Tag: chemo

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Suffering

I had chemo today.  So I’m suffering.  My body feels weird. Tired.  Achy.  Queasy.  Uncomfortable.  The cold bothers me in weird ways.  My hands and feet feel stung, or electrified and then go numb. My eyes sting. Sneezing is horrifically painful.  

I walked for ten minutes for the health benefits that movement can provide.  It was hard.  Icky and sweaty and not fun.  
I feel bored at the prospect of being confined to my home until the toxins dissipate or the weather warms.  I feel a little isolated at the moment.  I want soft, warm things around me.  I want to sleep for four days.  I want quiet.  But I want company.  Friends.  I want macaroni and cheese and good bread even though they aren’t really in my self-imposed whole food, semi vegan, semi paleo diet.  I wish I could drink something besides the thousand varieties of tea I have.  I miss sugar.  I miss ice cold drinks.  I feel like crying but tears physically hurt my eyes.  
So, that’s the real deal of how this point in the cycle feels.  I want to experience my suffering in a particular way.  I want it to be characterized by three things:
1. Authenticity.  I want to be honest.  I want to share the truth of my heart.  I want to live out loud and let you see.  We can benefit from each other when we are authentic about our fears, anger, frustrations, limitations, failures and need for one another.  A falsely positive person is a fraud and of use to no one.  I want to be as transparent as I can, especially about the rough stuff.  
2.  Hope.  Yes, I suffer and experience fear.  But.  I have significant hope.  Hope that I will grow old.  Hope that this will become a significant chapter in a long, dynamic, adventurous life.  Hope that others will glean important truths from my experience.  Hope, because God’s ultimately got me.  I am loved.  I matter.  I bask in the glory of hope.  No matter what, I have hope.
3. Wisdom.  I intend to become wiser…deeply wiser…through this.  I don’t want to miss a single lesson.  I’m paying attention to how I operate, how I think, how I love, and how I can grow.  I’m watching for how God moves and how He answers prayers and when He seems silent.  
So, in the name of authenticity,  I’m suffering.  And it sucks.  In the name of Hope, it will be better in 5 or 6 days, thankfully.  In the name of wisdom, I trust God with my suffering.  He is down here in the midst of it with me.  What a blessing.  

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It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Getting things done around the holidays when you’re healthy is enough of a challenge.  This is my 35th Christmas season and things are a little different.  I bring you…Christmas splendor: the chemo version.

Sleigh bells ring…are you kidding me?!  I don’t know who is making that racket but Mommy is trying to sleep because she was up three times last night maybe almost but not quite having to barf.  So. Shhhh!  Shush!  Everyone just please knock it off with the sleigh bells.
In the lane, snow is glistening…crap.  Snow means cold.  And cold means crazy neuropathy hands!  If I have to walk more then a block in the cold during the bad chemo week…it’s kind of horrible.  My hands and feet go numb and my bronchial tubes spasm.  It’s a carousel of delights, for sure.  
In the meadow we can build a snowman…are you nuts!? I can’t touch snow.  My hands will fall off. 
It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas…so far, Christmas looks like me hurrying through the mall sweating profusely because I have so many freaking layers on to protect me from the cold. Sweating, vaguely nauseous, seething with rage at the woman ahead of me with seven different Macy’s coupons. It’s real cute.
Bring us some figgy pudding…or anything about egg nog…good heavens.  Stop.  I will puke directly on you.  I’ll do it.  
Here comes Santa Claus…nope.  He’d better not be on his way yet.  You just wait right there, Sir.  I am So not ready.  It takes me twice as long to do everything!!  Sometimes my fingers are paralyzed.  So wrapping gifts is like an immunity challenge on Survivor.
I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus…damned right.  Because “Santa” is basically doing everything.  Like baking the cookies while I sit on the couch with this:
…so it’s not ALL bad.  🙂

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Chemo weekend #3

Well I figured out that last time things were so rough because I was dehydrated.  Well, duh, just drink more water, Fool.  Yes.  But.  

See, when I drink anything cooler than lukewarm, my throat feels like I’m swallowing a porcupine.  So it has to be warm.  You try and drink a bunch of warm crap all day when you already feel like puking.  One can only drink so much tea!!!  I have about 7 different kinds and I’m sick of them all.  

Don’t get me wrong.  They are lovely.  I’m just tired of them.  I want a frosty glass of ice cold seltzer water with a juicy wedge of lime!  Or maybe a margarita, honestly.  But that’s not happening this weekend, that’s for sure.  
The upside to feeling rather crappy is that I do stuff I never do.  Like sit in front of the Christmas tree and stare at it.  
I mean, look at that thing.  It’s glorious!
I’m also reading more, although I don’t always have the necessary concentration.  And I’m sleeping when I’m tired instead of the normal routine of chugging coffee and pushing through.  I reward my body with rest instead of telling it to “suck it up.”  And I take a hot bath with this yummy stuff whenever it strikes my fancy.
Oh man.  You haven’t lived until you’ve treated yourself to this stuff.  It’s like taking a nap on a giant vanilla bean.  (Don’t nap in the bath, though – obviously.)  
So, I’m covered on the bubble bath front, I’m in the market for new warm beverages, and looking forward to the energy surge that will arrive in the next couple of days.  I’m about a 4 on the 1-10 scale today but I’m confident that I’m on the way up.  
You wanna know what’s fantastic, though?  I’m done with chemo until 2014!  So I’m free to enjoy Christmas and New Years like a normal person.  I just need to kick a little ass the next two days or so and then…hand me a Santa hat* and turn up the Holiday jams!  It’s the most…wonderful time…of the year!
*not really – I look absurd in hats! 

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Round 3

As I head into round 3 of chemo, I am kind of amazed.  If you told me that one day I would have cancer, and the evening before a chemo treatment I’d be sitting calmly in front of my Christmas tree, listening to holiday tunes, savoring some homemade applesauce and feeling pretty content, I would have laughed.  I mean, this is one of your worst nightmares, right?  I have advanced stage, aggressive cancer.  It’s no joke.  

But a Scripture passage comes to mind.  The one where Paul says he has learned the secret to being content in all circumstances.  This guy was beaten within an inch of his life on multiple occasions and shipwrecked a few times.  And the one in the Old Testament where the three men are thrown into the fire by the king – they didn’t know whether God would save them or not…but they trusted Him anyway. David writes of walking through the valley of the shadow of death but not being afraid.  
What does this reveal? That spiritual maturity, or a deep connectedness with God allows us courage and contentedness in the face of unsettling, scary, upsetting circumstances.  I’ve got a long way to go.  But I’m beginning to see how it’s possible, by God’s grace.  
Please pray for me.  I need it.  And you need it (your prayers for me will bless YOU.  Connecting with God right now is the best way you can spend the next two minutes.  Promise.) But know that I am confident in God. I am floored by His grace.  By His mercy.  He certainly likes to keep things interesting.  
I’m going to do my part – let them put the poison in me and not be a baby about it. God is going to do His part – be right there with me no matter how sucky it gets.  And you can do your part – pray for me, ditch those mom jeans and maybe send over some non-Gmo vegetarian lasagna or something.  

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Want to know what chemo is like?

Not every cancer patient gets the same chemo drugs.  Some people get one drug.  Some get four.  I get two.  Here’s how it goes down.
The morning of my treatment, I get up and start my two week cycle of oral chemo.  This drug has a few side effects including nausea, weakness, fatigue, muscle aches and headaches.  I get all of them to varying degrees. But, so far, none to the point of stopping me from getting through a normal day reasonably well.  

My husband, aka, my driver, chef, and wiper of tears on bad days, takes me to the cancer treatment center.

In Pittsburgh, there is an enormous, fancy, well funded cancer treatment center called Hillman. It’s got sculptures, fountains and free lunch. The place I go? Is not that. But it’s close to my house and I like my doctor, so I’m ok with a boring, clinical setting. We arrive and wait a bit in the waiting room. I always notice the people there. I am always the youngest and seem the least sick. I’m never sure how to feel about that. I’m tempted to feel a little sorry for myself because, geez, these people typically have 30 years on me at least. But on the other hand, I’m feeling good enough to take a shower and put on lipstick and earrings and wear boots that once, an elderly but sassy patient loudly pointed out were not worn by “nice girls back in her day.” So mostly I feel thankful that, at least so far, we don’t really need to use the “cancer patient only” parking spaces.

So we get called back and they take my vitals. They then access Mort the Port. Mort is located below my collarbone on my left side. He’s about the size of a peach pit and he makes a weird little bump. 

 Via Mort, they can draw blood and give me medication. They also have to flush him with saline, which makes my mouth taste like metal for some reason. It is weird and gross. They then give me my pre-meds which include some fluids, steroids and anti-nausea medication. About then I meet with my doctor who is about my age, Indian, friendly and funny. I like him a lot. So far we’ve only gotten good news from him, such as stellar blood work and so far no evidence of cancer cropping up in other places. So my meetings with him have been pleasant and positive. He says I’m a trouper and he is impressed with my staying active, working, etc.

Then I head to the treatment area. It’s a large room with about 10 chemo stations. A lot of the people there are pretty sick. But most have a companion (spouse or friend or relative) with them and everyone seems to stay pretty positive even if they are weak and not feeling well. They hook me up to my IV chemo, a drug that causes all kinds of weird side effects. But during the infusion time, nothing major happens. My mom arrives.  My husband goes to work.  We chat, play Scrabble.

I watch hilarious videos on You Tube.  Have silly text conversations.  Answer work emails.  This all takes about 3 hours. It’s afterward that things get weird.

Different types of cancer require different types of chemo. So mine may be different than someone with, say, breast cancer. Plus even the same drug may affect two people differently. So this is just what has happened to me so far. When I leave the center, I have to keep my hands and feet warm because the cold paralyzes them and makes it feel like they are being stung by a swarm of bees. And I cannot breathe in cool/cold air. If I do, my breathing becomes like someone who has just climbed 5 flights of stairs quickly. I’m out of breath and cannot “catch” it even though I am not at all over-exerted. The cold air paralyzes and causes spasms. It’s very weird. So I wear a scarf and keep it tight over my face. Mind you, it’s only been about 45 degrees so far. So, I’m sweating because I’m wearing gloves and warm socks and a scarf. It is very hard to explain to someone that you are both overheated and fearful of letting the cold get to you. People have a hard time understanding this, but I wouldn’t understand it either.

The cold sensitivity also includes food and drink. Can’t ingest anything cooler than room temperature. If I do, it feels like I’m swallowing tiny porcupines. This is tough because dehydration is a major risk with these medications and one can only drink so much hot tea.   But I’m becoming a bit of a tea snob.

Also, anything sour, sweet or pungent (like a sharp cheese) is off limits. It feels like I just took a giant swig of pure lemon juice. So my diet for a week or so is warm and bland. Which is fine, because I am also nauseous. Not like toilet-hugging, stomach flu nauseous. Just unsettled and unpleasant. Nothing sounds good except, say, crackers, macaroni and cheese, toast. You get the idea.

A new side effect this time around is muscle aches. I also got a flu shot (my first ever) so maybe it’s from that. But this is for the birds. I keep waiting for a magical fairy massage therapist that does house calls to show up.

Another new side effect is that cool air or tears hurt my eyes. That’s just great. Because, you know, you never feel like crying when you have cancer. Honestly this one is just funny to me. Like…seriously?! My new motto is “There is no crying after chemo!” Seriously, I cried a little bit yesterday and immediately decided that there will absolutely be no more of that until this stuff wears off a bit. A friend’s daughter sent me a beautiful painting of a stained glass window from her church today. It was so sweet I got a tiny bit weepy and had to be like “Nope. No way. This is not adorable at all.”

So, it will be like this for a while. But it gets better. I still have to take the oral medication for two weeks, but my body seems to tolerate that much better than the IV chemo I get. Now, lest you think I’m just sitting here feeling bad and sorry for myself…I’d like to end with some gratitude.

I’m grateful for my husband handling everything while I am pretty much just capable of getting through the day. I’m thankful for my mom making sure I have everything I need and taking me out when I’m up for it. I’m thankful for the awesome care packages and cards and texts and shout outs on Facebook. I’m thankful that people care enough to read this blog. I’m thankful I’m not sicker. I’m thankful that God has been faithful every step of the way, giving me hope when I need it, grace when I need it and peace the entire time. I sincerely am filled with peace and even joy almost all of the time. Cancer does some terrible things. But it is making me tougher, wiser, kinder and more faithful every day. So, I’m grateful for this experience, even the messy, painful parts.  Besides…I’m a fighter, yo.

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Tough cookies

So this journey took an unexpected turn when my lovely friend, Laura, left this world unexpectedly. You can read about her HERE. She was battling cervical cancer like a real badass when suddenly the cancer just went out of control. A little while in the hospital, docs trying hard to stop it or slow it down. But it was her time. She knew it. Posted on Facebook shortly before that she guessed her number had been called. That she loves us all to the moon and back. And then she was gone. I still can’t believe it. The very toughest of cookies.  

But it is true. And somehow our lives must move forward. Granted, I feel like sitting down on the path and crossing my arms like a small child denied some lovely thing. No. I’m not going. It’s simply too difficult. And it’s certainly not fair. But…I must.

There is simply no way but forward.

This thought occurred to me recently as they popped the needle into Mort the Port to take some blood and, as they do every three weeks, make sure I didn’t go ahead and get myself knocked up between three weeks ago and now. (What do they think is going ON in my house?? I must look very, verrray sexy to them.)

Or maybe Kevin does.

So, I can’t just sit down and languish until the vultures come for me. There is no way but forward. This thought keeps coming into my head. Maybe it’s just a sensible notion. Maybe it’s the Holy Spirit nudging me along. Maybe Laura sent me that wisp of a thought that swirled its way through the clouds and rainbows, as she left this world, making its way toward me as she came into God’s glorious presence. Whatever brought it to me, it’s true. Forward is the way.

People tell me they admire my strength.  That I’m a proverbial Tough Cookie.  Am I?  I’m never quite sure how to take that because 1. I’m leaning real hard on God right now.  2. I’m not exactly doing this alone – I’m so crazy blessed to have the best army of food-makers, child-watchers, juice-deliverers, jewelry-senders, scarf-givers, flower-bringers and prayer warriors in all the land! 3. I do feel angry, sad and a sense of disbelief at times.  (I just choose to usher those emotions out the door after a short but meaningful visit.). Now, on the other hand, I’m also motivated, persistent and stubborn as a grumpy mule.  

So when someone says that to me, I am filled with conflicting emotions and corresponding potential responses:  “Thanks!  No I’m not.  I’m actually very sad and tired today.  Me?  Strong?  Thanks for noticing.  You’re nuts.  I’m strong because of people like you helping me.  I am strong aren’t I?  I’m not strong – just a little crazy.  I’m a total badass.  I’m as strong as a newborn kitten.  I’m a fraud!  Its all God – I’m nothing without Him. I am pretty awesome, huh?  I can’t believe I have this many people fooled.  Bring it on, Cancer!  I should really be wearing actual red Wonder Woman boots.  It’s because of all the prayers.  I’m hungry – maybe you’d like to help me be strong by making me a vegan-paleo-gluten free-organic-nonGMO sandwich?”

Chemo sucks.  (How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.) Friends leaving this world too soon is the worst – There is a Laura shaped space in my heart that will always feel empty.  Cancer is a mean, nasty, violent thing.  But there is no way but forward.  There is no way to be but strong.  Not because anyone can do it alone or because we’re looking to impress anyone.  I’m not talking about ACTING strong.  I’m saying let’s BE strong.  Strong is admitting you’re weak and need help.  Strong is going to work even though you don’t feel quite right – because you are ok with looking less than your best.  Strong is also staying home because Lord knows the world goes on without us.  Strong is striving hard but knowing when to let someone else carry you for a bit.  Strong is laughing at the absurdity of it all.  Strong is knowing, 1. without God, we’re totally screwed and 2. that it takes a lifetime to begin to grasp His infinite goodness.  Strong is having perspective that is not limited to today’s pain and tomorrow’s fears.  Rather fix your eyes on what is unseen.  For what is seen is temporary; what is unseen is eternal.

Forward is the way.  Strong is the way.  God is the way.  

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Back to fighting traffic

In Pittsburgh and the surrounding vicinity, there are many neighborhoods to choose from.  My family recently moved from the South Hills to an area east of the city.  There are many good things about this location, but the biggest baddest thing is fighting the traffic at the Squirrel Hill tunnels every morning and evening.  Many writers before me have waxed philosophical about the lack of explanation of the origin of this nearly always present traffic – there is never an accident, roadblock or lane closure.  Just a strange phenomenon of people slowing down, quite abruptly, as if the tunnel has in some way startled them, as if there are not actual signs not only alerting us to their presence but actually instructing us to maintain our speed.  The part that really get me is that this happens each day during rush hour.  We must assume that the vast majority of these travelers embark on this westward journey regularly.  And still the tunnel scares them, and still they slow, and make us all late.

What does this have to do with cancer?  Not much, except that I am finding it stresses me out less.  When you get such a diagnosis, things become clear that were once less defined.  Being late is bad, but not, like catastrophically bad.  Sitting in traffic stinks, but compared to injections, blood draws, nausea and endless copays – meh.  Turn up the tunes and be glad you’re not in a CT scan machine, I say.  
Additionally, I’m in this traffic (no, not RIGHT now…) because I am going to work.  I am going to work because I feel good enough to work.  I get to make the choice to go to work or not.  I could be a lot sicker.  
So, instead, I’ll be grateful to drive a little slower through the hills and valleys of this beautiful place where we live and appreciate the fall foliage.  Unless you cut me off, ya jagoff! 

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Chemo, my frenemy

Chemo is a funny thing.  It’s making me feel way worse than cancer has, and yet we have to assume it’s helping me.  It is difficult to willingly allow someone to put poison in your body.  One of my poisons is made of platinum.  I know, I’m fancy.  But that’s a metal.  And it’s in my blood.  That’s weird.

So far, chemo has made me tired, achy, irritable and nauseous.  It makes my hands and feet feel weird.  And I can’t drink or touch anything cold.  Most of the day, today, I was horizontal.  And it sucked.  My tummy is wonky.  I just don’t feel like myself.  So I did a lot of this.

But that wasn’t really working for me.  So I rallied.  And off we went.
We even rode a mini train.
I’m not saying that getting out and about is the right move every time.  It’s probably not.  But I felt I wanted to test my limits.  I wanted to see how much of this el-crappo feeling was real physical stuff and what was me just letting the cancer and chemo get me down.  It’s definitely some of both.  But it turns out, today, I had a little more gas in the tank than I felt like I did. So now I’m home and in need of rest.  Time to recharge the super powers!

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Chemo Smackdown-O-Rama-Fest: Round 1

Morning of first chemo treatment.  Most people wear sweats.  I say, intimidate Stupid Cancer with fierce style.  It’s easier for me to stay upbeat and my usual charming self when I’m looking presentable.  Leopard print all the way.

We arrived at the treatment center and got hooked up via Mort the Port to an IV of pre-meds.  (Steroids and anti-nausea stuff.)  We then met with my doc, Dr. Mehta.  He gave us good news: my cancer has NOT spread.  They hadn’t assumed it had but its good to know concretely.  Also my blood work (white blood cells, etc. were all in normal ranges.)  **These are answers to prayer.**  When God answers our prayers so clearly – its worthy of a moment of our time and consideration.  We have to pause, acknowledge, give thanks.  He does not always answer with what we are looking for – sometimes the journey is longer than the one we planned for.  But sometimes we get a simple gift like this.  I am grateful.  I give thanks that this cancer hasn’t spiraled out of control.  There is an army in my body fighting it, and it’s doing an amazing job.  I’m thankful for my surgeon who did a difficult surgery well and removed what was visible.  Thank you, Lord for all of your provisions.  

So then we got hooked up to the real stuff.  Chemo.  Oxaliplatin is the big dog of chemo drugs that I’m taking.  So into Mort the Port it went.  It took about two hours.  It was uneventful.  During that time, I read funny texts from friends, watched videos on You Tube, ate some cheese and carrots and talked to Kevin.  They have a snack bar at the center.  It’s not very healthy which I think is weird.  A poor diet does not help in the cancer battle.  But I guess with chemo patients, whatever you can get down the hatch is good.  And sometimes that is Lance brand neon orange peanut butter crackers.  Blech. I tired to imagine how I could politely suggest some organic fruit or air popped non-GMO popcorn.  But…I want them to like me.  So I’ll bring my own snacks and Kevin can eat the cupcakes.
So they also gave me my oral pills.  I have to take five in the morning and five at night.  This drug is called Xeloda.  
Kevin meticulously filled my giant pill box for me.  He will almost certainly do this for me every week.  The fact is the man is significantly more responsible than I am in such matters.  That’s why he’s the precision baker and I’m the chef with full creative license.  Recipes, schmecipes.  So Kevin is the family pharmacist.
The infusion was complete and we left.  We were both hungry so we went to Mad Mex.  a friend’s response: did you really think Mexican was the best choice immediately following chemo?  Fair question.  First of all, I got black beans and rice and tofu in a dry tortilla so it wasn’t like I got the drippy, crazy meat-filled enchiladas.  I passed on the margaritas, too.  🙂  But I really haven’t felt super nauseous.  Just a little bit queasy.  So far, eating helps.  So bring on the tofu!
What I have had in terms of side effects in the past 24 hours have been with neuropathy/very high sensitivity to cold food/beverage and touching stuff that’s colder than room temp.  
The very bad thing that happened was when I took a huge swig of iced tea before I knew what would happen.  Awful. I felt like I drank Drano.  It scared me.  I had no idea what they meant when they said “cold sensitivity.”  It was pretty horrible.  Like trying to swallow a raisin that suddenly turned into a tiny porcupine.  All scratchy and spiky out of nowhere.  Also, strong tasting things like olives, vinegar and sharp cheeses do something weird to my mouth.  It feels like biting into a giant lemon.  That “sour” reflex is in overdrive somehow.
On the tactile front…touching something cold is like grabbing onto an electric fence.  It’s very strange to have your own body mess with you like that.  I’m so grateful to not be vomiting all day like some people do with chemo (fingers crossed on that one!)  But it’s weird and inconvenient to have to adjust what you eat, drink and touch.
Right now I’m feeling ok.  I’m a little bit apprehensive because I know that it gets worse before it gets better.  The last day has told me that I cannot predict what’s coming next and I don’t like that.  This may be the toughest one for me out of the 8 rounds, simply because its all a mystery.  Everything is fine and then my body betrays me.  I’ve spent 35 years in it.  It’s like if a good friend who has always been kind and dependable suddenly starts acting like a total bitch.  
So this is where we give ourselves a moment.  Acknowledge the difficulty.  Acknowledge the frustration.  Choose to accept it.  Then turn our thoughts and our hopes heaven-ward.  People say I’m strong.  I am.  It would be false humility to argue that.  I was raised to be strong.  I have experienced success that galvanizes my trust in my own abilities.  Whatever you’ve got, bring it.  I love a challenge and I plan to win.  It’s my job to get people to understand why they should give their hard earned dollars to help unemployed, homeless drug addicts.  I’m not selling sports cars to men in the midst of their mid-life crisis or pacifiers to desperate new moms.  Lets just say I’ve chosen a field where it’s not an easy sell.  A former supervisor once said about me “she could sell snow to the Eskimos.”  Well I’ve never tried.  But I would probably give it a shot.  
But I can’t do it all.  
I’ve gone as far as I can go on my own strength at the moment.  So “I lift my eyes up…up to the mountain.  Where does my help come from? My help comes from you – maker of heaven…creator of the earth.”  
So, I lean into God today.  Giving Him my anxieties and worries.  Believing He will provide whatever is needed at the most appropriate time.  Sometimes that comes in the form of a good test result, help from a loved one, a cheerful card, an unexpected moment of peace.  

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Learning from cancer

So I’m reading a lot about suffering, struggles, sickness, etc. It’s heavy stuff. But it’s hopeful stuff. I’m making my way through Tim Keller’s excellent book Walking with God Through Pain and Suffering.

Dr. Keller is a giant of the faith…super smart, wry sense of humor, a man who has had his own share of struggles. Yes, please. Give me a man who loves Jesus, has a PhD and has been through cancer – triple threat, Baby. (A far cry from the days when, to me, a real man was any guy who drove a Jeep, wore Birkenstocks and listened to Dave Matthews. Ick. If I met my 16 year old self now, I would basically hate her.)

So Tim Keller talks a lot about how our culture tells us that adversity, suffering and struggle are bad – they are something to get past so we can get on with real life. Suffering such as dealing with cancer is a life disruption, a snag, an interruption from our regularly scheduled programming. But reality – biblical, real life? It says this is IMPORTANT. It’s not an accident, it’s not punishment and it’s not to be squandered. Which brings about another one of my cancer boyfriends (i.e. spiritual advisors I have never personally met) John Piper – now, he’s said some, in my opinion, unnecessarily annoying things on some controversial subjects, but I choose to ignore those, and focus on the wisdom I think he does possess. His challenge to someone like me is “don’t waste your cancer.” Intriguing, no? It’s a whole new way of looking at this kind of situation. Here are some of the more interesting ideas:

You’ll waste your cancer if…

-you don’t believe it was designed for you by God. (Whoa! Can that be true? I think it probbaly is. It’s ok if you don’t. But think about God’s soveignty – if He’s in control of everything, He can choose what to allow and what not to.)

-you consider it only to be a curse and not a blessing. (Again. Whoa. My cancer can be a blessing. It’s hard to think this way, I know. But I can see how this is possible. It’s not easy to believe that might be true. But it’s worth some consideration.)

There are other interesting and challenging ideas in this piece. See them here.  http://m.crosswalk.com/faith/spiritual-life/don’t-waste-your-cancer-1383847.html

In other news, Mort the Port is healing well. I am gaining confidence in movement – at first, it just felt icky, and I did not want to move at all, worrying that I might dislodge it or something, but that is improving a lot. Chemo begins Thursday. I am pretty confident, however, it should be noted that I have a pattern that I’ve noticed. I don’t worry about upcoming doc appointments, I don’t think too much about them. I arrive in a sunny, calm mood, and suddenly unexpectedly intrusive, embarrasing or painful things are happening that I have not mentally or emotionally prepared for. So, I’m trying to consider that they will probably tell me something disappointing, ask me to take me clothes off or hurt me with a needle in a way that I was not expecting. I will report back later in the week, on what the unanticipated experience of the day is.