A Spring of Joy

Glimpses of our world…

  • Glimpses Of God

    Drum roll, please… six down, two to go (well, only two more chemo treatments. I still have a year of IV-herceptin, radiation, drug therapies, etc. But the most toxic portion will soon be out of the way.) Yesterday was a mixture of emotions when I saw my oncologist. On the bright side, my blood counts look great, he determined course of treatment to replace the Taxol, I had my port so there was no IV, and I only have two chemo treatments left even with all the setbacks. On the not so bright side, not knowing what actually caused my recent hospitalization, there are no guarantees that this treatment won’t send me to the hospital also, the new drug is less severe overall but much more prone to nausea, and the port access did not go so well. It was an exhausting, emotional day, and now it is an exhausting, sleepless night.

    Here’s the medical update for those of you that keep track. My new chemo treatment is a drug of the same molecular make-up as Taxol called Taxatere. It is not as toxic and generally tends to be easier on the body; however, it’s still chemo and still has some not so fun side effects. I did read that a new study suggests that Taxatere is actually better than Adriamycin (one of my first two drugs) at preventing recurrence, so we’re hitting this cancer with a double-dose of death. The Taxatere also will impact my blood counts aggressively, and the doctor told me not to be surprised if I come in two weeks for my next session and find my counts are too low to even have chemo. This obviously could push things back even farther which makes for a longer treatment time in general. But after yesterday, I’m one step closer.

    The actual treatment today was difficult. I am still swollen and very sore from the port surgery, so access to the port was a struggle for me and the nurses. They warned me ahead of time that the first access could be hard, but I was totally unprepared for the onslaught. It took them 20 minutes (much better than 5 hours!) of pushing on the still painful surgery site to manipulate the port and find where they needed to stick me. Then the first needle wouldn’t stay in because of my swelling, so I had to have a second needle stick and manipulation. Lots of deep breaths, cold cloths on my forehead, squeezed hands and tears, but it went in and I was able to avoid an IV and get my treatment underway. It is a shorter infusion than the Taxol, but still a long day (5 hours) at the cancer center. I go back in a week for labwork then back again in two for another treatment if my labs look good.

    There, that’s done. I really should leave the health update part up to Brian. Although I am the detail oriented one in our marriage, he’s much more the pragmatist. Here’s where we are, here’s what’s happening, here’s what’s ahead, let’s move on. I far more enjoy sharing the heart side of things. Huh… more proof that he’s the direct one, and I’m the steady relater. So, let’s move on to my heart.

    I’ve written a lot about God’s presence lately. What does it look like? How does it feel? What does it mean? Today, He showed me again that His presence isn’t always that felt sense of Him being there. It’s in seeing the glimpses of God in the small and big details of the day. I will share a few with you knowing there are far more that I didn’t even see or have already forgotten. It was a long, hard day, but He showed such faithfulness.

    1. Amanda, my sweet friend, who has inundated my home with flowers and calls herself my devotee. Just seeing her smile when she picked me up for treatment brightened my day immensely.

    2. My doctor, who is not only an amazing oncologist, but a compassionate and tender man. He sat with me after my pre-chemo exam and just talked with me. “How are you doing? Are you having any depression? You’ve been through so much these last 3 weeks.” While admittedly, I am prone to pessimism, God has kept my spirits up for the most part. I do have days of discouragement, but they do not pass into a darkness that remains. Once we talked through that, he put his hand on my arm and said, “We’re going to get you through this. You are doing great. And there is no reason to think you will not be cured of this cancer. We are hitting it with everything we have, both guns blazing, and you’re body is responding. In a few years, you are going to look back and no, you won’t forget all this, but they’ll be distant and far less painful memories.” I wasn’t able to respond through the knot in my throat, but I think the tears in my eyes showed him how much I appreciate not only his wisdom and skills, but his heart.

    3. The nurses. Nurse 1 and Nurse 2 worked tirelessly to encourage, comfort and make things go as painless as possible even though things were difficult. When Nurse 1 couldn’t get the port accessed, she wasn’t embarrassed to call another nurse in for help. And she stood on the other side pressing a cold cloth to my forehead, helping me breathe through the pain, distracting me by making me tell stories about my children, and letting me cut off all circulation to her hand with my death grip. Nurse 2 worked quickly and determinedly, unwavering and unflinching in the midst of my struggle (and hers, too.) When they finally got the port accessed, the waves of relief led me to tears. Nurse 2’s response? Well, she cried, too. “I hate this part of my job.” she said. The nurses at the oncology center are wonderful!

    4. More Amanda. We spent the day together sharing our lives, laughing, crying, convicting, encouraging and growing together. As I looked around the infusion center, there were so many people sitting there alone. How blessed I am to have chemo buddies who share in my pain! And not just one. I’ve had six treatments, and six different chemo buddies so far. Plus, we stopped to grab a late lunch to take home (I wasn’t about to eat the provided meal at the center–jello, chicken salad on stale bread, and cream-of-nothing soup), and then we snuggled upstairs to watch a short movie and veg for a while together until my legs felt less like the jello I left at the cancer center and more like utensils for walking.

    5. The drugs. That’s a hard one for me, because I hate medication. Period. Anytime. Anywhere. But after the injury to my unhealed surgery area, the cocktail of pain meds and mild sedatives eased the ache and lessened my anxiety. Tonight the pain is still there, but the prescriptions he gave me help for a while.

    6. Opportunities. The center counselor stopped by my chair for a bit today to see how I was doing. I was able to share my struggles with her openly and honestly, and in the midst of our discussion, I was also able to share my faith. She even wrote down my blog address to read. She encouraged me in my ordeal telling me how good it was to see a Christian who was able to share her humanness and be real. This only fuels my mantra–only God working in me.

    7. My in-laws. Brian’s parent are visiting and took the kids out for the day which greatly relieved their anxiety over Mommy’s doctor appointment. They had a fun day at the Children’s Museum and Chick-Fil-A, so the good-byes before I left were not difficult. This is all still so hard on Micah, who at the supper table, was close to a melt-down telling me, “I wish you never had your chemo. Then you wouldn’t have a boo-boo.” But how thankful I am for family and friends with whom my children are comfortable spending their days when I cannot be there for them.

    8. Friendships. Throughout the afternoon, I received phone calls, instant messages, texts, and cards from Mom, Kristin, Sarah, Nat, Tiff and Maretta–thoughts, prayers and love! How grateful I am for the close circle of friends with whom I am surrounded, even if they aren’t able to be physically present with me. I am encouraged by one of these dear ones daily, and they have walked through so much with me. I am loved and I am prayed for, of that I have no doubt. Not just by these, but by so many of you. Thank you. I am humbled.

    9. Prayer. I’ve been so encouraged to hear how God is working and healing in the lives of others. To hear good reports about our friends Rachel and Jeff brought sweet relief. While they have long, painful roads ahead and heavy burdens to bear, God is working and providing and hearing our frantic cries. God is good to bring my eyes off myself in the midst of my trials and to give me others on whom I can focus. I know that many of you who read my writings have struggles, too, and I want you to know that I pray for you constantly in the long nights and throughout the days. As Steve Harper puts it in his book, Talking In The Dark, “sound travels in both darkness and light.”

    10. Brian. How can I not mention my dear husband when I share about the glimpses of God I see? To have him hold me this morning and pray his heart for me. To lean against him after treatments and just be still. To lie in bed at night with my head on his shoulder and talk through my day and all the things I’m learning about God and myself. He is my tangible Jesus, my vision of the bridegroom to come. His sacrifice, his love and his optimistic faith buoy me on to continue in my journey. He loves me so well. There are no words.

    In my last post, I ended with a verse from Isaiah about how God will fill the voids in the wilderness, how He brings joy and gladness. How true God’s Word is! To God all praise and glory!

    (On a side note, please pray. It is 5:00 a.m., and I have been awake since midnight. I am weary of the sleeplessness, and it only adds to my physical fatigue. Would you please pray that God would bring much needed rest in the days to come as my body fights the chemo treatment? Also, it seems my father-in-law is coming down with a cold. They fly back to Phoenix today, but I also know the most contagious time is now, and I am very susceptible in my weakness. Would you pray for protection for me, the kids and Brian? I appreciate y’all so much.)

    ,

  • Four Months

    Four months ago today I underwent surgery for cancer. Not long after my surgery, my husband looked me in the eyes, fear etched on his face like I’ve never seen before. “It was in 8 of your lymph nodes.” I closed my eyes because I couldn’t bear to see his. Heavy sigh, then, “But there’s more.” How could I open my eyes again and witness the pain in his? The look on his face was one that scared me, because Brian is not one to wear his heart on his sleeve. “It’s stage 3, and the most aggressive cancer as far as how quickly it spreads.” All I could do was cling to him and utter, “Oh, dear God.”

    Has it really been four months since those dreadful moments? Yet I feel the pain of those days like it just happened minutes ago. I can hear Brian’s ragged breathing, and I can feel the prick of tears behind my eyes. George MacDonald wrote,

    “‘Oh God,’ I said, and that was all. But what are the prayers of the whole universe more than expansions of that one cry? It is not what God can give us, but God that we want.”

    I’ve had a lot of “Oh God” moments over the past months. I’m struggling through some today. The agony of chemo treatments, hospital stays, isolation, fear, pain, and the unknown all feel so overwhelming. There is no way to describe the fatigue and the weakness. I am often asked if I am getting rest, and I never know how to answer that question. There is no rest from helplessness and pain. There is a weariness from weakness that invades the bones. How do I explain the tiredness that is so tired of being tired that you find no real rest even when you are resting?

    My recovery from the port-a-cath surgery has been painfully slow; much slower than I anticipated, and I find myself discouraged. Tomorrow I return to the cancer center to meet with my doctor and determine what course of treatment I will now undergo since my body didn’t react well to the Taxol. Once again it’s facing the unknown, and I am tired of the fear. I am tired of always feeling poorly. I dream about the days when I can run around with my children again, play with them for more than 15 minutes without needing a break, fix our supper, laugh deeply without my lungs aching, keep my house orderly and neat, go out on a date with Brian, even clean (I know, crazy!). Four months isn’t that long, especially when I think of others who have suffered for much longer. Yet it’s long enough for me to start to forget what my days used to be like… this life is my new normal.

    When I think about the long months ahead, the dark clouds start to form again. How I long to be like Esther Burr (daughter of Jonathan and Sarah Edwards) who, after the death of her husband, wrote to her mother of how fearful she was that she would bring dishonor to her Lord in the midst of her pain. It was at the forefront of her thoughts and life. The forefront of my thoughts is so often about me. Yet this is not all about me. I long to live this new normal in a way that brings glory to God. My humanness complains and struggles. My legalism makes me feel guilty for the struggle. But the truth is my Savior gives me the freedom to struggle. The reality of these trials is that God is still there in the midst of them. He hears my cry and He is with me.

    George MacDonald is so right. It’s not what God can give me that I want, it’s God Himself. He can give me so much. He has given me so much. But even if He gave me my normal life back tomorrow, it would mean nothing without God Himself. That is where the true rest comes, and while there is a physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual turmoil in my soul, there is One stronger within me than all this. He is the One that keeps my soul from suffocating under the oppressive fatigue. He is the One Who surrounds me with His light even when the dark clouds come. He is the One walking through those doors with me tomorrow at the cancer center (well, He and my sweet friend, Amanda).

    Bowing to His will in my struggle means contentment in the unexplained, and I will never understand all the “whys” of my life. I will never understand the pain and the fear that has been brought not only into my life but into the lives of my loved ones, but I know He is not the author of pain. I will never understand the isolation I’ve endured, but I know He fills those voids with His love. I will never understand the grief and loss I’ve undergone in so many areas, but I know that His peace comes with submission. He has promised His presence both now and forever. And with His presence comes joy and gladness. I may not feel it every second, but it’s still there… because He is there.

    For the Lord shall comfort Zion:
    He will comfort all her waste places;
    And He will make her wilderness like Eden,
    And her desert like the garden of the Lord;
    Joy and gladness shall be found therein,
    Thanksgiving, and the voice of melody.
    (Isaiah 51:3)

  • My Soul Magnifies The Lord

    Mickey Mouse chocolate chip pancakes (blue and pink at that!), homemade biscuits with sausage gravy, bacon, scrambled eggs, coffee, orange juice, white grape peach juice… what more could you want? Yesterday morning our dear Tiff fixed us breakfast. Having just had minor surgery Thursday to get a port-a-catheter put in (no more icky IV’s!), I sat on my great recliner throne and watched the commotion in my kitchen through my percocet induced stupor. It was the highlight of my week to watch all the goings on. The boys were thrilled with every drop of batter poured onto the griddle and had to be monitored closely to keep from covering every inch of pancake with chocolate chips. Audrey, who has been clingy since my hospital stay, attached herself to Brian, sucking her thumb (something else she started up again while I was in the hospital) and enjoyed the chaos from the safety of Daddy’s arms. Christmas music was playing, the lights were twinkling, and there was a cheerful busyness in the kitchen. Our home was warm and full of life. Watching my children yesterday brought a sparkle into a difficult few weeks. There is nothing like the life and delight a child brings.

    I read this morning about Mary. Can you imagine her life? A teenage girl betrothed to a man probably far older than she. She is visited by an angel who tells her that she is going to divinely bear the Savior of the world. What? How? Who? Why me? Yet she bows in complete submission knowing that nothing is impossible with God.

    What a road Mary has ahead of her. Her journey is not an easy one. She has to undergo the doubts of her fiance about her pregnancy. Shame is probably thrown into her face at every turn. I’d bet she was the subject of gossip in the Galilean community. She undergoes all the struggles of nine months of pregnancy. Do you think she had morning sickness, sciatica, discomfort? Just because her conception was divine, she was still a woman, and I’m sure she endured the humanness of pregnancy. Traveling during pregnancy is not easy at any stage, but this woman rode a donkey for miles when she was great with child. She arrived in Bethlehem and was turned away from an inn and given a cave to sleep in.

    I wonder what went through her mind when the pangs of childbirth began in that dark, dank, smelly stable. I wonder if she experienced that butterfly feeling in her stomach of excitement mingled with fear. What will it be like to give birth? How long with this take? How painful will this be? What if there are complications? What kind of mother will I be? How on earth am I going to care for an infant? And to top it off, she was the mother of God. No pressure there.

    Mary gave birth, wrapped Him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger. She was tired, sore, and scared, but at the same time, I’m sure she was delighted and in love with her son. I’ve wondered what went through her mind when the visitors began arriving. Strangers to her, shepherds who had heard of the birth of Christ through a band of angels, came to worship her son. Just imagine everything that was happening in her heart. I’m sure there was hurt and confusion and fear in her life. But I also know there was faith. Mary was expecting Christ to come. Her Messiah. Only she wasn’t expecting Him to come this way. God was going to change the course of human history–through her.

    I love the Magnificat. I love the beauty of Mary’s song to her God. Mary knew the character of her God and she believed. Am I like Mary? I, too, have been visited by the Lord, and I carry Christ into the world. I long for her faith that stands firm in the midst of turmoil and confusion knowing that nothing is impossible with God. I long for her cheerful humility and her steadfast knowledge of the mercy of God. She understood who she was and she acknowledged how magnificent her God was. Her soul magnified God.

    How does a soul magnify God? I magnify God with my lips through thanksgiving and praise. But no one hears my soul… that’s just me and God. I think magnifying Him with my soul means having that peaceful contentedness in the mercy of God. That peace comes from knowing Him and delighting in Who He is–Jesus, the baby born to be Savior and returning as King. Mary knew and understood this.

    I’ve wrestled these past few days with grasping that Christmas is upon us. Having Brian do all the shopping and Tiff do all the wrapping has been hard. I long to be about my normal routine, not stuck in my bed or chair. I feel like I’m watching the season happen without me, even in my own home. But then I think about Mary. She had a long journey ahead of her, but she rested in Who her God was. She submitted humbly to His will. She rejoiced at the news of her Messiah born through her. She was awestruck at the salvation of the Lord.

    I am learning this peace and this beauty as I watch my children bask in the glow of all the Christmas glory. They can’t wait to wrap their presents for each other. They are counting the minutes to the Christmas Eve service tonight. They are thrilled to spend time playing with their cousins on Christmas Day. Yes, they are excited to open presents, too. They love having Daddy home “forever” as Micah puts it. They are enjoying the life they have and aren’t caught up in how it’s “supposed to be”. I am learning much through my children and through Mary. One thing I share with Mary… that Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever. God gave us a wonderful gift 2000 years ago when the Child Who would be King was born, and God has given me three beautiful reminders to see every day. And as hard as life can be, there truly is nothing like the delight and life a child can bring.

  • God With Us

    St. Augustine in his Confessions says “You arouse [man] to take joy in praising you, for you have made us for yourself, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.” John of the Cross says in his work The Living Flame Of Love how the soul is meant to “cross over from its own empty silence into an expectant quiet that is alive with His presence.” But what does rest look like? What does God’s presence look like?

    Since my hospital visit last week, there is a chaos in my heart and mind that is unsettling. My Friday ordeal with the IV’s has left me anxious, at moments even struggling to breathe through the fear of the agony of the memories. I have run to God, searched for Him, begged Him for relief from this oppressiveness. It is one of my tunnel moments where I am clinging desperately to my seat on the train. Only I feel like I am nailed to the cushion and can’t make my way to the dining car or the sleeping berth or the engine room. I am trapped here, weeping at the darkness outside. Yet it is not just for myself that I weep.

    The past week it seems I have been assaulted with the news of others who are hurting–death of parents and friends, sick grandparents, cancer diagnoses, hospitalizations, heart attacks, collapse. Sleep evades me. Sometimes it is the nightmares that keep me awake, memories of my hospital stay. Other times I am so overwrought with the needs of others that I lie awake praying for them, for so many. And I search for answers. At times I search for escape, begging God to just give me one day without the news of someone hurt or sick or struggling. I want to run from it all and run far. Yet as I struggle, I realize there is only one place to run. There is only one person to run to. There is only one Savior who can rescue me. He already has.

    What it boils down to is what I believe. Do I truly believe that God is sovereign even in the midst of pain? If I don’t believe that, then my God is not sovereign at all, and then He’s not God. And that’s not a God I want. God is not the author of my pain, yet He allows it. Why? Sometimes I think about the answer, and that unsettles me, too. He allows it for His glory. Seems kind of selfish to me sometimes. But at the same time, how can I question it? He is perfect, holy, wise, compassionate, kind, and glorious. Everything that happens will bring glory to Him. That’s why we were made. We weren’t made for this world and this struggle. Sin came into the world and tainted God’s glory. Jesus came into my heart and brought His glory into my life again. How can I not be a vessel of His glory whether in joy or in pain? He is God and I am not.

    It is here that I realize the rest comes. It is in knowing who God is. It is in knowing that while I may not feel God’s presence, He is still there listening to my every cry and grieving with me. Immanuel, “God With Us”. That’s why He came–to be with us. Yet He was rejected before He was even born, pushed into a smelly stable to be wrapped in swaddling cloths. Can I reject Him now? Can I reject His sovereignty? I cannot. I can only cling to the truth in my mind and ask for that truth to invade my heart daily. And as I pray, I know I will find His presence and His rest. I long for that perfect rest… the long tomorrow when I will be in Heaven with the One Who rescues me today, not as an escape from this world and these trials, but as an eternal vessel for His glory–daily in His presence.

    If you are a Christian suffering with great pains and losses, Jesus says, “Be of good cheer.” (John 16:33) The new house is nearly ready for you. Moving day is coming. The dark winter is about to be magically transformed into spring. One day soon you will be home–for the first time. (Randy Alcorn)

  • First Snow

    There is something about these pictures that just about breaks my heart in two. Perhaps it’s just the simple beauty of my children and their precious love.
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  • An Angel In My Room

    Wednesday morning while at the hospital, I was lying in my bed, praying for peace. There was a knock a the door, and an older gentleman was standing there. He was dressed in his volunteer vest and was grinning from ear to ear. “May I come in?”, he asked. I invited him in and got a closer look, “I know you.” I said. “And I have seen your face before.” he replied. And he had. It was Grandaddy Smith, my best friend, Beth’s great-uncle. Having spent time with Beth’s extended family, Brian and I have had our share of Grandaddy Smith, and it’s a fun share to have. We’ve been to Christmas parties, Thanksgiving dinner, meals with him at First Pres., summer get-togethers, and just plain ol’ dinner with him at Uncle Craig’s. “I’m Beth’s best friend.” I told him. His face lit up even more, “And so you are!” he exclaimed, hands raised.

    Grandaddy Smith came into my room with a vibrancy that belied his age. He stood by my bedside and talked with me for a while. We talked about Brian and the children, his excitement to be a great-grandaddy, his volunteering at the hospital and my battle with cancer and discouragement. A few minutes later, Christmas carolers began walking the halls, and Mr. Smith ran to the door waving at each person and hollering “Merry Christmas!” as they passed by. He turned and told me how good it was to see me but he had others to see, and he was gone.

    I closed my eyes and prayed some more, thanking God for giving me a smile that day, when there was another knock at the door. Mr. Smith was back. “A few years ago,” he asked, “Were you at Beth’s mother’s house for Christmas? You played the piano and Brian played the trumpet and we all sang carols?” When I told him I was, he nodded, “I just wanted to be sure of who you are.” He then told me he’d be back on Saturday and how torn he was because he wanted to see me again, but he didn’t want me to have to stay in the hospital. With a wave and a “God be with you,” Mr. Smith was off again to cheer up another patient.

    Move to Thursday. Brian hadn’t arrived yet from home, and I was alone in my room. There was a knock at the door, and there stood Grandaddy Smith! “I just couldn’t let you leave the hospital without seeing you again.” he exclaimed. I beckoned him in, and he told me how he had thought about me all day the day before. “I just want to sing you something, if you can bear my voice.” he said. He cleared his throat, and began to sing, “God will take care of you, through every day, o’er all the way. He will take care of you. God will take care of you.” That was the first of several hymns he sang while I held his hand and cried. “Now,” he said, “You’re allowed to leave before Saturday.” With another “God be with you”, a squeeze of my hand, and a wave, the angel in my room was gone.

    Never a trial that He is not there,
    Never a burden that He doth not bear,
    Never a sorrow that He doth not share,
    Moment by moment, I’m under His care.

    Moment by moment I’m kept in His love;
    Moment by moment I’ve life from above;
    Looking to Jesus till glory doth shine;
    Moment by moment, O Lord, I am Thine.

    Never a heartache, and never a groan,
    Never a teardrop and never a moan;
    Never a danger but there on the throne,
    Moment by moment He thinks of His own.

    Moment by moment I’m kept in His love;
    Moment by moment I’ve life from above;
    Looking to Jesus till glory doth shine;
    Moment by moment, O Lord, I am Thine.

    Never a weakness that He doth not feel,
    Never a sickness that He cannot heal;
    Moment by moment, in woe or in weal,
    Jesus my Savior, abides with me still.

    Moment by moment I’m kept in His love;
    Moment by moment I’ve life from above;
    Looking to Jesus till glory doth shine;
    Moment by moment, O Lord, I am Thine.
    (Daniel W. Whittle)

  • Home Sweet Home

    Should have seen this coming; as soon as I posted that we were still stuck in the hospital the doctor came and sent us home. So here we are! Angie is sleeping in her big chair, the boys are supposed to be quietly playing for their ‘rest time’ and failing miserably at it… all is well again. The word today is that her counts aren’t all of the way back, but they are headed in the right direction. Now that they have started moving she should recover quickly. We haven’t seen a fever in several days either, so he decided there wasn’t really any reason to keep her in any longer.

    (Oh, and I never did make it down for another cup of coffee… bummer!)

  • Our Second Home, Rainforest Crunch, and the Ninja

    When last we checked in with our heroine, the cancer center had revoked her parole and she was back in the hospital. That was mid-day on Monday; as I write this Saturday morning we’re still in the hospital. On a good day the hospital is a very boring place. On a bad day… let’s just say you really want boring days. Angie’s fever has been down for a few days now, so that is good. She’s on a variety of anti-biotic, anti-fungal, anti-whatever-else drugs in addition to her usual cocktail, and they seem to be keeping her nice and healthy. (keep in mind this is all relative!) Now we are just waiting for her blood counts to recover; the white cell count that had dropped to 2800 or so on Monday feel even further during the week. I think 2300 was the lowest I heard. As of yesterday they had started coming back up, (2700) so there is hope we might be nearing the end of this visit.

    Yesterday was much less boring than we’d like- her IV needed to be replaced. They started trying to put in a new one at around 8 in the morning and it seems like half the nurses in the hospital made an attempt. Lots of sticks, no IV. Remember how much Angie likes needles? Yea… it was that fun. Finally sometime after 1 pm they brought in the ninja. The best of the best. With more than 20 years in IV therapy, and the biggest cart of gear I saw all day. Sure, she looked like a harmless little nurse, and she seemed really nice, but no one expects a ninja. When Chuck Norris needs an IV they call in this lady. She got it on the first try, the work of a master.

    Oh, and if you happen to be hanging out at the hospital I highly recommend the Rainforest Crunch down at Mission Coffee, it’s very good. I think I’m going to get a cup now in fact….

  • Admitted… again

    Angie was fighting with her fever all weekend after being sent home Friday morning from the hospital. She was a wreck this morning when I left to drive up to Leesburg, unfortunately for good reason. The cancer center brought her back to check blood counts early this afternoon and they were very low; so they have decided to keep her for a while. She’s been admitted to the hospital again, this time it will probably be for more than one night. Apparently her white blood cell counts were around 10,000 when she was released Friday, today they are about 2800. Not so good.

    If you think of us these next few days please pray for her… (well, anytime actually!) the oncology ward isn’t a very fun place to hang out for a few days. Being there also means lots more needle sticks, and those are getting increasingly painful as we go.

  • Brutal Honesty

    Life stinks sometimes. That’s brutal honesty. I had been battling a low grade fever for a day and a half, and finally my body succumbed and the fever hit the point where it was above 100.5, so at 5:00 in the morning I was shaking Brian awake. We bundled ourselves up, slid through the ice and made our way to the emergency room. There I was assaulted by the ER nurse, a.k.a. Dracula, who took more blood out of my body than I even thought possible. My blood counts were off, so I was admitted and got to spend the day and night in my new cell, I mean home.

    Being on the oncology floor of the hospital was a lot harder than I thought it would be. Not only are the rooms depressingly stark, but the atmosphere is not one of hope or recovery. I have a deep and abiding fear of needles, and trust me, there is more than one vampire at the hospital! I met 5 of them! Add to that the fact that my veins are burned from the chemo, and you can imagine the ache in my arm right now. I spent a sleepless night listening to two patients moan and wail with their pain, and I cried, a lot.

    I thought a lot about my kids yesterday, wondering what it would be like for them to wake up and hear Mommy was in the hospital. My mom brought them by to see me, and the waves of emotion were overwhelming. Micah’s little fearful face and timid voice saying, “But I love my Mommy.” about broke my heart. Asher just snuggled in my bed with me, and Audrey, as always, brought delight by her antics, not to mention trying to eat all my supper.

    Watching Micah has been the most difficult for me. He cries whenever I leave for a doctor’s appointment, and his fear is evident. As painful and as hard as it is for me to go through this, I at least have an understanding of what is happening and why. Micah only understands fear and insecurity. His world has been taken and shaken all around like a snow globe. Yet even though it’s shaken, and shaken hard, there is a foundation in a snow globe that remains secure. And we have that foundation. Micah has a God who loves him even more than Brian and I do. That’s a foundation that cannot be shaken.

    I have struggled the past couple days with an overwhelming sense of fear and discouragement. I don’t understand God’s plan in this, and I fear the future. I struggle with the day to day living with chemo. My friend, Kristin, reminded me this morning to look at the “what is” and not the “what if”. What is true is that while I don’t always see His hand or feel it, I know God is in this. What is true is that I have today as a gift from Him, and as Elisabeth Eliot said so poignantly, “God still owns tomorrow.” What is true is that while Audrey may walk around pointing everywhere in the house and asking for Mommy, I am still here with my family. What is true is God and His Word which promises the Holy Spirit as my Comforter.

    I haven’t felt much comfort the past couple days, and though I am home, my fever is rising. I spoke with my doctor and he isn’t concerned unless I get a high fever this time, because my counts were so good. However, I am fearful of another hospital visit. I wonder where they will find a vein to impale me if I have to go back in. I question how I will deal with the boredom and the bleakness. I don’t know that I can do this again. All I can do is cling to the truth, although today I am clinging with only my fingernails, and they feel as though they are going to fall out any minute.

    I used to read about Peter and feel self-righteous. I would castigate him in my mind. He got to see Jesus walking on the water. Peter stepped out of his boat and walked on water himself. Then when he looked at the winds and the waves all around him, he started to sink. How could he do that? The God of the universe was right there in front of Him! I understand Peter in a whole new way now, and there is no self-righteousness left. Only a head bowed in shame to think I had any more faith than Peter. And like Peter all I can do is stretch out my hand and cry, “Lord, save me.” And that, my friends, is brutal honesty.

    Peter’s Song

    Battered by the waves, You call me out to reach You.
    You told me to take courage and not to be afraid.
    But when I saw those waves I couldn’t help it;
    I lost my faith and I began to sink beneath the sea.

    Then You stretched out Your own hand
    And You showed me how to walk;
    All this time I had not followed You.
    How could You love me just the same
    After all the things I’ve done?
    This kind of love I have not known.

    I told that I would not fall away,
    But You told me that I would anyway.
    When I heard that rooster crow the third time,
    I remembered all the things that I had promised I would be.

    Then You stretched out Your own hand
    And You showed me how to walk;
    All this time I had not followed You.
    How could You love me just the same
    After all the things I’ve done?
    This kind of love I have not known.

    I am only just a man.
    I cannot do this on my own.
    Fill my cup with grace and Your love.
    Send Your mercy on me,
    O Father up above.

    Then You stretched out Your own hand
    And You showed me how to walk;
    All this time I had not followed You.
    How could You love me just the same
    After all the things I’ve done?
    This kind of love I have not known.
    This kind of love I have not known.
    This kind of love I have not known.

    (Mike Garcia)