A Spring of Joy

It is a reasonably early hour when my alarm blares on my chemo days. I turn it off, even though I want to chuck it out the window instead, and I lie in bed for a moment. Collecting my thoughts, I breathe a small prayer, “please, Lord, help me get through this day.” Brian usually has coffee ready; sometimes it’s already sitting next to me on my nightstand; other times I can hear his footfalls on the steps as he’s bringing it up to me for a few moments together, and then I shower and prepare for my day.

It’s inevitable as I’m putting on the finishing touches of my make up, hoping my eyebrows aren’t crooked this week, I hear the clickety-clack of Cooper’s toenails excitedly dancing all over the floor in the kitchen, and I know my parents have arrived. My father, Lord willing, will continue to be my faithful chemo buddy. I can count on one hand the number of times he is missed (not including Covid). He loves to drive me there, to sit with me, to talk with me. Sometimes being my chemo buddy means just sitting next to me while I sleep; sometimes we talk the entire time; and sometimes we read and share thoughts from what we are reading. The nurses know him, recognize him, and miss him when he’s gone just like I do.

Chemo looks the same pretty much every time. Once I’ve checked in and chatted with the registrars, my nurse for the day takes me back to the infusion center to access my port and prepare me for the day. For those of you who don’t know what a port is, it is a device that’s implanted in my chest wall with tubing that’s threaded into veins. This allows for them to get needles into my veins without having to hunt and peck for IVs. So they access my port, sanitize me down, take all the blood work that they need for the day (vials and vials and vials every time), they do my vitals, ask all the normal questions—what hurts? scale of one to 10? have you had any different side effects? how are you feeling today? how are you emotionally? do you feel like you need to speak with someone? any new allergies? any new medication?

They look at my blood pressure and oxygen saturation levels. My blood pressure is always low, and sometimes low enough that they call in our Oncology Pharmacist to determine whether I need to boost my blood pressure or not. He is a kind man who knows the Lord and prays over his patients.

The chemo transfusion room is just lines of chairs against the walls with curtains which can be pulled around them for privacy. There are some rooms that are set apart for those who need even more privacy. I sit in my chair and look around see who’s there that day. Sometimes it’s people we recognize other times I don’t recognize anyone around me. There’s always the cacophony of Andy Griffith or Gunsmoke or Bonanza to wade through.

The nurses and I chitchat about reading, what our husbands and children are up to, what life looks like in general, and how ready we are for warm weather so we don’t freeze supporting our kids’ sports ventures.

Once they’ve taken my blood work to the lab, another nurse comes in and takes me to an exam room in a separate location. There I meet with my oncologist. Honestly, y’all, I wasn’t so sure bout her when I started with her four years ago, but she is marvelous and we are thankful. She isn’t warm and fuzzy with her bedside manner, but she knows her stuff and listens and answers questions and isn’t afraid to say, “I don’t know. I will contact my colleagues at UVA and ask.” We go over bloodwork, other results that we need to go over, and we talk through how I’m feeling. She does a physical exam which helps her determine whether or not to continue with treatment for that day. More often than not, yes, I have treatment. It’s rare for them to cancel treatment on me; so I go back into the infusion room and I bring my dad with me this time back to my initial chair

Once there they give me pre-meds. These medications are given to help prevent allergic responses. One of the meds is targeted towards anti-nausea and y’all it tastes horrible. In fact, horrible is an understatement. You know Alexander’s terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day? Yeh. It’s that. It tastes like I’m chewing on a mouthful of rubber bands. That’s the only way I feel like I can describe it, “so my dad brings with him a bag full of bit o’ honeys,” which was one of my favorite candies as a child growing up, and I chew on those to get rid of the bitter taste of the nausea medicine. Once that’s in, I have some crackers and grape juice and we wait 30 minutes for all of my pre-meds to get into my system before I actually have my chemotherapy drug. When it’s ready, they just hook the bag up to my IV, which is in my port and let it go. It’s a 30 minute push, plus a 10 minute flush afterwards. Often I sleep, sometimes I talk with dad and there’s always a discussion of books as part of our chatting time, other times we just sit quietly and I text with friends. Once the 40 minutes are up, they double check to make sure I don’t have any other procedures that day; if I don’t, they do what’s called heparinizing my port. Basically they make sure they leave heparin in the port to keep the port from clotting and protect me in that way. Then they de-access the port and send me on my way to go home to recuperate.

It’s a long day. It can be a hard day. But I’ve become so used to all that chemo life entails that the hard days are more when it’s not what I’m used to looking like and I have to readjust. Readjusting my day is not easy for me. I know, I know, try to hold back your surprise. My mom is home with our Coopy pup and she usually has a grilled cheese sandwich ready for me or at least the ingredients are ready, and then I curl up. Sometimes we chat, often I sleep, and then it moves into chemo recovery. I’ll write about chemo recovery in another post soon, but here you go: lan anatomy of a chemo day so maybe y’all can have a taste of what life is like on those days for me.

Thank you again, friends, for praying. I say that a lot, but I mean it, I truly mean it from my heart, your prayers bolster me. They encourage me. They help me get through each of these days. Each of these chemo days are covered by your prayers, they’re covered in the love of the father, the intercession of Jesus and the strength of the spirit and I appreciate y’all so much. So two small words: thank you. But they mean the world.

It’s been a while since I’ve updated y’all, and several of y’all have you asked how I’m doing, so here’s my attempt at an update.

It’s funny, there’s a lot that I could say, but I get to where I’m just not sure how much to say or even what to say. Every now and then I have a busy day, but that’s rare for me. I keep my life simple so I’m able to hopefully do the things I love and long to do. Our Bella Girl has study hall and work release in the mornings, so she’s able to be home when she’s not working before school and I have so enjoyed having mornings with her. Sometimes we sit and read together, sometimes we watch a show together, sometimes we just putter and do our own things, but it just is a comfort to have her here especially her senior year her.

Senior year?!?!? I can’t believe my baby is six weeks away from graduation. Look how far we’ve come! Such an ebenezer for us to raise. Thus far the Lord has helped us—in so many places and so many areas. We are overwhelmed by our Father’s love and care, and overwhelmed by your love and support. Thank you.

So now for the medical portion of life. A couple months ago they found three areas on my bladder that had to be biopsied. This was so they could determine if these spots were breast cancer spread, or if we were facing a brand new bladder cancer. Praise God this was just breast cancer spread. It feels funny to say “just” breast cancer spread, but if this was bladder cancer, it would’ve been a whole new addition to treatment and care. So. We are thankful that this is just breast cancer and can be incorporated into our current treatment. The biopsy itself was a difficult recovery for me because my body was already weak, but I’m fully recovered from that and have continued on with the current course of treatment with one small break because I contracted this viral crud going around and it took at long time for my body to be able to beat it.

I’ve had several cycles now of this new chemo. We’ve watched my tumor markers drop—in some cases drop in drastic ways—which is very encouraging. I’ve had an echocardiogram to make sure my heart can manage the chemo. My ejection fractions, which is what they’re watching, are low but not low enough to keep me from treatment. A specific prayer request would be that my heart would stay healthy so I can stay on this course of treatment, because this course of treatment is working y’all!

I had a CT scan about a month ago. When I met with my oncologist for results, she was literally bouncing because she was so happy. So she bounced and I cried. Here’s the lineup of the things the CT scan showed:

—the spots on my bladder are no longer measurable;

—the tumors in the lining of my left lung have stayed stable, there is no change in size;

—the tumor in my liver has dropped from 1.3 cm to 1 cm;

—so, y’all know I’ve had fluid in my lung for three years and they’ve not been able to eliminate it or even reduce it. Y’all! It reduced in amount! This is huge. I can feel a change in my breathing and am just so encouraged by that;

—and then to top it all off, my last tumor marker reading the markers had dropped another 40 points, and I’m getting close to the normal range with markers.

I’m crying as I type this. It feels so long since I’ve been able to give good news. At the same time, if I’m honest, I still struggle with the mental and spiritual fighting my pessimism as I wait for the next shoe to drop rather than revel in the good things that God is doing with this new chemo.

Would you pray, my friends, or rather would you continue to pray, because you have been such faithful prayer warriors for me already? Would you pray that this chemo continues to work? Would you pray for my heart to just rest and trust in God’s timing? Would you pray for physical strength to continue as I struggle with this chemo? It is brutal. I will write another post explaining what it is like, but I just wanted to write and encourage you as you encourage me that this is doing its job. We are encouraged. I want to bounce and clap my hands and say I’m so happy just like my oncologist on Thursday. She is hopeful this will be a long-term solution to keeping my cancer stable.

It is still a battle. That won’t change, but knowing it’s working it makes the battle easier to fight. Thank you, friends. It seems I so small to say, but we appreciate your prayers and your love for us so much. Most of all we appreciate the love of our father, which doesn’t change whether the report is good, whether the shoe drops or not, he does not change, and so we breathe the beautiful fragrance of grace and we rest.

“We miss the lesson when we pick at the thorn.. nurse it… bemoan it…curse it. The enemy would have us so blinded by the pain of the thorn that we can’t see the beauty of the rose garden. I’ve been there so many times…so consumed by the discomfort that won’t go away that I can’t experience what fragrance of grace lies just ahead. Look past the thorn to how Christ is enough in the midst of it. His grace is sufficient for the thorn He chooses not to remove.” (~Ruth Chou Simons)

After all,” Anne had said to Marilla once, “I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.” (~L.M. Montgomery)

It seems this keyboard is a bit rusty these days. I’ve wanted to write. My brain sometimes thinks in essays full of vibrant color and ebullient words, but when I open my trusty laptop, it’s as if my fingers are paralyzed by my heart. Words. Stolen from me.

I’ve been here before, but never this long, never so dark as I’ve wrestled and struggled and grappled with the day in and day out of living with Stage IV cancer.

My childhood friend, Monica, who knows a physically painful suffering far deeper than I, once shared a nugget with me as we talked for hours over phone lines. “Oh, friend,” she sighed, “Don’t forget, sometimes the pause is just as important as the note.”

Yes.

The pause in writing, like in music, carries a weight of its own, and without it, the piece doesn’t carry the same wonder and beauty.

I’ve needed a pause. I’ve needed quiet space in my heart for my family and close friends and me to grapple together. And frankly, to just live together, seeing the simple pleasures in each day and holding them close.

Along the way our family has been given gifts, pleasures, too… JMU games, senior life with our Bella girl, off-Broadway shows with friends, the occasional double date night, etc.

Pause. Breathe deep. Exhale. Move forward to the next thing.

We just adjust our sails every few weeks knowing I will be out of commission. I cry over missed meetings, canceled friend dates, and I delight in events I can attend. But I delight mostly in being here, a welcoming face for my children when they walk in the door or when Bear surprises me and stops by with a friend. The smiles on their faces when our eyes meet… simple pleasures.

Honestly, the past year and a half, I’ve wrestled through a darkness that is terrifying, an anxiety that is paralyzing. And the cupped hands together in prayer, the bowing in worship tasting and seeing that He is good, the clinging to friends’ arms and weeping together, the sitting with my parents and working through the same fear after fear and struggle after struggle has been a necessary pause in the story I write.

His story for my life.

And I’m learning what I already know as I frantically beg, “God, I need you.” or “Stay my mind, dear Jesus, stay my mind.” He is here. Even in the darkness, He hears. He never leaves. Never forsakes.

Right now I’m in the midst of tests and procedures routinely run making for long, hard days… any one of them could mean our lives change all over again. But it could also mean it all stays the same. Chemo. Feel miserable. Feel okay. Push through. Live the life God has given.

That is the choice we make every day.

To live.

Today. Lovely today offers itself to us. Life. Together.

Simple pleasures.

Following each other softly.

Notes.

And pauses.

Held close.

(I have heard from some of you, wondering if I am okay, how we really are. Thank you for asking, for checking in, for cards sent to remind us we are not forgotten, for meals on the hard weeks. Thank you for pausing with me. Your care for us resonates.)