Saturday, December 14, 2013

The Promise

A year ago tonight, after a family Christmas shopping trip, my then-17-year-old son took me to see The Hobbit:  An Unexpected Journey. Tonight, we watched it again on DVD so my guys could be up to speed for viewing The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug.

Well, I didn’t actually watch the whole thing tonight. I just hung around long enough to hear my favorite piece of dialogue. When Bilbo is trying to decide if he should journey with the dwarves to hunt down their enemy, the dragon Smaug, he questions the wizard Gandalf: “Can you promise me that I will come back?”

Unflinchingly, Gandalf replies, “No ~ and if you do, you will not be the same.” 

That phrase brought me comfort during the first weeks of my cancer journey. No one can promise that I will make it through alive. But I know that, if I do, I will never be the same. And that’s a good thing.

Friday, December 13, 2013

One year ago today . . .

One year ago today, my cancer journey began ~ although I didn’t realize it at the time.

I had actually already had a scare back in 2006. I was 38 years old, and my doctor had been suggesting for a while that I go for my first mammogram. I finally scheduled an appointment, but then thought about canceling. It seemed troublesome to ask someone else to watch my kids in the middle of the day while I went for an unnecessary scan. But I went ahead and kept the appointment. It was just to get a baseline, right? I figured that couldn’t hurt.

Well, five days later I received a phone call to come back for a follow-up ultrasound, which led to an appointment with a surgeon, which led to a scheduled lumpectomy. “I’m 85% sure it’s not cancer,” the surgeon told me. But I still lived through days of uncertainty and fear until the surgery was over and the pathology report came back. She was right ~ it was a benign fatty nodule. I stepped into the chapel on the way out of her office after the final follow up, just to thank God for delivering me.

After that, I had a mammogram every year. Once in a while I’d be called back for another take, but the results always came back negative.

Then we moved to Canada, where I found the protocol to be a mammo every two years, unless you have a history of breast cancer. Well, I didn’t, so there seemed no need to push for a change of plans.

In the spring of 2012, I asked my family doctor when I was due for my next mammogram. “October,” she said. So I put a note on my calendar and called in October to schedule. Trouble was, they were booked clear into December. I scheduled my appointment for the first available spot, kicking myself that I’d waited so long to make it.

December 13, 2012, rolled around. I knew my appointment was scheduled for 1:30 p.m. ~ but I got busy after lunch and forgot . . . until 1:45. In a panic, I called the hospital to apologize and try to reschedule. Knowing how long it had taken to get my first appointment, I could only imagine how long it would be before I could get in again.

Then I heard the receptionist say, “We have an opening tonight at 7:30. Could you make that?” Could I??!!! I felt that God had parted the waters and made a way just for me.

I remember how peaceful it was that night in the radiology department.  The lights were low and the waiting room was nearly empty. I soaked in the stillness, wishing that all my appointments at the hospital could be at that time of day.

The mammogram went pretty much as usual ~ until the technician said, “I’m going to take another picture.” 

My heart dropped. “Oh.  Did you see something suspicious?” I asked, stepping back up to the machine.

“No, not suspicious. It looks like a cyst,” she assured me.  “But I know they’re going to ask for extra views; so rather than call you back, I’m just going to do it now. And I’m sure they’ll want to follow up with an ultrasound, so expect a call next week.” She finished the procedure and sent me on my way.

I felt a bit unsettled as I dressed and headed for home. I mean, there probably wasn’t anything to worry about. This happens to a lot of people, right?  I determined not to let fear get the best of me ~ to just take it a day at a time and face the tests as they came.

You know the rest of the story, since you’re reading my blog. (At least, you know the story as far as I know it!) You know that it would be over 2 months before I was finally diagnosed with breast cancer. 

There have been many, many times I have wished I had been diagnosed sooner, that I had had a mammogram in 2011, that the tumor could have been removed when it was smaller. 

But I trust in the sovereignty of God. He could have let my cancer be discovered sooner. But He could have let it go a lot longer, too. For whatever reason, He allowed it to hide as a cyst until He was ready to reveal it for what it really was. I have seen His hand every step of the way . . . allowing me to get doctor’s appointments when it seemed nearly impossible . . . leading me to just the right medical personnel . . . bringing the perfect friends alongside to walk this journey with me.

I’m right where I’m supposed to be.

Tuesday, December 03, 2013

Thankful

My big feeling of thankfulness came after Thanksgiving this year.  On Monday, I received a phone call from my doctor's office, letting me know that my routine PAP smear had come back normal.  

Although there were some signs of inflammation, there were no atypical cells like the ones that showed up three years ago.  I know now that every normal test result is cause for rejoicing. Praise God Who gives good gifts ~ and walks with us through every test!

The Little Things

Facing a life-threatening illness has a way of altering your perspective, even (especially?) in the little things.

Take Thanksgiving, for example. This year we spent it with 5 of Greg’s siblings, his dad and stepmom, and many nieces and nephews. It was much the same as other years . . . but different, too. Our kids are growing up, moving on. This may have been the last time for the BIG family Thanksgiving. And that made it bittersweet.

Travelling five hours to get there wore me out, so I curled up on the couch for a little rest while conversation swirled around me. The mid-afternoon meal showcased everyone’s cooking skills and was delicious, as usual. Then, after dessert and conversation around the table, I headed upstairs for another nap. (It’s hard for me to admit it, but I still tire easily. I’m not yet back to my pre-cancer self.)

Two hours later, I awoke in a darkened room to the sound of Christmas carols. Someone was singing, somewhere ~ a whole group of people. Was the family gathered down in the living room?

I lay snuggled in bed, soaking in the sound. I wanted to be a part of whatever was going on, but I just wasn’t ready to get up yet. Then the music shifted to worship songs. Angelic voices blended in melody and harmony. It was irresistible. Like a magnet, the music drew me from my bed. I groped my way through the gloom to the door and opened it a crack. The light hit my eyes ~ and I was dazzled by what I saw.

My children and their cousins lined the loft-landing at the end of the hall. Some were singing; some were listening. One strummed a guitar, and another sat at the piano.  But all were caught up in the music. I couldn’t drag my eyes away.  I didn’t want them to know I was watching, didn’t want to break the spell. But I wanted to be a part of it, too. Finally, I stepped into the light and joined them.

I imagine that’s how it will feel someday to wake up in Heaven.

That evening, I sat around the kitchen table with my sisters-in-law, swapping stories, knitting, and looking at the Black Friday flyers. Ah, Black Friday . . .

We used to do the leave-the-house-at-6AM-and-scramble-to-get-everything-on-your-list-before-the-deals-are-gone routine. Two years ago, we actually headed to the mall at midnight. This year, however, we were content to wake at a reasonable hour and leave for the stores at 8AM ~ all 13 of us! 

How times have changed since we young mothers went looking for the best toys for our kids. Now, I think our daughters look forward to the trip more than we do; and we spend most of our time looking at clothes!

We hit Old Navy first. I was tired, and my back already hurt.  I eyed the checkout line wearily, and wondered just how long I’d last as I played the role of “gopher” and fashion consultant. But on one of my trips from the dressing room to the clothing rack for yet another item, it hit me. I was HERE. I was with my girls. I was helping to provide for one of their most basic needs. Suddenly, a crazy shopping trip wasn’t just another bead on an ever-growing string of Black Fridays. It was priceless. 

I must confess, I’m still tired, although we’ve been home nearly 48 hours. I’m still dealing with post-trip clutter. I’m overwhelmed by everything I want to do before Christmas rolls around. Probably some things just won't get done.

But I’m choosing to savor this Season, to relish the traditions that make it so precious, and even to create some new ones. I don’t want to take anything for granted. Every moment together is priceless.

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Relief

What a relief to hear my radiation oncologist say, "No, I wouldn't do a bone scan." She assured me that the pains I've been feeling are perfectly within the parameters of my treatment timetable. (The worst effects of radiation happen after the last treatment.  That's why they schedule a follow-up appointment six weeks out.)

When she told me that I was being officially discharged, my stomach dropped momentarily. But then I realized that I was being handed back over to my medical oncologist and primary care physician for regular check-ups. Whew! I'm not on my own yet.

In the evening I attended a teaching session on living through and beyond cancer. I learned that I'm already considered a survivor! And I accepted the idea of being in surveillance mode. For at least the next five years, I'll be watched closely by several different medical practitioners. And I'll be paying attention to my own body; any abnormal symptoms that persist will be reported and checked out.

But for now, I'm ready to move forward!


Monday, November 18, 2013

The Black Hole

Yesterday I slipped into a black hole.  And it happened so gradually that I wasn’t even aware of what was going on until I was at the bottom.

I’ve been having these aches and pains:  my ribs, my collarbone, my hip, my knee (an after-effect from radiation?  too much running?).  Then, too, Sunday morning I was having  strange, tinny hot flashes that made me want to lie down and rest.

 I did lie down after church while my family fixed lunch.  And while resting, I decided to Google “blogs about breast cancer.” I came across one by Lisa Bonchek Adams, who is confronting breast cancer for the second time; this time it has metastasized and is stage IV. 

When I got up to eat lunch, all I could think about was Lisa’s story.  When I went back to rest again, I read more of her blog posts.  It was pretty deep stuff; I gave myself a time limit for reading so I wouldn’t go down a dark path all afternoon.

Then I decided to be brave and Google “rib pain after radiation.”  I was encouraged to read that many, many others have also experienced this.  But I still need to talk to my radiation oncologist about my own symptoms, and I’m concerned about what she’ll say.

Then, I decided to be even braver and Google “triple-negative breast cancer.”  This is my tumor’s status.  Since the cancer was not being fed by any of the female hormones, it cannot be targeted with hormone treatments.  Surgery, chemo, radiation and natural remedies are the only medical defense we have against recurrence.

After taking in all this info, my world seemed pretty dark. I felt scared, alone, and drowning in “what ifs.”  Lying there reading in bed wasn’t helping.  I needed to do something different.

Thankfully, I have a husband who likes to go on walks with me.  As we headed out into the dusky fall air, I began to unravel my emotions.  And I figured it out:  it’s the waiting.

When I was going through chemo and radiation, I knew we were doing something to fight the cancer.  I found security in my regular doctor’s appointments.  There were very real health issues to deal with, and we took it a day at a time (or tried to!).

When that was over, I breathed a sigh of relief.  I was ready to get on with life as usual.  But will it ever be normal again?

I still have regular doctor’s appointments to look forward to, although they’re more spaced out.  And I’m finding that they tend to make me more nervous.

For instance, right now I’m waiting for the results of my recent pap smear.  Several years ago, I had an atypical one; and though they’ve all been clear since then, I’ll breathe a bit easier after I hear that this one is clear, too.

And tomorrow I’ll be having a follow-up appointment with my radiation oncologist.  I’m looking forward to chatting with her, and I’ll mention my aches and pains.  I’m hoping she’ll give me the all-clear.  But what if she orders a bone scan?  Then I’ll be waiting again.

I’m comforted, though, by the knowledge that these emotions are perfectly normal.  According to what I’ve heard from many other cancer survivors, I’m right where I ought to be on this journey beyond cancer.  I’m doing what I can to be an advocate for my own health.  I’m trying not to worry.  I’m trying to focus on facts, not fears.  I’m reminding myself of Who’s in control.  And I'm finding that talking about it helps, too.

Saturday, November 16, 2013

She's Home!

Last evening, at 7:05 p.m., Lady Norma went Home to be with her Lord.  Her struggle with cancer is over.  She stepped into her Heavenly mansion, and is, no doubt, throwing a party!  And, while we grieve from down here, we also rejoice:  as believers in Jesus, we’ll meet again there someday.

I met Lady Norma less than a month ago, for the first time, on my birthday. In a way, she became my inspiration, my mentor for just a few hours.  We shared a mutual foe ~ cancer ~ and a mutual hope ~ Heaven.  In her testimony of unshakable faith, Lady Norma unknowingly gave me the title for my blog.

Her daughter shared this with her a few days later, and Lady Norma gave her stamp of approval to my “new assignment.”  I’m guessing she’ll be following ~ and cheering ~ from Heaven.  I will always feel indebted.

Sometimes our earthly lives intersect with others only momentarily.  We pray that those touches leave an eternal impression, as Lady Norma did on me.

Friday, November 15, 2013

Me, a runner?

I can’t believe I’m running again!  Actually, I can’t believe I’m running at all.

Greg has always been the athletic half of our union ~ wrestling, running, playing baseball and football.  Me?   I’ve tried the odd get-in-shape program here and there, but my preferred mode of exercise has almost always been walking.

When we were living in China in 2009 and Greg was training for a marathon, he encouraged me to run with him.  I can remember panting halfway around our apartment complex and growling, “I don’t understand how anyone can enjoy this!”

Enter Prevention magazine.  My mom gave me the July 2009 issue when we arrived back in North America that year.  When I read the article “Turn Your Walk into a Run,” I thought, I can do this, and started on the program right away.  I kept at it for several months and *gasp* found myself enjoying the run/walk days more than the walking days because I could go farther faster!

Sometimes my busy schedule derailed my exercise efforts.  Sometimes my body didn’t cooperate . . . plantar fasciitis, back pain, hip pain.  A physiotherapist told me he suspected that I had osteoarthritis.  When I asked, “Will I have to give up running?” I wanted to cry.  At that point, I knew I was a runner.  And I was . . . surprised.  His answer:  “That’s tricky.  It’s actually better to keep moving when you have arthritis; but you may want to take your running to a treadmill.  It’d be easier on your joints.” 

Not having a treadmill, I sought other, gentler places to run than a concrete sidewalk.  And I tried to find the perfect mix of running and walking to reap the most benefits with the least amount of pain.

Then breast cancer treatments stopped me in my tracks.  During chemotherapy, there were days when I could barely get out of bed before noon, much less take a walk.  There were days when I had to push myself to walk 10-20 minutes around the neighborhood.  But there were also weekends when I felt strong enough to walk for over an hour.  In fact, by God's grace, I walked my first 10K with my family one week after my second round of chemo!

The second half of chemotherapy brought different drugs and new side effects:  bone pain, muscle pain, joint pain.  My walking grew slower and more difficult.  My muscles were incredibly tight by the time I returned home, and stretching was painful.  But it was worth it.  It felt good just to get outside and to know I was giving my body what it needed.

I finished chemo at the end of July and started radiation at the end of August.  This meant traveling 30 minutes every Monday-Friday to the nearest cancer center for six weeks of treatments.  Fatigue seems to be the universal side effect of radiation, and I did require a rest time almost every day when I returned home.

But I was beginning to feel like myself again.  I was strong enough to drive alone to most of the treatments; and I took advantage of the fact that I was already out to plan a walk near the hospital either before or after almost every appointment.  We were blessed with an incredibly mild fall, and I looked forward to my daily dose of fresh air and exercise.

During the last three weeks of radiation, I began to feel stronger and stronger.  Nearly every day, it seemed like I had more energy than the day before.  I was surprised, and mentioned it to my radiation oncologist.  When I told her that I’d been walking regularly, she said, “Oh, walking is so good.” 

“For energy?”  I asked.

“For energy, mood . . .”   She rattled off several benefits of walking (I’m pretty sure one of them was weight loss).  And I knew I had to keep it up!

I had hoped that chemotherapy would help me drop some unwanted weight.  But hormone changes, steroids, and a topsy-turvy appetite actually resulted in a net gain of 10 pounds.  My medical team was not at all surprised, but I hated seeing that scale climb.  When I expressed my frustration to Greg, he graciously reminded me, “That’s not the battle you need to be fighting right now.”  And he was right.

But now that my treatments are over,  I’ve been told I can run again.  I’m ready to start my next battle.

So I recently pulled out my tattered copy of Prevention.  With a family member or two in tow, I’m turning my walk into a run again.   And it feels good. 

I thank God for the ability to walk (and run).  I thank God for the motivation to get going.  And although the scale still appears to be stuck, I feel better about myself, I’m getting stronger ~ and when I run, it clears the cobwebs and I can breathe again.  And that’s important, too.


Thursday, October 31, 2013

My Title Backstory

Last week, on a chilly October day, we were invited by our son's teacher to visit with her mom who is battling cancer.  Entering her condo, we were enveloped with warmth; the entire place seemed golden.  The bedroom walls were painted pale yellow, and a plush beige throw covered the bed.  Resting against the pillows was a tiny lady whose gold silk blouse and aqua neck scarf perfectly complemented the gold, aqua, and green of her headscarf, and beautifully enhanced her deep brown skin.

When  we sat down, she sat up and began to bless us with animated stories.  Words poured from her as she described things she'd seen and done in her 60+ years.  Wisdom, too.  Her take on life and eternity was precious.

She's been explaining things to her 6-year-old granddaughter.  "Everyone has a day when we enter this world," she said.  "And we all have a day when we have to go back to Jesus.  God knows when that day is."  Her granddaughter recently shared these thoughts at a family funeral, adding an interpretation of her own:  "Everyone has to die sometime, or the world would be too full of people!"  Hmmm.  Out of the mouths of babes . . .

Then our dear sister went on.  "The way I see it, we have the breathing half" ~ she used her  hands to mark out a space in time ~ "and then we have the rest of the story" ~ drawing her right hand along a continuum to indicate infinity.  All of us in the room were stunned by this vivid portrayal of the fact that our story keeps going . . . even after we stop breathing.

I believe the Bible.  And it's pretty clear that "it is appointed unto man once to die, and after that, the judgement."*  We deserve to be punished for all God's laws we've broken while on this earth; and the punishment will last forever.  It's not a pretty picture.

But if we believe that Jesus took that punishment for us, then we get to live with God in Heaven after we die.  Our life ~ our story ~ will continue!

So I've decided to call my blog "The {Breathing} Half" to remind myself that this part of my life is just the beginning.  After I stop breathing (and only God knows when that will be), my story will still go on.  The best is yet to come!

* New Testament, Hebrews 9:27

Friday, October 25, 2013

The first day . . . of the second half

Today is my 46th birthday.  And it's a very special day for me . . .

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer in February of this year, I was 45 years old ~ the same age my husband's mother was when she died of a brain tumor in 1984.

This was shocking to me for two reasons.  First, I realized how young Greg's mom was when she died.  I never met my mother-in-law, but through the years I've heard many stories about her incredible life.  And I'd always pictured her as an older woman: she'd given birth to seven children, seen four of them graduate from highschool, and watched them begin lives of their own by the time God called her home.

But suddenly I realized how much she must have still dreamed of seeing:  graduations for the last three, weddings, grandbabies, and years of empty-nesting with her husband.  She never got most of that; she got Heaven instead.  But she was so young.

My second shocking realization was that I might not get to live as long as I had planned.  "I was going to live to be ninety," my bewildered soul kept repeating, "I'm only halfway there."  In horror I watched the second half of my life disappear ~ evaporating like so much mist.

Less than two weeks after my partial mastectomy, we drove to North Carolina with our four children for March Break.  It was the most difficult family vacation I'd ever been on; I couldn't stop thinking that it might be my last.

One morning, as we were waking up in our rented cottage, I tentatively voiced my fears to Greg in words something like this:  "The hardest part is not knowing how much time I have."

His very Biblical answer was, "Well . . . you're just going to have to trust in the sovereignty of God."

He was right, and he was kind ~ but I was mad.  And I spat back:  "That's easy for you to say!  They're not your hopes or your dreams or your plans."

My dear husband didn't argue.  He thoughtfully replied, "You're right," and quietly got up to fix us some breakfast.

I rolled over, bundled in my despair.  As I stared past the room into a future that I couldn't see, my own words echoed back through my heart and I heard, really heard, what I had just said.  In essence:  my hopes, my dreams, my plans.  Where was God in all that?  Did I have any thought for His hopes, His dreams, His plans?  How often were even my good and godly goals wrapped in self-gratification and self-preservation?

And in that moment, it hit me:  cancer was going to kill me.

Either the cancer would take over my body and I would die physically; or I would survive the cancer ~ but the old, self-centered Anne would be gone.  At least, that was my hope.

So here I am.  After months of chemotherapy and radiation, my treatments are behind me.  It's my 46th birthday, and I feel like it's the first day of the second half of my life.  Or the first day of my new life.

I feel like I'm poised on a ridge.  Looking back, I can see all that my first 45 years have held:  a wonderful childhood, a relationship with Jesus Christ, a solid Christian education, a degree in teaching, opportunities to write for magazines and Sunday school papers, the privilege of being a teacher, marriage to the man of my dreams, four children who continue to amaze me with their uniqueness, spending time overseas, a church plant growing in our home . . . and if that's all I ever got from life, that would be enough.  Just like my mother-in-law, my life has been full to the brim.

But when I turn and look ahead ~ Lord willing, there's more!  I don't know what it will be ... that mist still covers the hills and valleys ahead of me.  Mathematically, the second half of my life may not be as long as the first half.  But I trust that it will be even better, in so many ways.  And when this half is done, there's still eternity with God to come!  Who could ask for more?