A Spring of Joy

Glimpses of our world…

  • Wishes

    Ash: (deep sigh) Mom, I wish wishes came true.

    Me: (pulling him tight) Why’s that, buddy?

    Ash: (head down against me) ’cause I wish you were all better.

    Sadness.

  • Lessons in Losing

    Asher and I play a lot of games. Memory games. Board games. Guessing games. But he especially loves card games. War. Go Fish. Old Maid. Solitaire. Growing up I always had a gift when it came to games of chance. I won. That was my gift. As long as there was a spinner or a guesser or something to keep it from being strategic, I would win. And it drove my older brother crazy. (I bet it still does.)

    Asher has inherited my gift. And now it’s my turn to be driven crazy. Chutes & Ladders? He will get the huge ladder EVERY single time. Candyland? He’s the one that draws the Princess Frostine card and heads straight to the top. Memory? Not only does he have the memory of a newly-turned-6-year-old which is uncanny, but he’ll randomly pick two cards and they’ll match! I lose a lot to my son, and trust me, with Ash, I play no holds barred. Yes, I am an awful mother. I do not let my child win at games. I remind him all the time to play like a gentleman. I want him to learn to win and lose graciously. I still need to learn that lesson, too.

    We bought Asher UNO for his birthday. One hand to teach him how to play, and then he was winning left and right. Tonight he beat me four hands in a row. After the final hand, Asher looked at me, cocked his head and grinned, “Mom, I like winning.” he said. There was no arrogance. Just honesty with a hint of cockiness. Something ugly rose within me, “Yes, I know you do.” I sighed. He grinned again, “I think it’s my new favorite thing.” I sputtered. All kinds of the “right” things to say flitted through my mind. Things like: It’s not about the winning, it’s about how you play the game. Everyone is a winner when they try. You only lose when you have a bad attitude, and sometimes that means the winners are losers.

    The predominant thought in my brain was how someone needs to take my son down a notch. Then came the moment when the world stops and you see your son with different eyes. In fact, I didn’t see my son at all. I saw myself and it wasn’t pretty. The truth is, I like to win. It’s one of my favorite things. In my arguments with Brian, I am determined to win. When I am face to face with a strong-willed child, I am determined to win. This battle with cancer I am determined to win. I even look at friendships as projects to win sometimes. My sin. I am going to win there, too. See the pattern? See what’s missing? Or rather, see what’s there? Me. All me. It’s all about me. Someone needs to take me down a notch.

    Yes, I am a competitive person. Always have been. Always will be. But there’s a difference between a competitor and someone who has to win all the time. The competitor has a life to live on the way. The person who has to win all the time only has one reason for living, themselves. A competitor realizes the need for others to help them train and compete and learn and lose sometimes. The person who has to win all the time has to do it on their own. And they may win, but they’re really lonely when they get to the top.

    I pray that I will win against this cancer. But I’ve needed God, Brian, my family and friends to help me in the fight. I pray that I will win in my marriage. Not win against Brian, but win with him because we are a team. I pray that I will win battles with my children, not to break their will but to mold their will to God’s. I pray that I will win in my friendships, not so that I will be loved, but so that I can love. I pray that I will win against Satan and sin in this life, not so I can say what a good Christian I am, but so that others see Christ and His beauty.

    It is a scary thing sometimes to see yourself in your child. But it is also an amazing thing. And one of the most amazing things is how I learn from them every day. And, well, learning from my children, that’s a whole lot better than winning!

    ,

  • Point Three Degrees From Normal

    Last month I spent 9 days in the hospital with an infection. Every few hours my vitals were checked, and my temperature hovered close to but not quite normal. One day the nurse came in, thrust the thermometer into my mouth, waited for the eight second beep, and said, “There you go, point three degrees from normal.”

    I’ve thought a lot about that the past weeks since my return home. Point three degrees from normal. That’s how my whole life feels. I’m never quite there. Normalcy is a thing of the past. I am not the same. I am a different person than I was six months ago. I have a new lifestyle, a new relationship with my family, a new perspective, new eating habits, new activities, new friendships even. I live in my new world waiting until life is normal again. I will have to wait a long time.

    We live in a world of expectations. Our society tells us that we should have instant gratification. We should have it all. Life should be normal. But what is normal? Who defines what normal is? Does normal mean my life should be easy? It is easy to believe that I deserve more from life. It is easy to fall into the trap that life should be easy. Life should be about me. It is simple to deceive myself into believing this lie.

    But life is not about me. I wasn’t created for this. I was created in beauty. For perfection. For relationship with a beautiful God. To live in a beautiful world. I was created for an eternal purpose. To glorify God in an eternal life walking daily in fellowship with him. Then Satan came to the Garden. Sin took what was normal and beautiful and made it abnormal and ugly. Normal life became unobtainable.

    Then Christ came and brought perfection. He made the unobtainable obtainable. He made it possible to have a normal life again. But this life won’t be normal because I live in an abnormal world. It’s a fallen world. It’s a world full of loneliness, pain, disease and heartache. It’s a world where my friends and I suffer loss and struggle through grief. This is not the world for which we were created. These hard things in life–this world of divorces, lonely singles, messy marriages, childless couples, illness, tragedy, widows & widowers, miscarriages, emptiness–this isn’t our true world.

    I have realized that in my life, there is no normal. I am called to serve God each day no matter what that day brings. Yes, I am broken, bruised, poor and used, there is no doubt. But it doesn’t end there. In my brokenness I have a God who will hold the pieces together. My bruised body He will care for tenderly. In my weakness He is made strong. My used up body He will use for His purposes to bring glory to Himself. Because He loves me.

    It is on that day when I am called home that life will truly be normal. Life will be exactly what I was created for, glorifying God and enjoying Him forever. And that life will be perfectly normal.

    In their song, I Need You To Love Me, BarlowGirl sings:

    I just never saw how You could cherish me
    ‘Cause You’re a God who has all things
    And still You want me

    Your love makes me forget what I have been
    Your love makes me see who I really am

    I love that! God has everything. He needs nothing. Yet He still wants me. That is the beauty of what I was created for. That is normalcy. So I will live life here on this abnormal earth. I will take each day to serve God in whatever He has called me, and I will live contentedly point three degrees away from normal.

    ,

  • Kiwi Cake, Flu Bugs & Chemo

    3-Horn Kiwi Cake!

    Asher’s sixth birthday wasn’t at all what he had imagined it would be. He spent weeks chattering about his big day and how he couldn’t wait to be six. About two months ago, Ash decided that he wanted a kiwi cake for his birthday. Yes, a kiwi cake. Kiwi is my son’s favorite fruit, along with strawberries, and since he had a strawberry cake last year, this year he wanted a kiwi cake. Last year he also had a longneck shaped cake, so this year he wanted a three-horn. Not to mention his list of 2,145 people he wanted to invite over.

    Brian and I spent days trying to explain to him how this birthday would be different. I couldn’t promise him the cake he wanted, because my chemo was scheduled for his birthday. We couldn’t promise him to invite his friends over because of my chemo. We had to celebrate his birthday a week early because of my chemo. There’s a pattern here, and honestly, my chemo stinks! I was frustrated for my son and for my inability to make his day what he wanted it to be.

    Then my husband concocted his hair-brained scheme. For those of you who know Brian, you know how good he is at coming up with hair-brained schemes. I’ve learned not to overreact, but there were days in the past where I would cry for hours when he would drop another “great idea” into my lap. This particular scheme involved kiwi cake and a contest, and Asher loved it! The gist of the contest? Several of our friends would bake a kiwi cake, a week before Asher’s birthday we’d have a taste-testing contest to see which was the best cake, and they’d get extra points if they made it shaped like a three-horn. I cringed. Asher’s list included six bakers. That meant six cakes.

    What on earth was I going to do with SIX CAKES in my house?! I realized the brilliance of Brian’s plan. At least it was brilliant in his mind, because that meant he would get to eat all that yummy goodness. I hated the scheme. Asher loved it. I couldn’t say “no”. So, a week and a half ago, the kiwi-cake contest was set.

    Then life set in… three of our bakers were out of town that weekend, one got the flu. That left two bakers, one of which was my mom who is a fabulous cook, and trust me, you DON’T want to try to face my mom in a baking contest. We ended up nixing the contest all-together, but we still had a small party for Ash a week before his birthday. Mom made the kiwi cake, and I am not kidding when I tell you she would have won, hands down! Asher thrilled to all the fun and delighted in an evening with his cousins. (We’ve posted pictures of the party, so you can see all the fun and the “winning” cake.)

    Then his real birthday came. Brian had the day off, which was a special treat considering I’d be gone all day at the cancer center. At 1:00 in the morning on his birthday, Asher woke up with the flu. He spent the night in his sleeping bag on our floor with a bucket. Poor little guy. He felt pretty miserable for the day and had no appetite. Tiff came over with a cake for him that night, and he only ate 2 bites of spaghetti and 2 bites of cake. What a way to spend a birthday.

    Asher took it all in stride. Fortunately, he is not the idealist that I am. This birthday was not at all how he imagined it would be, but he didn’t mind. Just like Micah was on his birthday, Asher enjoyed being loved.

    He snuggled up in my arms before bed on his birthday, and I said to him, “Hey, Buddy. I’m so sorry you got sick on your birthday. That makes me sad.” Asher found that spot right underneath my chin that God designed perfectly for little heads to fit in. “It’s okay Mom,” he sighed, “I had a fun day anyway.” He’s grown up so much! How can it have been six years since I held my little man in my arms for the first time. Now his lanky body barely fits in my lap, but I still hold him, and we talk. And like he does every night before bed, Asher pulled my head down so he could whisper a secret in my ear, “You’re the best Mom there ever was and ever will be in the whole world.” I squeezed him tight, “And you’re my best Asher there ever was and ever will be.”

    My sweet, sweet Asher. You have brought joy to our world, and I pray for many, many more joyous years with you!

    ,

  • Gratitude

    Yesterday was my last chemotherapy treatment. Just writing that seems surreal. I’ve been asked over and over how I feel, and the answer to that is, “I don’t know.” I keep expecting this euphoria to set in, this sense of freedom and extreme elation, but I remain almost unemotional. Almost. I am truly joyful this is over, and I am excited for my future. Yet at the same time, I am fully overwhelmed, and when I am overwhelmed, I think.

    I have thought about a lot of things today. My husband, my children, my family and friends. I’ve thought about how gracious God has been to us all. While chemo was tough, He spared me from so much. I’ve thought about Asher; after all, it was also his birthday. I’ve thought about the future and what it holds. I’ve thought about the day when I can just throw on a pair of jeans, a fun shirt, my boots, and style my own hair to spend a day shopping. It’s a mish-mash of introspection, and I am tired and ready for my brain to just shut down for the night.

    There are two people who have come to my mind often today. Two of the most awe-inspiring girls in my life. My mom and my daughter. It is when I think of them that the emotions come.

    My mom is the most amazing woman I know. She has stood firm with me in the midst of days that must have been agonizing to her. I will never forget the day I found out I had breast cancer. She was babysitting the children for us, and we were sent immediately from my OB to the surgeon’s office. I had to call her and let her know we would be a while, because I knew she would worry if she didn’t know what was happening. I hated that moment more than anything in my life. I longed to be with her, to see her face, to feel her arms around me, to weep with her, to hear her say it would all be okay and repeat those words back to her, to cling to Jesus with her, knowing she would run to Him just as I do. Instead, my quavering voice broke the most awful news she’s ever heard over the phone to her. I can still hear her intake of breath, her soft, “Oh, Angie.” And I weep.

    Over the past months, Mom has been here, never tiring in her labor. Gifted in service, hospitality and encouragement, she has cared for our hearts and our home. I don’t know where I’d be if Mom weren’t here. Driving 30 minutes every time she is needed, Mom never complains. In fact, she has wanted to be nowhere else. She has watched her daughter transform from a cancer victim to a cancer survivor. She has changed my dressings and emptied surgical drains. She has changed dirty diapers and cleaned grungy toilets. She has folded laundry and scrubbed floors. She has grocery shopped and cooked meals. She has kept my home running and tried to do it just as I would want it to be, because she knows and cares about what’s important to me.

    But she has done so much more. She has laughed with me and cried with me. We’ve snuggled in my bed and watched movies. She’s massaged my feet more times than I can count. We’ve read books aloud to each other. We’ve napped together. We’ve encouraged one another and struggled together. When I ask questions, she doesn’t always give answers, instead she shows understanding, because although she isn’t suffering the physical pain I am suffering, she is suffering just as much or more than I.

    I place myself in her shoes. I try to picture what it would be like to watch my baby suffer. I cannot begin to imagine, nor do I want to. It is when I think of all that Audrey’s future holds that I weep. Bubbly and beautiful, Audrey is our sassy diva who is very clear on what she wants. She brings joy every day into this home, and I could fill pages writing of her enchantments. She has grown to love her babysitters, but especially her Grandma. Every time there is a knock at the door, Audrey yells out, “Maaa-maw!”, and her brown eyes grow huge with excitement. I watch this little redheaded whirlwind, and I picture her future.

    I wonder if I’ll ever see her in pink tutus tiptoeing in her ballet slippers. Or will I see her diving for volleyballs and slamming spikes over the net? She already loves music and singing, and there are days when my mom just watches her and remembers me as a child. I speculate on how she will be in school. Will she seek to please as I did? Or will she try to carve her own path as Brian did? I want to teach her to be her own person and yet to love to learn and do well in school at the same time. I picture her dreaming and idealizing, imagining a world that is pretty and playful.

    I wonder if that world will hold the ugliness of breast cancer, and my heart aches. I pray that this blight is not part of her future, because I don’t know that I could watch her walk down this same path that I have trod. I don’t know that I would have the strength of my mother to watch my own dear flesh and blood struggle so much. I do know this. I would be there for her in a heartbeat. I would scrub toilets and clean vomit. I would cry and pray and laugh with her. I would spend every cent I own to care for her. And like my mom, I would care for her by running to Jesus with her every day. I would strive to be her angel, just as Mom has been for me.

    Today is a day for thanksgiving. My chemo is over. By God’s grace I have jumped another hurdle. But when I think about this day, it is not the end of my treatments that fill my mind. It is my mother and my daughter. It is the overwhelming gratitude and sentimentalism as I think about the amazing blessings God has given me with them in my life. So here is my tribute. Mom and Audrey are my beautiful, wonderful gifts, and I stand in awe of them both every day.

    [quicktime]/movies/daughters_eyes.mov[/quicktime]

    ,

  • Hurdles

    Brian and I went out for lunch today. Yes, I said it. OUT for lunch. It felt so good to be out and about and feel like part of the living again. Although the air was frigid, I wanted to stand and breathe it in, soak in the sunshine, and wallow in my freedom, well, at least until I was too cold to move. Then I jumped into our van and relished our heated seats. We found ourselves trying out the new delicacies at Tutti Gusti’s which was having its grand opening. (My zagat rating: Neat little place. Fresh decor. Good but not great Italian. Minimal cost.)

    While Brian was busy raving over how you get your drink for free with two slices of pizza. I was busy keeping my gloves on until my food came, eyes darting around the room to scan for lack of cleanliness. Ever since I was diagnosed with cancer, public places and germs scare me to death. Cancer is a curse in more ways than one, because there is no escape. From the second glances people throw you once they see your hat and lack of eyebrows, to the refusing to use a public bathroom out of fear of what grows inside, the curse is always there.

    While we were waiting for our meal to come, Brian reached across the table and grabbed both my gloved hands. “It’s almost over, babe.” he grinned from ear to ear, “Tomorrow is your last chemo.” I smiled at him and then promptly burst into tears. Not quite the reaction he was going for, I’m sure. There is nothing I hate worse than someone blowing their nose at the table, yet here I sat with my wad of tissues, trying to staunch the flow and not make a spectacle of myself. Too late! Try walking into any place with no hair and a hat vainly trying to cover your head.

    It’s almost surreal to think this hurdle is almost over. I look back at the course behind me and see so many hurdles already jumped: surgeries, chemo visits, cat scans, heart scans, hair loss, hospitalizations. Some are on the ground. I’ve kicked them there in my determination that this cancer won’t defeat me. Some I’ve lept over easily, and they stare belligerently at my back. Others I’ve tripped over in my weakness and lack of faith. This last chemo hurdle still looms in front of me, but after tomorrow, it will be lying prone as well. I will have made it through the part of the race that is the hardest, and while other barriers remain, they will be much easier jumps for me.

    While he stuffed his face with pizza and I delicately picked at my steak sub, I tried to explain to Brian how I look at those hurdles ahead of me and I weep for fear. I fear losing the closeness to Christ I have sensed. I fear thinking I don’t need Him now that “life might be easier”. I dread the side effects of radiation and what that will look like. I tremble at the possibility of recurrence and having to live this life all over again. As crazy as it sounds, I fear life returning to normal. I have been dependent for so long now, that having some of my independence back scares me. Will I be able to care for my children the same? Will I be able to cook and clean and care for my home and family? What will it look like? I know the answer is that it won’t look the same, because we are not the same people who inhabited this home 6 months ago. We have changed drastically and grown tremendously.

    Martin Luther wrote:

    This life, therefore, is not righteousness but growth in righteousness, not health but healing, not being but becoming, not rest but exercise; we are not yet what we shall be, but we are growing toward it; the process is not yet finished, but it is going on; this is not the end, but it is the road.

    This is the road I have ahead of me, and truth be told, fear still lurks. It is there and it is real. I once told a friend, “If one more person tells me not to be afraid, I might strangle them.” It’s not about not being afraid, it’s about going to Christ with those fears. While He doesn’t take the pain or the unknown or the fear away, He gives the courage to face those fears head on, jumping those hurdles and running hard toward the finish line. I can have that courage because I know all the time He is running with me. Some days He’s right there beside me, others He’s in front encouraging me to follow Him. Still others He is behind me cheering me on. And there are many days where I’m not running at all… He is carrying me in the race, hoisting me over each hurdle I face. The miraculous part is that He is doing them all at the same time. There is one thing of which I am sure. I will reach the finish line with Him.

    In the midst of all the fear and unknowns ahead of me, I do know this. My growing process is not complete, but after tomorrow my chemo process is. That, my friends, is reason for celebration!

    ,

  • Dreams & Other Random Mumblings

    The past few nights have been toss and turn nights for me. Sometimes I wonder how Bri can sleep through my thrashing, but then again, Brian has slept through all six of our smoke alarms going off at the same time (no worries, it was a glitch in the wiring of our home, not a fire). My dreams were like something out of a Tim Burton movie, very strange, very disconnected, and very disturbing. I woke after every dream and would analyze myself even though I’ve always scoffed at dream interpretation. I’ve decided either I’m crazy or my imagination is overactive. I’ll accept the latter and admit I’m a lot more like Micah than I want to admit. I just keep all my musings to myself.

    Speaking of Micah. He crawled in bed with us at 6:45 Sunday morning. I love when he snuggles in between us and lays his head on my shoulder. I do NOT love when he crawls in bed with us and throws up, which is what happened this particular morning. I can hear all of you reacting right now, so let me assure you, it wasn’t as awful as it sounds. Fortunately, the only mess was on his shirt, and trust me, THAT woke Brian. I’ve never seen him move as quickly as he did getting Micah to the bathroom. We cleaned up our poor boy, got him changed, and then Brian put him over on his side of the bed next to a bucket. Micah’s pitiful, “Mommy, I didn’t wike dat.” was enough to break my heart in pieces. I wonder into how many pieces a heart can be broken?

    Bless his little heart, being sick like that is no fun! Honestly, Brian and I have been mercifully spared. In six years of having children in our home, we have never had them get sick and throw up until now. Our children have not been to the doctor for any sickness in the past two years, so I’m thankful. I am having to sequester myself from my children again to prevent my catching this bug, and it is painful. I want to be the one to hold Micah and make him feel all better. I want to fix his gatorade and help care for him. Although I can’t complain about not having to clean up after him. Brian has gained quite a few more points with me!

    So I will stay in my room and dream about the day when I don’t have to avoid my sick children. Speaking of dreams again, I went in for labwork on Friday, and my blood counts look really good other than a mildly low red blood cell count. While one nurse was draining my finger of all its blood, another one came in. “You’re here, oh good.” she said. I couldn’t help but laugh, “Uh, not so good for me.” I responded. Returning my laugh, she said, “I had a dream about you last night.”

    What in the world does it mean when your oncology nurse dreams about you? Is that a good or bad thing? What I really want to know is whether it was a dream or a nightmare? After all, this is the nurse that cried with me when she finally got my port accessed. There’s something mildly disquieting that I’ve seen her enough times that she’d dream about me. On the flip side, there’s something mildly comforting to know I’m not just a face at the cancer center. She didn’t tell me much more than the fact that I was in her dream, but now I’m overanalyzing again.

    I realize how tired I am of this cacophony of insanity that fills my mind every night and during the day when I nap. I am hoping that as life begins to resume some semblance of normalcy that my dreams will do so as well. I long for the day when I can be up and around and caring for my children and visiting with friends. I am thankful for the times I do get to have with friends, and I have accepted that this is my life right now, so I will wait patiently for normalcy to return.

    And in the meantime, I’ll see you in my dreams unless you see me in yours first.

    ,

  • His Arms

    The cries were piercing over our baby monitor, waking me from a deep sleep. Audrey calling out for Mommy in an agonizing wail. I waited, because I assumed she would do one of two things. She would either fall back to sleep in a minute or my mom would go down and comfort her. With Brian in Northern Virginia, my parents stay with me to help care for the children, and Mom jumps at every chance to hold her grandbabies. I soon heard her tender voice soothing Audrey, but the wails only intensified. She screamed louder and louder, calling my name with desperation, stabbing my heart with each sob. I didn’t know what caused her cries, but I was certain of one thing. My child needed me, and I would go to her.

    As soon as Mom handed her to me, Audrey stilled, snuggling in my lap, thumb in mouth, soft hiccups as she burrowed deep into my arms. The room darkened as Mom left us alone, and Audrey murmured a soft, “wock, wock” as we began the gentle sway back and forth, back and forth. Within five minutes, her deep sighs whispered to me that she was asleep, and I held her. I knew I could put her back in her crib and return to my bed, but I had no desire to. I wanted to hold her like this forever. So we sat in the rocker, and I breathed in her sweet baby smell all powdery and fresh.

    As I sat there, my head started to nod and I’d snap back awake not wanting to end the moment. I considered for a second taking her to bed with me, more for my sake than hers. Then the realist in me set in. There would be no way to prevent her from rolling off Brian’s side of the bed. I’d never get any sleep because I would worry about her all night. Then I’d be cranky and impatient with the children the next day. I knew it was for her good and mine to put her back down even though I didn’t want to. I ached to hold her, and it was as comforting to me as it was to her to have her in my arms.

    Jesus aches to hold me like that. I have talked with, heard from, prayed for and cried over so many of my friends (old and new) who are struggling and suffering. There is a part in every one of us that cries out for Jesus like Audrey cried for me. And He runs to us and He holds us and He comforts us. He promises to be there whenever we call, and He will never nod off to sleep. He is awake all night with His loving arms of protection around us. I held Audrey and worried about my own comfort, my own needs, yet He gave up all of His. For me. For me!

    I run to so many other things for peace. It’s easy to bury my head in a book or project. Yet only One thing satisfies. Only He will bring the comfort I truly need and truly want. And as it was for Audrey with her Mommy, my heart cries out that no one else will do. Only I could calm her restlessness, just as I long for His arms around me when I wake full of fear. When I read of others whose cancers have returned and I know there are no certainties for me, one thing is certain. I am inscribed on the palms of His hand. My name is written in the book of life. And His strong arms are holding me now and every second of my tomorrows until He calls me home.

    Francis Schaeffer wrote:

    The Christian is the really free man–he is free to have imagination. This, too, is our heritage. The Christian is the one whose imagination should fly beyond the stars.

    Have you ever thought about that day? Wept in anticipation? Dreamt of that moment when you are in His presence? I often picture what it must be like, every sense heightened by perfection. Breathe in the sweet aroma of Christ with me. Feel the heartbeat under His chest and think of yours, sinless. Laugh with Him as your body moves pain free forever. Look down at your robes, spotless white. Hear His voice saying your name, a name He loves. Taste His tears mingle with yours as you weep together, old friends finally reuniting, because you have known each other for all these years. Imagine with me for a minute how it will feel when the most powerful arms in the universe embrace you. Those arms will be wonderfully familiar, because those are the arms that are holding you now. No pain, no cancer, no accident, no emotion, no lie, no heartache, no broken dream, no person, no sin can steal that from you. Take a moment and feel His arms. They are there and they always will be.

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  • Snow Day

    Last night before bed, Asher said to me, “When I wake up, Grandma & Grandaddy will be here.” Micah’s excited response was, “And snow, too!” The boys have waited anxiously for a snow day, and while they didn’t wake up to it, soon after breakfast, the snow began and continued through the afternoon. Bri unfortunately left for DC last night, so he’s missed all the fun, but what a joyous day it has been for me.

    I have moved out of the bed-ridden stage following chemo and have been up and around more. I helped Mom weed out Audrey’s dresser and we put away all the clothes that don’t fit her anymore, which is always such a heart-breaking experience. She is growing so quickly, and I am missing so much. But how wonderful it was to actually feel like doing something! The highlight of my day though was being in the snow with my boys.

    After putting Audrey down for nap, we all donned our gloves, hats, coats and boots and went out into the falling snow. While I wasn’t able to run around and join in the snowball fights and snowman building, it was like breathing new life to be outside with them. I watched as they made snow angels, attacked Grandaddy, and wrestled in the snow. Micah loved to eat the snow, and at one point my dad quoted one of their favorite books, Snow by P.D. Eastman and Roy Mc Kie, to him. “Snow, snow look at the snow. Do you like it in your face?” The next line of the book reads, “Yes, I like it any place.” But instead of his usual quoting back to Grandad, Micah shook his head very seriously and said, “No, Grandaddy. But I like it in my tummy.” How my Snow Bear makes me laugh!

    Now we are all inside, “snuggly” warm with hot chocolate, rosy cheeks and runny noses, and it is a delightful feeling to not just watch, but experience my children again! And you can “experience” all the fun, too! I’ve posted photos, so click here to enjoy our snow day.

  • Future Travels

    So I’ve been getting all kinds of questions about when I’ll be done with chemo and treatment and what the future looks like, and I decided I should probably write an entry with an update for all of you. I hate writing these because I don’t want to bore you to death, so that being said, don your sleeping caps, grap a cup of nighttime tea, big long stretch, nice yawn, and here we go…

    As long as my counts look good, my LAST (Lord, willing) chemo treatment is next Friday, January 25th (at 10:30 in the morning). I WILL be wearing my pink fuzzy hat for that celebration. Unfortunately for my oldest son, January 25th is also Ash’s birthday, so I’m torn about how to actually feel about that day since I’ll be pretty incoherent after treatment. Following my last chemo, the doctor is a nice enough man to give me about a month’s reprieve before beginning radiation; however, I will still receive my Herceptin treatment somewhere in there. (For info on what herceptin is, see Brian’s previous entry .)

    Some of you may ask, “What’s radiation?” or even, “Why radiation?” Well, when I had my surgery, lots of my blood vessels were cut and/or cauterized. This possibly trapped those nasty little cancer cells in those vessels. Chemotherapy sends poison into my blood to kill off any cancer cells that weren’t removed during surgery. Because of the cauterized blood vessels, blood flow can’t get to those particular places, so radiation targets the site where the actual cancer was found.

    Obviously, I haven’t experienced this yet, but here’s what I’ve read. Radiation therapy is focusing high energy (radiation) beams at the chest wall and under my arm where the tumor was removed. This is to stop cancer cells from growing and dividing. Yay for me in that it does not require IV’s! Boo for me in that it is an every day treatment, 5 days a week, for 6-8 weeks. I will also be having herceptin treatments every 3 weeks along with the radiation.

    Side effects are unique to each individual as are the side effects of chemo but possible side effects are skin reactions, fatigue, loss of appetite, some muscle stiffness, and general malaise. I am most concerned about the fatigue possibility because of my lupus. Generally, they do not like to give radiation to lupus patients because of the fatigue factor, but my cancer was so aggressive that they’d rather take the risk of impacting my lupus negatively than to risk not fighting the cancer in this way. This scares me, but I trust my doctor.

    So, those are the gory details. As for my heart, I’m having an “I can’t seem to stop crying” kind of day. It all feels like so much, and while the worst of the hurdles is almost jumped, I fear looking at my doctor and hearing him say that it all didn’t work or that there has been a recurrence and then all of this will have been for nothing. But it won’t be for nothing, I know. God has grown me and taught me in ways I would not have grown had I not gotten cancer. And even if I hear those nightmare words from my oncologist, God will still be good and He will still be faithful. No matter what road I travel, my future is still His.

    Because of the devastation of the the afflicted, because of the groaning of the needy. “Now I will arise,” says the Lord, “I will set him in the safety for which he longs.” (Psalm 12:5)

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