Wearing a Mask

Lately I feel like I've been going through life wearing different masks.  It's been an exciting time in our family.  We have been waiting anxiously for that first post-chemo scan.  My husband had it last week and, for all intents and purposes, it was clear.  No sign of cancer.  None.  Wow, my husband has been battling stage IV cancer for nearly four years.  No sign of disease.  It was difficult to digest what the doctor was saying.  I am a glass half empty type of person and I find I'm always waiting for the other shoe to fall.  Though I wasn't truly expecting to hear bad news I was secretly preparing myself for it- just in case.  Those are the times I curse my human flesh and lack of faith.  I have a difficult time just letting go and trusting.  I pretend to do so.  I put on the mask of faith.  I tell people I'm believing and trusting.  I try to live each day as if I am believing and trusting.  Behind the mask I'm terrified and always making a plan B.  I often try to go behind God and plan for what He may not deliver.  I am convinced He laughs at me.  How ridiculous does that sound?  How ridiculous is that?  Yet, I do it all the time.  God will answer these prayers for health--- but, if He doesn't here's what I'll do.  It's exhausting.

I recently received an unexpected honor.  I was humbled.  But, receiving this honor meant giving a speech.  I don't give speeches.  I talk in front of adults all the time but I don't give speeches.  Then, the speech topic was about all that I've learned as a leader.  A leader? I started the speech by saying that I have been known to lead people astray from time to time.  I gave my speech and talked about those who have been leaders in my life and how I've tried to follow their example.  I talked about the qualities of leadership- leaders must never forget what it feels like to follow, must have the integrity to admit when they're wrong, must listen...  The speech miraculously went quite well.  They provided a podium to obscure my shaking which was quite thoughtful.  The whole time I'm giving this speech and accepting this award there are things going on in my life that did not make me feel like much of a leader.  I was struggling with issues in day to day life that made me feel like I put on the mask of a leader.  I felt like a fraud and wrestled with this for days up to the speech and days after.  One of my students was in the audience smiling every time I made eye contact and I realized that she saw me as a leader.  That realization both made my heart soar and gave me a sick feeling in the pit of the stomach.  Teachers have an awesome responsibility to their students.  There are moments in life when that really hits me and I'm reminded that teachers are teaching every second of the day. 

My son just signed a letter of intent to play college baseball.  It is a long time dream realized.  It is in a place none of us would have ever guessed he'd go and yet it is the perfect place for him.  He'll be with a coach that will be that leader for him.  God orchestrated this whole scenario and the way it all fell into place is another blog post and a remarkable story from start to finish.  I put on my mask recently of being proud of him and happy for him and excited for the new journey.  Behind the mask- a heartbroken mother facing an empty nest knowing that her son is becoming an adult and will be 9 hours away next year on his own.  It is funny how encouraging your children to pursue their dreams means your own dreams change.  How many times I wanted to say "No"-  it's too far away, we'd never see you, it's cold there...  But, when he truly asked my opinion I had to be honest- I don't think you'll find a better fit and I think you should trust this one and go with it.  My heart cracked with each word. 

Do you have those people you can be truly authentic with in your life?  Do you have people that allow you to remove the masks and be real and honest and gritty?  I pray you do.  I have a few and I'm so thankful for them.  They are my rocks and they don't judge when I am falling apart on the inside while wearing a mask of "put together" for the world to see.  I hope I can be that friend to others.  We all need those times to drop the masks and be who we are, for better or worse.  

I heard at a conference recently that true  leaders practice an attitude of gratitude.  This is the perfect time of year to begin to count blessings.  My husband is in good health.  His hair has returned dark, thick, and curly- it was never dark or curly.  I have a beautiful family with a new addition this year in a son-in-law any mother would handpick for her daughter.  I have a warm home, enough to eat, a job that I love, two crazy dogs.  I am blessed- and that's an authentic blessed without any masks.  

Happy Thanksgiving!

Cast your cares

My husband recently had the opportunity to attend a fly fishing retreat for men who are facing cancer.  It was introduced to us by a friend who discovered the organization called "Reel Recovery".  He was accepted and drove to Colorado where he stayed in a mountain lodge for two nights and learned how to fly fish.  Brett's a fisherman.  He spent a great deal of time in his childhood fishing with his dad and he has taken our kids on fishing adventures from time to time.  He has never fly fished and has always wanted to learn how.  It's ironic that cancer gave him that gift.  He came home excited, refreshed, and peaceful.  It was a calm I hadn't seen for quite awhile.  Men are not good at talking about their feelings and fears.  Something about having the common bond of cancer and fishing allowed these twelve men to open up and share and experience beauty in life for a few days.  It really made me think of what it means to cast your cares.  When he cast that fishing line away from him he truly was casting away months of worry and anxiety and felt safe and happy.  He did not feel alone and at times when he was alone on the water it was peaceful and soothing.

I'm not good at casting my cares.  I prefer to carry them around with me and find new ones to add to my pack.  I'm a worrier and I don't like the unknown.  I need to put a picture of fly fishing up in my office at work as a reminder to "let it go" and "toss it aside".  If I do so I may find an amazing reward at the end of my line.

My son wants to play baseball beyond high school.  It's been his dream for years and he is working very hard to make it a reality.  Yesterday he had a tryout at a junior college with a strong regional program.  He wanted it so badly that he was very tight and nervous and anxious and he didn't perform his best while the coaches were watching.  He is a great player but I have to agree with him that they probably didn't see what he is fully capable of giving.  He was down.  What was amazing to me is that he was invited back later to watch a practice and he definitely cast his cares.  He managed to toss the frustration of the morning out into the deepest part of the water and reel in a very positive outlook about how much he learned from the experience.  We don't know what next year holds for him.  I hope it includes an opportunity for him to continue to play the sport he loves but I am glad that he can keep learning and see the positive side of all things.  If he has learned to do that in life then he is a big step ahead of his mother.

As I walked around that campus I choked back tears.  Baseball or not, next year marks a turning point.  He'll be out of the house in some aspect.  He won't be there every day to make me laugh (that's what he does best).  He won't be there to debrief and share ideas.  He's moving on.  I decided that there is a huge difference between what I want for me and what I want for him and I'm trying to focus on what I want for him in life which means casting him out into a big body of water and knowing and trusting that what I reel in will be an amazing adult man who still takes time to make his mom laugh now and then. 

Brett said that fly fishing is definitely not as easy as it looks.  There's an art to the cast.  I am working on perfecting my cast.  I'm practicing casting my cares and releasing.  You can't hold too tightly or your line will not go to its desired destination.  I'm practicing...

In my rear view mirror; a love letter

If love is a journey then we've certainly covered many miles of hills and plains over the past twenty five years.  We've taken turns in the driver's seat and changed vehicles along the way.  We've seen dark nights and beautiful sunrises and once upon a time mountains that glowed purple in the moonlight.  I thought I'd take a moment to look in the rear view mirror.

September 3, 1983- a first date-  Tootsie-  Were we really only 15 and 16 years old?

Puppy love, break ups, make ups, break ups...

August 15, 1987- The big day.  Did we have a clue what we were getting ourselves into?

Our atlas pages go in this order:  Wheatland, Laramie, Saratoga, Grand Canyon, Farmington, Eau Claire, Laramie.

1987-  The loss of a brother- our first storm to weather.  Little did we know how much our future son would be like him!

1992- Life as we know it changed in an instant when the nurse put her in your arms.  You were afraid to hold her until that dreadful moment when the nurse advised to treat her like a football.  From then on you rarely put her down.

1995- We were just crazy enough to do it again. What a beautiful baby boy.  Our family was complete.

Jobs secured and changed, moving trucks, goodbyes to special friends- hello to new ones...

Trips with the kids, volleyball games, baseball games

Life cruised along until the car came to a screeching halt in 2009.  Cancer...

To say life changed overnight is not even close to representing what happened.  Our whole lives were turned upside down and we quickly learned what was important.

Our bank account took a hit but our memory account has grown exponentially.  

So, here we are.  Twenty five years later. We'll celebrate by marking the end of chemo.  We will jump back in the car and hit the road- anticipating bumps.  The only thing that has changed is that we will no longer count the miles ahead.  Instead we'll savor each leg of the journey as a gift and make memories as we go. 

Thanks for making the drive with me.  Thanks for sharing the view.  Thanks for not kicking me out of the car from time to time.  Thanks for making the stops along the way to rest and stretch and get reoriented.  I wouldn't have chosen any other driving partner!

Happy 25th!

Teetering

In the past few years I have felt secure in the fact that I had discovered the secret of life- balance.  Life is a series of ups and downs, you take the good with the bad.  I view life as a scale- save and spend, add to one side and take from the other, try to maintain the balance.  For the most part this metaphor has guided me in decisions and through trials.  

Today my heart is heavy and I am not seeing a scale but a see saw and I'm teetering somewhere near the middle seeking balance.  A mother sent her 18 year old son to the movies and he was killed.  There he is in his baseball uniform swinging for the fence on the t.v. screen and my heart aches.  My daughter climbed into a vehicle full of her rugby family to say what is most likely a goodbye to a dear friend who is a mere 21 years old. Her mother is keeping vigil praying for a miracle.  My heart aches.  Things are hitting too close to home. 

How do you find balance?  How do you ache for a mother who lost her son and celebrate the blessing that you can call yours after a good game and laugh with him?  How do you shed tears for a mother losing her daughter while celebrating the blessing that yours stopped by for a hug this morning?  How can you be sad and happy at the same time?  How do you watch people die from cancer and know that pain and fear and continue to celebrate that your spouse is cheating death?  

I still believe that life is about balance.  I still cling to hope and faith and know there is a reason for every season and it is not mine to question.  I also find myself thankful, as strangely as that sounds, for these painful reminders of the absolute precious gift of having time with those we love.   I am thankful that today I cry in pain for mothers who have lost children and tomorrow I will celebrate with one of my favorite mothers in the marriage of her beautiful child.  I am truly happy that both sides of the scale can be filled.

But, today I shed some tears and ache and teeter.

My Own Private Metaphor

The boy struggled.  There was a lot of pressure.  Some didn't believe in him- at times he didn't believe in himself.  So much he wanted, so much he wanted to prove,  so many disappointments and near misses.  Heartbreak breeds character and his grew.  His parents heard what a great kid he is and how proud they should be of him.  And they were.  But, they, too, dreamed of his break out moment- of that defining moment when he owned what he was capable of and got to taste just a little bit of victory over fear and anxiety and frustration.  

His coach grew tired of the "Put me in" and did just that.  He took the mound and his mother sat in the car and watched him play on the radio, feeling every pitch.  Her confidence in him never wavered but her heart couldn't watch.  Baseball is such an up and down game.  One day you're on top, one day you're striking out.  To an outsider lacking true passion for the game it can feel very cruel.  

His father watched from the fence also feeling every pitch and smiling, knowing the boy was doing well.  

It wasn't until the top of the last inning that his father realized the boy was throwing a no hitter.  The boy himself hadn't realized it- just remained focused on getting that win.  As the last pitch was thrown, the last out made, the announcer congratulated the boy and it hit him.  His father ran to him and both were overcome with emotion.  They embraced.

To the outsider this was simply that; an embrace, a congratulations, a celebration of the boy's first no hitter.

To me it was a metaphor.  It was one I will cherish.  The boy running to his father, the father running to the boy-  both realizing that the boy had thrown his first no hitter-

both realizing that the father was there to see it...

 

Fire and Rain

-And with these our Hells and our Heavens so few inches apart,

We must be awfully small

and not as strong as we think we are-

Rich Mullins

There is a fire raging in nearby Colorado.  It is destroying homes and wilderness.  It is filling the air with smoke and ash.  It is making the sky dark.  It is threatening the lives of those who choose to fight it back and protect us.  I understand why we say fires are raging- this fire has a fury- it rages across the pine beetle infested mountains and foothills.  When I awoke this morning miles away the winds had shifted and the smoke burned my throat.  This fire is strong.  It is powerful.

Yesterday as we drove home through the canyon that runs parallel to the active fire there was this beautiful juxtaposition.  On one side was a huge smoke plume and gray skies and haze.  On the other side was a storm building with the evidence of rain falling, the sun providing backlight. It was beautiful and peaceful.  There came a point where the two met and my mind wandered.  What is it like in that spot where the rain meets fire?  Where is that exact point where the two connect?  Then I realized it is exactly where I am standing in life, between my Hells and Heavens.

My life right now is a meeting of fire and rain.  I'm standing in the middle turning in circles being burned and quenched, often in the very same instance.  My daughter got married last weekend.  The day could not have been more beautiful. The wedding was a celebration of her and a new son and a new branch of the family.  It was a gathering of friends from near and far.  It was a rejoicing in God's greatest gift- and the greatest of these is love.  It was a beautiful peaceful rain.  My baby girl got married last weekend.  She will never truly come home again.  She will never again inhabit that messy bedroom downstairs or tumble up the stairs in the morning trying to be grumpy and end up showering me with laughter.  My mind has been full of memories- fixing her  hair, fixing her scrapes and bruises, fixing her favorite meal.  Now someone else will be doing the fixing.  I'm the back up.  This is as it should be- and she picked well, I would have selected him for her myself-  but there is a sense of loneliness and sadness in the midst of so much joy.   There is a bit of fire I'm fighting back as I settle in to the new normal.  

My son is growing up.  He is amazing.  I watch him and I am so proud of the man he is becoming.  Lately he's had to make some tough choices and he's gone through some struggles and he's handled them with such grace.  He is my gentle summer rain.  It is every mother's wish to raise a child to become a giving, caring, responsible, thoughtful, independent adult.  But, when you do your job well you are setting the stage for them to leave.  It's rain meeting fire.  It creates this beautiful and painful middle ground.

There are other fires and rains meeting in my life.  Tumor markers go up and tests are ordered yet my husband is alive and well today and we are lucky enough to truly enjoy each others' company in this now very quiet house.  Cancer is a fire, choosing to find the blessings that lie beneath it is rainfall.  

Pine cones only release their seeds under the pressure and heat of fire.  Fire creates new growth.  Rain allows this growth to create beauty all around us.  This fire and rain in my life is creating beauty.  I have to allow the pain and joy to coexist if this is to happen.

I was given a precious gift recently- a bowl of amazing rocks.  Rocks are not harmed by fire.  Rocks withstand the heat and pressure and the rains come and wash them clean. The rocks have been a symbol to me lately and I held one tightly as I cleaned my daughter's empty room and when I pondered next week's tests and results.  The rocks remind me that this fire will not consume me, and the giver is a gift in my life.  She is a rock for me when I feel I may crumble.  She stands at the point where fire meets rain daily and she knows the beauty and pain.  

We are small and not as strong as we think we are.  I believe that is why God provided friends and rocks and weddings and daughters and sons and fire and rain.  He knew I would need all of these things to make my way in this life and I am thankful for them- even when I don't want to be. The fires rage on but I am choosing today to face the rain and receive its soothing.

Ode to my Son on the Eve of Seventeen

Since he was born he's been swinging for the fence. He took the bull by the horns and decided to make his arrival early. When we made him wait he settled in and dug in his heels- part compliance, part ornery.  He had to be coaxed out and he took his good old time arriving.  It's okay, he was worth the wait.

His father immediately welcomed his future baseball player.  But, we should have known Ryan had his own plans.  He did not like baseball as a young child.  In fact, he showed no interest at all.  Dad suffered in silence as he indulged skateboarding, football, video games, and swimming.  I still clearly remember the day- in Ryan style at the last minute- that he came home and announced that he thought he'd like to try out for baseball at the age of 11.  He missed the t-ball days and little league days but Dad made up for lost time quickly.  The bats were purchased, gloves were oiled, buckets of balls were collected.  He made the majors with two weeks of baseball under his belt.  He came to it naturally.  The sport fit him like a glove.

Though a natural player, baseball did not come easily.  His first season was tough as he learned rules and tried out positions.  We have many entertaining stories of the patience his coaches displayed and their willingness to let him try out anything.  The boy carried every piece of equipment with him in his bag just in case.  When his team ran out of catchers toward the end of the season he begged "Put me in, Coach!" and his coach reluctantly announced, "I'm going to let Ryan catch."  Ryan and his coach survived the rest of the game, we all discovered the kid could catch a bit, and we all laughed. 

Ryan didn't connect with the ball at first but he always swung with conviction, aiming for the fence.  He did get his first home run that first season.  I stared with amazement before sprinting to the parking lot to get the ball.  It is in a display case in his room, joined by a few others over the past years.  

Ryan has done many things over the last five years that have made me proud.  They aren't the things he might think they are.  Ryan is a team player.  You won't find one more supportive of his fellow players.  I love that about him.  He spends extra time working with the younger boys- remembering that first season and what it was like for him.  Ryan is respectful to adults.  Coaches tend to discredit him because he came to the game later and he is younger than his grade level peers.  One or two have been cruel.  He has never uttered a disrespectful word on the field to a coach or a referee.  (He's not a saint, I'm sure he has said some choice things in the dugout.)  He keeps his head up when the game isn't going his way and he takes many things in stride always believing his time is coming.  And, Ryan always swings for the fence knowing that parking lot is out there and I'm always ready to sprint to retrieve the ball.  


I've been watching Ryan lately.  It's not been an easy start to the season.  He's had good days and bad.  He's struggled to make his hits and pitches at times.  It's not the start he wanted.  He has an incredible amount of talent, potential, and passion and I am certain it will burst forth soon.  For now, he's learning life lessons through baseball- and teaching me a few at the same time.


I hope I always support those who follow behind me and walk beside me.  I hope I am always respectful in public situations.  I hope I can learn to take things in stride.  And, most of all, I hope I always swing for the fence.


Cancer has thrown us a few curve balls.  We've swung and missed twice.  But, we've put on the rally caps and as Ryan has taught us we will swing for the fence.  It's time for a home run and some celebrating.  


Happy Birthday, Ryan!  Keep swinging for the fence.  You're going to change the world around you.  Just look how you're changing me!


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tmeMljNdvDo

Decorating is no Piece of Cake

 My daughter is getting married.  Wow, yeah she is getting married in 18 days.  We recently had a shower for her.  A dear friend recognized how crazy and overwhelming our life is and agreed to help me organize the shower.  Then, she and her mom pretty much lovingly took it out of my hands and threw an amazing party.  My only job was to get the cake.  I insisted on taking that duty.  It was the least I could do.  

My daughter is not particularly fond of cake.  She asked for one from a local retail store's bakery so I obliged.  I went to the bakery section and there was a very cheerful young lady decorating cakes behind the counter.  I selected one and asked her to write "Congratulations, Kylea" on it.  I could not see behind the counter and she worked with a big smile and walked around the end of the counter to hand the cake to me with great pride.  The cake was beautifully decorated and said, "Happy Birthday, Kylea".  She was so proud of her work and, admittedly, it was beautiful.  I just did not have the heart to tell her it was wrong.  I accepted the cake and Kylea and I walked away to burst into laughter.  You see, this is the metaphor for our life.  We want "congratulations" but we often lovingly and carefully get "Happy Birthday" and have to learn to deal with it.  

I decided to keep that cake and tell the fun story and just get a smaller one for the shower table.  So, we went to a local grocery store bakery.  I asked the young decorator to write "Congratulations, Kylea" and you can see how that worked out for us above.  The young lady handed it to me a little less proudly this time realizing it was an epic failure and not quite knowing how to handle it.  I took it and yes, I paid for it. I don't know if I was dumbfounded or if I simply just didn't want to ruin a young person's day by complaining. By this time my daughter and I were shedding tears of laughter.  The metaphor continued. 


Later that afternoon as we puzzled about what to do with two cakes, neither acceptable for a beautifully prepared table at a shower, Kylea had a brainstorm and we made a trip to the florist.  Here is what resulted:

She did a fantastic job of making lemonade out of lemons.  And, in the end, the cake tasted wonderful and all was well and we came away with a great story to share. We made some great memories that day and we learned a lot about life from those two cakes.


You see our journey with cancer has been two cakes.  We were sailing smoothly and we found out about the cancer, our first cake.  It was not at all what we wanted but we accepted the challenge and fought and came out on the winning side.  However, the second cake (round two of the cancer journey) arrived and it was an epic fail.  Cancer on the liver was not the cake we wanted at all.  I would like to believe, though, that how we have dealt with both rounds of cancer thus far is a beautiful flower covered cake and that we have made memories full of laughter along the way. Cancer is not a piece of cake but it can be beautiful some days if we let it shape us and decorate us along the way.

Just a Rant...

Forgive me but I'm going to have a little bit of a rant and I am using the metaphor of red to begin- red is anger, red is ranting, red is fury, red...  I'm seeing red.... 

I've grown exceptionally weary of one word this week-  just-.  Not just as in fair, but just as in only.  Oh, you're just getting one chemo drug (i.e. dose of poison) this week.  You have just twelve weeks left of treatment.  You just have to drive 90 miles.  You just have stage III cancer.  You just have one site of metastasis.  You just lost some of your hair.  You're just tired.  You've just got infection in two of your fingers.  You just have to get through the summer.  You just have three hours in the clinic today. 

We use "just" to minimize things.  It is well meaning and well intended.  We want to downplay and make things better.  I know I've employed this with my own children.  Last week when my son was buried in homework I told him he just had to get through a few more weeks of school until summer.  It was meant to be positive and encouraging.  He gave me the look that let me know it was neither of those things.  He was having a real crisis.  He was in real stress.  There was nothing "just" about the situation.   He wanted validated not minimized.

Because we use the word "just" to minimize there are situations where it is incredibly demeaning.  I tread lightly here because I am still a bit raw but this week I was referred to as "just a teacher".  If you are reading this and are a teacher or love a teacher or value education the hair on your neck just stood on end.  It sounds so negative to be just a teacher.  I've never once heard Brett's doctor referred to as just an oncologist.  I've never heard anyone say, "You've just got cancer."  But, yes, I'm just a teacher.  I won't lie.  I became internally angry at the comment.  Then I tried to rationalize that this person didn't really mean it the way it sounded (but I think they did).  I then entered into this phase of deep contemplation wondering how many times I have been guilty of minimizing someone's calling, career, passion, choice.  I'm certain I'm guilty.  I'm certain that it hurt when I did it.  I have come to hate the word "just". 

I've been thinking a lot about my electronic footprint.  What do I want left behind for people to discover when I'm gone?  They say if you post something on the internet it remains forever.  That's a heavy thought, especially for someone who processes "aloud" by blogging and baring their soul.  I don't share this rant to point a finger at someone.  My hope is to challenge myself to choose my words carefully.  I don't want to take for granted what someone is going through.  I don't want to minimize someone's choices and accomplishments. 

So, if this post becomes part of my electronic footprint and my legacy what would I want people to know?  First of all, you can never just have cancer.  It encompasses every aspect of your life.  It overshadows every day, every action, every decision.  You can never just put it away for awhile.  You have to acknowledge this and work within it.  You have to surround yourself with those who are positive and supportive and allow you to rant, to cry, to laugh, to share.    Secondly, I'm just a teacher.  Cancer is just a teacher.  It changes you forever.  It teaches you to align your priorities and count your blessings.  It teaches you to treasure life and breath and sunshine and laughter and time.  It teaches you to reach out to others and to open yourself up to others who want to help.  Cancer is a powerful teacher.  If I can have even one tiny speck of that impact upon my students then I am happy to be just a teacher. 

The Quilt

When I was little we'd make the trip to Portsmouth, Virginia, to see my grandparents.  We would stay in what I thought was their mansion (it had two floors!) and I would sleep under one of my grandmother's quilts.  I would wake to my grandfather's whistling and the smell of bacon and sausage cooking.  I would lie under that quilt and smile.  Even at a tender age something told me to stay and savor the moment.  When Grandma passed my father went to Virginia and asked if there was anything I wanted and I asked for a quilt.  Throughout the years during hard times in life I still wrap up in my grandmother's quilt.  For a while it continued to smell like her house and I was afraid to wash it.

I've heard it said that God's plan is like a quilt.  He is crafting something amazing and we only see the messy underneath.  We see the stitching and piecing together and one day we will see the quilt in all of its glory.

I received news last night and it has my mind  wandering.  I look at my nearly seventeen year old son and I wonder.  If I truly understood and accepted that time on Earth has limits would I have held him a little closer and smelled that wonderful newborn smell just  a few minutes more?  Would I have rocked him to sleep one more time or walked holding his tiny hand just one more time than I did?  Would I have put down my own work to snuggle and play?

If I am truly to understand that time has limits is it so bad that I now slip him an extra $20 for lunches when I think his dad isn't watching?  Will I remember to treasure his birthday in a few weeks and to take it all in - stay and savor the moment a little longer?  Will I sacrifice all that I can to help him pursue his dreams and be there to support him?  Will I remember not to be too upset when I go downstairs to find him playing video games in his underwear amidst dirty clothes and dirty dishes?  Will we laugh at every chance we get?  Will I treasure those kisses on the forehead I'm still blessed to receive?

Mothers should not lose their sons.  Cancer should not be allowed to take the ones we love.  Life is messed up- it's the messy underside.

Lord, I beg today for a glimpse of the beautiful quilt you are creating.  I would like to see but one square and your careful stitching to reassure my soul of what is to come and how it will all make sense one day.  If it is not your will that I be allowed to see the beautiful side I pray you envelope me in the messy underside and allow me to learn to be still in your comfort, to seek the smell of your house, and to listen carefully for your whistling.

A Ray of Sunshine and a Lost Soul

Yesterday was chemo Thursday.  College finals are complete for my daughter so she decided to come with Brett and me at the last minute.  She and I planned to plant Dad in his chair and go for a nice run in the sunshine.  As we entered the chemo room we were greeted by a bald young woman with a radiant smile.  She immediately began talking to us, asking questions, showing us the ladybug pillow the children she babysits gave her.  Kylea and I left for a run feeling a bit sad.  Here was a young woman Kylea's age hooked up to chemo and looking a bit ragged.  

When we returned an hour later this young woman was still going strong. She continued to come up with one liners keeping everyone on their toes.  She asked questions and no topic was off limits.  She asked Kylea and I why we run when no one is chasing us. She tried on wigs on her way to the bathroom and selected the one with really long hair for a picture- claiming she wanted to be in an 80's hair band.  As we laughed her mother asked if I would  like to see a picture of her "before".  She shared her senior picture- long brown hair in waves down to her waist.  

This young lady then settled in and, finding Kylea to be the same age and to have an unusual amount of things in common, she began to share her story.  Six weeks ago she was suffering from abdominal pain and nausea.  Her doctor ran tests and told her she was pregnant.  She said that was very exciting because it was impossible and she always wanted to be part of a miracle.  A week later she found herself in the ER and was diagnosed with a very rare germ cell tumor in her abdomen that had ruptured and caused internal bleeding.  After surgery she is now going through chemo for four cycles.  She lost her ability to have children and faces a lifetime of hormone replacement therapies.  She's receiving transfusions and spends a lot of time in a recliner these days.  She had to withdraw from college temporarily due to time and money constraints.  She lost her hair, that amazing hair.  She lost weight- she reported being 150 lbs. and what we met was a very petite and frail young lady of maybe 100 lbs.  

Her story could have been so sad but she would not allow it.  She infused humor.  She spoke of the blessings she had.  She told of how she had struggled to pay for college and now thanks to a very rare cancer she'll get lots of scholarships to attain her goal to be a pediatrician.  She laughed.  She teased.  She was so open and honest.  She asked another lady why she was in treatment and when the lady explained her breast cancer battle (a primary tumor on each side) she looked at her and said, "Well, excuse me, but... crap".  We all just burst out laughing.  She continued to say that no one expects cancer and it always blindsides you.  

Kylea and I went outside to seek the sunshine but we found it in the chemo room.  

Now, a lost soul...  After such an amazing day yesterday it was difficult to turn on the news today and hear of a woman in Florida who faked breast cancer to get financial help to pay for implants.  Really?  She preyed upon hospice workers to make donations.  I'd like to assume that this woman has never been touched by the devastation of cancer and that she acted out of total and complete ignorance.  If this is the case I hope part of her restitution is to care for cancer patients in some form.  And that's all I have to say that is appropriate for print.  Poor lost soul.

 

Thankful for Leaves

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S9_YeNO6jL4&noredirect=1

I spent most of my day today in the car for work.  This song struck me and was one I wanted to share with so many people in my life.  There are so many leaves of my family tree out there supporting me.

In the fall leaves on trees provide us beauty.  Just as winter approaches we get this amazing burst of color.  Leaves can brighten the landscape- provide color to a bland brown hill.  There are many in my life who have provided color on dark days.

Leaves are where energy is converted for use by a tree.  Without leaves this conversion process does not take place and the tree withers.  Believe me there are many of you out there that have provided energy on days that I felt I could not take one more breath, one more step.

Leaves aid in water transportation and prevent dehydration.  There have been many dry days lately and so many of you have provided much needed moisture to my dry and cracking soul.  Leaves also provide shade for the tree and keep it cool.  There are so many times I have rested in your shade.

Finally, one cannot ignore the beautiful sound of wind rustling through the leaves in the mountains or the squeals of delight when children dive into a pile of leaves and feel its crackling cushion catching them.  Leaves can be a safety net.  Leaves can provide calm.  Leaves can signal us to incoming weather and help us prepare.

You are the leaves on my family tree.  Those of you who read, who respond, who send notes, who smile, who cry, who listen, who pray.  I'm so thankful for leaves today!

Fighting Darkness and the Heavy Weight of a Strange Guilt

I got quiet, speechless.  Lately it has been difficult to find words.  I search for them but don't find the exact ones that represent things I've been feeling.  I can think of one descriptor- dark.  It seems like I've been on my knees feeling around for a flashlight but as soon as I think I've located it it rolls away and the search begins again.  I won't abandon the search but it's been a trying few weeks.  These have been dark days.  There are definite moments when the skies break and I am bathed in light but the dark inevitably returns.  And, in the dark the words I seek disappear. The silence is eerily soothing.  I think I'm breathing and regrouping- going through a valley, about to make a climb toward the light. 

Several of the women in my support group have buried their husbands the past few weeks.  One just made a call to hospice and she and her husband have decided to suspend treatments and let the disease take its course.  They are busy making memories with the time that remains.  These women are incredibly strong.  They share their stories to light the way for those that may have to walk the same journey in the future.  They are flashlights in the dark world of cancer. 

I wrestle with their losses and their stories.  I have a sense of guilt.  Brett is doing well.  His side effects have been fairly manageable.  His treatment has a large chance of being successful.  He very well could be "cured" or at least achieve a lengthy remission.  I feel badly that they have suffered such losses and we are having a very different experience at the moment.  I know they don't begrudge me this hope.  I know they are truly happy that we are on a different side of the disease.  But, the weight of this strange guilt has been sitting on my chest today- been difficult to catch my breath.  And, honestly, there's fear because I want to stay on this side of the disease.  I don't want to follow them.  They display amazing strength, faith, and grace.  Would I in their shoes?  Sure makes me examine myself deeply. 

I took a night hike once at a teachers' camp in Wisconsin.  It was amazing.  We sat in the dark for a few moments allowing our eyes to adjust.  We really could see our way in the darkness.  Because we were in the quiet darkness we saw and heard beavers alerting our arrival with slaps of their tail on the water.  We startled a deer.  We didn't see the bugs and critters that would normally startle me.  It felt incredibly safe there in the dark.  I feel safe in my recent darkness and I'm letting my eyes adjust to the darkness and walking the path.  I don't want to fear the dark but I don't want this hike to last much longer.  Time to find the flashlight.  I'm certain I'll reach it soon. 

Communication is a Two Way Street

If you've ever driven down a one way street you know you're pretty lonely.  There's no one on either side of you to look at or greet.  Today, however, I began to think about two way streets which in my mind are the opposite- two lanes going against each other with plenty to take in all around.  Is this what we really believe about communication?  I understand the metaphor to represent that communicating has to go both directions to be successful but today I thought about this metaphor a little more deeply.  Do we really want our communication to be represented by vehicles going in opposite directions and simply passing each other at some point?  Do we really want communication to be represented by busy streets and traffic and honking?  I experienced some of that today on some two way streets as I traveled for work.

I joined an online support group for cancer caregivers.  I wanted a place to share where other people "get it".  I wanted to connect with people going through some of the same things in life.  But, honestly, I was worried about connecting with strangers and building open communication in an online forum (she ironically says in a blog).  I wasn't sure how we could carry on dialogue and support each other without directly speaking, without sharing our last names, where we lived, and other details that might identify us to each other.  I was skeptical.  What I have found, though, is that I have bonded with several other caregivers online.  I know them by "name" and we check in with each other nearly every day.  We can be real.  We can say the ugly things we bottle up all day.  We can talk about how angry we are at cancer and its many inconveniences.  We communicate so well.  Today I was pondering why it works.  I think it comes down to two reasons.  First of all, we are all on the same street.  We understand the terrain.  Second of all, we're going down the street side by side, not against each other in passing.  We post and take time to reflect and ponder before reaching out to each other.  I think it has created an atmosphere of communication that is a model for everyday life and my interactions with others.  When I "talk" with these new found friends I first read or "listen", then I contemplate and prepare my thoughts, and then I respond. 

All of this pondering of two way streets and communication was borne from a problem I am having communicating with someone.  I say things that are taken incorrectly and then the response is defensive and hurtful.  I don't think this person is intending this and I'm certainly not intending to be abrupt or hurtful.  We obviously are having a problem- our communication car has broken down on the side of the road and we need a tow truck desperately.  Today I was thinking about what works in the online support group and how it could apply to this situation.  Maybe I'm not truly listening before I respond.  Maybe I'm not establishing a clear direction.  Maybe I'm driving too fast for conditions and I need to slow down and carefully choose my words and responses.  This person and I are definitely on a two way street when it comes to communication.  We pass each other and once in awhile we make a brief connection but it doesn't last as traffic flows.  We need to find a way to go in the same direction.  I'm challenging myself to make a u-turn this week.  I'm also challenging myself to replace the two way street metaphor with a new one to describe how I think communication can truly be represented.  With all the road work and detours going on around my home town it is definitely time for a new metaphor.

It's a Numbers Game

I've always had a fascination with numbers.  Lately my life has become all about numbers.  We are hoping the odds are in our favor.  We are counting down treatments.  We are worrying about dosages- 120 mg versus 180 mg.  We have been supplied five year survival rates.  We have been supplied percentage of risk that cancer will return to the liver.  We count mileage for our taxes. We count two days out from treatments knowing when Brett will have his worst day and then get better.  We count money for bills and expenses.  We count hours during treatment and hours between.

I try to count good things.  I count blessings.  I count friends.  I count good days.  I count jogging mileage in hopes of increasing slowly and steadily.  I count days until summer break.  I count days until my daughter's wedding.  I count days until my son's first baseball game as a varsity player with great excitement for him. 

I am admittedly a bit compulsive with my counting and measuring.  For example, I drive Brett completely crazy with my dislike for odd numbers.  I won't stop running at 49 minutes- I'll go 50.  I won't walk 21 laps at the gym- I'll go 22.  I like even numbers.  I like things neat and tidy and divisible into two equal parts.  It's a part of my type A personality that reveals itself more and more to me these days.  I like control.  I like to be in the driver's seat.  This does not mix well with cancer.  Cancer has too many unknowns.

It is difficult to be a control freak type A person and watch someone you love go through cancer treatments.  The side effects are unpredictable from day to day and there is really little I can do to help.  It is difficult to be a control freak type A person and reconcile where faith must enter in to life.  Where do I end and where do true faith and trust begin?  This brings me to my favorite number.  One.

One mustard seed.  I need the faith of one mustard seed to move mountains.  That's not a lot.  It's more than I have most days but it's not a lot.  I'm working on it.  I'm striving for it.  One risen savior to celebrate this beautiful Easter.  One risen savior who knew what a control freak I would turn out to be and loves me anyway.  One husband picked just for me who understands me better than I do some days.  One beautiful and loving family that lives and laughs in a chaotic house.  One battle to face and one God to carry us through it all. One promise of a hope and a future.

I will continue to live this life one day at a time and find at least one thing to treasure about each day. Today the blessings are numerous;  sunshine , father and son playing baseball, soon to be husband and wife coloring eggs, a great run, new beginnings and the hope and promise of the Easter season.  One great day!

It's a Miracle!

I was eating Jelly Bellies with Brett today after a nice long walk and talk.  We were sneaking them as sugar is his enemy but you've also gotta live and it's nearly Easter.  I hate buttered popcorn jelly beans.  Popcorn is one of my favorite snacks but it is absolutely not meant to be chewy.  I grabbed several Jelly Bellies and the last one was buttered popcorn.  I grabbed for a nice cinnamon one because the popcorn flavored one had left such a bad taste in my mouth.  

My last post left the same kind of bad taste in my mouth and I've been wanting to write again quickly and share a yummy flavor of life.  I'm not often good at liking myself but I do honestly like how I've aged at times.  I can be very down and negative but I let it go so much more quickly now at my advancing age.  I'm able to put it behind me- truly put it behind me- and move on.  Forgiveness is extended and life goes on.  I also have a better perspective and I really do find myself trying to see things from another's point of view.  Life isn't always about me and how I perceive things may not be how they truly are.  I've come a long way.  So, last week is over- hurts are gone and I'm all about fresh starts and new beginnings. 

I was born with a bad back.  As a child I was diagnosed with scoliosis and my hips were very uneven.  I remember the horrors of facing the start of middle school and wearing a lift in my shoe to even my hips.  The lift only fit in what seemed to me were the ugliest shoes available.  Needless to say, I didn't wear it faithfully.  In college a friend introduced me to running.  I found a release for stress and some thinking, praying, reflecting time.  I loved it.  In my late 30's I began to have many back issues.  Honestly, I've never had a back ache.  All of my problems were lower lumbar and I had left leg aches and pains, my old friend sciatica.  I ruptured a disc and had a laminectomy that held me for two years until I ruptured another one.  The first rupture was when I was playing with my dog and I jumped at her.  I felt it instantly.  The second was when I was in bed with a horrible cold.  I sat up and sneezed, looked at Brett, and said, "I just ruptured a disc".  All in all I have had 6 surgeries on my back and numerous injections for pain.  I had a lumbar fusion with brackets and six screws.  One of the screws was deep and began to hit a nerve so I had surgery to have the hardware removed.  I have the screws.  I put one on a chain to wear once in awhile under my clothes as a reminder of my journey.

Throughout my back struggles running was hit or miss.  I would try to get back to it but symptoms always put an end to it.  All of my nerve damage was related to my left leg and there were days that I did not know if I would walk from my bed to the bathroom.  I had numbness and pain and a drop foot.  I would get brief episodes of relief but full relief did not come until the hardware was removed a few years ago.  I felt like a new person.  I began to run.

On Sept. 11, 2010, I went out and ran 12 miles.  I am terribly slow so it took me an eternity but it felt so good.  I remember the sunshine, the song on my ipod when I hit mile 12, my steady breathing.  I was training for a half marathon and I was elated to have made it that far.  I finished, walked, and stretched.  Later that afternoon my knee felt a bit stiff.  By that evening I could not bend it and couldn't bear to put weight on it.  I did all the right things but days later I sought out a sports injury doctor in an effort to make the half marathon in October.  He was, and still is, a lifesaver.  He worked and worked with me and referred me on when he couldn't help any longer.  Last May I had knee surgery.  They didn't really know what they were going to find- MRI's were not clear as to the problem.  It was my medial plica (some people don't even have one).  It had become inflamed and was making the cartilage angry.  It was removed and the orthopedic doc told me that he usually tells a lot of patients to give up running after surgery.  In my case the knee looked very healthy and he saw no reason why I couldn't run.  I tried right away and the knee just did not want to cooperate.  I took the winter off running.

With Brett's recurrence of cancer I knew I would need some stress relief so I attempted to start running again.  I have been enjoying some great runs while he is sleeping during treatments.  This morning I ran a little over 3 miles to a local park.  With every step I was composing this blog entry.  What I discovered while running this morning is that I am a miracle.  I have had a total of 14 surgeries in my lifetime.  I have had screws in my back.  I have a two level lumbar fusion.  I had to rebuild the strength in my left leg so I was not lopsided.  I had to learn to walk again (twice!) without limping.  I have a muscle in my calf that shows no nerve conduction and I had to work to strengthen the others around it.  There were days I could not walk.  I can run.  I'm not fast but I never was.  I can run.  Wow!  I am a miracle.  Some might say I'm crazy and I won't dispute that butI am a miracle.  I used to rest in the fact that one day I was promised to "run and not grow weary" (that verse was written for me) but this morning I praised that I can run and get weary.  What a gift I have been given.  How blessed I am.

I believe in blessings and I believe in miracles.  I have experienced both in my lifetime.  I know healing is possible.  I have lived it.  I know Brett can also experience healing and that this long journey can have a very welcome and exciting finish line.  I just needed to go for a run and remember my own journey.  We've been carried through so much and we'll continue to be carried along. Heck, maybe we'll even break into a jog from time to time.   

There, that tastes much better!

A Coffee Cozy and a Kick in the Teeth

This post has been brewing in my mind for days.  I process things by writing about them but I have been feeling quite raw and did not know what to do with my emotions and thoughts and didn't feel like being open and human and vulnerable.  I follow a young lady who has struggled with cancer and her parents shared a video on her site. The video is a man sharing his story of losing his daughter.  It is raw and accurately described so many things I've been feeling lately.  It isn't pretty or beautiful yet it touched something inside of me and was exactly what I needed to hear.  It brought me healing to hear someone else share the ugly.  I needed the raw and honest and humanity tonight.  Then it occurred to me that others may need that, too.  After much prayer and reflection I am going to share the ugly and beautiful that is juxtaposed within my life these days. 

They tell you as a caregiver to ask for help.  I hear this repeatedly.  I read this repeatedly.  I'm not good at it.  After all, asking for help shows weakness.  Even though I believe that to rob someone of any opportunity to help robs them of the joy they receive, I still hear the small voice inside of me that says it makes me a burden to them.  I rarely ask for help.  Last week I found myself at the end of my rope ( a perfect metaphor because I felt like I was dangling off a cliff about to tumble into the abyss of insanity).  I just wasn't handling life well.  I needed to ask someone for help.  I agonized over it for days. Finally, I worked up the courage to ask.  I had no other option.  I asked.  I received the socially expected response for someone in my situation.  "Of course, anything!".  This was a request of someone I considered a friend whom I deeply respected.  To say that this person did not honor my request would be an understatement.  They actually, probably unknowingly, made the situation much worse and added to my stress.  I was injured.  I was so sad.  I was disappointed.  I tried to put it into words for Brett.  Finally, I told him it was as if I had been kicked in the teeth.  Yes, that's exactly what it was like.  Wow, it hurt.  It caught me by surprise.  Having had extensive dental work I know that when teeth are shifted and replaced your entire bite changes and you have to adjust how you chew and even how you talk.  This experience is causing me to adjust and heal and change.  I had to exercise forgiveness.  I had to move forward.  I'm working on putting it behind me.  I'm trying to get over the gut reaction.  I said I'd be human and raw- if someone kicks you in the teeth you really want to kick them back even harder.  It's a human reaction and I had it.  It didn't last but I had it.  I believe I used the word "assault" a few times.  I'm in the process of healing and learning to move on.  I'm also trying not to be bitter and closed off.  For several days I have really not wanted to interact or talk with anyone.  I think I've been afraid my emotions would flow freely and I'd never be able to reign them back in.  I expected the tidy request/response scenario.  It didn't happen.  I expected this person to know me well enough to realize I would never ask for something unless it was absolutely necessary and I was very serious.  They did not.  They played upon my vulnerabilities and loyalties and made my situation much worse.  Even as I write this it is hard to say that I will ask for help again any time soon. I worry that people think I'm seeking pity.  I worry that it somehow diminishes my efforts to help others.  I worry that people just get tired of hearing about cancer and its struggles.  It's a downer. That's just honesty and humanity and I'm trying to own it, put it out there, and work through it.

I do believe that life is always about balance.  To balance my life and my post I have to share another event this week.  In the midst of the hurt and anger and bitterness and sadness a dear friend came to my office (even though I didn't want to be with anyone and I'm ever so glad she did it anyway!).  She asked if there was anything she could do.  My friend is a knitter.  Earlier that morning I had watched a young woman at Starbucks refuse a cardboard sleeve for her coffee cup and pull the cutest knitted sleeve out of her pocket to slide around her cup.  I coveted it.  So, I told my friend I needed one of the cool coffee things.  She was quick to oblige and presented me with a beautiful coffee cozy.  A cozy- it hugs your coffee cup.  At the risk of sounding corny- every time I use it I feel like I'm getting a hug, too.  In the middle of one of the worst weeks of this journey something small provided such warmth and restored my faith in humanity. 

It's been a tough few weeks.  Today was a weekly chemo treatment and we had a balance of good news and bad news.  I am weary.  My heart is heavy.  This is not a journey for the faint of heart.  I'm needing to "re"- rebalance, refocus, rejuvenate.  A long road lies ahead.  I'm trying to get back to seeing the blessings.  I'm trying to remember the amazing friends we have who want to help.  I'm trying to remember that all of this- even the ugly- happens for a reason and growing and changing is often painful.  Life can be ugly.  I'm trying to give myself permission to feel that way from time to time. This is just one on of those times and this, too, shall pass. 

Pity Party

A pity party is not a party at all- there are no balloons, no loud music, no decorations....  After an exhaustive (5 minute) search I have not been able to locate the origin of the name of this event.  I have found some creative definitions and I can personally confirm that feeling sorry for yourself does not involve festivities.  In fact, it brings isolation.

Last week I had myself a pity party.  I think the reality and brevity of our situation really sunk in on so many levels. The long road ahead felt endless.  Bills began to pour in and I don't really think that is a metaphor as one day the mailbox was filled to overflowing and a few literally poured to the ground.  Side effects from chemo medications arrived- we knew they were coming, they still took me by surprise as if we would somehow be immune to them.  I did what I know I should not do and read medical journals about metastasized colon cancer and treatment success and recurrence rates.  Those are numbers, we are humans.  My head knows this, my heart has a difficult time rationalizing it.  Then, of course, I get angry- as if a five year survival rate is something to be celebrated- what are they thinking?  Five years is but a drop in the bucket.  Where are those 20-30 year survival rates?  Why aren't they publishing and celebrating those?  Who cares about five years- give me the 40 more we want.

Suddenly, I was five years old- stomping my feet (literally and figuratively) and rolling up in a ball and feeling oh so sorry for myself.  To show my advancing age and to quote my mother, "Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, I'm going to eat some worms."  I'm going to have to investigate that one further, too.  Who eats worms, other than gummy worms, when they are sad?  But, I think if someone had told me they'd make me feel better I would have eaten a bucket full.  These types of behaviors and moods and feelings don't make anyone want to be around so they lead to isolation.  This further feeds the pity- I began to feel very alone.

I know you are hoping for some beautiful clean wrap up to this painfully honest confession but I don't know if I have mastered how to avoid the pity party- turns out I'm quite an events planner.  What I do know is that yesterday, in the midst of my husband's birthday marathon chemo treatment, I turned a corner.  I had been praying- doing lots and lots of praying.  Lord, please restore my balance, my hope, my faith.  He never answers with a lightning bolt- drives me crazy.  In fact, this is probably going to offend someone out there but I believe we see God's image in that of our father on Earth and I fully believe God finds great humor in me.  He sees what is unfolding, I see what is right in front of me at the moment.  I bet I crack him up when I stomp my feet.  I think God laughs and I think I bring him great joy these days.

I have been so focused on my amazing pity party that I wasn't even seeing what was going on around me.  God decided to stop laughing at me and step in and help me out in a gentle loving way; A random text from a friend, an email from another, a friend of Brett's showing up to take him to lunch in the nick of time, a t-shirt I can't wait to order (I'm with the bald hottie), mountain views, baby calves chasing after Mama, sunshine, walks, laughter.  My son's baseball sponsorships falling into place so quickly- he raised $600 of the $1000 he needs in a matter of days this week.  My daughter's wedding materials all over my spare bedroom like a wedding whirlwind hit.  A new son-in-law that we adore who puts up with our craziness somehow.  He's definitely a keeper.

And, a birthday!  Brett had a birthday!  Yesterday it finally hit me how monumental that is.  We were blessed with another year.  Brett's initial cancer diagnosis was extremely serious.  I could have lost him three years ago.  Brett's recurrence was extremely serious.  I could have lost him a few months ago.  We had a birthday yesterday!  Wow, no pity party- how can you feel sorry about that? It's all a matter of perspective.

So, pity parties are not at all festive.  They are ugly and sad and useless.  I'll have more but I'll try to make them shorter so I can move on to celebrate the important things in life that truly deserve a party.  In fact, I'm thinking of throwing an impromptu "Glad to be Alive" party soon.  Time to celebrate.

Settling In...

When I think of something settling I think of a snow globe.  You shake it up and it's complete chaos but soon calm sets in and all the snow particles settle into place at the bottom very still.  I also think we use the term "settling" to define resigning to a relationship (She settled for him in fear of being an old maid).  To settle is to put something into place and accept its position.  Once something is settled the chaos has ended, the snow particles stop flying and there is calm or sad resignation. 

The other day I was speaking to someone about Brett's treatment schedule.  We have completed two weekly chemo treatments and we have twenty two ahead of us.  Of these twenty two, eleven have the potential to make him very ill.  This person said to me, "You've been quiet- haven't posted an update, haven't written a blog, haven't talked much about it all. You both must be settling in for the long journey."   I think up to that point I had been thinking the very same thing- we need to settle in and get through.

Upon pondering this interesting image further, though, we are anything but settled in.  Some days I am the snow particle that falls to the ground and resigns myself to the fact that this is a battle and I am too weary.  Some days Brett is that same snowflake.  He looks at all that is ahead, knows how long the battle is, and he grows weary and is still in surrender.  But, neither of us stay there in that static state.  Most days I am clawing my way up from the bottom with every cell of my being.  I am ready to fight.  Brett is ready to fight.  We will not settle in.

So, I may grow quiet from time to time.  I may suffer some dark days as I did last week.  But, I'm going with the war and warrior metaphor.  The only time a troop settles in is prior to an attack.  So, if we're settling in it's only to gain ground and position against the enemy that is cancer.  And we will never be resigned to simply let it win.  We will continue to shake the snow globe and deal with the chaos that ensues.  It's all part of the process. 

Riding the Wave

I've been thinking a lot about waves lately.  After all, life seems to come in waves these days.  My emotions are coming in waves for sure. We've heard it a thousand times- just ride the wave.  How does one do that?

When I think about waves my heart goes to Monterey, California.  It is the closest thing to my image of  Heaven that I have found on Earth.  Ocean meets mountains; mountains meet ocean.  I have been blessed to stand on the shore of the mighty Pacific Ocean and ponder the countless grains of sand as the waves crash near my feet.  I have been on a boat when it gave chase to rarely spotted Orca whales and the waves splashed all around me, spraying me with salt water.   I have listened to the sea lions and watched the otters play in small waves near the shore.  Surfers appear as spots on the horizon and glide gracefully to shore near Capitola, riding the waves.  The sun dances on the water, the air carries the taste of salt, and when I am there all is right with the world.  Needless to say my heart has been longing for Monterey over the past two months.  If I could just sit and listen to the waves for an hour things would certainly be easier to face. 

Things are coming at me in waves these days.  One minute I'm at the low point grasping for energy and collecting strength.  The next minute I'm at the peak and I can feel the sunshine and hear the birds and there's nothing that can stop me- except of course, like all waves do, I crash into the shore, my energy spent.  Then, the cycle repeats.  We've had so many highs and lows lately.  Waves are always more intense during storms. 

Riding the wave... the surfers in Capitola make it look so easy.  I heard once that truly good surfers make peace with the ocean, learn its patterns, welcome its changes, and go with the flow of the water.  I guess in that respect I'm learning to surf.  I need to make peace with cancer, learn ways to live with it, welcome its challenges, and go with the flow of the disease's course until it is defeated. 

The funniest thing about wave metaphors is that most of them deal with ups and downs and crashing and storms and noise.  They leave out how absolutely soothing a boat afloat on gentle waves can be, how relaxing that crashing sound is, how absolutely breathtaking the sheer power and strength of the water is to those on the shore.  There is definite beauty in waves.  I'm seeking the beauty in mine as I simply try to stay on the board. 

Wasted Time

One of the most pervasive metaphors in society is that time is a commodity.  You've heard it over and over again- time is money.  Time is traded.  We borrow time from one activity for another.  We spend our time wisely.  We invest our time in things important to us.  You never have enough time and it is precious and shouldn't be wasted.

A great deal of my time today was wasted.  We woke up early after a sleepless night of anticipating Brett's first chemo treatment.  We got on the road and drove more than 90 minutes fighting the wind to get to Fort Collins.  Then, we were a bit frustrated that we arrived early and had time to kill.  We waited in the waiting room. We sat and waited after Brett was prepped for chemo only to be told that an error had been made and the drug he needed was not ordered and he would need to return tomorrow.  We took time to drive across town to the Whole Foods grocery store and then made our way back across town for a quick lunch only to realize we had to be across town the other direction again to pick up an order.  We finally got on the road home, drove another 90 plus minutes and arrived home too late to really go into work and get much accomplished.

Yep- lots of wasted time.... Or was it?....

Brett and I woke up early and smiled at each other and gave each other a hug and kiss.  Brett brought me coffee while I got ready.  We were up early enough to see both of our children and touch base with them before their busy day.  And, I wasn't working so I put on some of my nicer sweats and tennis shoes- Aaah.

We got in the car and I had to put on my sunglasses to see through the sunshine pouring in the car.  We marveled at the snow capped mountains and Brett pointed out a beautiful hawk on a fence post.  We listened to the news and talked about current events.  We listened to the 70's and 80's channels and reminisced.

We arrived early in Fort Collins so we stopped by a friend's work and gave her a big hug and said hello.  She is an amazing gift to our family and she promised to send us across the street with prayers.

While waiting in the waiting room of the Cancer Center a woman came out of the treatment room and sat next to Brett.  I recognized her immediately as one of my favorite college professors.  I called her name and we visited a bit.  I'm pretty sure she didn't remember me from the 80's but she was gracious.  When her daughter came out of the restroom to get her I told her she had formed the teacher I had become and she was a lifechanger.  She teared up and gave me a warm hug and thanked me for the kind words.  It was a beautiful exchange. 

We went into the treatment room and waited for a nurse manager to sheepishly tell us that she had made a terrible error and had not ordered Brett's medicine.  And, I saw the change in her demeanor when Brett extended beautiful grace in a way only he can.  He gave her a gift today.  She was embarrassed and felt so badly and Brett eased that with loving grace and humor.  She didn't maliciously forget to order the medication.  She made a human error and owned it. We appreciated and understood being human ourselves.

We went to Whole Foods and stocked up on their fresh ground honey roasted peanut butter- I think it is the eighth wonder of the world.  We laughed as we went down the cheese aisle three times to get samples of cheeses and almonds.

We went to lunch and laughed at our lousy luck and enjoyed some amazing fish tacos- Brett's favorite.

While at lunch we remembered that we were instructed to pick up an order on the other side of town and we made our way back to collect a yummy edible bouquet from my brother and sister in law.  It included a lovely poem from our niece and nephew about chemo and love.

I came home and ran into my office to deliver a tub of the amazing peanut butter to a fellow fan and she smiled and we visited.  Human connections are so beautiful.

I now have an entire hour of quiet downtime away from my office and work demands.  And, my husband isn't sick tonight as he was supposed to be so we will go to the gym and walk and enjoy an evening together.

Time wasted- I think not.  Had we not made that trip today so many opportunities to touch lives and have our lives touched would have been missed.  It simply confirms my long held belief that there are no accidents and coincidences.  I'm glad to be part of a larger plan- wish I could see the reasons most of the time- but glad to be part of it all the same.

The Price of Cancer and the Thick Fog of Dread

There was a very good article in our local paper today about the cost of cancer.  Usually cost is used metaphorically- as in cancer costs your hair, your health, your hope, your life.  This article was about the true cost of cancer- dollar signs.  Often many people think, as I did, that if you have insurance cancer has a low price tag.  We are very blessed to have excellent insurance.  I am thankful for that every single day.  But, as this article pointed out, deductibles, copays, and drug costs are soaring.  As we get better at treating cancer the treatments get more and more expensive.  I'm not the least bit interested in the political debate or the discussion about insurance companies and drug companies right now in the midst of it all.  I'm more interested in people- the human faces we encounter with every visit to the Cancer Center.  We recently met with the business manager to discuss payments and cost.  She informed us that there are programs to help families and that the new guidelines for these programs are set at a poverty level of $93,000/year for a family of three.  Maybe my age is showing but that number shocked me.  And, the people coming in and out of the Cancer Center often show the stress on their faces.  It's not fair that in the midst of fighting for your very life you also may have to worry about losing your home or draining your savings.  I have always found it ironic that we are going to pay someone to make Brett very sick.  I know rationally they are making him well in the process but it is still ironic.  I'd much rather take the trip to Tahiti that I have already paid for this year.  I also think it is disturbing that we aren't allowed to talk about the financial toll.  It is never an open conversation.  Oh, we'll talk in small talk with friends at the store, family members, or with fellow patients in the chemo room about losing hair, feeling nauseated, the metaphorical costs, but we stop short of talking literally about the financial toll. It's definitely a touchy subject with many sides of an ongoing political debate.  I have no answers.  No matter what your situation, cancer is expensive- end of story.   I'm just glad that someone in the media took interest outside of the political debate and looked at real people and tackled the issue- literally, not metaphorically. 

We begin chemo treatments this week.  There is definitely a thick fog of dread hanging over me.  I feel like a two year old ready to throw a tantrum.  I don't want to do this, don't make me do this. And, all I'm doing is watching and worrying.  I don't even have the hard part. I think it's worse the second time around, knowing what to expect, knowing this round is longer and stronger.  Oh we're still laughing and we really are looking at this through a positive lens.  I guess in the metaphor of fog our hope is a strong light slicing through.  But, I cannot ignore the fog and the mileage we have in front of us before reaching the destination.  This is when I have no choice but to cling to my faith and cling I will.  I have written about fear.  I have written about anger.  This is pure and simple dread.  It's simply not fun watching someone you love feel sick.  It's not fun watching a man who never takes so much as a Tylenol build up a pharmacy on the kitchen counter top.  There's a pill for everything and we have a prescription for one of each.  Anti-nausea, antibiotic, antihistamine, anti- everything that chemo could possibly do to you.  It's all in my kitchen.  I'm glad they are there- glad we've made incredible advances at any cost- glad that my husband's very life will be saved by all of this.  But it is overwhelming all the same.

Anger Boils Over in a Pressure Cooker

In an effort to be vulnerable and real and honest it is imperative to share a day in which cancer was not a blessing in our household recently.  We often think of anger as a liquid substance- it can boil over and explode.  Last week we had a day at our house where there was plenty of boiling over and exploding.  Of course, the object of all of our anger was cancer but you can't really express anger to cancer.  It is much easier to express it and spew it forth on those around you that you love.

The day began with discovering that our Jack Russell Terrier (about 15 pounds) had devoured a very large chocolate dipped Valentine's cookie.  Due to a variety of circumstances we were not able to clearly identify the amount ingested until much later so the toxins simply had to run their course.  Chocolate can be fatal and we learned of the side effects and what to expect and when to grow concerned.  Of course, even typing this now I am smiling because it is quite humorous to picture Biddy running in figure eights around the house not really understanding why she was doing it but stopping only to pant and do it some more.  It's humorous because she survived the ordeal- only to ingest an entire piece of pizza and some garlic dipping sauce last night but that's a different post.

While the dog was tearing through the house like a mad , well, dog... anger was surfacing.  There was shouting about how we all worry too much.  There was guilt for leaving a cookie out downstairs on a table unwrapped.  There was anger for irresponsibility.  There were the inevitable words spoken that you later wish you could take back.  It was ugly.  Anger was boiling over and covering our household.  Everyone retreated to their corners and caught their breath.  It passed and we all realized that our anger was really about cancer and the fact that treatments are coming that scare us to death with their potential side effects and astronomical costs.  For those of us outside the treatments we dread watching someone we love get sick and then feel well only to get sick again. For Brett there is simply the dread of being sick and the what ifs- will my hair fall out?  will I be able to work?  will there be lasting side effects?  after all of this, will it work?

The dog's figure eights in a maddened state served as a perfect metaphor for our household that night.  We are all doing figure eights, mad with anger and worry and dread, and we are all pausing to look up at each other bewildered.  Just as the dog's anxiety and hyperactivity passed within a few hours, our anger subsided and we re-oriented ourselves to what is truly important.  We weathered the toxins and worked them out of our systems and allowed peace and faith to return.  The ugliness of anger is that when it boils over it almost always spills out over the ones we love.  The beauty is that they love us, they understand, they can forgive in time.

I hope there are no more figure eights in our  house in the future from dogs or humans.  I hope we can find a straight and steady course and hold hands and walk together as we face down the true focus of our anger.  I also hope we can let go of the anger and replace it once again with peace and blessings.  But, we're human after all and I'm sure we'll still have days in the pressure cooker.

Going for Gold

We met Brett's new oncologist today and got a "game plan" for chemotherapy.  We liked the doctor very much.  He was kind and caring and well versed on Brett's case.  He knew intricate details and his plan paid attention to each of those details.  He told Brett that there is hope and we are going for the gold medal- we just won't settle for bronze.  I like having a coach who won't take less than first place.  It's reassuring.  As we enter the competition- Brett versus cancer- it is good to know that our coach has a solid game plan and we are aiming for a complete win.  I like this new metaphor.  It is very reassuring and it makes one feel active in the process.  Although I am merely a cheerleader and water girl I hope to provide a supporting role that allows for Brett's continued strength when the game feels long and he grows weary.  I will be waiting at the finish line and will usher him to the podium.  The final ceremony will take place around our 25th anniversary in August so I'm dreaming of where to hold it.  I'm hoping to celebrate the gold medal walking along the coast in Monterey, California, hand in hand.

My father used to read Reader's Digest faithfully.  One of his favorite sections was "Laughter is the Best Medicine".  If you know him this is a metaphor for his life.  He taught me to laugh and it has been a gift during many difficult times.  Laughter is healing.  I'm ever grateful that Brett and I can laugh together.  I am thankful that many liquids have shot forth through nostrils at our dinner table.  Today brought great laughter.  A caring doctor who knows nothing of our history broke the sad news to us that the treatment would render Brett unable to have more children.  He was so very serious, not realizing we had taken care of this many years ago and were already dreaming of the day we would chase our grandchildren around the park and then happily send them home.  Brett and I giggled and the jokes that ensued throughout the day were a bit off color and downright hilarious.  At one point it seemed almost surreal.  We had just gotten gruesome details of side effects of chemo and had been prepared for a game that will last six months.  We were laughing in the middle of lunch, laughing with the kids as we broke the sad news that there would be no siblings, laughing at inside jokes this evening.  We laughed.  What a beautiful gift to share.  What wonderful medicine for a fearful and weary soul. 

Brett had to have his chemo port checked today which brought a visit to the chemotherapy room.  There were three older men receiving treatment and one of them was very animated and talking to the nurse and laughing about his dog.  That laughter was such a beautiful sound.  Laughter is medicine but today it was also music.  The melody soothed my soul and relaxed Brett's heart rate. 

On the way to winning the gold medal I am hoping to laugh and sing with others sharing the journey.  I'm so thankful for those cheering us on. 

Awkward Silences

Today brought a dental visit for a filling.  The assistant seated me and, while she waited for me to become excruciatingly numb on the entire left side of my face, she made small talk.  I usually try not to let my husband's cancer be the topic of every conversation.  I am open about the topic when it comes up because I fully believe sharing our story may help someone one day when they least expect it.  God drew me to a child named Joseph three years ago.  Though he lost his battle with a brain tumor, his mother's honest reflections online and his family's transparency, humanity, and courage inspired me deeply.   On the day of Brett's first cancer diagnosis three years ago the reason for my "accidental" discovery of Joseph became crystal clear.  Joseph's story lit the path and wiped away some of the immediate all consuming fear.   Sharing the story is important because we never know when someone may need it.

But...  Brett's cancer is not my first topic of conversation.  This is mainly because of exactly what happened today.  The dental assistant kept asking me how things were going, how my holidays were, how work was, if I was busy.  It became unavoidable so I explained that my husband was diagnosed with a cancer recurrence and a metastasis to the liver and chest wall.  We had weathered a serious surgery and would soon begin chemo treatments.  And, there it was- the awkward silence.  I always feel so badly because people just don't know what to say.  And, truly what do you say?  Would I have known years ago what to say? 

The word "cancer" carries so many emotions.  The mere mention of it brings fear, anxiety, confusion, memories of loss, and sadness.  This is because people equate it with powerful metaphors.  Cancer is a battle.  There is a war against cancer.  We do a relay for life because cancer steals life.  We fight cancer.  We survive cancer.  We hate cancer.  We make t-shirts and mugs to display our hatred.  We write poems about the things cancer can't steal because it is a thief.  Cancer is the enemy.  Could we find the words to say or a different mind set if we simply shifted the metaphors?

Shortly after Brett was diagnosed the first time and we got news that he had a very advanced stage of disease he said these simple words to me, "Cancer is a blessing".  Now, I was a wife fighting the enemy- I was in full war regalia armed for battle- I was ready to kill and destroy.  Needless to say my reaction wasn't pretty.  How can cancer be a blessing?  How can this man facing chemo and an uncertain future say that to me and truly believe it?  (and he did truly believe it)  Yep, to him cancer, the very thing robbing the breath of life from his body and making him weak, was and still is a blessing.  Talk about shifting the metaphor.

Cancer is a blessing.  It rapidly prioritizes your life.  It reminds you that life is a gift and not a guarantee.  It makes you love more deeply.  It allows you to speak your mind and take more risks.  It reminds you to kiss your loved ones good night, good morning, and sometimes for no reason at all.  It grows your faith and connects you to God in tangible ways.  It strips you so all you have is your faith to lean on and it has to be enough.  It reminds you that money is just money and you cannot put a price tag on someone's existence.  It allows forgiveness for the increase in profanity in your life.  (Forgive me, but I truly believe that sometimes God laughs out loud at my outbursts).  It reminds you of how you felt the first time you looked at your husband at the tender age of fifteen and your heart spoke and said, "This is it." It reminds you that the argument you had yesterday over something stupid needs to be forgotten because it was over something stupid.  Cancer is beautiful.

Now, I am not a saint and I don't live this out daily but I am trying.  I am trying to get up each day and say, "How blessed we are to have this gift, this reminder, this faith, this joy, this view of life" and I am succeeding more days than I am failing so that is progress. 

Steven Curtis Chapman has a song called "Beautiful Scars".  I think of it often now as I look at the numerous scars on Brett's chest and belly.  They are beautiful.  They tell the story of survival and strength, of courage and vulnerability, of the frailty of humanity and the birth of great faith and trust.  May we all have beautiful scars and may we all consider our trials blessings.