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Saturday Randomness
Today has been a weird roller-coaster for me. I have obsessed over my dry, brittle, breaking fingernails, lamenting the loss of each one in a strange sort of way. It frustrates me, the little ways that chemo has destroyed my body. Then I read the story of a woman who will never stop having chemo. She can pull her nails out of her fingertips because they are so decayed. I cringe at the thought. She is four years older than me and she is dying. She has no idea how long the chemo will keep her alive. Talk about some perspective. They say it takes 8 weeks for the more minor side effects of chemo to stop. This woman will never feel that freedom. I can bear broken nails and minor nausea for a few more weeks.
It will be while before I begin to feel the effects of my radiation treatments, and I have been up and around a bit more. I find that after 15 minutes, I often need a break but today I was able to be out and about with Brian and the children for a while. It was a big day. A trip to the bank for the boys to open their own savings accounts, and a trip down memory lane for Mommy as I watched my little guys sit in those large chairs across from the “nice man at the bank”. They were thrilled to watch the coin sorter grab their pennies ($25 in change between their two piggy banks!), and Asher kept telling me, “Look, Mom, I have two receipts!” It was good to be part of life again, even if it meant sitting in the chairs at the bank lobby coloring quietly with Audrey.
Lunch out together, two short stops at stores, running into friends, and huge hugs made for a fun but exhausting afternoon. One of my favorite moments was when I was wiping up Asher’s face after lunch.
“Goodness, buddy!” I exclaimed, “You need some chapstick. Your lips are so red.”
Ash hesitated for a moment, then said quite seriously, “Um, Mom, that’s what color lips are supposed to be.”
I guess he thought I had forgotten. After all, I complain about my chemo brain all the time. I busted up laughing in the middle of the restaurant, and for once, people weren’t looking at me because of my wig. And yes, it’s a new one and it’s short and red. Chestnut red. I agonized over that decision even though my “stylist” and Kristin both told me how much they liked it and what a great color it is on me. I’m just not one for change, not that my life has changed much over the last six months or anything. I finally called Brian and asked him what he thought.
“Why not?” he asked.
“I just don’t want to draw attention to myself.” I lamented, once again worrying more about what people think than I need to.
“Hon,” he responded, “You are currently bald. What do you think people expect of you?”
Sigh. He is good for me. And when I get up the courage, I’ll post a picture of my redheaded self. Maybe.
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The Faces of Cancer
Sitting in the cancer center lobby this morning in-between appointments, I watched a couple emerge from the treatment hallways. He was carrying a black bag from the Women’s Health Focus overflowing with information leaflets. I recognized that bag. I once carried that same one. They clung to each other not wanting to be without the touch of the other, and I realized that they were newly diagnosed. She wore the same shell-shocked face that I am sure people read all over mine six months ago as I numbly moved from appointment to appointment. His bushy black beard hid much of his face, but the pain in his eyes was evident. His hand gripped hers, signaling faithfulness. “I’m here.” They sat close, shoulders touching, whispering softly. An occasional smile, a stream of words, a steady sigh. I was watching grief, and it was all too familiar. I almost broke down. She and I exchanged quiet, “hellos”, and I longed to go to her, to tell her she could do this; she could walk this road; she could beat this thing, this ugliness that had shipwrecked her life.
Emotion after emotion, memory after memory flooded me. Clinging to Brian while trying to grasp the news. Heaving sobs in the privacy of our car. Choking back the lump in my throat. Waves of fear and nausea. The strength of my husband’s arms around me as we sat in lobby after lobby grappling with this horror. This new life. Life forever changed.
There were two older men sitting in the faded chairs exchanging pleasantries. Old friends. “H’lo, John.” “H’lo, Jim.” They discussed life, farming, family, then inevitably, cancer:
“I sure wish I was back on the radiation side of things. This chemo is killin’ me more than the cancer is. Some days I’m here from nine in the morning until five at night.”
“Wheeeewwww-eee! That there’s a long day. But you’ll get through it. I’m on the other side. Just here for a checkup.”
A husband and wife came in with their father and brought their granddaughter with them. Barely toddling, I watched as she waddled through the lobby lighting smiles on gray, weary faces. It was as if someone had breathed fresh air into the room. Life.
They called me back for radiation at the same time as this child’s great-grandfather. I walked a few steps behind his shuffling feet and watched the nurse hold his belt, steadying his frail body. He stopped in the hallway, resting from this laborious task of walking.
In his book, Talking In The Dark, Steve Harper reminds us:
Life can change quickly…don’t wait for the change to occur…begin now to dig the well that leads to God’s living water, so that when your change happens, you can draw from resources that are already present.
Life changes suddenly, and no one is immune.
As I lay on the radiation table, my mind jumbled around each of these people, and I prayed for them. The older men whose life of farming had been put on hold. This 50-something couple whose world had just been shaken. This great-grandfather, too weak to walk a hallway, and this tiny child just beginning life. I prayed for peace in the midst of chaos. I prayed for sustenance and strength. I prayed for miracles. I prayed that they would see Jesus somewhere in all this, that they would run to His open arms. I prayed their wells would run deep.
And I prayed for myself. That God would use me, even if it was a gentle “hello” and a sympathetic smile to encourage a weary heart. I pray that my wells would run deep. That I would never stop running to His arms. I pray I would never stop learning lessons from others and the faces that surround my world.
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God’s Handiwork
The coughs wracked her tiny body tearing me from my slumber. Rasping cries as I tiptoe through the darkness to her room. Frantic arms stretching over her crib as she desperately reaches. I grasp her into the quietness of my embrace and she stills. In the dim glow of her nightlight I gaze at her features. This delicate beauty. Long eyelashes curling around closed lids. Little nose breathing steadily. Exquisite mouth whispering a hoarse, “wock, wock,” whenever the gentle swaying ceases. Pudgy cheek nestled into my arm. Folded hands clasped as if in prayer tucked under her chin. I see my hand next to hers, long fingers, thin and frail. She is part of me. Part of Brian. This beautiful molding fashioned by God. I am amazed. I wrap her in soft fleece as I place her in her bed. Gentle kisses and a hushed, “Love, love.” She is one of many gifts. My heart overflows.
For You formed my inward parts;
You wove me in my mother’s womb.
I will give thanks to You,
For I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Wonderful are Your works,
And my soul knows it very well.
My frame was not hidden from You,
When I was made in secret,
And skillfully wrought in the depths of the earth;
Your eyes have seen my unformed substance;
And in Your book they all were written
The days that were ordained for me,
When as yet there were none of them.
(Psalm 139:13-16) -
Not Quite Radiant Yet
Yesterday was long and hard, physically and emotionally. I am weary today, but I am enjoying an afternoon snuggled in my delicious new RED bed linens. How I love red!
I wanted to give y’all an update on my status and progress. I went in yesterday morning for my radiation appointment. It consisted of 2 hours in freezing cold rooms undergoing x-rays, CT-scans, and markings for my radiation treatments. The markings process is tedious, because I couldn’t move for the entire length of time they were measuring and drawing all over me. Try not moving when the room temperature is 0 degrees and you’re biting your lips so hard they’re bleeding because you’re trying not to shiver or let your teeth chatter. Okay, so I exaggerate. A bit.
My friend, K-Stat, was also very glad to hear that the tattoos I received are very real and very permanent. They stabbed me a hundred thousand times with a needle in order to mark exactly where they need to treat me and make sure that it is the exact same place every time. Okay, it was only 6 injections, but it hurt! However, I can now impress all my friends with the fact that I am cool enough to have a tattoo. At least, that’s what K-Stat thinks.
I did not have an actual radiation treatment yesterday, because next week I will go back for more markings. My actual treatments will begin next Thursday.
After a lunch break, I returned to the cancer center for bloodwork, an appointment with my oncologist and a Herceptin treatment. It was a long afternoon while I waited for lab results and learned that I am still very anemic, thus the extreme fatigue I’m experiencing. My doctor also updated me on the notes from the radiation oncologist. She is going to be giving me a very high dose of radiation because of how aggressive my cancer was. This was discouraging to hear on two counts: first, because of the reminder of just how abysmal this all is, and second, because I will be more prone to some nasty side effects.
My oncologist (have I ever mentioned how amazing he is? Because, well, he is amazing!) told me the last few weeks of radiation will probably be pretty difficult, and that I’ll have to be careful of skin infections from the burning. But he also reminded me that he would do whatever I needed to make it through this next phase.
Hanging with K-Stat for the afternoon during my Hercepin treatment brought me lots of laughter on what was otherwise a very discouraging day. She amused my oncology nurse quite a bit as well. I am so amazed by the friendships God has given me and the ways He has surrounded me during such a difficult time.
Heading home to a sick Audrey only added to the difficulty of my day. Brian took her to the doctor, and the poor thing is coughing, dripping, congested, feverish, and pitiful. Last night she awoke at 11:30 and spent the rest of the night in our bed tossing, turning and moaning, so we are all like the walking dead today. I cannot stand to watch her suffer. She has spent the day cuddling with me, and I long to take away her misery.
As rough as life has been, I am reminded of God’s faithfulness through the words of Job.
You will surely forget your trouble, recalling it only as waters gone by. Life will be brighter than noonday, and darkness will become like morning. You will be secure, because there is hope; you will look about you and take your rest in safety. (Job 11:16-18)
I am waiting in anticipation for that day, but until then I cling to His promise of strength for each day. Thank y’all so much for walking through this with me, for your prayers and your encouragement. I am blessed.
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While We Were Out
The past week has felt like a whirlwind for me. We left early Tuesday morning for our trip to NOVA, and I had a wonderful two days with Kelly & Scott, delighting in their children, sharing heart-to-heart talks with Kelly, napping on their couch, laughing at Scott’s stories, and snuggling with their kitty. I am so thankful that I was able to experience a piece of Brian’s world when he is away from us. My heart struggled being far from my children, especially when I called Mom and discovered that my poor Audrey is sick, but it was so good to be with Bri for a few days. I will never tire of laughing, talking, sharing, crying and living life with that man!
As I wearily trudged up the steps to my room, I was greeted by this:
I love our brand new bedroom! I am overwhelmed, humbled and amazed by the number of friends and family who contributed and pitched in to my friend Monica’s brainchild to makeover our bedroom while we were gone. To say “thank you” doesn’t even begin to describe the enormity of my gratitude or the complexity of my emotions. I will truly feel surrounded by love as I spend time resting and recouping from my radiation treatments.
In his book, Glory Revealed, David Nasser writes:
[God] is delighted when we take care of each other by wearing robes of His character. His glory is revealed when we lovingly come alongside others through the hard times.
I am humbled by the way God’s glory has been revealed to us by so many of our friends and family. I bow my head and weep in gratefulness. We are loved.
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Awaiting Radiation
Honestly, I’m not a big Valentine’s Day person. It’s a nice enough day for the masses who are convinced by the card companies and the chocolate-heart manufacturers and the florists who raise their prices exorbitantly. Trust me, I’m an incurable romantic at heart, but I’d much rather Brian surprise me with a dozen roses on a day when it’s not expected of him. Give me dinner out on a night when I don’t have to wait 2 hours for a table. And also trust me when I say that especially after the last 6 months, I don’t need Valentine’s Day to show me how much Brian loves me.
So, you ask, what exactly is Valentine’s Day all about for us? Well, this year it’s the beginning of the newest chapter in our lives… radiation treatments. I go in for markings that morning, which is where they tattoo the site for radiation. This includes a CT scan to be sure they have made the right measurements and that my heart and lung are protected as well as possible. Radiation treatments are every day, 5 days a week, for 6 weeks. Right now, that seems daunting, but not insurmountable, especially considering the chemo I have undergone. (Thursday I will also have a Herceptin treatment, so it will be a very long day, culminating in what I hope will be snuggling in a cozy bed and an uninterrupted nap!)
In order to fully embrace my freedom until Thursday, I am going to go up to NOVA with Brian this week. I will spend my days with my friend, Kelly and her absolutely adorable kids (side note: I cannot wait to get my hands on her 2-month old baby!) while Brian is at work. Kelly and I will also get to double-date with our hubbies (Bri works with Scott, who is not nearly as adorable as Kelly and the kids, but he will definitely cheer me with his clever anecdotes). It’s also an opportunity for me to see where Brian works and a chance to share in that part of his life. He has shared in so much of mine. I have longed to emerge from my seclusion to share this with him.
I am excited, yet overwhelmed at the same time. I haven’t traveled in 6 months, and the world is such a different place to me now. It’s a scarier place. It’s a place eerily familiar yet much more uncertain. Something happens when life changes suddenly. Values, perspectives, conversations, occasions all change. So when I said good-bye to my children this afternoon, I hugged them a little longer and cried a little harder. Once again I am running the gamut of emotions, and once again I run to the only place I can.
Fear lurks. Frustration lingers. Pain haunts. Fatigue weakens. Emotion erupts. God surpasses.
(Eye update, because I’ve had several of you ask. Turns out the chemo has dried out my eyes, irritated them, and now they are infected. I’m on eye drops and ointment, and go back in 3 weeks to get them rechecked. Please, pray… it is painful, and makes it hard for me to read or be on my laptop for very long, and for those of you that know me, those are two of my LIFELINES!)
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Shlog Brings Perspective
I read a blog by Shaun Groves today and if you’re in the need of a little perspective, (and face it, who isn’t in need of perspective?) then y’all need to read this blog. You seriously HAVE to read his blog (or as he refers to it, his shlog). And when you’re done, think and pray about “simplifiying your life so that others can simply live.”
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Blessings
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Eyes To See
Today I have another doctor appointment, this time with my opthamologist (and I haven’t even filled y’all in on my meeting with the radiation oncologist). It seems like my life is full of appointments these days as my treatment team fills in my schedule for me each week. I have struggled through the lack of control, the feeling that my world is reeling, spinning into chaos. Today I called and scheduled my own appointment, and it felt good. What doesn’t feel good is why I had to call. My eyes are tearing and watering constantly, swollen eyelids, no eyelashes to help protect them, and they ache constantly.
It has been disruptive to not have my normal eyesight, to constantly be rubbing and wiping. I am slowly regaining my strength and starting to do more and more with my children… playing games, changing diapers, fixing breakfast. This morning I readied them for their day–a half day playing with friends, then home with me until Daddy gets home from CPAC. Yet it feels like there is something always there, some struggle, and I wonder when this will all end. When will there be a day when I just feel myself again?
The ache in my eyes is no match for the ache in my heart. I watch their little pattering feet fly out the door to play, and I long to run after them. My children are growing so quickly, and I don’t want to miss out. I realized today the ache comes from not being able to fully be a part of their lives and the lives of my friends. How I have longed to not just run after my children, but to run after my friends and enter into their lives. This morning it was as if a volcano erupted inside, and I grieve my losses again.
It is easy to lose sight of what’s really important when the night seems overwhelming. I place expectations on myself that because the chemo is over, the darkness should be lifting as well. Yet the struggle remains, and so I look to the one place that I can look… to the place where the ultimate struggle occurred. The Cross. Christ. Glory. Victory. And there I can see clearly who I am and what my future holds. There I see the eternal perspective. There will always be turbulence in my life, but that doesn’t mean my soul must be tossed about.
I read on a blog today this quote from John Calvin:
Wherever you cast your eyes, there is no spot in the universe wherein you cannot discern at least some sparks of glory.
My eyes may ache, but they still see. My heart can still find beauty. The oatmeal cookie fragrance wafting from a lit candle. The squeeze of pudgy arms around my neck. A lanky body leaning against me reading. The sound of Brian’s voice on the phone with it’s reassuring “I love you”. Unruly red hair surrounding delicious brown eyes snuggling in my lap. Pink cowboys boots on tiny feet. Sunshine and warmth. Cream cheese on bagels. Late night talks with Tiff. The smell of leather accompanying my open Bible. Perfect pens for journal writing. Mercies new every morning. Pattering feet that run back to me, to us, to home.
Eyes to see.
Thank you, Jesus.
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A Spring of Joy 