Category: cancer

Elections and cancer

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Well, folks–the “election of our lifetime” has come and gone. Many of the measures and candidates that I’d voted for didn’t win.

As passionate as I am about these kinds of things, I’m not upset that the majority of my votes weren’t winners. I think cancer has a lot to do with this.

I’m not trying to be facetious in correlating elections with cancer. But as I refreshed my screen every 10 minutes as the results were streaming in, I found myself wondering what impact my vote has, in the grand scheme of things. How I can read up on the issues and the stances of candidates and fill the bubble next to the one who most closely represents what I hope for our nation, but in the end, no candidate ever perfectly represents all my values, and all of it is really just a crapshoot. I think about what my vote means in a district like mine, where the overwhelming majority of its constituents are unlike me, a foreigner on my own turf. I think about how each measure isn’t as clear as its advocates–and enemies–make it seem, and how there is a cost to both sides. There is always a cost, and never any guarantees.

And as I thought about these things, I felt I was treading on familiar turf. Cancerland is filled with so many moving parts, pros and cons; and each one has a cost. There is no single absolute answer or cure to the issue. I can educate myself until the cows come home and try to choose the best treatment for me, but in the end, it’s all a crapshoot.

All I can do as a cancer patient, and a citizen of this country, is to do the best I can with the information I have. Do the best with what you’ve got. And leave the rest in the hands of God.

Discomfort on familiar turf. It may sound crazy, but I’m thankful.

When the evening comes

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O LORD, make me know my end and what is the measure of my days; let me know how fleeting I am! Behold, you have made my days a few handbreadths, and my lifetime is as nothing before you. Surely all mankind stands as a mere breath! Selah

Psalm 39:4-5

Breakfast is my favorite meal
+
Fall is my favorite season
=
Fall deepens my love for breakfast.

Ta-da!

I don’t get how some people have no love for breakfast. I’m talking to you, coffee-and-protein-bar-on-the-run people, and you, I’m-just-not-hungry-in-the-morning-so-what’s-the-point? folks. We just can’t be friends, sorry.

Anyway, after my 9AM PT appointment this morning, I was majorly craving breakfast and made my way to Chick-Fil-A. With the warm bag of food on my lap, I parked in a small patch of morning sun beside a sprawling red maple.

It’s a crisp fall morning outside my heated aluminum cocoon. The sky is blue, the trees in the lot are red and yellow, its abandoned leaves chasing one another across the asphalt lot. I left my engine running, radio on, and stretched in the sun’s rays as melodies danced into my space. Enveloped in warmth and words so beautifully strung, it hit me:

What a blessing it is to have cancer.

Pausing here—please don’t get me wrong. There is nothing inherently good about cancer, and I would trade in my cancer for my health in a heartbeat. And I don’t mean to undermine anyone else’s cancer diagnosis or experience.

But as I sang along with the lyrics, my mouth full of greasy fast food and my eyes dripping, I thought of my future and my Savior who carries me there. I became undone.

He’s coming on the clouds, kings and kingdoms will bow down
And every chain will break, as broken hearts declare his praise
Who can stop the Lord Almighty?

Our God is a Lion, the Lion of Judah
He’s roaring with power and fighting our battles
And every knee will bow before you

Our God is a Lamb, the Lamb that was slain
For the sin of the world, his blood breaks the chains
And every knee will bow before the Lion and the Lamb

Can you imagine it? It’s beautiful to try.

You’re rich in love and you’re slow to anger
Your name is great and your heart is kind
For all your goodness I will keep on singing
Ten thousand reasons for my heart to find

And on that day when my strength is failing
The end draws near and my time has come
Still my soul will sing your praise unending
Ten thousand years and then forevermore!

The magnitude of my weakened health and strength cannot be forgotten in my day-to-day living. It is front and center, leaving me crippled by the hour with pain, failures, abandoned dreams, failing relationships, guilt, nausea,  insomnia, anxiety, and so much fear. Everything that was once strong and confident in myself has, as sandcastles along the shore, been washed into the foam of the sea.

But, Jesus. My Lion and Lamb. He’s coming back for his weak and weary child.  He’s coming back for ME. Oh, what hope. What hope! Oh death, where is your sting? The future is so bright for those of us who believe! There is no tragic end for this wretched soul, regardless of how cancer plays out in my life. My soul will sing his praise unending; 10,000 years and then forevermore!  Christ has never been my hope and joy to the capacity that he is now…it’s almost as if I’ve been born again, again–and as a woman who’s known Christ for so long, I am so ashamed by this honesty.

We are all dying, friends. Not just folks with cancer or disease. It’s only a matter of a few more breaths before our time on this side of eternity is up, and the trials of our lives will end at the gates of eternal joy or eternal hell. Regardless of how hard, or dark, or lonely this life gets, my fate is secure. And God is still–always–good.

I wish it didn’t have to take cancer for me to have these truths sink in properly.  Urgently.  Completely.  But God knew what I needed, and he wrote it into my story.  I’m so thankful.

Bless the Lord, O my soul.  Let me be singing when the evening comes.

Dreams

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March was a big month for me. 

My job contract was coming to an end, and though bittersweet, I was mostly excited. It had been a grueling two years and I yearned for rest.

Hubs and I sat down together in early March to discuss my plan for the remainder of the year. 

  • April: rest! 
  • Summer: quality family time. invest in developing my art and spend more time experimenting in the kitchen 
  • Fall: open an etsy shop and see if it’s something worth investing in long-term
  • Next spring: possibly prepare for bar exam

Ah. March was a month of dreams. A field of dreams.

Six months later, fall blows brown into our yard and here we are, in a house ruled by cancer. 

It came out of left field, blind-sighting our little family of three as we ran around knee-deep in the wild flowers that covered our field of dreams. 

I mourn the life and dreams we had to leave behind to fight cancer full-time.  All the time off J’s work for the never-ending appointments; all the back-to-school events my body wouldn’t allow me to attend; all the medication and supplements, face masks, hand sanitizer, medical bills strewn around the house; all the hours spent in bed staring at my ceiling, unable to move; all the strands of my long, dark hair on my pillow, carpet, clothes, bathroom tile that just won’t quit. 

All of it seems like one enormous waste. 

Several months ago, when the doorframes  and foundation of our lives started crumbling around us, I holed myself in the house and spent a chunk of each day crying. On one of those days, I sat in my room with my knees hugged tight to my chest as a song I’d never heard gently tiptoed in through my speakers.

The hurt that broke your heart
And left you trembling in the dark
Feeling lost and alone
Will tell you hope’s a lie
But what if every tear you cry
Will seed the ground where joy will grow

Nothing is wasted
Nothing is wasted
In the hands of our Redeemer
Nothing is wasted

It’s from the deepest wounds
That beauty finds a place to bloom
And you will see before the end
That every broken piece is
Gathered in the heart of Jesus
And what’s lost will be found again

Nothing is wasted
Nothing is wasted
In the hands of our Redeemer
Nothing is wasted

When hope is more than you can bear
And it’s too hard to believe it could be true
And your strength fails you halfway there
You can lean on me and I’ll believe for you
And in time you will believe it too

Nothing is wasted
Nothing is wasted
Sometimes we are waiting
In sorrow we have tasted
But joy will replace it
Nothing is wasted
In the hands of our Redeemer
Nothing is wasted*

These beautifully woven words moved me deeply. My trickle of sadness turned into a rushing current of sorrow subterranean twisted with hope effervescent.  A flood of tears.  I remember. I clung to the words I did not fully understand but had faith to be true and I accepted its warm embrace. That is faith, isn’t it? Gripping white-knuckled the truth of what we hope for, even when we do not understand.

As I sit here now surveying the rubble around me, I remember this truth, and hope returns.

Nothing is wasted. 

—–

*Jason Gray, Nothing is Wasted.

Hurricane

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The two hurricanes that recently stormed through our city happened to coincide with my chemo weeks.  The wind and rain of today’s was particularly violent, howling through our walls and beating off a good amount of leaves from our trees, speeding up the foliage fall.  I had a front-row view of it all, laying in bed as I stared out my rain-pelted window.  

I took a shower tonight. I hardly ever wash my hair anymore and I can’t stand how dirty hair feels.  I close my eyes when I wash my hair now but can’t escape the feeling of it stuck all over my body, long fallen strands clinging everywhere, refusing to let go.  I keep my eyes closed and try to wipe off or stick what I can onto the shower wall.  It’s a habit I’ve had for forever, one that hubs finds particularly annoying.

But not these days.  He quietly cleans the heavy webs of hair without a word.

It feels like a mess, all this. Like my own little hurricane within me; my hair slipping away under the shower head like the leaves that were pelted off the branches outside my window.  I can think of several lines of optimism and hope that I can end these thoughts with, but.  Not tonight. Tonight, to the sound of drizzling rain, my damp head of hair now clinging across my freshly changed pillowcase–I simply mourn. 

Prayers and plans

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“Mommy, when is God going to heal you completely?”

The question came out of the blue at our dining table, between mouthfuls of couscous being shoveled into his mouth. His eyes lingered a bit on his spoon before they drifted up to meet mine.

S and I were home alone on this hot, lazy Thursday afternoon, recovering from yesterday’s epically long day. Our delicious lunch was brought to us by a sweet friend down the street, which we were enjoying when S randomly popped the question.

It caught me off guard. Heal me completely…it sounded like such a mature question, a little too specific for a 5-year-old’s mind to consider. I froze for a moment before scooting my chair closer, and drew a deep breath.

“I wish I knew…but I don’t. Only God knows. But I hope it will be soon!”

“But why doesn’t he answer our prayers?”

“Well, God is always with us when we pray, and he hears all of our prayers and cares for us very much. Even if he doesn’t give us what we want or ask for, he is doing it because he has a good reason for it, and because he loves us.”

I went on to explain how even Jesus had a request in his prayers regarding the cross. He asked to be spared, but asked that not his will, but God’s, be done. And God’s will was for Jesus to die on the cross. I had S think about how it must’ve made God feel to see his son weep like that, and have to watch him endure such suffering. Even though neither of them wanted this, they knew there was no other way to rescue creation from sin.

Good—great good—coming out of pain.

S’s eyes were locked into mine through the whole narrative. I could sense from his eyes, he got it. I then circled it back to me and our family, and how even if God doesn’t answer our prayers to make me all better, he still has a magnificent plan for us because we are his children, and there is no need to worry.

“In fact, none of us will be 100% healed until we get to heaven!”

“Yeah!,” he said, “from sin!”

“Exactly! Our sinful hearts, and our broken bodies.”

We had such an amazing little chat, going so far as to even discussing the trinity (“is it like our family? How we are three—you, me and Daddy—but we are one, in the same family?”) and ending on the sweet truth of how secure we are as chosen children of God.

My heart was bursting. There were two emotions going on: one of great joy and gratitude, seeing this 5-year-old siting in front of me that I get the privilege to call mine, whose young mind so clearly grasps the concept of the broken world we live in and our need for a savior. The other, of heavy sorrow, wondering if God led me into this conversation to prepare him for what lies ahead. Will he remember back to these words one day when I’m gone?

Again

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The phone call came around 11 this morning. I was in my room, sitting by the window, scribbling a grocery list on the back of an envelope just as I answered my phone.  The moment his voice greeted me, I knew.

I knew. I knew. I knew.

And my thoughts immediately went to, I don’t want to be alone right now. Crap crap crap crap crap what do I do, I’m all alone and he’s going to tell me that it’s cancer.

I wonder what it’s like to pick up the phone and have to delivery that kind of news. I wonder if doctors do a little pep talk to themselves. I wonder if they imagine what their patient is doing at that very moment. I wonder if they just dissociate and mentally float off to a happier place.

Maybe they just think about what’s for dinner tonight. Not phased one bit.

Five seconds of small talk and he gets straight to it. They did find cancer. I’m sorry, I know it’s not what we were hoping for or expecting.

His tone is so kind. I try my hardest to be present in the moment and our conversation. I don’t want to let any detail slip past me. But I could feel myself drifting–like an astronaut floating slo-mo in space–and my mind went cloudy gray. I catch a few details:

Grade 3. Highly unusual characteristics. Colleagues and I are totally surprised.

I stare down at my grocery list I was making before I got the call.
carrots.
onions.
cheese.
Nodding and repeating “uh huh, uh huh” until I can’t anymore and the dam breaks loose.

It breaks when he asks if I want him to call J to relay the news. Um, no…well, uh…I don’t know…actually, okay, yes…can you please call him and let him know?

I’m crying and his discomfort is palpable in the silence on the other end. I try to hold it in. He’s a nice man, I don’t want to mess up his morning with my Ugly Sob.

I’m angry.  They were so sure it wasn’t cancer!  For the longest time, they didn’t even want to biopsy it.  Even during the biopsy they assured me it was nothing to worry about.

I thank him and hang up the phone.

For a moment, everything is frozen, quiet. And then it comes: waves of heavy, from-the-gut, deep ugly sobs. I grab a nearby pillow and heave-cry into it. I want to not be alone, I want to call someone and just cry—and I don’t know who. I imagine J getting the news right now, this very moment, and the heave-cries get louder. I don’t want to put him through this again. I want more than anything not to have to put him through this again.

The pup inches his way closer to me and cocks his head as his eyes lock into mine. I grab him and rock back and forth with him in my arms, sobbing in my armchair, by the bed that I laid in like a vegetable for weeks as I recovered from my TBI.

Why is this happening? I need someone or something to blame. My doctors? Me? Too much stress? Too much sugar? God?

I know that I’m not right in blaming God. I know this. But my mind automatically goes there. Why, God? This is so unfair! What did I do that you think this is what should happen to me and my family, again? How are we going to survive this? We’ve all had to endure too much…this is too much.

Too much.

Too much.

Like dried glue

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I’m sitting on my couch with my jacket on. I’ve been here 30 minutes, which is how long ago I should have stepped out the front door. 

I have a follow-up at the cancer center for more scans to see if a few masses have changed/grown. And despite the fact that I have five different places to stop by before picking S up from the bus stop, my bum remains glued to this couch. Shivering, because my jacket is flimsy and I turned the heat off 30 minutes ago. 

I hate how paralyzingly of a force cancer continues to be in my life.