Just Being in the Moment

My son graduated from high school last night. And, by God’s grace, I was there to witness it!

Being diagnosed with a life-threatening illness changes your perspective in so many ways. At first, the future is so cloudy you can’t see more than a few days into it ~ just until the next medical test or dreaded phone call. You wonder if you’ll even be here to enjoy the fall fair, celebrate Christmas, or welcome the new life of spring. You fear that the milestones most people get to experience will never be reality for you.

But then you realize that no one is guaranteed tomorrow ~ or even the next minute. You begin to treasure the moments ~ even things that might have caused irritation before ~ because you are just thankful to be here. You begin to hope ~ not expect ~ that you’ll have the opportunity to do those things you’ve dreamed of. Life and relationships and time become oh-so-precious.

The tricky part comes when life moves back toward normal ~ even if it’s a new normal. You settle into a routine, start to anticipate what each day will look like, and feel upset when things don’t go the way you’d planned. You chafe at frustrations and chide yourself for what hasn’t gotten done. Until someone reminds you:  “The important thing is that you’re here. Just be.”

Last night’s graduation did that for me. It was a reminder to be “in the moment” ~ in the midst of the rush and the stress of preparation, to take a deep breath, look around me with wonder, and think, “I’m here! I could have missed this, but God let me live.”

Let’s not take a moment that we are given for granted. Each breath, each experience with a loved one, is a gift!

* Thank you to my dear fellow-survivor Suzanne and my precious husband Greg for speaking these reminders into my life!

Happy to Be Alive

My son used to play a song by Reliant K that went like this:

Sunny with a high of 75

Since You took my heavy heart and made it light.

And it’s funny how you find

You enjoy your life

When you’re happy to be alive.

I haven’t heard that song in quite a while ~ and I didn’t think of it at all during this longest-of-all-winters that we’ve just come through in Canada! But the last few days those words have been running through my head. Yes, even today . . . ’though we received an inch of fresh snow on our just-cleared lawns!

I can’t forget that a year ago today I started chemotherapy. I was so scared. Had I made the right decision about treatment? What side effects would I face? What if the “cure” was worse than the cancer? Would I get sick? What if I took the wrong dose of steroids at the wrong time? And on and on . . .

God sent me a special friend that day ~ a wonderful nurse who literally linked her arm through mine and ministered to me along every step of the way . . . from patiently pushing the drugs intravenously to covering me with a warm blanket to bringing me a cold pack when a sudden headache set in. When I told her how scared I was, she looked me in the eye and asked, “Do you believe in God?” I said, “Yes,” and she replied, “Then that’s all that matters.  Pray, pray, pray, pray, pray.”

She was such a blessing to me. I hoped that she’d be there for the next five rounds of chemo. She was; and I still stop in to visit the chemo clinic whenever I get the chance. Who dreamed I’d actually look forward to going there!

Today as I enjoy the beautiful snow and prepare to watch The Passion of the Christ with some friends as we approach Easter, I am reminded just how good it is to be alive. Thank you, Jesus!

One Year In

One year ago today, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Nothing can prepare you for those words ~ especially when you believe you've been following a cyst for the past 2 months. I sat with my husband Greg in the waiting room, unable to relax, heart racing, hoping against hope the surgeon would have good news that would bring closure to the battery of tests I'd been through.

But we had barely sat down in his office when he said, "Well, it is a cancer." How can you explain how it feels to have the world fall away from under you while everything around you stays the same? As the doctor and the nurse talked me through what would take place in the next several weeks, I kept having to drag my mind back to the present. Could this be real? Surely it was happening to someone else, not me. But I was sinking into a black hole.

Greg's tears came first. All he could think of was watching his mom go through brain cancer almost 30 years before. The chemotherapy and radiation ravaged her body before the cancer took her life. And now his wife was facing the same thing? How could God do this to him?

I couldn't even cry. I was too stunned. The nurse told us we could stay in the office as long as necessary, to collect ourselves. But what good would that do? We had plans to make, family to be told.

As I walked down the hospital corridor toward the car, I suddenly thought, "Cue the music." I pictured myself, slow-motion, striding into battle. We were going to fight this thing.

Driving home from the hospital, I remember the sky was blue. So blue. The houses of our development stood out in vivid contrast, their bricks brilliant colors. The world was achingly beautiful. How could I be facing cancer? How could I walk through the door of the house and tell my kids? How could I break the news to my parents who were both at work?

Somehow, we got through the next several hours. I'll never forget the wailing of our daughters . . . their cries of, "Why our Mommy?" . . . our college-age son's stunned response and heart-wrenching struggle 8 hours away from home . . . having to tell our second son when he got home from high school . . . the shock of the Chinese friend who was staying with us . . . my mom's tears and my dad's strength . . . my fear that my younger sister would be left an only child.

Greg had to tell his family, too. It felt like déjà vu for all of them: their own mom had been only 45 when she died. The same age as me.

And how do you tell your friends and colleagues? Some cancer patients choose to keep it to themselves.  But we decided to use e-mail and social media. Is there a certain etiquette for making an announcement of this magnitude? We were feeling our way.

Ironically, three other friends were diagnosed with cancer just days before me:  four of us within four business days. They (and others who had also walked this road) became my support group, my safety net.  Nothing says “comfort” like someone who’s been there.

The outpouring of strength and support was amazing.  Well-wishes streamed in from around the world, via phone, e-mail, Skype and Facebook.  People brought gifts and flowers . . . so many flowers.  It was my own personal garden, mid-winter.  We ran out of places to put them.

  

I only had to wait eight days until my surgery.  Looking back, I can’t believe what we packed into that one week:  a visit to the dentist with my girls, a trip to the eye doctor, a church service, Kids’ Club, CT scan (clear), bone scan (clear, praise God!), pre-surgery appointment.  My attitude and outlook fluctuated by the day . . . sometimes by the hour.

We had some dark, dark days; but I remember Greg saying something like, “A year from now this will all be behind us, and you’ll be doing great.”  I desperately wanted to believe him, but I couldn’t even see my way clear to the local fair in the fall, let alone Christmas and a new year. 

But here we are!  If there’s one thing I’ve learned on this journey, it’s that every day is a gift.  I’ve had many statistics thrown at me in the last 12 months, but the truth is ~ not one of us is guaranteed even tomorrow.  God has the days planned out for each and every one of us.  I may not get to fulfill all of my plans, but I trust that He knows best.

And I’m amazed at how many special things He did allow me to do this past year:

* Started some knitting and cross-stitch projects that I’d been dreaming of

* Read . . . read . . . read

* Did dozens of Sudoku and crossword puzzles

* Celebrated life and family through multiple birthdays and holidays

* Learned to take naps and say “no”

* Proofread a friend’s novel

* Shared my story and hope with others who are starting their own cancer journeys

* Hosted many visitors who encouraged and helped us with our ministry

* Traveled to North Carolina, Michigan, Pennsylvania, New York, and West Virginia

* Started this blog

And no matter what this next year holds, I know that the best is yet to come!                

Marking the Days

There’s something strange about approaching the anniversary of a life-threatening diagnosis. I find myself exulting that I’m still alive and well one year after I was told, “It is a cancer.” And I find myself shrinking from the memory of all the emotions that flooded my soul in those first dark days. And the fear that it may happen again.

February 4, 2013, was the follow-up ultrasound to my December mammogram and sonogram that had revealed a “cyst.” Afterwards, the radiologist came into the room and said, “Statistically, it’s benign.  But we can’t just let it go.” And he laid out the possible next steps. Thank God, we walked through them.

On February 13, I had a needle biopsy. That radiologist said, "I really think we're dealing with a hematoma," and the surgeon I met with immediately afterwards told me, “It just feels like a cyst. I wouldn’t even worry about that.” On February 20, I returned for the pathology report, which revealed that it was indeed cancer, and set me on the course of partial mastectomy, chemotherapy, radiation, and recovery ~ a year’s worth of victories and fears.

Last week, my son Josiah and I were discussing a possible trip to the art museum after his upcoming art school interview. I said, “That would be a good way to celebrate the anniversary of my diagnosis.”

He was surprised that it was here already. “That’s exciting,” he said.

I said, “Well, I don’t know about exciting,” and tried to explain.

After a moment, my very wise son asked, “Is it almost like the anniversary of when a part of you died ~ and the end of treatment is like the anniversary of when that part came back to life?”

Yes, maybe that’s how it is.  February will always be a sacred, contemplative month for me ~ the month that marks the memory of the words that changed my life . . . and my years as a survivor.

Walking the Ridge

It has been eleven months since I was diagnosed with high-grade, invasive breast cancer (stage 2a). Those words still chill me. And last week I thought I’d found another lump.

The more I examined it, the more confused I became. Sometimes I thought for sure it was a lump, and other times I could hardly feel it. I tried to convince myself that it was a muscle tear from a new workout routine at the gym, or something related to my partial mastectomy; but then I would tell myself that it had to be a lump ~ what else could it be?

I was already scheduled to see my oncologist on Monday. This routine appointment had been scheduled back in October after my last follow-up with her. I was so thankful that it was already on the books . . . and scared to death to go. And yet, waiting for four days was agony.

I was plunged back into the uncertainty of a year ago. Life seemed so short . . . every day seemed precious. But I had difficulty focusing on the most basic tasks. I clawed after a future that seemed to be slipping away. How could I have once again taken everything for granted?

The night before my discovery, I had been part of a Bible study led by my husband. We ended with Mark 4:35-41. Jesus was taking His disciples in a boat to the other side of the lake. But then, He fell asleep, and a life-threatening storm came up.  The disciples panicked and accused their Teacher of not caring. Jesus, of course, woke up and stilled the storm, but then challenged His disciples with their fear and lack of faith.

We discussed this. I suggested that the disciples still didn’t know that He was God. But a friend had another idea: “The disciples had already seen Jesus perform lots of miracles. But sometimes when the problems become personal, we have difficulty believing that God will act. We believe that He has power to help others, but not us.” 

That story became very dear to my heart over the weekend. And once again, as in my other trials, my mind grasped for simple phrases that I could repeat to calm my trembling heart:

* "Oh, God, preserve my life from the dread enemy.” ~ Psalm 64:1

* "Be with me, and keep me from harm.” ~ I Chronicles 4:9,10

* “When I am afraid, I will trust in You.  I will trust and not be afraid.” ~ Psalm 56:3,4

* "You are behind me; You are before me; You are with me.” ~ Psalm 139:5

* “I will not be afraid of sudden fear.” ~ Proverbs 3:25

* “Tomorrow will take care of itself.  Today’s trouble is enough for today.”  ~ Matthew 6:27

* “Do not worry about anything.” ~ Philippians 4:6

And then some heart-stopping questions from Jesus Himself:

* “Can worry add a single hour to your life?” ~ Matthew 6:27

* “Why are you afraid?  Do you still have no faith?” ~ Mark 4:40

Somehow I survived the weekend. Sometimes I felt totally detached from what was going on around me. Other times I was flooded with unexplainable peace and even exhilaration ~ and then, I figured, someone was praying for me. Or maybe I had just accepted the inevitable.

On Monday morning, Greg went with me to my doctor’s appointment, to be my support ~ and an extra pair of eyes and ears. As we sat in the waiting room, I scanned the e-mails that friends had sent to encourage me that morning. One friend’s concluding words stopped me in my tracks:  “...if we can't sleep with HIM in the storm....WE WILL REST IN HIM….” I couldn’t believe my eyes. These words seemed straight from the Lord, because Julianne had NO CLUE what we had studied the week before!

After a cliff-hanging wait, we were called into the office. My oncologist is wonderful ~ a compassionate listener and a calm explainer-of-facts. We discussed many concerns that I had on my list, and she gave me encouragement and helpful suggestions.

I saved “the lump” for the very last. And after a thorough examination, my doctor said, “I can feel scar tissue, but no breast lumps.” Really? Is that it? She felt certain that everything I was feeling ~ aches and pains, all we had talked about ~ were a normal result of chemotherapy and radiation and this early menopause that the chemo has thrown me into.

Physiotherapy and exercise will probably help. That said, she reminded me to let her know if the pains get worse. We can always do a bone scan if we feel the need. I have a mammogram and ultrasound scheduled for April. And she’ll keep a little closer eye on me; I’ll see her again in five weeks.

I walked out of her office wanting to be excited, but not sure if I should let myself. I almost feel guilty for anticipating a long future, but then I feel guilty for worrying that the cancer will come back. I seem to have discovered a precarious ridge, this fine line that we all must walk if we are to be honest with ourselves: trying to plan for the future and yet live in the moment, while holding our dreams loosely.  But as a friend reminded me today, "We should all live like that. We will then be surprised and exhilarated at where God will guide us . . . beyond our wildest dreams." And I'd rather be surprised than disappointed!

Over the weekend, when I kept feeling that spot and had come to the conclusion, “I don’t know; I just don’t know,” I remembered Who DID know, and a song that my Dad used to sing when I was a little girl started running through my head:

“I know Who holds the future, and I know Who holds my hand.

“With God, things don’t ‘just happen;’ everything by Him is planned.

“So as I face tomorrow, with its problems large or small,

“I’ll trust the God of miracles ~ give to Him my all.”

I don’t even know who wrote it ~ but to their words I say, Amen!

Something new

Last Friday, I was lying on the ultrasound table again. It felt like déjà vu . . . x3? 4? 5? How many times have I been there?

Let me fill in the gaps. Back in the spring, after my second chemo treatment, my right forearm began to ache. Not sure if it was a side-effect of all the cross-word puzzles I was doing while resting in bed, I decided to give it a few days. When it didn’t improve, I called the chemo clinic and spoke with the head nurse.

He asked a few questions over the phone. Since my arm wasn’t red, swollen, or warm to the touch, he didn’t think I had anything to worry about. It didn’t sound like deep vein thrombosis.

But a night or two later, when I rubbed the crook of my arm, I felt something hard ~ like the tendon you can feel at the back of your knee. That didn’t seem right . . . especially since my left arm didn’t feel like that at all. Then I took a closer look at my right arm, and could see a faint pink line travelling down toward my hand. That scared me.

The next morning, I called the chemo clinic and said, “I want someone to take a look at this. When can I come in?” They said I could come right then.  

After seeing several nurses and my oncologist, I was scheduled for an ultrasound on my arm that very day. (This was another startling reminder of God’s gracious control ~ but that’s an even more complex story.)

The ultrasound revealed, much to everyone’s surprise, that I did indeed have a blood clot ~ a long one, extending from mid-forearm past the bend in my elbow. “That means you’ll have to be on blood thinners until the end of chemo,” my oncologist said. And the nurse asked, “How do you feel about needles?” What she meant was, “You’ll have to give yourself a shot in the stomach every day. Can you handle that?”

Well, I wasn’t crazy about it. But one thing I’ve learned is this: you do what you have to do. After a couple of training sessions, I was able to do it on my own. I figured, there are other people who do this all the time. It just became part of my day (the yuckiest five minutes of my day, admittedly, but part of my routine nonetheless).

I survived giving myself nearly 100 injections. Coming to the end of them was almost as exciting as the end of chemo itself! And my oncologist was convinced that the clot was gone.

But throughout my radiation treatments this fall I found that my arms would fall asleep when I was holding a book or tablet while lying in bed. Then, in November, my hand fell asleep while I was knitting. This got worse as Christmas approached. 

Once the holiday rush was past and we were settling in at home, I called my doctor’s office for advice. I was beginning to think I was dealing with carpal tunnel syndrome, but I couldn’t shake the fear that that nasty old blood clot was still hanging around and cutting off circulation. 

So last week I saw both the nurse practitioner and my family doctor, and had another ultrasound on my arm. Praise the Lord, the ultrasound revealed no trace of the blood clot! This brought me peace of mind. But now my doctor was leaning toward the idea of carpal tunnel syndrome, and her first recommendation was for me to stop knitting. 

My heart sank. For two years now I’ve been working on making afghans for my kids; I’m almost finished with the third, and have just one more to go. I queried, “How long?” and told her about my projects. Then, unable to hold back the tears, I said, “I know it sounds silly, but from an emotional standpoint, it’s really important for me to finish them.”

With kindness, she assured me that she thought it was a beautiful thing ~ not silly ~ but we just need to see if we can get my arm healed.

So on the way home, I had another wrestling match with God. Am I back to “my hopes, my dreams, my plans”? If He wants me to take longer on this project, am I okay with that? What if He wants me to give it up altogether? Can I trust that He has it all under control ~ that He may even have a bigger plan in mind? Yes. Okay, Lord. I surrender.

I’m waiting now for the hospital to call and set up an EMG test to confirm the diagnosis (and severity) of carpal tunnel syndrome. I’ve tried wearing a wrist splint and giving myself bio-feedback, and I’ll meet with my doctor again on Monday

This is going to be a never-ending journey, I can see. Just when I think I have one lesson learned, I find out that I need to learn it all over again in a different context. But the joy is that God keeps working on me!

[If anyone has experience with carpal tunnel syndrome, I’d love to read your story or suggestions below.]

Another Year

Christmas is over. Another year has come and gone. This season is such a startling reminder of the passage of time. It always has been for me, but this year I seemed to notice it even more. I often caught myself thinking, Last year at this time . . . Next year at this time . . . ?

Our tree this year seemed the most beautiful one yet. We cut it ourselves, as usual, and found one that reached to the ceiling. We finished decorating it after dark; the tiny white lights were dazzling. “The tree seems more sparkly this year,” I commented as I gave it a drink of water before bed. Then, jokingly, “Maybe that’s because I’m more sparkly.” Pause. “I mean, maybe I’m more aware.”

“I think we all are,” Greg replied.

Startled, I asked what he meant. “I think we’ve all realized that we need to cherish the moments,” he said. He mentioned the way that our kids had all embraced the decorating this year ~ more than normal. Come to think of it, I had noticed it, too. 

For me, the awareness began last year. After my mammogram, I was called back for a follow-up sonogram as the technician had warned. Greg offered to go with me that night, December 20, but I assured him I’d be fine. “It’s just a sonogram,” I said. “I’ve been through this before.” 

But as the technician began the test, I knew instantly that she had seen something. She was very quiet throughout most of the procedure; when she did ask me questions, they seemed to be either leading or deceptively unrelated. There was much clicking and measuring on her part, even up into the lymph nodes under my arm. I couldn’t see the sonogram screen, and I grew more and more unnerved. After what seemed like an eternity, she told me she was going to go ask the radiologist if he wanted to come in and take a look.

She left me lying on the table in the dim cubicle, separated by a dingy curtain from the other exam areas. I could overhear other conversations, and I began to shake. Trembling uncontrollably, I tried to read the magazine I’d brought along. I could barely hold my hands (or my mind) still enough to focus on the words. 

My cell phone began to ring. Dare I get up to answer it? No. The ringing stopped. Then a few minutes later, it began again. It must be my family trying to reach me.  After the ringing had stopped a second time, I scooted to get my phone from my purse and dialed home. The answering machine picked up. I tried to keep my voice light as I left a message that I wasn’t quite finished, that it would still be a while before they could come and get me.

I don’t know how much time passed ~ 10 minutes? 15? ~ before the technician came back and said that everything was all set and I was free to go. I fumbled a question or two to try to gain control:  “Who would be calling me with the results?” How difficult to walk out without any answers, to sit trying to knit while I waited for my ride, to get into the car with my husband and pre-teen daughter and try to calmly voice my concerns over the procedure I had just been through. “I’m sure everything will be fine,” my daughter comforted me. I desperately wanted to believe her words!

Our son returned from college that night ~ our first time to welcome a child back home for Christmas break. It was wonderful ~ and awful.  How cold I felt, how detached from my family as I pondered the big “what if . . . ?”

The next day I tried to carry on with Christmas preparations as usual . . . baking . . . wrapping gifts . . . all the while waiting for my doctor to call. She didn’t ~ not that day nor the next ~ and I was plunged into the reality of dealing with illness during the holidays. What do people do when faced with tragedy in the days just before Christmas, especially when a weekend shortens office hours? Do the hospitals carry on as usual? I had never pondered this before, but suddenly I knew ~ death and disease do not take a break just because our calendars register a holiday.

The worst part of waiting was that now I could feel a lump. I hadn’t been able to before ~ not even right after my mammogram. But now there was clearly something there.  My fear burrowed deeper and threatened to paralyze me.

Then Sunday came. Friends gathered for house-church, and my teenage daughter and a friend sang “One Small Child” by David Meece. It was a spontaneous move ~ we’d barely even practiced ~ but I love that song, and I reveled in the fact that we were doing it this year, not waiting for next.

We went out for Chinese after church. While we were finishing our lunch together, my husband’s cell phone rang. He answered it, then in surprise handed it to me.  It was my doctor. 

Heart pounding, I took the call outside. My doctor explained that what they had found was a complex cyst. It looked like there was some blood inside; had I injured myself recently?  Not that I could remember, though I racked my brain. My family was watching me through the restaurant window. I didn’t realize the suspense they were in ‘til they came through the door, takeout containers in hand, looking to me for answers.

On the way home, I explained with relief that it was just a complex cyst. My doctor said we’d wait six weeks and do another sonogram to see if anything had changed. I went home and surfed the web for more info, then called my parents and my sister with the results.  My sister’s question caught me off guard:  “How do you feel?”  I . . . wasn’t sure. 

The next day was Christmas Eve . . . then Christmas. I moved in a daze, and yet with heightened senses. I felt like I was standing outside myself, watching events take place.  Did I feel relieved? Nervous? New traditions seemed to materialize on their own ~ my husband and daughter watching a Christmas movie together before the other kids woke up . . . Christmas crackers (which my Canadian and British friends will understand) on the breakfast plates. I adored the coordinated color scheme of the table that just came together with paper plates and napkins.  I began to be thankful for every little thing.

I guess that’s it ~ seeing God’s handiwork in everything.  There’s beauty right here, right now.  And even though my cyst turned out to be not just a cyst, I have no doubt that God is continuing to work in His own special way. And I’m still here to see it! I will always be thankful for that gift.