A Spring of Joy

Recently, in my Facebook memories, a picture popped up of Bri and me with dear friends who were our campus ministry leaders at JMU many years ago. I wrote:

On Friday, they stopped by to see us, and it was sheer gift to laugh and cry, to reminisce and to dream, to see through it all God’s faithfulness to them and to us. They have taught us so much in the twenty-plus years we have known them, but always, always it comes back to this: He is faithful.

I have been quiet last week. Part of it is that I had chemo and was down for a few days. Part of it is that there are things going on in life that aren’t for me to write about. But they are hard places that Bri and I and others are stepping into as helpers.

On Tuesday of last week, my faithful Daddy by my side, we tromped into the cancer center with our bags of books (we bring several because you’re just never sure what mood you’ll be in and what you want to read) and awaited my appointment. After seeing one of my oncologist’s colleagues, they sent me to my chemo chair. I’m at the point now where they just tell me where to go and I walk the halls with Dad to find my spot, waving at the nurses, many of whom I consider friends. After chemo, we made our way to another part of the hospital for my MRI of my arm, stopping to grab a ham sandwich and some coffee.

They were wonderful and the MRI went smoothly (or as smoothly as lying in a tube six inches from my nose with my hands strapped to my sides can be.) I am so thankful I’m not claustrophobic.

Afterward, I returned to the cancer center for a few more things and getting my port deaccessed. I was at the hospital almost eight hours, and weariness oozed from me as I climbed in Daddy’s car to head home. The phone rang not two minutes later. The doctor had received my MRI report and there is NOT cancer in my muscle.

Deep breaths. Thank you, Jesus.

It appears to be physiologic which means injury of some sort. I will discuss with my oncologist when I see her again. In the meantime, I do struggle with pain in my upper arm, shoulder and neck. By the end of the day it feels debilitating, and I. Am. Done.

Next week I will see the radiation oncologist to discuss treatment for the adrenal gland, and we will move forward from there.

Deep breaths. Help me, Jesus.

Y’all, my hair is coming out in droves. Handfuls when I shower. Our vacuum is more full of my hair than Cooper’s. I know this treatment that I’m on can cause thinning but this is way more than thinning. And I wonder if there is a connection to the cancer in my adrenal gland. And I wonder at what point I will shave my head again and go back to wigs and scarves and hats. And that makes my heart very sad.

But in the midst of sadness, He brings joy. I was able to help plan and celebrate a 50th wedding anniversary party for my parents on Saturday. There were quite a few moments where I had to catch my breath and swallow that lump in my throat as I looked around the room and saw so many people who’ve known me since birth. The hugs and the tears and the laughter and the celebration. What an impact my parents have made on the lives of so many. (Bonus: I ordered way too much food so we have lasagna and salad to feed us for the week.)

All in all, I am doing okay. I’m thankful for the “yes” God gave us with regards to my arm. He is worthy of praise no matter what the answer may be. And I have friends right now that the answer seems to be a lot of “no” right now. God loves them no less. We are all moving forward to the final “yes” when we see our Jesus face to face.

In the meantime, we cling to truths that our friend Dan has ingrained into us with his life and teaching:

Look at the cross, delight in the resurrection, hope in the future, share with the world, encourage the saints. God can. God cares.

He can, y’all. He cares.

Wednesday night, I curled on the floor in our den surrounded by my youth group high school girls. As we concluded our Bible study, I looked around at them and said, “Cling to God’s sovereignty. It’s hard, y’all. But the world is never spinning out of control. It’s only spinning out of OUR control.”

Y’all. It sure feels like it’s spinning out of control… careening and tilting, and I feel like I’m sliding off trying to grasp onto something and my fingertips just squeal and slide.

Deep breaths.

The oncologist called this morning with results of my PET scan, and I’m still trying to wrap my mind around all the information. I’ve talked with her twice and gotten clarification on some things. I’ll say it until I’m blue in the face—my oncologist is amazing. She went over my scan in detail with the radiologist so she could talk with me about where we go from here and I wouldn’t be left floundering over the weekend.

Here are the facts (trust me, I’ll get to the feelings):

—the areas of concern that they’ve been watching over the past year are continuing to disappear. The area in my abdomen that they biopsied last year is gone.

—my tumor markers continue to drop (one is in the normal range). Tumor markers are not an accurate indicator for everyone; however, they have been a good predictor for me in the past.

—but there is new spread in my abdomen. It’s actually in my left adrenal gland.

—there is also uptake of the radioactive dye in an area of my left triceps muscle. While it is very rare, breast cancer can spread to muscle.

Deep breaths.

—because of the lessening spots, the low tumor markers, and the time spent examining my scan, both my oncologist and radiologist believe that the area on my triceps is probably muscle injury (a tear perhaps) rather than cancer. But obviously they can’t say for sure. Either way, this would account for a steady increase in pain I’ve experienced in my left shoulder, neck and back.

—she has ordered an MRI for a better look at my arm and shoulder.

—also because of the lessening spots and low tumor markers, she will keep me on my current chemo regimen because it seems to be working to a good extent.

—I will have targeted radiation to the adrenal gland.

Deep breaths.

—I am overwhelmed by the hard. But thankful for some encouraging news.

A friend recently posted an article about Toby Mac, the Christian music artist, whose son died unexpectedly this week. Toby wrote: “We don’t follow God because we have some sort of under the table deal with Him like we’ll follow you if you bless us. We follow Him because we love Him. It is our honor. He is the God of the hills and the valleys. And He is beautiful above all things.” It wrecked me.

Because, y’all, I’ve been living my life recently like it is an under the table deal. I’ve struggled with anxiety, a LOT of anxiety of late, and I’ve struggled with distance from God. And I’ve been envisioning a God who is standing with his arms raised up waiting to drop the other shoe because I’ve not been a good enough daughter to him. And that’s not our Father God at all. Rather, He is the God Who, like my own father prayed this morning, “isn’t standing with His arms raised in judgment. He’s running with His arms outstretched to hold me close to Him.”

I’m overwhelmed by His kindness. I’m fearful, yes. “Don’t you see that we are perishing?!” the disciples screamed in the stormy boat. Yes. He sees. In fact, Jesus was there precisely because we ARE perishing without Him. To save us. If God sent His Son to die for me, to save me, to bring me to eternal life with Him, how can I doubt that anything else in my life is not for my good? It’s all for my good.

The flood still feels overwhelming. If I look ahead to what my days will look like… appointment after appointment after appointment… more procedures…the burning and fatigue of radiation, my knees buckle. But living in tomorrow is exhausting. Because we don’t know what tomorrow holds.

So we sit in the sadness today. Not frenetic or panicky. This could be much, much worse, and I’m thankful it’s not. Just sad. And heavy.

And we do the next thing. Lord willing.

We will go to dinner with a dear friend who is in town for JMU’s Homecoming.

We will go to the football game tonight at the boys’ school, and we will stand on the field at a pink out for breast cancer game, and we will honor our Ash for senior night.

We will celebrate tomorrow at our third wedding of the fall, another heart friend who has been a kindred since the day she introduced herself to me in the chemo room many years ago.

Bri and Ash will go to another college visit (I may or may not join them) at Virginia Tech (this pains my JMU Duke heart).

Bear will attend a Young Life retreat and worship our Father, “Because I need to, Mom. I need to worship.”

Next week we will go to work and school and play volleyball and tennis and have drama club and I’ll have chemo and we will enjoy our annual chili night for Halloween with friends…

And we will live.

Today.

Honest about where we are.

Thankful for the kindness of our good, good Father.

And finding our careening, slipping, squealing, sliding lives stilled by the hands that hold the universe in His.

(Thank y’all for praying for us so faithfully. For loving us so well. We are blessed beyond measure by you.)

“What are your plans for today?” Bri asked as he climbed into the driver’s seat next to me. We had just dropped off my Honda at the mechanic’s, and I was still trying to clear the haze of the morning even though I had been awake for hours. I leaned my head back against the headrest and mumbled, “Try not to throw up again?” He reached for my curled hand which ached from pain deep in its joints. He sighed his sorrow and drove me home.

That’s how that day began.

It’s been nine months since we learned there was progression of my cancer and I underwent all the subsequent testing and surgery. It’s been six months since I started new treatment protocol. My oncologist has been working faithfully with me to tweak dosages and timing. As always, she is giving me much input and days and weeks off so I can travel or attend important things in my family’s and my lives. This new treatment regimen has been hard with its impredictability. We are starting to learn what to expect when, but the last nine months of life have felt like the haze I was pushing through this morning.

“This one is breaking me,” I’ve whispered to Brian many times. And we tweak it again, so I feel less broken. And we keep on tweaking because we know it’s working. Some days I think it’s getting easier. Days like today, I don’t.

I see people regularly choosing their “word of the year” and I laughingly tell friends mine is “broken.” Depression and anxiety rooted deep within my heart and soul this winter, a side effect of one of my three medications with which we blast this cancer yet again. I have lived in a deep darkness these past months, but God is bringing me out of the shadows. Warm weather helps—-my physical aches and pains are less.

Yes, my body is broken. I have been struggling with a past of very poor theology that didn’t allow lament, and I have not known what to do with the darkness of my days. I have watched my children live life somewhere in the realm of “undone” and “fearful” yet rise to hope in what is true. Their courage pushes me to see the world around me with different eyes.

But treatment is working. I am fighting this monster with diet choices and Pilates and counseling and medications, and progression has halted for now. I am able to pace myself to watch my loves doing the things they love—running and tennis and drama. We go to movies together and have long, deep conversations about life and the power of story. We fix meals together and plan menus and work around the house. Bri and I get out together and go on dates and have game nights with friends. We laugh. A lot. We really do. I’m thankful for that. I need that.

Recently, at one of those game nights while playing the game, Imaginiff, we were given the choice, “If Angie were an ailment, what would she be?” Options were along the lines of a headache, a sick stomach, a pain in the rear, a pulled muscle… Brian laughingly looked over and said, “Well, that pretty much describes everything she deals with.” I won’t tell you which ailment he chose. *smile*

I don’t know how to answer friends who ask how I am doing. And many of you faithfully ask, for which I am so thankful. I often reply with, “I have good days and bad days. We just never know when they’re going to be.” Which is true. We tend to live very spontaneously. I just don’t know how to sum it all up without sounding like I’m complaining—-how do I describe to people that my hands become so raw that they burn and that I can’t pick up a pen and write? Or of my nails that split halfway down to the cuticle? Or that my scalp aches all the time and it hurts to brush my hair? That my skin feels like one big bruise covering my body and showers are physically painful? That I sometimes can’t eat because of sores in my mouth that mysteriously disappear the next day? And yet the medications cause bloating and swelling so it looks like I eat more than I do? And those are the minor side effects.

And the mental side effects? The forgetfulness? The words that don’t come? How when I go to church, I am so mentally exhausted from having to work so hard to understand what’s being taught and sung that I struggle to find joy? That beautiful words that used to be part of my vocabulary fly over my head and I feel like a simpleton? That Brian will tell of his day and talk about things I should understand, and I’ll say to him, “I don’t know what that word means.” Or this weekend when we were camping and I kept calling “cornmeal” “cole slaw”. That I have anxiety over the weirdest things—like what if I sit on an anthill at Bear’s tennis match and the ants eat my toes off? What. The. Heck?

How do I keep doing this?

But how do I not? Because even with all that I’m describing, I have days where I feel somewhat well. That a good cup of coffee and a good conversation with a friend is revitalizing. That I may limp down the hill to watch Bear play tennis, but the warmth of the sun on my face and the pride in watching him compete is strengthening. That the chill in the night air may make my bones ache, but watching my Ash push through in a 3200-meter race fills my heart. That getting ready to go out may use up all my energy, but watching my girl own the stage as a Shakespearean Puck breathes life into me. That I may tell Brian he can’t put his arm around me because the weight of it around my waist is too painful, but I am calmed by the press of his body against me when I lean my head on his shoulder and know he will not give up on me.

A couple months ago after watching the author speak on The Gospel Coalition website, I picked up the book Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy by Mark Vroegop. Y’all… I have gotten through one chapter. Not because it’s a hard read or because I don’t like the book. It’s because I keep going back over and over and over again to the same words because I need them over and over and over again.

Because lament is a language I am still learning. He describes it as a “minor-key language for my suffering” and how it “provides a critical ballast for the soul.” (I had to look up the word “ballast”… a word I’ve used many times before. *sigh*)

I have rooted myself in the psalms and in the gospels. I have listened to various podcasts that speak to suffering, and I have listened to various podcasts that celebrate the beauty of our world and our lives. I have picked up books that are simple to read yet rich in truth. And I have read others’ stories to remember it’s not just I that suffers (because it’s so easy to navel gaze) and to pray for them in their need. And I sit in that gap between pain and promise.

And I wait.

And some days I weep.

And some days I revel.

And every day, I thank Him. Because even with all this pain, He has given me another day with the ones I love doing the things I love. Another day to see His beauty.

And I cry. And I laugh.

A lot.

Because the pain is real.

But so is the promise.

Yesterday did not go as planned at all. Welcome to our normal. I headed in to the cancer center for blood work, and I had my shopping list all ready for when I finished. After all, I had cards to buy and a couple things for our home, and I wanted to browse some shops for treats for a couple friends. Instead I went to the cancer center and then straight home.

My blood work came back low. Very low. My white blood cells, my red blood cells, my platelets, my ANC, my iron… they’re all just low. This isn’t uncommon with my new treatment, and it’s expected to be a few months of changing dosages and figuring out what my body can handle. Obviously, my body can’t handle the largest dose. So I’ve been taken off of one of my pills until I see my oncologist next week and we see how my levels change, then we’ll either change the dosage or change how often I take it.

The nurse was so kind. “You’ve done this before, so you know…” she sighed. She’s right. I’ve done it before.

I’m housebound for a while—no public places, no shopping, no large crowds, no potlucks, make sure all my food is well-prepared, etc. If I get sick, I don’t have what I need to fight it off. I’ve done this before.

But I’m still discouraged. It’s hard to explain the loneliness today. It’s really not that much different than my Friday would have been, but there’s something about knowing I can’t do things that makes the aloneness harder.

A friend texted yesterday to check in on me. We had spent Halloween night at their house, our yearly tradition of chili and masquerading and enjoying the neighborhood from their porch together. After I shared with her my news, I told her I didn’t turn to the Lord in this. That it felt better yesterday to wallow instead of wrestle.

She wrote back: “He’s still there.”

Oh, y’all. Those three words were the best thing I heard all day.

He’s still there.

He’s not going anywhere.

He’s not leaving me alone even in my aloneness.

I don’t know what the next couple weeks will look like other than a lot of time at home with my Coopy. I will be very tired, but as my blood strengthens, I’ll get stronger, too.

My children are scared. My Ash, who is taking Honors Anatomy right now, kept nodding and his eyes got bigger and bigger, as he said, “That’s not good.” because he understands in a whole new way. My Bear just mourned no hugs for Mama (that boy!). My Bella-girl, who is sick with a cold, sat next to me and poured those melt-your-heart crocodile tears. “What if you get sick and your body can’t fight it off? Will you have to go to the hospital? What if IIIIIII make you sick?” Her dear, sweet heart. I ache for her.

Everyone in my family has been sick this past month. Brian just finished antibiotics. Bella came down with it a few days ago. I, so far, have stayed healthy. We wash a lot of hands, and don’t give hugs (KILLING ME!), and don’t touch each other’s food, and I have masks to wear and eat immune boosting foods.

We do what we know is wise, and we leave it in the Lord’s hands.

He’s still there.

At the end of her crocodile-tear sadness, my girl whispered, almost afraid to ask, “Will you miss my recitations tomorrow? I’m the shadow in Beowulf.” So I showed up late today for recitations and stood in the back, while Brian stood almost protectively in front of me. I wore gloves and a mask, and I watched my girl creep across the stage in all her shadowy glory, and our eyes met at the end, and she smiled softly at me as I slipped back out the door to my car and my home.

We all feel it. The sadness. The fear. The questions.

It’s all part of the steps as we fight this disease together. I’ve heard so many stories of women who’ve been on this treatment for years and years and done really well. It just takes time to figure out how my body is going to respond.

No, we don’t like it. The sadness. The fear. The questions.

But we also all know it.

He’s still there.

And we have hope.

(Several of you have asked about help we might need. My friend, Angela, is coming over this afternoon so we can talk through care needs, and she will coordinate. If you want to be on the list, just let me know, and I can give her your info. Thank you, friends, for loving, for caring.)

Today I threw away several pair of fuzzy socks, remnants of a box of comfort a friend sent me over eleven years ago when I began chemo for the first time. I’m not sure why I’m sharing this. I guess because I never thought throwing away socks would bring an ache to my heart—-an ache of gratefulness for the kindness of friends years ago who spoke my love language, an ache of “look how far the Lord has brought me!”, an ache of loss, of feeling like those holey socks: years of wash and wear removing their softness and battering them full of holes. I guess because I feel battered.

“Weakness is my lot
Suffering is my prison
You have chained me to frailty
I cannot break free”

I spent yesterday in bed, writhing and throwing up for most of the morning with a migraine. I begged God for relief. I curled into Brian’s arms. I sang through tears as gentle music washed over us, “Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me.” I told Brian I wanted my mom, and he texted Ash who had driven his siblings to church. Ash found my parents and they came, and I laid in bed with my hubby and my mama while my daddy stood guard. Then I thought of friends who don’t have a mama to come, and I wept for their loss. It all feels so sad and heavy these days.

I am stronger today, but very weak. I swept my kitchen floor and then rested. I folded a load of laundry and then rested. I have no idea what I will do next or even if I can. We don’t know if yesterday is because of my new treatment, because of changes in air pressure, because I overdid it the few days before… we just don’t know. All we know is that this is our life. One day I’m mostly fine, the next I’m not. And we continue to ride the tilt-a-whirl.

“But this prison is your workroom
and I am your clay
You are not a jailer
You are a potter
I have not been condemned
I am being molded”

Ahhh… the tilt-a-whirl. I wrote of it in my last post, and my dear, dear Uncle Sam texted me. He wrote of his love, his prayers, and his memories of that ride as a child, how even when the ride stopped, the car would rock back and forth, back and forth until the attendant came and stopped the car and let them off. He wrote of that feeling of no control. But the attendant… our attendant…

Oh, y’all. Even on days when I feel well, the car is still rocking. What may seem like control is an illusion. And I look to the attendant, and I wait. One day, the car will stop and my attendant will let me off, only this attendant, our Jesus? He will wrap me in His arms of love and welcome me home. I, like Paul, am hard-pressed between the longing for home and the ache to remain.

“My weakness is not about what I am enduring
My weakness is about what I am becoming
My travail does not preach your anger
My travail preaches your grace”

I keenly feel my weakness. I carry the weight of my failures. I grew up in a church culture that screamed of suffering as punishment. It’s a battle to not look at my weakness, my suffering as rebuke. But to see instead the eyes of a Father Who loves me? Who knows that this suffering is molding me and making me? That I can be a vessel of grace?

Oh, y’all, the beauty of this undoes me. All of this struggle is His grace to me. All of this… His mercy to me. To ME?

“This prison is your classroom
I am learning
Your presence
I am learning
Your promises
I am learning
Your power
I am learning
Your mercy
I am learning
Your gospel
I am learning
learning
learning“

On Thursday night, we drove to Richmond to see Traveling Broadway perform Les Misérables. It was my late birthday gift from Brian. (Side note: I’m so thankful that our whole family loves musical theater and can share in it together. Side note number two: Bear is not in the picture below because he went to see it the same night with the fine arts department of his school.) I took lots of medications to combat side effects in hopes that I would make it through the evening, which I did. And it was such a gift.

As I sat next to my Ash, he reached over and held my hand, and we cried together. “There is a grief that can’t be spoken…” washed over us, as Marius sang of his friends who had died. “Here they sang about tomorrow, and tomorrow never came.”

But then… to weep of the hope that comes at the end, of the saints surrounding Jean ValJean as he comes home. “Do you hear the people sing?… It is the future that they bring. When tomorrow comes. Tomorrow comes.”

Oh, y’all. I’m learning still the language of hope in the midst of this grief that can’t be spoken… of my pain, of the pain I see and hear in other’s stories, of shattered lives. We are all being pieced back together with the gospel. A hope that death cannot conquer. Beyond the barricade of the this world’s struggle… there is hope.

The tilt-a-whirl spins wildly. We hold on for dear life. It rocks and sickens. It will slow to a stop. And our attendant will come.

“The darkest night will end, and the sun will rise.”

Tomorrow comes.

The eternal tomorrow.

(I sob as I write this.)

“Beyond the barricade
Is there a world you long to see?”

Tomorrow comes, y’all.

I am learning.

It comes.

(Excerpts from his poem, “Weak,” by Paul David Tripp)