Tag: cancer

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The Waiting.

I thought I would wait to update until my doctor called to
tell me what’s up with this biopsy.  But
I realized that this time, this waiting, is worth sharing about.  I get about 20 texts or Facebook messages a
day asking if I’ve heard anything, which tells me that people are just as
anxious to hear about this as I am.  We’re
all biting our nails and pacing.  Of
course I’m the only one with the phone practically sewn into my palm (those of
you with ongoing health issues know that missing a call from your doc and the
subsequent phone tag is a special flavor of suffering that can invoke everything
from a gnawing uneasiness that gets worse each second to sheer DEFCON 1 level
panic.)  We’re all wanting to know.  We all desperately long for that miraculous
good news, of course.  And we understand
how much more likely bad news is (or even some weird, inconclusive
report.)  We understand that this phone
call will point us in a particular direction. 
One very different from the other. If the news is to be bad, we ought to probably just get on with it, right? 


This is a lonely place. 
Even as much as people reach out and make great effort to be with me in the ways they can, and I understand we are in this
together, it’s often a solitary experience.  There
are so many moments I’m alone, or even when among others, I’m alone in my
thoughts.  And I turn many things over in
my brain.  But mostly I pray.  I commune with God.  I respond to the tugs toward the kind of relating
we are created for.  Our thankfulness and
God’s reassurance.  Over and over. 


My friend likes to talk about spiritual things like the
existence of God and such with the question: 
what is this….like what is ALL of this? 
Who are we and what is our purpose? 
How does it work?  Because – that’s
what it’s really all about, right?  What
IS this?  And who ARE we?  Who made us? 
And why?  And what happens
next?  We should really concern ourselves
with these questions – and circumstances such as these (waiting for the doc to
call about the maybe cancer) brings all of these rushing to the forefront.  If you don’t know – well, I don’t quite know
how I would approach all of this.  Whatever gets you through.  But
even when you feel you know, you have to really really really remind
yourself.  A coworker recently called the
Devil “the stranger who distracts you with lies”  – now I don’t spend a lot of time studying
the character of Satan in The Bible.  I
think because a lot of Christians talk about him in this super scary, unhelpful
way, and blame him for a lot of things that are really about choices of
humans.  Satan, in these days and times
is often just an excuse.  But really…if
he is the Father of Lies, and if he seeks to steal, kill and destroy, it makes
sense to me that he would whisper lies to me, to try to take me off track.  The thoughts that enter my head are dark and
full of fear.  They are sad.  They are hopeless.  They invoke anger and ultimately a deep sense
of mistrust toward God.  “He’s betrayed you” says the liar.  Sounds like
something Satan would do.  Or maybe it’s
my own laziness.  It’s hard work to fix
my eyes on Jesus.  When I’m doing it –
praying without ceasing, writing out prayers of thanksgiving, giving my heart
over to God, reading sound biblical interpretation, spending time in prayerful
meditation, talking with people who comfort and encourage – I’m in the
zone.  The waiting doesn’t bother
me. 

 

This is in God’s hands. 
It’s in His time.  All things,
even the waiting, are for my good.  This
has given me a unique time with Him – a time to seek Him in a particular
way.  It seems you  can’t have this kind of palatable closeness
with God unless you are running to Him, full speed, desperate, totally vulnerable.  Chased by terrifying beasts.  But up ahead is the castle, and the King stands at the ready.  The gates are open just for you, and His
sword slays all that dare to harm you. 

He sees fit for me to wait.  So I wait and when the waiting is hard, because the fear builds up, I run to Him.     
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Post biopsy: shredded liver, heavy heart

My organs have been through the ringer! (Or is it the “wringer?”)

Yesterday’s biopsy was really difficult.  First, they wish they could put you under because the process is so invasive. But they can’t because they need you to hold your breath, which you cannot do if you are under anesthesia. So they poke you a bunch of times with a small needle to numb you up at the surface.  Which is nice of them.  But kind of just a formality. Because then they get out an enormous needle.  Over 12 inches long.  
My liver lesions (which sounds like a bad college band) are located in a remote area of the liver closest to my diaphragm. The first surgeon was actually not very experienced, and she was not having any luck getting anywhere near the area from which they needed to take a sample. While I was glad they brought in the seasoned surgeon whom they all referred to as “the expert”, I begin to feel discouraged, worried and afraid. Discouraged, that they might not be able to get what they needed, worried about what the alternative step might be, and afraid about how many times they might try before they decided to quit!  

Each attempt to access the liver involved this long needle. They would pierce through the skin, and slowly pop it through a space in my ribs, the lidocaine did not penetrate that deeply, so I could feel them slowly poking around.  I had to hold my breath for about 30 seconds at a time. 

It’s interesting how God has long-term plans. Who would have thought my mermaid like characteristics, developed 30 years ago, joyfully retrieving objects from the bottom of the deepest swimming pools, would come in handy at the age of 37 on an operating table?  The doctors and nurses in the room each commented on my breath holding skills in amazement. As one nurse said, “it’s one thing to hold your breath that long but another to do so while we’re putting the longest needle we have into your abdomen.” A sample was finally taken by the spring-loaded mechanism inside the needle, which makes a disturbing popping/cutting/snipping sound and corresponding sensation that could make you pass out if you dwell on it. And the doctor immediately said “dammit.”  Not the word you want to hear. The sample he got (a small worm-like piece of pink liver) was close to but not part of the lesion. He said defeatedly “I’m so sorry.  But that didn’t help us at all.”  But we were both determined.  He ended up jerry rigging the needle, removing the guide on its handle to give him three more centimeters to get further in.  He told me that at this point, we were facing significant risk of internal bleeding by going so deep, and risking piercing the diaphragm.  I asked him “if you mess up, and I start bleeding or something wrong gets poked, can you fix me?” He smiled and emphatically said “yes.”  And then he told me I would need to hold my breath and lay perfectly still for as long as he needed. I smiled, because I was built for this. I’m a swimmer. I’m an athlete.  I might not be the fastest anything, but these lungs are bad ass.

It was scary, and it hurt. It was hard to hold my breath and not react to the pressure, pushing, digging.  There is nothing like laying on a gurney, hearing uncertainty in the voices that are supposed to have everything under control.  It is truly the loneliest place I know. And I have been there a few times. These are my moments of “are you there God? It’s me, Jessi.” 

Those are the moments of discouragement. The moments of an uncertain or poor outlook. You’re walking the tight rope, and even though it’s dangerous and crazy: the whole thing is absurd!  But you’ve mastered this craziness…walking where few tread, and  you feel confident with each step, moving forward, each step sure, until a strong wind comes.  And as you start to wobble and then lean too far and struggle to bring it back to balance, you completely lose your focus.  You can barely remember five seconds ago when you felt certain.

Sometimes the wobbling lasts a moment. Sometimes it’s a whole day.  But, in my experience, it always stops. I’ve never fallen. And I know that the hundreds and hundreds of prayers of people who love me, and people who love people who love me has made all the difference. I don’t claim to know exactly how prayer works, but I can tell you that when people started praying for me in large numbers things changed. Last weekend, I was wobbling big time. And then I stopped. And I grew stronger, and I had the good sense to read what the Bible has to say about who I am and who God is. And I got stronger.  So I listened to some sermons (Tim Keller!) and read some books (Anne Lamott!  Max Lucado! Sarah Young!  And…Tim Keller!) and listened to some wise people (My dear friends who encourage me greatly) and I stopped wobbling.  

So yesterday, when I was wobbling a lot, I was able to believe that the wobbling would stop. I couldn’t stop it myself last night, because I was in pain and weak.  I got scared and cried.  But I knew that people were praying. And that it would get better. And it did. Last night was very difficult, because the pain was more than I expected. I felt discouraged and vulnerable. But I knew it would get better. The pain would subside, my perspective would improve. And it did! This morning, the pain is manageable. My outlook is sunnier. And I believe that people’s prayers played a significant role in that. 

When you see someone wobbling, pray for them.  Pray for people you love. Pray for people’s pain. Pray more than you think you should. I am understanding the power of it more than ever, and I am driven to pray more than I ever have been.  

We will have the results of this biopsy in a week or so. All signs point to cancer. Perhaps God will change the course. Please pray for that. But even if He does not, I will follow Him with joy. And pray without ceasing.  I hope you will, too. And please share this if you know someone who might be helped by this post.  

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Biopsy: punching a hole in the ribs to grab a chunk of liver

Big day Thursday.  They will insert a very large needle into my abdomen, through my ribs, into my liver, to find out if these pesky spots they found on my most recent CT scan are cancer. Man, I hope they’re not.

Getting this news was pretty devastating. But I must tell you…I trust God.  I really do. I am aware now more than ever of his amazing love for me. His faithfulness. His goodness.
I know, it’s very easy to question God’s sovereignty and goodness and love when we get bad or potentially bad news. I totally get that. But here’s the thing. If you expect God to make sense, you’re nuts.
If you’re married, think about your spouse.  Do they always make sense to you? You always know what they are thinking? Do you always agree with everything they do??  Hahaha.  Now, I don’t know if your spouse is smarter than you, and we will bypass the debate on who is smarter in my marriage 🙂 but I know that God is smarter than me. He is glorious. The nature of his glory is such that we cannot understand Him or His ways.  If you can’t even understand another human in their entirety, how could you possibly expect to understand God, and be in a place to judge whether he is good or right?  I’m not into that. I’m into trusting Him.
Here are a couple of things I know:
God has been faithful in my own life. I have had several experiences that nearly brought me to death’s door. When I was nine, my house exploded about four minutes after walking outside. When I was 18, I stupidly went surfing during the very beginning of a hurricane, got sucked under in churning waves and just when I thought I was a goner, was basically spit out by the ocean.  When I was in college my house caught on fire with my roommate and I sleeping inside it. We awoke only because of an alarm we didn’t recall setting. When I had Cassidy, I suddenly hemorrhaged so bad I almost died.  Then there was the last bout of cancer.  God has had my six every time. Sure, this time could be different, but why assume that?
I experience tremendous growth through times of trial and suffering. I have learned that you really are not much use to other struggling people if you haven’t really struggled.  But people who have suffered? Especially people who have chosen to trust God during their suffering? They know things. They are wise.  They have perspective and patience.  They are Yoda. They are Wonder Woman.
I experience outrageous amounts of love during times like this. Already people are stepping up and reaching out. Everyone likes attention. We really need it when we are going through something hard.  It doesn’t fix it but it helps so much.  Team Jessi is the best!
I’m praying to be healed. In the past I have been hesitant to pray this boldly for healing. I think it is because I have been worried that God might not answer in the way I expect, and I might feel disappointed. I don’t do so well with disappointment.  I feel differently this time. I feel confident both in approaching the throne of God boldly, and knowing that I will trust him, be thankful, and follow him even if my prayers are not answered in the manner and timing I prefer.  I can ask plainly and rest in believing He will care for me perfectly, no matter what.  
We assume we know what is good news and what is bad news. Tim Keller calls this something funny like presumed omniscience.  Basically, it is outrageously arrogant to assume that we know if A happens it will mean B. So we freak the eff out.  But.  We don’t know! It might be Q or X.  Or 7. Or nothing.  Sure, I’d love a negative biopsy and no more chemo.  But God knows what is best.  Because He knows it all.  
Look at the cross.  Imagine what they saw that day, and how they despaired as Jesus died. 
Game over. 
But really, it was the beginning of the greatest thing that ever happened. Ever.
Right now, I can tell you in all honesty that I have peace about this. I am finding that it is possible to rise above the circumstances and operate out of a different perspective.  I really want to not have cancer. But I will go where God leads.  I will go with joy in my heart.  And I welcome you on this journey.  Let’s look forward with faith, curiosity, trust and hope.  Let’s see what God does.  

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Why I "tri."

When I finished chemo in 2014 for stage 3b colon cancer that I had been diagnosed with 5 months before, I did a lot of thinking.  I’m not unique in this.  I think a lot of people get cancer or have a brush with death of some kind, and they decide they need to turn over a new leaf, change how they live, stop doing something, start doing something, repair a broken relationship or begin living more gratefully.  You know, don’t sweat the small stuff kind of thinking.  My own version of newness was this:  
 
My cancer has a high rate of recurrence.  I know, we all want to believe that it’s gone forever, I “beat” it and it won’t ever come back.  But I hear every day or so about someone who got cancer once, had a time of remission, and then their cancer came back and killed them.  I know, it’s morbid and negative and upsetting to think that way – try living it.  But rather than dwell in the fear of recurrence and death, I’ve decided to let that possibility impact my life in a positive way.  And I have a specific goal.  Since I live with the possibility that cancer could come back and kill me, I think about what is most upsetting about that – what is the most unfair, heart wrenching part about that?  There are many things, but the biggest is this:  My daughter is only 5.  I know she’ll be ok.  She has people that love and will take care of her.  She’s smart and resilient.  But will she remember me?  I don’t remember much about being 5.  So I think, what is most important for me to leave for her?  That I love her, of course.  But that’s well established.  What I really want is for her to have strong memories of us being together and having fun as a family, but also for her to have memories and evidence of her mother doing difficult, challenging things.  I want her to be deeply aware that she comes from a woman who didn’t back down from challenges, that didn’t let fear and doubt stop her.  Now, look.  I realize that this is a little Lifetime Movie-esque.  I’m not trying to be overly dramatic.  There is a perfectly good chance I will be alive 40 years from now.  But when you can name the thing that is most likely to kill you, you have the right to move about defensively – both in fighting it (nutrition, regular check-ups, exercise) and making some decisions about how your legacy might look, whenever that time comes.   
 
If I die early from cancer  it can’t be helped that she will have memories of a sick woman struggling for breath.  Memories of watching me get sick and frail will flood her brain for a while – hell, that will probably happen if I make it to 90.  That cannot be avoided.  But what I can do is show her how to fight now.  Show her how to overcome challenges.  Show her how you make sacrifices, tape up that ankle and get on with the damned training run.  Show her how organized and dedicated and disciplined you have to be to accomplish something big.  How you have to have your swimsuit, your goggles, your hair band, your special socks, your phone armband, your sports bra, your bike helmet, your biking gloves, your cold weather stuff, your warm weather stuff.  Show her how you have to eat the right things for fuel, how you will get really sick if you don’t hydrate. 
 
I can show her how you wear a wet suit in public even though you look like an oompah loompah.  I can show her how you swim in deep, open, choppy water, fighting waves, arms, legs, wind and the alarming tightness of the wet suit.  I can show her how you pass the jerk in front of you who kicked you in the head.  I can show her how to strip off that nasty, confining wet suit and throw on a t-shirt and get on that bike and ride, and to just keep pedaling, and when the hill becomes too much, how you get off and walk, pushing that heavy less-than-optimal bike, putting one foot in front of the other.  Literally saying to yourself “I think I can.  Just keep going.  I think I can.  I know I can.”  I can show her how walking your bike isn’t quitting, it’s using all of the tools in your tool box.  It’s ditching pride for functionally, dragging yourself and that heavy, heavy bike up that hill so you can mount up and sail down the other side.  I can show her how you don’t touch those brakes on that downhill because even though 38 MPH on a winding, gravelly, country road that is not closed to traffic is terrifying, and how you just have to believe that a deer won’t jump out and kill you, or a rabbit for that matter – because you need every bit of momentum.  You can’t afford to let fear make you hit those brakes.  You have to choose to be brave.  And, if you can shake the fear, it kind of makes you believe you can fly.  I can show her that when your chain pops off, you don’t cry; you just jump off and fix it.  I can show her that when you start that run, your legs feel like dead tree trunks.  So you walk slow to get them going.  Then faster.  And even though it seems impossible, like REALLY impossible…and, ooh, there is a lady holding an iced tea….you want that iced tea.  You want to stop and sit down and drink that frosty iced tea and say “eff this race.”  And you feel sad because lots of people are done.  Like, they not only passed you on the bike, they have also finished their run.  They are, like way, way faster than you.  And they are eating pizza and drinking iced tea.  And you are just starting your run.  But there is she.  That little sprite of a girl, with her light brown hair messy and her knees dirty.  Cheering you on.  “Go mommy.”  And you cry.  Because you know you already did it.  You haven’t finished this race yet – you WILL, dammit.  But you have shown her.  She knows.  She knows what this takes for you.  She cheers because she knows this is hard.  She’s seen you struggle on the bike.  She’s seen you chug along slowly, running, just barely.  Head down, get it done.  She knows.  Her 5 year old heart is proud.  And you know, that even right now if you get hit by a falling tree, you’ve done it.   She will remember you strong and whole and healthy and badass.  And so you begin to run.  And you just make it happen, even though the tank is empty.  There is nothing left but sheer will.  You run and you finish.         
 
It meant EVERYTHING to me that my daughter was there to see this.  For a while, it seemed like that wasn’t going to work out. It was a busy weekend and it really wasn’t anyone’s fault, but I was devastated.   I had a time of panic and frustration and even deep heartache.  This was so important to me.  And I tried reaching out for help, which I really hate doing, but it was this important.  Is there anything worse than asking for help and being rejected?  Ugh!  What a horrible feeling.  This is why people don’t ask for help, because no matter what the reason, how not personal it is…when the stakes in my crazy head are this high…it feels like a rejection of me.  And I couldn’t expect anyone to understand why.  But then someone did.  My wonder friend Mitzi just reached out and fixed it.  She said “Cass will sleep here and we will bring her to come and see you.”  Not only that, but she took these amazing pictures that I will always for the rest of my life be grateful for.  Whether I die when I’m 40 or 70 or 90, please remember me like this.  Because this is who I am.  

A lot of people got me here – an online triathlon group I’m part of, friends and family, especially my husband for helping me train and others, like my mom for watching Cass when I trained as well as the race organizers and volunteers who cheered me on.  It means the world to me.  

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

 

  

 
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RIP, Mort the Port

I spent the past 17 months with a compass sized contraption in my chest.  It looks like this:

That long tail thing that goes into the jugular vein freaked me out a little.  It hurt a lot when it was installed and it took some time to get used to the idea.  But I understood that it would be my chemo delivery system and I should make peace with him.  So I named him Mort the Port and considered him an ally.
I recently got the news that my oncologist doesn’t think I’ll need him anymore.  This is huge.  The idea that your conservative, careful cancer doctor doesn’t think you will need any more chemo for the foreseeable future is a big deal.  A break in the clouds.  A bright sunbeam of happiness!  
So two days ago, I went to the hospital.  And I looked like this:
And then they put me out with some heavy drugs and scraped out Mort.  So I liked like this:
Cute, huh??  So Kevin took me home and let me rest with a cat on me, like this:
I got a little more energy from snuggling with this little bug:
I got brave and took off the bandages yesterday.  Eeeek:
It’s so swollen, it looks and feels like Mort is still in there.  But I know he’s not.  It’s a new era in my journey.  So many prayers have been answered.  Since we got that awful news, literally from that moment, everything, while difficult and painful at times, has gone with perfect precision.  This blessing does not escape me.  I am so grateful.  
I met a Brazillian faith healer by a river in Oregon, who talked to me half in Portugese and half in English. (Yes, I know this sounds made up.  It’s not.)  So I missed a lot of what she said. And she said a lot of strange things to me (including the f-word every sentence or two and that dogs cure cancer) but she grabbed my hands and urged me to trust in my having been healed by God and to be fearless.  Interestingly, the same day, I went to this bakery and had a cookie so delicious I’ll never forget it.  
Live fearlessly, my friends.  

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Hope realized.

Last week I had a doctor’s appointment where my doctor analyzed the results of my latest CT scan and blood work.  He deemed my results “excellent.” Relief and gratitude washed over me.  As you can imagine, waiting for those results is maddening.  It’s like balancing on a fence for a week, being told you may not hop down.  One one side of you is a fluffy mattress, puppies, a massage therapist, a nice Malbec, endless episodes of Parks & Rec and like, George Clooney or Ryan Gosling, I mean, my wonderful, handsome husband whom I love very much.  On the other side of the fence is fire, spiky things, expense reports, your 7th grade math teacher, Mrs. McKinney, who was void of soul and mean as the day is long, humidity, spiders, pop-country music, scratchy wool sweaters, pantyhose, mayonnaise just lying around in glistening, awful mounds and a cloud of farts.  Broccoli farts.  

While on the fence, so to speak, for one week, I was basically a crazy person.  My head was cluttered with all kinds of worries.  Each day, I would have to bring myself back to sanity. I busied myself with work stuff, prayed and played a lot of Trivia Crack.

When the time came, I got tipped over into the wriggling sea of puppy kisses.  I feel like I’m sane again.  I feel like I have been given, for now, a wonderful gift.  I know it isn’t a gift everyone gets.  I know some well loved friends that are still on their journey of actively battling cancer. I know some dear people who have gone to be with The Lord after fighting a long time.  I worry that my victory, my blessing, my gift is painful to those who are missing someone whose story ended with this battle.  I am careful to recognize the need for utmost humility as I celebrate this battle won.  
Additionally, cancer never goes away entirely.  Even if it truly dies within you, you fear it’s return and who it will attack next.  
Trusting God, as always, is paramount.  I have shifted from praying for healing and am focusing on praying for wisdom.  Like serious, deep wisdom.  I can’t think of anything more important to ask for.  The wiser someone is, the more they seem to trust God.  Having that trust and understanding is more important than what the circumstances are.  You can have health, admiration, financial stability, even love.  But those things, valuable as they are, do much less to help you feel strong when you are weak.  To have peace when you are afraid.  
So Mort the Port comes out next month! This is A Big Deal to me. For one, this foreign object has been in my chest for a year and a half. It has helped to save my life. I have become accustomed to it. It makes blood draws a snap! Letting them take him out means that I submit myself to that whole vein hunting, pricking nonsense.  You get spoiled with a port.  But it’s exciting to close that chapter.  I may even have a little Bon Voyage party for Mort.  He’s been a good ally.  
I’m off to California in a few weeks and Oregon after that.  (Work trips.)  Then my surgery to say au revoir to Mort.  I’m happy.  I’m grateful.  I’m excited for the present.  
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A year ago, tonight…

I was thinking about going to bed early because I had to get up so early to get to the hospital to have major surgery to have my tumor and about a foot of my large intestine removed.  I didn’t know at all that it was cancer, not to mention an aggressive, advanced stage cancer, but I was worried it might be something at least a little bit bad.

I was actually more worried about the surgery.  Funny how, now, that surgery seems like a walk in the park compared to the bomb-drop of my diagnosis and five months of chemo.

That surgery started this journey.  This tough, scary, exhausting journey that has taken so much time, energy, money, emotion, comfort and the general sense that all is well.  And, that surgery is part of what’s kept me alive this past year.  So I think of it with mixed feelings.
Anniversaries can be tough.  Tonight, I’m a little unsettled.  Some days I almost forget I had cancer and other days, it seems to be lurking nearby, waiting for my guard to be down so it can pounce.
But I’m also grateful.  Awed by the kindness of my family and friends.  Humbled by God’s grace.  Thankful for the gift of the past 12 months.  Glad to have been blessed with a tenacity and grit you can’t get along an easy, uneventful life path.  I’m a little aggressive sometimes.  Sorry.  I learned to fight with all I’ve got and fight to win.
It’s ten days away from the anniversary of my diagnosis.  Interestingly, in between today and ten days from now marks another anniversary.  18 years ago, in a dorm room at Ohio University, I made a conscious decision to follow Jesus.  Exactly half my life.  I’m so, so thankful for the people who had a part in that.  It’s fun to think of you as your younger selves.  I long for the innocence of those days!  When the days stretched out so far, and there was enough time to do almost anything.  And we loved each other and were in such fresh awe of God’s love for us.
I’ve needed every minute of those years of growing faith, built slowly, brick by brick, each one added by moments of love, grace, forgiveness, lessons learned, reconciliation, prayer, worship and serving together to get through the past year.  What a journey.
So thankful to have been anchored firmly in faith of God’s power and goodness.  It overcomes so much.  Thankful that light chases away darkness.

 

 

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Next stop: Duke University

My next step on the journey to fully defeat cancer starts on September 8th.  I will be traveling to Duke University in the Raleigh-Durham area of North Carolina to participate in a clinical trial for a vaccine that is intended to bolster my immune system in order to prevent the recurrence of colon cancer.

 

 

 
That’s what it looks like at the cellular level, apparently.  A preschool art project.  
 
Yes, as far as we know, right now I’m cancer free. But there is a high likelihood that my cancer will come back. And while it’s entirely possible that it won’t, I am not comfortable just sitting around and waiting for that to happen.  So, I’ve decided to be a guinea pig.
 
It was not an easy decision. Of course all kinds of weird books and movies go through my mind. I’m getting injected with a virus! I could actually start the zombie apocalypse, People!  
 
But after a lot of thought, research, prayer and conversations with people I respect, I’ve decided to go for it. I am not excited about getting on an airplane four times in the next few weeks. I hate flying,  I hate traveling unless it’s for fun.  I’m sick of my life being disrupted. I’m not a fan of getting poked and prodded. I don’t really want more doctors in my life. Doctors are mean sometimes! I’m a little bit scared that something weird might happen to me.  I don’t want the inconvenience for myself or my very accommodating family.  I don’t want the side effects.  (Nothing too crazy, just nausea, fever, fatigue, etc.)  I don’t want to keep feeling like I’m under a microscope. I don’t want to have to think about cancer all the time. I don’t want to schedule my life and other people’s lives around another cancer thing.  We’ve been through so many tests and procedures.  Surgery.  Chemo. Side effects. I just want NORMAL for a while.  
 
But I want to live. And this is something I can do to increase my chances.
 
There’s so much I want to do, so much to live for, so much to see, so much to learn.  I’m busy!  I have plans!  I still haven’t met Bono!  Cancer, like those horrible terrorists in Iraq, has this tendency to go away for a while and then sneak up on you. I’m not letting that happen, to the extent it’s possible.  This vaccine might be the Seal Team Six to add to my already active forces.  
 
Besides, we might be making history. I might be a part of groundbreaking research. We might be curing cancer.  This is a way I can help.  
 
So, after reviewing my oncology records, they approved me to do the on site final screening.  I will go down for the initial visit (sadly, spending my 8th anniversary away from my husband) and hopefully get my first injection the next day. I will be traveling there every three weeks, three more times, to complete the cycle.
 
The officiant of our wedding, John, who is in ministry in the area, along with his wife, has agreed to house and shuttle me around for the first visit.  What a blessing!  It reminds me of the realness of the body of Christ. This is a man who I knew only through friends and a few good phone conversations back when I lived in Seattle.  In 2006, he agreed to do our premarital counseling, and travel from North Carolina to Pittsburgh to marry Kevin and me.  We have only seen him twice since then. And now eight years later, he was quick to offer help with all of this.  Two close friends of mine (one who is in the middle of moving!) were so quick to offer rides to the airport and any help that I would need. My husband is a little nervous about this whole deal, but he kindly booked my flights for me because I’m notorious for screwing that process up.
 
I said recently that we need fewer activist Christians walking around judging people’s behavior, and more silent servants of Jesus. This is what I’m talking about. Service.  Once again, cancer, enemy that it is, shows me love and care and glory.  Once again, I’m humbled.  
 
Pray for me and this strange chapter of the battle.  
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Suicide

So the actor, Robin Williams, age 63, died this week, apparently from hanging himself with a belt in his home after his wife went to bed.  His assistant found him in the morning.  This news made me feel truly sad.  Most celebrity deaths do not invoke a sense of personal loss for me.  However, this guy was special.

 

Mork appears in some of my earliest memories and Patch Adams made me want to be a doctor and the movie Dead Poet Society made me want to be a teacher.  There seemed to be real kindness behind the smile.  There seemed to be a good natured generosity inside.  What do I know about his character?  Maybe he was rude or impatient.  Regardless, what’s clear is that this was a gifted man who lived an interesting life, could afford all he wanted, experienced success at many levels and made a significant impact on the world.

And, yet, one evening a few days ago, apparently, he couldn’t stand to live another moment.

The idea of wanting to die is so foreign to me.  I fought for my life for the past year.  I have to do a little grace-work to not be offended at the idea of someone throwing away something I worked and prayed hard to keep and am thankful beyond words for.  I’m scared I might have to die early because of stupid cancer.  My knuckles are white from my desperate clinging to the caboose of the train of life and here we have people casually hopping off the luxury car!
I simply can’t imagine.  Even at my unhappiest (you know, like age 15) I was always too curious and hopeful about what’s around the corner to ever consider ending it.  ***I certainly do not say this to brag – on the contrary.*** I feel quite fortunate to not have traveled to these emotional depths.  I tend to fluctuate between intensely joyful, deeply thankful, moderately angry and a bit bored but pretty much never do I find myself in the realm of despair.  The closest I’ve felt to that is feeling scared and sad at the idea of dying.
I don’t know why some of us enjoy the benefit of nicely balanced brain function and chemistry and some of us have depression triggered by any number of issues commonly referred to as a chemical imbalance but specifically: genetic vulnerabilities, a faulty mood regulation issue in the central nervous system, high stress environment or ineffective stress management, medical problems or medication side effects.  Put another way, mysteriously, some of us float around in the easier emotions and others of us are plagued by chronic melancholy.
I don’t know a lot.  I’m not a doctor or therapist.  However I know some things about this shitty little demon because some of my favorite people struggle with it mightily.  Depression is bad.  Dark.  Painful.  Even evil, maybe.  While I believe there are medical causes and solutions related to depression, I also sense that there is a spiritual side to it.  It distorts one’s good mind and mushes into patterns of unhealthy, unhelpful thinking. Depression strangles joy.  It snuffs out hope.  It creates an alternate reality of lies.  It makes the world seem absent of good things.  It makes the worst case scenario seem most likely.  It can make the simplest task seem like climbing Everest.  By yourself.  At night.  With a broken foot.  In a bikini.
I don’t know what this really feels like.  But I know what it looks like.  And it breaks my heart.
It also breaks my heart to hear what people say about depression.  Just get over it.  Buck up.  Look on the bright side.  Trust God (good advice, surely, but insensitive and simplistic and generally ill timed.)  Do some yoga.  Memorize this verse.  Not that some of those things aren’t potentially useful.  But just shut up.  If there was a magic bullet, it would be for sale at Target, clearly marked.  Ok?
This thing causes people to End Their Lives.  Like, kind of a lot of people.  And it sends others down the path of substance abuse, and that’s not a pretty picture either.  It’s not a simple problem.
So what can we do?  I don’t know, actually.  I mean, I can’t fix it or tell anyone how to.  There’s medicine and good counselors.  Those help some people some of the time.  There is exercise and stress management.  There is good for you food and enough sleep.  There is love and support.  I know that Jesus is big enough to handle it, but I don’t know how to say that to a hurting person without sounding annoying.  So I pray.  And I ask other people to pray.  And I don’t try to fix them. And I am thankful for the health that I have.
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Mother's Day

I love Mother’s Day.  It’s right after my birthday so basically the first half of May belongs to ME, bwahahaha!  I get to sleep in, I get a special breakfast, I get to plant my garden in peace and then!  We go to Kennywood!  I know that’s not every mom’s idea of fun.  But I’m not very mom, am I?  And even better…MY mom likes it, too!  Fun rides, yummy junk food, walking around all day making my daily pedometer goal an easy accomplishment.  Plus my kiddo is happy as a clam.  Everyone wins!  

So, I love this day.  
Bu I deliberately spend part of it in prayer for those who have a rough time on Mother’s Day.  If you’ve lost your mom or a child, or you can’t get pregnant, or you’re estranged from someone that makes this a tough day for you…I’m so sorry.  I’m sorry that Facebook is one giant faceSLAP to you, what with all of the photos and sentiments.  Especially from some people who maybe don’t seem all that grateful to have a mom, or that almighty mom-status.  I can’t imagine.  
Well, maybe I can a tiny bit.  I’ve spent a lt of time contemplating the distinct possibility that cancer would kill me.  I’ve kicked it’s ass but it might come back.  And one of the things I’ve thought about is, if cancer won, what would these days be like for my kid?  And my husband.  And my parents.  Oof.  
Would people be sensitive toward them? Would they hate this day forever?  Would someone have the good sense to remind people that not everyone is having brunch with their mom today?!  
So, the toughness of this day does not escape me.  For now and hopefully for the foreseeable future, my family has the privilege of enjoying a joyous Mother’s Day.  I don’t forget those of you who can’t get out from under the sadness of it.  I’m praying for you.  May people be kind to you, today.  And may you be aware of God’s astounding love for you.