A Spring of Joy

My weekend has consisted of 15 hour sleeps. Yes. 15 hours. And I still wake up exhausted.

The good thing is I am starting to feel like I’m coming out of the extreme fatigue and moving into just plain ol’ fatigue. I am up and around more and getting more things done around the house, but I rest after every accomplishment. My parents are still here so Mom can help me out… they will leave on Wednesday.

The bad thing is that I fall asleep about 15 minutes into the Olympics every night. And y’all, I cannot tell you how much I love the Olympics and how sad I am that I am missing everything! And poor Brian. He’s missing out on all my sobfests whenever we win the gold, which apparently is a lot. Go USA!

It will take roughly 6-8 weeks before I feel normal again, which is rather laughable considering we have no idea what “normal” is anymore. In the meantime, we know to expect a gradual increase in energy, emotional stability and body temperature.

As for my future. Well… there’s a lot ahead. Over the month of March I have 6 appointments and follow-ups. On March 2nd I have a diagnostic scan for followup on the breast cancer to check for recurrence, so I feel like I am on an emotional roller coaster. Can I just tell y’all how Satan has been attacking and plaguing me with fear?! I have little strength to fight the voices in my head that say, “Two weeks. Two weeks is all the celebration you have and then the other shoe will drop and they’ll say they see something, because, after all, that IS the story of your life.”

And the nightmares set in. The suffocating compressions on my chest in the black of night. The memories of all the pain and brutality of chemo and radiation and I think, “I can’t. I can’t do it all again. Please, God, don’t let it happen again. Please?” And I wake up clawing at the air, tears streaming down my face, and I reach out to feel for Brian.

It never wakes him. I don’t want to wake him. I just need something tangible to touch. To remind me that God is near. Then through the soft light streaming in windows I look at the face of my husband, and I weep for him. For the lines I see in his face that weren’t there 3 years ago, and I beg God to spare him any more of this. He is so tired, y’all, so very tired. He has been so faithful, y’all, so very faithful.

Beyond all this there are other follow-ups, all “just to be sure”. I have another iron infusion scheduled in April because my blood levels are so anemic. My body is just plum tuckered.

And then there are my hands. Do you want to see?

That is my left hand. And yes, my very beautiful wedding ring. See that sapphire wrap? Bri bought that for me on the 5 year anniversary of our engagement. His love language is NOT gifts. That makes this wrap even more meaningful. And as beautiful as it is, it’s not because of it’s beauty that I love it… it’s because of the beauty of my Bri’s love and even deeper of our Savior’s love for us. But I digress…

My right hand is swollen. Very swollen. It’s called lymphedema. It’s a result of the number of lymph nodes that were removed in my surgeries. And it’s painful. Very painful. There is fluid all around my joints. And it requires physical therapy. I haven’t gotten to physical therapy yet, because I can’t figure out how to manage that with all the other appointments. So I’m wearing this…

And singing Michael Jackson songs all day long whenever I do. Okay. Not really. Never was much of an MJ fan. My husband is shuddering right now… how could I NOT love the King of Pop?! Anyway, it’s called a compression glove and it helps keep the swelling compressed. But it also makes writing (which is a huge part of my life) and typing very difficult.

And the children. They are clingy and weepy. Sunday we went to Sunday School and Asher cried when we left him. Then we were planning to attend part of the service, but not all because of my fatigue. My parents would bring the children home, and Bri would take me home after the music. But when the time came for us to leave, Bear climbed on my lap and sobbed in his quiet Bear sort of way. “I don’t want you to ever leave me.” he whispered. So I sat through the whole service and snuggled him on my lap, because I couldn’t do it to him. We are all a mess, basically. Just a mess.

Sooooo… can you guess how I feel? I feel like everyone expects us to be crazy jumping over the moon excited that the cancer is gone.

We know for now that the cancer is gone. We are thankful. We are praising God.

But it’s all in a reserved, quiet celebration kind of way.

Because it’s not over. There are more tests and lots more recovery ahead, and it is exhausting to think through it all.

But we are together.

We are clinging to truth.

We are clinging to Him.

And we are cancer free.

Even if it’s just for two weeks.

We’re still cancer free.

But we still need your prayers.

And we still need His strength.

… what a day!

(Next week, I’ll give you the run-down on what the next 3 months–yes, you read that right 3 months–look like with scans and follow-up. My body is actually shutting down even more the past couple days, so I am sleeping a lot and finding little to no strength. That should gradually start to improve. In the meantime, here’s a glimpse of our Monday. Believe me, I’ll never complain about Mondays again.)

We arrived at the hospital on time for my scan only to find they had pushed it back an hour because they were running late, so I went to the cafeteria with Bri and watched him eat. Can we just say all together, “Torture.” I had been allowed a light breakfast, but nothing more until after the scan. He was very gracious and got a salad with his meatball sub rather than fries. At least, he thought that was being gracious. I just wonder how eating a meatball sub in front of a starving Italian is gracious? (In all fairness, I told him to get the meatball sub. I am just that loving of a wife.)

Bri wasn’t able to go back into the scan area with me, so I spent the next hour lying on a freezing cold table unable to move. And y’all, I mean unable to move. They actually strap your legs and arms to the table, your feet together and your hands to your sides so you can’t move. And the machine lowers to about 1/2 inch from your face. With all my maladies, I am so thankful I don’t have claustrophobia!

After the scan, they told me that because of my dangerously low thyroid levels (their words, not mine–can we just all say together, “Freak out!”), the doctor would want to see me, so just sit tight. That was the point at which I became hopeful that we might get results on the same day. Within 5 minutes the doctor was in the room to share the news that not only was the scan clear, there was not one speck of radioactive material in my body. Usually they see a few little tiny areas floating around. Not one speck.

She smiled at me and said, “So, run out to the waiting room, grab your husband and go eat whatever you want to eat and celebrate!” She gave me a few more instructions because I will suffer from nausea for the next couple weeks because of the radioactive iodine they gave me, and she gave me strict orders on getting my thyroid levels back up. Then she waved me on my way, “Now, go find your husband.”

I weaved my way through the labyrinth of hallways to the exit, and as I turned the corner, the door to the waiting room was open. I could see him sitting there, head bowed, and I thought two things. First, I thought, “Dang, I love how he looks in that coat!” Then I thought, “This is a movie moment. I can truly run through these halls and scream our wonderful news, meeting him there to celebrate.”

I wish I could tell you I did.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I snuck up next to him and stood. He saw my feet and looked up, hope in his eyes.

I grinned.

“Can we go get a Sonic burger?” I whispered.

And he knew what that meant.

And he sprung to his feet.

And we stood in the waiting room and hugged while I cried.

Then I think, but I’m not certain, that I floated the whole way to the Jeep.

Phone calls to family and dear friends. Tears on a snowy Jeep ride home. Sonic burger that never tasted so good.

Then I came home to my little loves, and Ash bounced up and down, “Was it clear? Was it clear? Was it clear?”

We sat on the floor all five of us and pulled each other close. “Your mommy,” I whispered, “had a clear scan today.” Asher went crazy. Screaming and hugging me. The other two didn’t quite know what that meant. So I finished. “Mommy doesn’t have any more cancer.” And Micah got it and screamed and hugged me, then he sat up, scrunched up his nose and said, “But do you have to still eat your special food?” “Nope.” I told him.

Then Bella piped up, “And can I be near you and with you and hug you whenever I want?”

I grabbed that mass of curly-red delight and held her tight, “All day long if you want.”

“Oh!” she clapped and hugged, “I do want, Mommy, I do want!”

Me, too.

Yes.

Me, too.

And that is pretty much all I’ve done to celebrate.

And it’s been a wonderful celebration!

…when we told our children their mommy is CANCER FREE!

And I wish I could see your faces as I tell y’all thank you for your prayers and encouragement. You have no idea how this bloggy world has held me up through so much.

Soli Deo Gloria
To God Alone Be Glory

(Will post more soon to update you on where we go from here, because while the cancer is gone, there is a very long road of recovery ahead… but we won’t think about that today. Today we’re going to CELEBRATE.)

Quick guest post- Angie got a call this morning from the hospital, after yesterday’s blood work they decided not to wait until next week to do her scan. She’s on her way in now to start the process; today they will give her a dose of radioactive iodine and the scan I assume will be moved up to Tuesday. Good news, because it’ll be over with sooner. Bad news, because it means she will have to spend the weekend in isolation from the kids and I. I think she was most upset that she didn’t get to say a proper goodbye to the boys before they left this morning.

Thought you’d want to know; we so appreciate all of you out there in the interwebs, and covet your prayers. Thank you.