can’t.

And yet.

We move forward.

Dealing with recovery along with side effects from my new treatment was breaking me. There were days where I couldn’t stop crying, and when I thought of walking through those cancer center doors again, I crumbled. The phone rang on Wednesday of last week, and it was my oncologist. “We’re stopping the injections.” Those were here first words to me. “A little birdie called me today, and you need to heal from all you’ve been through, and your body will not heal and fight if your mind and emotions remain this fragile. We will find another way.”

Y’all. That birdie was my husband—my husband who has had more work on his plate at his office in the last year than I’ve ever seen. Whose stress level is off the charts. He took the time to call and advocate for his wife in a way that shows his undying love for me. I called him, and when I heard his voice, I sobbed. “Thank you.” Was all I could whisper. “I can’t say more right now. Just thank you.” How do I?

I can’t.

And yet.

We move forward.

My nights have been a haze of panic attacks and nightmares (I’ve had 30-plus needles stuck into my body in the last four weeks.) When the fear screams and the lies distort reality, I can battle them during the day. I can open my Bible and I can turn on music and I can listen to truth. I can call a friend and sob over the voices that belittle me into thinking I am weak and worthless and a horrible wife and mother who’s unable to be present for her family and never there for my friends and that I should be able to handle all this. (Oh, y’all, I could write a whole post on how horrible the word “should” is.) But at night? When I fall to sleep and experience the panic in monstrous ways? How do I?

I can’t.

And yet.

We move forward.

On Tuesday I walked through those cancer center doors again. I talked with husky, tear-filled voice to those dear nurses who stopped by my chair. My oncologist was away for the week, so I saw one of her partners, who gave an update…

Y’all, I have described it to a few friends this way—-my life feels like I’m riding a tilt-a-whirl only there is no lap belt and there is no middle bar to hold onto.

My cancer has morphed. It is definitely spread in my neck and my abdomen. It is still breast cancer, but one of the identifying proteins has changed from positive to negative. So all the treatment plans are thrown out the window, and we will begin anew with a treatment for this specific type of breast cancer. My world spun. What? To process this information? How do I?

I can’t.

And yet.

We move forward.

I am off all treatment until next week. The rash is fading and my strength is returning. I will see my oncologist on Thursday, and we will begin a new regimen. This one will all be oral. Two separate drugs taken once a day. I don’t know much more than that. A few things to expect—-nausea, fatigue and low white blood cell counts. But it is a hopeful treatment in studies. The oncology pharmacist told me to remember I am never a statistic with God (he is such a kind man). Don’t look at the statistics. How do I?

I can’t.

And yet.

We move forward.

Y’all. I feel my weakness so keenly. All my weakness. I ache. My bones. My mind. My heart. We live in a world that deafens with the message that we can pull ourselves up by our own boot straps. That we are strong. That we are overcomers. That whatever you dream you can do. Y’all. If getting through this were about me and my strength, I would never have survived as long as I have. I need to hear the truth that in my weakness, He is strong. That when I take those steps forward, it is because He is holding me. That His grip on me never loosens. That no…

I can’t.

But. He. can.

Look at how He has answered all the fears I’ve faced in the past month!

How far is it spreading? My bones and organs all still clear!

Should I do the abdominal surgery? Without it they wouldn’t have found my cancer has evolved, and my treatment wouldn’t be targeted correctly.

How can I walk into the cancer center for those injections again? An oncologist who understands the need for every part of our body to be well, and who looks for other ways.

What if I don’t make it through surgery? I am here with my loves today. I am curling up late with Brian and making suppers and laughing around the dinner table and helping with projects and going to parent-teacher conferences and painting toenails and listening to her read the stories she’s written and driving to meetings and having long conversations with my teenage boys that melt this mama’s heart. (Look at this girl’s work space! She is my kindred spirit. An old soul, and she drives me wild with crazy mama love.)

There are still so many unknowns. I walk with a heaviness that often weighs me down. There is routinely a lump in my throat as I go about my day. There is a loneliness to suffering that I can’t quite wrap my words around. I don’t know what it is like to be blind, but I have heard that all your other senses are heightened. And y’all, I can tell you this, that in the darkness of trial, the taste of suffering is very bitter. But the sweetness of God’s goodness? It melts over the heart, not removing the struggle, but covering it, healing it, and giving strength.

No. I don’t know what tomorrow holds. Honestly, I fear it. I fear the next procedure, the next treatments, the next side effects, the what ifs. I will pick up those pills and swallow them, and I will fight this cancer. I will cry. I will wrestle. I will struggle. I will question whether I can.

But this I will know.

He can.

And in His strength, I… we… will move forward.