Is it me - or are these weeks flying past with increasing speed?
******************
What am I grateful for this week?
* that the surgery is finally behind me
* that healing is happening
* for Trader Joe's crunchy curls made from lentils and potatoes (find them in the snack aisle!)
* for the pain-relief provided by Advil (during the day), hydrocodone (at bedtime), and morphine (when I was in the hospital)
* for the blessed gift of deep sleep
* the gentle comfort of a warm shower
* the guttural giggles of a six-month old beautiful baby boy
* the generosity and laughter of his even more beautiful mother
* the appearance of a hummingbird at the door during their visit yesterday - even though I don't have a hummingbird feeder, that beautiful creature hovered near the glass door in our family room long enough for both Heather and me to see it.
* when taking a risk, keeping copious notes, and hours of hard work writing and rewriting
turn into a new book (I knew you could do it, Launa - and I knew you would!)
* how much my friends, seen and unseen, have sustained and strengthened me on this kanswer journey
* for how often my dear friends keep telling me to rest, to stay in bed, to take naps -
and all I want to do is get up and do stuff
* for the two friends who circled around in my neighborhood for an hour, lost, hoping to come visit me. I am grateful for their determination to find me - even though they had the wrong phone number and couldn't reach me to ask for directions
* for the attentive, tender, loving, and compassionate care my husband and chidren have given me since November 6 (diagnosis day) but especially in this post-surgical week
* for the ways in which we still find reasons to laugh
* for the blessing of my husband's employment which comes with medical insurance. Chemotherapy alone would have cost us more than $120,000. I know we've paid far more than that in medical plan deductions over the past 25 years, but we couldn't have laid out that much in the past five months!
* for the advent of spring weather
* hair, short, stubbly hair!
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Monday, April 22, 2013
On the other side...
I woke up on Friday morning with the 3:30 alarm. I had to be at the hospital at 5 am, so I got up early to journal, to pray, to do final chores around the house.
Steve, Karen, and I left the house at 4:30 am. (Karen flew down from Connecticut to be with me over the weekend - even though NO ONE on the planet dislikes flying more than she does. She is the best nurse, friend, and companion anyone could hope for, especially at a time like this!!! I miss you already, Karen.)
We arrived at the hospital and were greeted by cheery, funny, efficient, caring, and tender staff members, volunteers, and nurses. In the pre-surgery waiting area, two nurses took my vitals, started my IV, and before they walked away, one of them asked if anyone had prayed with me before I got in there. I assured them that I had indeed been prayed over.
The surgeries went well. Both surgeons said blood loss was minimal.
They both expected that I would be heading home on Saturday.
I woke up in a large, clean, well-appointed hospital room. The nurses were gracious and gentle. Their southern accents and euphemisms made us all laugh. I've lived here for more than ten years, and I still get a good chuckle out of a heavy southern accent.
A few hours later, one of the nurses asked me what my pain level was on a scale from 1 - 10.
I told her the truth: I was experiencing no pain.
She said, "You must have a lot of people praying for you."
She had no idea how right she was.
The pain has been minimal from the very beginning.
Truly miraculously minimal pain - some achiness in my armpits,
but absolutely no pain as a result of the hysterectomy.
I haven't taken any pain meds so far today - it is nearly 2 pm as I write this.
What I thought would be the most traumatic moment turned out to be without trauma or drama whatsoever. When the nurses removed the bandages from my chest, I took a few deep breaths and looked at my newly transformed upper body. Fortunately, I had done a fair amount of research on bilateral mastectomies without reconstruction.
If you are interested in seeing images of women who have made the decision to not undergo breast reconstruction, check out: http://breastfree.org/. Go to the photographs tab and be as amazed as I was. I can assure you; the images are beautiful, tender, and not at all upsetting. After all, we are all beautiful women, with or without breasts.
I was released from the hospital at 5 pm on Saturday. It felt great to get back home, climb the stairs to my bedroom, and recover in my own bed, surrounded by my own things and my loved ones.
I am ridiculously, enormously, profoundly grateful for my recovery,
for my lack of pain, my ability to eat and sleep comfortably,
for the love, the notes, the flowers, the calls, the texts,
the messages, the meals, and the genuine concern
that continue to arrive daily.
Here I sit on the other side of the big day.
As expected, as hoped, as ceaselessly prayed for,
all is well, my friends.
All is indeed well.
Thank you for everything.
Thanks be to God.
Steve, Karen, and I left the house at 4:30 am. (Karen flew down from Connecticut to be with me over the weekend - even though NO ONE on the planet dislikes flying more than she does. She is the best nurse, friend, and companion anyone could hope for, especially at a time like this!!! I miss you already, Karen.)
We arrived at the hospital and were greeted by cheery, funny, efficient, caring, and tender staff members, volunteers, and nurses. In the pre-surgery waiting area, two nurses took my vitals, started my IV, and before they walked away, one of them asked if anyone had prayed with me before I got in there. I assured them that I had indeed been prayed over.
The surgeries went well. Both surgeons said blood loss was minimal.
They both expected that I would be heading home on Saturday.
I woke up in a large, clean, well-appointed hospital room. The nurses were gracious and gentle. Their southern accents and euphemisms made us all laugh. I've lived here for more than ten years, and I still get a good chuckle out of a heavy southern accent.
A few hours later, one of the nurses asked me what my pain level was on a scale from 1 - 10.
I told her the truth: I was experiencing no pain.
She said, "You must have a lot of people praying for you."
She had no idea how right she was.
The pain has been minimal from the very beginning.
Truly miraculously minimal pain - some achiness in my armpits,
but absolutely no pain as a result of the hysterectomy.
I haven't taken any pain meds so far today - it is nearly 2 pm as I write this.
What I thought would be the most traumatic moment turned out to be without trauma or drama whatsoever. When the nurses removed the bandages from my chest, I took a few deep breaths and looked at my newly transformed upper body. Fortunately, I had done a fair amount of research on bilateral mastectomies without reconstruction.
If you are interested in seeing images of women who have made the decision to not undergo breast reconstruction, check out: http://breastfree.org/. Go to the photographs tab and be as amazed as I was. I can assure you; the images are beautiful, tender, and not at all upsetting. After all, we are all beautiful women, with or without breasts.
I was released from the hospital at 5 pm on Saturday. It felt great to get back home, climb the stairs to my bedroom, and recover in my own bed, surrounded by my own things and my loved ones.
I am ridiculously, enormously, profoundly grateful for my recovery,
for my lack of pain, my ability to eat and sleep comfortably,
for the love, the notes, the flowers, the calls, the texts,
the messages, the meals, and the genuine concern
that continue to arrive daily.
Here I sit on the other side of the big day.
As expected, as hoped, as ceaselessly prayed for,
all is well, my friends.
All is indeed well.
Thank you for everything.
Thanks be to God.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Thankful Thursday
What I'm thankful for today...
The empty pages of a travel journal
Three chairs and an umbrella awaiting our arrival
Three friends at the beach
Watching three friends head to the water, surfboards in hand
The guy with the red board walked with a noticeable limp,
one leg was shorter than the other
But that didn't matter once they were all in the water
They all paddled and surfed with courage and grace
I'm sure there's a blog post in there somewhere...
I do love the beach.
The only place I am happier is in Spain...
Chocolate peanut butter, carrot, and salted caramel mini cupcakes
A leisurely stroll in Wilmington, NC
I love a good elephant statue
The placard beneath the statue - isn't just about everything a question of balance?
Like the little girl in this image,
I feel held, lifted above, smiled at, and loved
(Thank you all for your notes, messages, texts, calls...
I feel enormously, deeply, profoundly, thoroughly loved these days.)
Loved this sign! "Hey, hey - we're the Monkees!"
Yes, God, please take care of yourself.
(And please take care of me too... especially tomorrow!)
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
From glory to glory...
Back in 1986, I was introduced to a Bible verse by a dear friend from Portugal. He said this was one of his favorite verses - and soon thereafter, it became one of my favorites as well. It is 2 Corinthians 3:18.
The New International Version of the Bible says this: And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord's glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory.
The King James Version uses the term "from glory to glory."
I like that phrase - from glory to glory.
Earlier today, my dear friend, Lisa, asked me what time my "transformation" was on Friday.
I love, love, love that word much more than "surgery," Lisa - transformation.
I am being transformed from glory to glory.
It is horrible, outrageous, and unfathomable (another word given to me by Lisa) to think that part of my spiritual transformation into the image of the Lord I love and the woman I am meant to be involves such a radical physical transformation.
This is sooooooooo not the story line I had laid out before me.
This is not the plot twist I would have thrown in if I were writing the script of my life.
This is not a punishment that I would mete out to the worst of my enemies -
not that I have any enemies.
But this is my story. This is the story of my life.
This is my journey, my camino, my way.
I move into it with reverence, with tears, with sadness, with sorrow,
but also with hope, with expectation, with anticipation,
and with peace that truly surpasses all my understanding.
I am moving forward in healing. Moving forward in life.
I spent a lot of time over the past few days asking if this cup could pass from me.
Pleading with God to wake me up from this nightmare.
Recognizing that, indeed, this is my story.
Grateful that this too shall pass.
These tears won't flow always.
I have a hope. I have a future. I have a destiny that is yet awaiting me.
The next phase in this journey of transformation will begin at 7 am on Friday morning.
From glory to glory...
The New International Version of the Bible says this: And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord's glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory.
The King James Version uses the term "from glory to glory."
I like that phrase - from glory to glory.
Earlier today, my dear friend, Lisa, asked me what time my "transformation" was on Friday.
I love, love, love that word much more than "surgery," Lisa - transformation.
I am being transformed from glory to glory.
It is horrible, outrageous, and unfathomable (another word given to me by Lisa) to think that part of my spiritual transformation into the image of the Lord I love and the woman I am meant to be involves such a radical physical transformation.
This is sooooooooo not the story line I had laid out before me.
This is not the plot twist I would have thrown in if I were writing the script of my life.
This is not a punishment that I would mete out to the worst of my enemies -
not that I have any enemies.
But this is my story. This is the story of my life.
This is my journey, my camino, my way.
I move into it with reverence, with tears, with sadness, with sorrow,
but also with hope, with expectation, with anticipation,
and with peace that truly surpasses all my understanding.
I am moving forward in healing. Moving forward in life.
I spent a lot of time over the past few days asking if this cup could pass from me.
Pleading with God to wake me up from this nightmare.
Recognizing that, indeed, this is my story.
Grateful that this too shall pass.
These tears won't flow always.
I have a hope. I have a future. I have a destiny that is yet awaiting me.
The next phase in this journey of transformation will begin at 7 am on Friday morning.
From glory to glory...
Friday, April 12, 2013
A Day Late, but No Gratitude Short
I was too busy yesterday
* sitting in on a meeting of parents of high school juniors at a local high school with a friend
(no, I'm not the mother of a junior, but I will be next year. no, my son doesn't attend that school, but my friend thought I'd learn something. I learned a lot.)
* meeting a friend for coffee, a bagel, and tear-filled conversation.
Life is hard, folks. But it is much more bearable when we bear one another's burdens.
* meeting another friend for lunch, laughter-filled conversation and advice on how to recover from breast kanswer and a hysterectomy.
Kanswer is hard too, but sometimes you just have to laugh right in the face of this stupid disease.
* being turned away from a massage because I needed a permission slip from my oncologist, getting said permission slip faxed to the massage place, then being rescheduled with "one of our best therapists. Wow, I think this will be a very good fit." I look forward to my massage this afternoon. I pray the therapist and I will be a good fit.
* responding to emails from two wise and kind older women at a senior living facility where I have taught Bible studies in the past. They heard that I have kanswer and wanted me to know that they are thinking about me and praying for me. And one of them invited me to join them for lunch.
* eating dinner out with a couple whose company we thoroughly enjoy.
* and then snuggling with my hubby last night to post my gratitude list yesterday.
I hope you will forgive the lateness of this post.
*************
Even before yesterday, there were many other causes for gratitude...
* fresh-squeezed orange juice
* the fact that my taste buds are back in full service
* the instant gratification of using a vacuum cleaner
* all the stories of healing and recovery I am receiving from so many people these days
* no more of those awkward moments after someone tells the gruesome story of a friend who died tragically and painfully of the same kind of kanswer I have
* confirmation of my hopes and dreams from people who don't even know what I've been hoping and dreaming, but their words and their encouragement affirm and confirm what I've been wishing for
* sunshine this morning after last night's torrential rain washed away the layer of pollen that had coated everything here in Charlotte
* sitting in on a meeting of parents of high school juniors at a local high school with a friend
(no, I'm not the mother of a junior, but I will be next year. no, my son doesn't attend that school, but my friend thought I'd learn something. I learned a lot.)
* meeting a friend for coffee, a bagel, and tear-filled conversation.
Life is hard, folks. But it is much more bearable when we bear one another's burdens.
* meeting another friend for lunch, laughter-filled conversation and advice on how to recover from breast kanswer and a hysterectomy.
Kanswer is hard too, but sometimes you just have to laugh right in the face of this stupid disease.
* being turned away from a massage because I needed a permission slip from my oncologist, getting said permission slip faxed to the massage place, then being rescheduled with "one of our best therapists. Wow, I think this will be a very good fit." I look forward to my massage this afternoon. I pray the therapist and I will be a good fit.
* responding to emails from two wise and kind older women at a senior living facility where I have taught Bible studies in the past. They heard that I have kanswer and wanted me to know that they are thinking about me and praying for me. And one of them invited me to join them for lunch.
* eating dinner out with a couple whose company we thoroughly enjoy.
* and then snuggling with my hubby last night to post my gratitude list yesterday.
I hope you will forgive the lateness of this post.
*************
Even before yesterday, there were many other causes for gratitude...
* fresh-squeezed orange juice
* the fact that my taste buds are back in full service
* the instant gratification of using a vacuum cleaner
The wonder of grass along the sidewalk
The many phases and the persistence of dandelions
Do I really use dandelion greens in my morning juice sometimes?
Yup - and I love it.
* my husband and daughter's hard work at establishing a fruit and vegetable garden on our back deck: parsley, basil, mint, tomatoes, strawberries, kale, and other goodies
* running into a friend at Home Depot's garden center when I went to get more organic dirt for Steve and Kristiana's master garden
* not having to get any dirt under my fingernails in the endeavor
* the prospect of spending four days on the beach with two of my dearest friends. I'll be away from tomorrow afternoon until Wednesday afternoon. Let the glorious getaway begin!
The beautiful view from my lunch table the other day
Another view from the same table - I enjoy exploring in my hometown
Chihuly's glass works make me smile
* all the stories of healing and recovery I am receiving from so many people these days
* no more of those awkward moments after someone tells the gruesome story of a friend who died tragically and painfully of the same kind of kanswer I have
* confirmation of my hopes and dreams from people who don't even know what I've been hoping and dreaming, but their words and their encouragement affirm and confirm what I've been wishing for
* sunshine this morning after last night's torrential rain washed away the layer of pollen that had coated everything here in Charlotte
I am tremendously, profoundly, supremely grateful
for the light at the top of the staircase I'm on.
It may be a steep climb.
It will be a steep climb.
But the end is in sight.
The end is clearly in sight.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
It's time to get naked...
Driving along in my car today listening to music, a song came on my ipod that I hadn't heard in years. Another gem by India Arie. Perfectly timed.
"Private Party"
I'm having a private party
Ain't no body here but me, my angels, and my guitar
singin' baby look how far we've come here
I'm havin' a private party
Learning how to love me
Celebrating the woman I've become, yeah
I tried to call my mother, but
She didn't get where I was going
I called my boyfriend and he said
Call me back a little later baby
I hung up the phone, I felt so alone
Started to feel a little pity
That's when I realized that I
Gotta find the joy inside of me
I'm gonna take off all my clothes
Look at myself in the mirror
We're gonna have a conversation
We're gonna heal the disconnection
I don't remember when it started
But this is where it's gonna end
My body is beautiful and sacred
And I'm gonna celebrate it
All my life I've been looking for
Somebody else to make me whole
But I had to learn the hard way
True love began with me
This is not ego or vanity
I'm just celebrating me
Sometimes I'm alone but never lonely
That's what I've come to realize
I've learned to love the quiet moments
The Sunday mornings of life
Where I can reach deep down inside
Or out into the universe
I can laugh until I cry
Or I can cry away the hurt
***********
For me, it's not me, my angels, and my guitar.
For me, it's me, my angels, and my pens, my journal, and my camera.
It's me, my angels, a solo lunch, and a two hour jaunt through a museum I love.
It's me, my angels, and a few quiet moments outside in the sun.
Celebrating life, art, spring, food, water bottles, and baldness.
As difficult as it may be, we all need to strip ourselves bare, get naked, literally and figuratively, stare at ourselves in the mirror and bring an end to the disconnection, the dislike, and the disdain.
The body you have, this body I have - it's the only one we are ever gonna have on this journey.
Learn to love it. I beg you - love that body. Every inch of it. Every pound of it.
You will not have it in its current form ever again.
Who was it that wrote that someday you will look at the photos of your 20, 30, 40 year old body and wish you could have it back? You will wish for that skin, that backside, those breasts, and those hands. You will wish for that hair, those legs, those shoulders, and that stomach.
Go ahead. I dare you - fall in love with the skin you're in.
Love the body that transports your magnificent soul.
Celebrate the woman, the man, the person you've become and
the one you are becoming.
Don't wait; start the party tonight when you get ready for bed.
Get naked and dance in front of your mirror.
Laugh at the silliness and the beauty of it,
the bouncing and the rolling.
Marvel at how spectacular your body is,
at how spectacular you are.
You are a wonder, a gift, a miracle.
Every inch of you. Every pound of you.
Friday, April 05, 2013
Mark your calender, dear reader
Two weeks from today, Friday, April 19th, I will undergo surgery.
Two surgeries - double mastectomy and hysterectomy.
Big changes for this big girl.
Friends frequently ask me how I feel about "all of this."
I wonder which "this" they are referring to.
The horrors of chemo past or the prospect of surgery future?
The removal of body parts or the hope of being another step closer to being kanswer free?
Every day since the one when the doctor told me that they had found kanswer in my breast and lymph nodes I have asked myself some version of that question:
how do I feel about all of this?
where is my heart? how is my heart?
how is my faith? do I still have faith? in what or whom?
how is it possible that my faith still feels so strong?
am I afraid? what do I have to fear? is it okay for me to not be afraid?
what am I supposed to learn from all of this? am I learning the lessons I'm meant to learn?
is it okay for me to feel good, great even? is it okay for me to be happy even now?
does feeling good, not being afraid, and not worrying about surgery or its aftermath
mean I am living in denial? is it possible to have come this far and still be in denial?
how do I really, really, really feel?
Sometimes I feel thousands of things and sometimes I feel nothing at all.
Sometimes I feel like all of this is happening to someone else, like an "out of body experience,"
but I'm making the decisions.
Sometimes I feel like this is a ridiculously long and vivid nightmare,
and I am convinced that the alarm is going to sound at any moment now
and I will awaken back into my real life.
Most of the time, however, I am enormously grateful to be alive, amazed that I am so unabashedly loved, and excited to be stepping fully into the process that will rid this body of mine of this unwelcome intruder.
I never thought I'd ever, ever, ever quote Taylor Swift, but here goes -
Me speaking to Kanswer, with one hand on my hip and the pointer finger on my other hand wagging accusingly in kanswer's direction: "I knew you were trouble when you walked in."
Now get the hell out of me, kanswer. GET OUT!!!
Thanks for the lessons, but it's time for you to move on.
I've got places to go, people to love, and a long life yet to live.
***********
The Thich Nhat Hanh calender on the wall above my desk says this for the month of April -
"Peace can only exist in the present moment.
If you truly want to be at peace,
you must be at peace right now."
Right now, I am at peace.
Right now, I breathe.
Right now, all is well.
All I have is right now.
Two surgeries - double mastectomy and hysterectomy.
Big changes for this big girl.
Friends frequently ask me how I feel about "all of this."
I wonder which "this" they are referring to.
The horrors of chemo past or the prospect of surgery future?
The removal of body parts or the hope of being another step closer to being kanswer free?
Every day since the one when the doctor told me that they had found kanswer in my breast and lymph nodes I have asked myself some version of that question:
how do I feel about all of this?
where is my heart? how is my heart?
how is my faith? do I still have faith? in what or whom?
how is it possible that my faith still feels so strong?
am I afraid? what do I have to fear? is it okay for me to not be afraid?
what am I supposed to learn from all of this? am I learning the lessons I'm meant to learn?
is it okay for me to feel good, great even? is it okay for me to be happy even now?
does feeling good, not being afraid, and not worrying about surgery or its aftermath
mean I am living in denial? is it possible to have come this far and still be in denial?
how do I really, really, really feel?
Sometimes I feel thousands of things and sometimes I feel nothing at all.
Sometimes I feel like all of this is happening to someone else, like an "out of body experience,"
but I'm making the decisions.
Sometimes I feel like this is a ridiculously long and vivid nightmare,
and I am convinced that the alarm is going to sound at any moment now
and I will awaken back into my real life.
Most of the time, however, I am enormously grateful to be alive, amazed that I am so unabashedly loved, and excited to be stepping fully into the process that will rid this body of mine of this unwelcome intruder.
I never thought I'd ever, ever, ever quote Taylor Swift, but here goes -
Me speaking to Kanswer, with one hand on my hip and the pointer finger on my other hand wagging accusingly in kanswer's direction: "I knew you were trouble when you walked in."
Now get the hell out of me, kanswer. GET OUT!!!
Thanks for the lessons, but it's time for you to move on.
I've got places to go, people to love, and a long life yet to live.
***********
The Thich Nhat Hanh calender on the wall above my desk says this for the month of April -
"Peace can only exist in the present moment.
If you truly want to be at peace,
you must be at peace right now."
Right now, I am at peace.
Right now, I breathe.
Right now, all is well.
All I have is right now.
Thursday, April 04, 2013
Thankful Thursday
I'm grateful for the friend who brought us vegetable soup and rice yesterday. Gracias, Patricia.
I'm grateful for the huge piece of salmon my mother bought for us that I was able to cook yesterday.
I'm grateful for the abundance of delicious and healthy food that we are enjoying at the moment.
I'm grateful for the friend who came over to talk at 11 this morning and stayed until after 3:30 this afternoon.
I'm grateful for the rain. The earth is dry and thirsty.
I'm grateful for my daughter's college friend who gifted us with a dozen of those fancy cupcakes topped with chocolate or caramel or lime slices or a miniature oreo cookies depending on the flavor. I ate half of a chocolate cupcake and dipped my finger in the frosting of three or four others. Yummy!
I'm grateful for the wonderful time we had at a baseball game last night. Two local high schools played, and we knew one player on each team. It was the first time in a long time that we attended a sporting event as an entire family.
I'm grateful for the time I spent with my son today, discussing topic sentences, food vocabulary in Spanish, and his upcoming trip to Florida with a friend.
I'm grateful for the gift certificate for a massage that an extremely generous friend recently gave me.
I'm even more grateful for the friend herself.
I'm grateful for the essential oils I received in the mail yesterday, some of which are already doing their magic in the room sprays and disinfectant sprays I've created. Sweet orange, eucalyptus, clove bud, and lavender oils are among my new toys.
I'm grateful for the simple purity of coconut oil and how soothing it feels on my skin.
I'm grateful for the recipes that combine baking soda, vinegar, Dr. Bronner's castile soap, hydrogen peroxide, essential oils, and water into household cleaning products that don't make me reach for a gas mask every time I use them.
I'm grateful for the earth-loving, people-honoring soul-sisters who have taught me new ways to love the earth, honor the people who live here, and create space for my soul to grow.
I'm grateful for when exposure to someone or something new awakens a long-buried bud of curiosity.
I'm grateful for stories of baby birds hatching, books released, courses completed, haikus composed, wisdom shared, love stories basked in, and other tales of the miraculous.
I'm grateful that sometimes resentment is overcome by forgiveness.
I'm grateful that sometimes my husband and the two teenagers we are raising all leave the house at the same time and I am blessed with a few blissful moments of blessed silence and solitude.
I'm grateful for every hug, every kind word, every smile, and every expression of caring that is expressed or shared in my vicinity - whether they are directed at me or not. Gentleness, kindness, love, and grace are contagious.
I'm grateful to you - whoever you are, wherever you are - for coming to this blog of mine, reading my ramblings, encouraging me to keep writing, and also sharing the good word with others.
I'm grateful that faith continues to be at the center of what keeps me upright, strong, and moving forward. And when I have fallen and I can't get up, faith is what gives me the hope to lift my heavy head and ask for assistance in getting back up.
I'm grateful for the way in which Glennon worded a truth that I have believed and lived by for most of my life: Despite all the evidence to the contrary, all is well.
I'm grateful for the huge piece of salmon my mother bought for us that I was able to cook yesterday.
I'm grateful for the abundance of delicious and healthy food that we are enjoying at the moment.
I'm grateful for the friend who came over to talk at 11 this morning and stayed until after 3:30 this afternoon.
I'm grateful for the rain. The earth is dry and thirsty.
I'm grateful for the strength to bounce on my rebounder, lift weights, and stretch when I'm done.
I'm grateful for the patience to listen to the dental hygienist brag about her vegetable garden,
the ability to laugh at the parenting stories the sonogram techician told me at the ob-gyn's office,
and the perverse joy of sharing lubricant jokes with my breast kanswer navigator.
If I've got to attend all these appointments, I may as well make the most of them, right?
I'm grateful that, even though the surgeons are having a hard time coordinating their schedules for my surgeries, soon this next step of my healing journey will be behind me. (I am planning to have a double mastectomy and a total hysterectomy done the same day. Two operations, one recovery. Apparently, finding an operating room and staffing it with these two surgeons and their two posses is not easy. Please pray that they can work it out soon, very soon.)
I'm grateful for my daughter's college friend who gifted us with a dozen of those fancy cupcakes topped with chocolate or caramel or lime slices or a miniature oreo cookies depending on the flavor. I ate half of a chocolate cupcake and dipped my finger in the frosting of three or four others. Yummy!
I'm grateful for the wonderful time we had at a baseball game last night. Two local high schools played, and we knew one player on each team. It was the first time in a long time that we attended a sporting event as an entire family.
I'm grateful for the time I spent with my son today, discussing topic sentences, food vocabulary in Spanish, and his upcoming trip to Florida with a friend.
I'm grateful for the gift certificate for a massage that an extremely generous friend recently gave me.
I'm even more grateful for the friend herself.
I'm grateful for the essential oils I received in the mail yesterday, some of which are already doing their magic in the room sprays and disinfectant sprays I've created. Sweet orange, eucalyptus, clove bud, and lavender oils are among my new toys.
I'm grateful for the simple purity of coconut oil and how soothing it feels on my skin.
I'm grateful for the recipes that combine baking soda, vinegar, Dr. Bronner's castile soap, hydrogen peroxide, essential oils, and water into household cleaning products that don't make me reach for a gas mask every time I use them.
I'm grateful for the earth-loving, people-honoring soul-sisters who have taught me new ways to love the earth, honor the people who live here, and create space for my soul to grow.
I'm grateful for when exposure to someone or something new awakens a long-buried bud of curiosity.
I'm grateful for stories of baby birds hatching, books released, courses completed, haikus composed, wisdom shared, love stories basked in, and other tales of the miraculous.
I'm grateful that sometimes self-pity is replaced with joy.
I'm grateful that sometimes resentment is overcome by forgiveness.
I'm grateful that sometimes my husband and the two teenagers we are raising all leave the house at the same time and I am blessed with a few blissful moments of blessed silence and solitude.
I'm grateful for every hug, every kind word, every smile, and every expression of caring that is expressed or shared in my vicinity - whether they are directed at me or not. Gentleness, kindness, love, and grace are contagious.
I'm grateful to you - whoever you are, wherever you are - for coming to this blog of mine, reading my ramblings, encouraging me to keep writing, and also sharing the good word with others.
I'm grateful that faith continues to be at the center of what keeps me upright, strong, and moving forward. And when I have fallen and I can't get up, faith is what gives me the hope to lift my heavy head and ask for assistance in getting back up.
I'm grateful for the way in which Glennon worded a truth that I have believed and lived by for most of my life: Despite all the evidence to the contrary, all is well.
Wednesday, April 03, 2013
"It's all in me..."
That's the second line of a song that I know only two lines of.
The first two lines are: "I'm every woman... It's all in me."
I think we spend a lot of our time wallowing in self-pity.
I know that I do - especially during these past four months.
"No one knows the trouble I've seen.
Nobody has any idea what my life is like,
all that I must endure, all that I suffer,
my aches and pains.
Nobody has ever had a husband/children/parents/boss/siblings
kanswer diagnosis/bald head/numbness/tiredness quite like mine.
Nobody. Ever. Never has, never will.
Woe is me. Waaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!!"
(I'm sure you get the picture.)
Yesterday as my husband and I sat waiting to see the surgeon, we started talking about husbands and how difficult they can be. (Yes, Steve was agreeing with me.)
He said, "I'm sure you wives sit around talking about us a lot, saying things like,
'My husband is an ass.' 'That's true, but my ass is bigger than your ass.'
I added, "Does my ass look big in his pants?'"
We both cracked up... laughing way too loudly for a surgeon's waiting room.
I'm glad we haven't lost our sense of humor.
Back to my self-pity party: I am right. You are right.
No one knows the specific troubles I've seen
or the ones you've seen.
We each face our own unique set of trials, tribulations, difficulties, and challenges.
We all cry ourselves to sleep on occasion.
Each of us. All of us.
For some of us, that is a daily, a nightly experience.
If you are going through the valley of shadows and I'm going through it too, then today's theme song fits, doesn't it?
"I'm every woman. It's all in me."
fear and courage
doubt and faith
hope and hopelessness
gratitude and discontentment
strength and quivering knees
laughter and mourning
openness and secrecy
positive attitude and bitchiness
stillness and restlessness
patience and quick irritability
curiosity and disinterest
loyalty and infidelity
joy and bone-weary sorrow.
I am the mother and the childless one.
wife and single woman
sister and only child
daughter and orphan
friend and loner
writer and silent one
teacher and student
geek and drop out
dancer and wallflower
kanswer patient and woman in perfect health
frustrated wife and blissful newlywed
adoring mother and he exhausted Mom who wants to push them out of the nest
follower of Christ and follower of my own doggone self.
Every emotion. Every longing.
Every dream. Every nightmare.
Every disappointment. Every celebration.
Every woman. Every man. Every child.
It's all in me.
It's all in you.
The first two lines are: "I'm every woman... It's all in me."
I think we spend a lot of our time wallowing in self-pity.
I know that I do - especially during these past four months.
"No one knows the trouble I've seen.
Nobody has any idea what my life is like,
all that I must endure, all that I suffer,
my aches and pains.
Nobody has ever had a husband/children/parents/boss/siblings
kanswer diagnosis/bald head/numbness/tiredness quite like mine.
Nobody. Ever. Never has, never will.
Woe is me. Waaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!!"
(I'm sure you get the picture.)
Yesterday as my husband and I sat waiting to see the surgeon, we started talking about husbands and how difficult they can be. (Yes, Steve was agreeing with me.)
He said, "I'm sure you wives sit around talking about us a lot, saying things like,
'My husband is an ass.' 'That's true, but my ass is bigger than your ass.'
I added, "Does my ass look big in his pants?'"
We both cracked up... laughing way too loudly for a surgeon's waiting room.
I'm glad we haven't lost our sense of humor.
Back to my self-pity party: I am right. You are right.
No one knows the specific troubles I've seen
or the ones you've seen.
We each face our own unique set of trials, tribulations, difficulties, and challenges.
We all cry ourselves to sleep on occasion.
Each of us. All of us.
For some of us, that is a daily, a nightly experience.
If you are going through the valley of shadows and I'm going through it too, then today's theme song fits, doesn't it?
"I'm every woman. It's all in me."
fear and courage
doubt and faith
hope and hopelessness
gratitude and discontentment
strength and quivering knees
laughter and mourning
openness and secrecy
positive attitude and bitchiness
stillness and restlessness
patience and quick irritability
curiosity and disinterest
loyalty and infidelity
joy and bone-weary sorrow.
I am the mother and the childless one.
wife and single woman
sister and only child
daughter and orphan
friend and loner
writer and silent one
teacher and student
geek and drop out
dancer and wallflower
kanswer patient and woman in perfect health
frustrated wife and blissful newlywed
adoring mother and he exhausted Mom who wants to push them out of the nest
follower of Christ and follower of my own doggone self.
Every emotion. Every longing.
Every dream. Every nightmare.
Every disappointment. Every celebration.
Every woman. Every man. Every child.
It's all in me.
It's all in you.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Waiting with Mary
There is a statue of Maria Magdalena carved from wood by the Italian artist, Donatello, that haunts me. I saw it in October of 2001 in Florence in the Duomo museum. This is no idealized image of her. She doesn't look anything like Botticelli's Venus. This Mary is sinewy and hard, eyes set back under a shadowy brow. Her eyes look mournfully at something or someone beyond the viewer. I wonder if the gaze Donatello captured in that remarkable piece is of the moment when Mary watched the stone being rolled into the mouth of the tomb where her dearly beloved friend, Jesus, was laid to rest.
Following the crucifixion and burial of her friend and healer that Friday, Mary Magdalene spent what I imagine was an agonizing 48 hours waiting to anoint his body with burial spices so that he could rest in peace. She must have spent most of that time pondering the times they had spent together, the meals, the miracles, the travels, the travails. She must have wondered what she would do now that the one she loved most of all was gone.
But Mary was no coward. She knew how much Christ had done for her. Nothing could keep her away from the one who healed her and then welcomed her into his band of followers. In a time and place where women were treated as property and cast aside at the whim of angry or vindictive men, Mary had found a place of welcome, refuge and safety with Christ.
So even on the darkest, saddest, emptiest day of her life, Mary stayed close by, near the tomb, not even hoping for a miracle. After all, she was waiting to anoint a cadaver, not welcome a triumphant and resurrected man back to life.
In her book, Just a Sister Away, Renita Weems speculates about her seven demons this way, "Indeed the 'demons' that claimed Mary are the same demons that prey on many of us: depression, fear, low self-esteem, doubts, procrastination, bitterness, and self-pity." I would add: loneliness, rejection, joblessness, infertility, kanswer, hopelessness, divorce, diabetes, addiction, disappointment, broken promises, abandonment, misunderstanding, poverty, miscarriages, infidelity - the list of demons that plague us as women, as people, is long.
So is every dark night of waiting, praying,
hoping for a reprieve,
for a miraculous healing,
for a desperately needed job offer,
for a wandering child to come home,
for the courage to initiate a difficult conversation,
for each of life's impossibly heavy stones to be rolled away.
I too am waiting, praying, and hoping
for a miracle,
for hope and a future,
for promises to be kept,
for help to arrive,
for the courage to speak truth,
and for a few heavy stones to be rolled away
on this Saturday night in early spring.
I am here - waiting with Mary.
This could be a very long night.
Following the crucifixion and burial of her friend and healer that Friday, Mary Magdalene spent what I imagine was an agonizing 48 hours waiting to anoint his body with burial spices so that he could rest in peace. She must have spent most of that time pondering the times they had spent together, the meals, the miracles, the travels, the travails. She must have wondered what she would do now that the one she loved most of all was gone.
The Bible says that Jesus cast seven demons out of her, and after that life-saving miracle, she followed him. She became one of Jesus' disciples, contributed her own money for his care, and was one of the few who didn't abandon Christ when he was arrested and later crucified. The eleven men who followed Christ most closely dispersed when he was taken prisoner. Only one of them bothered to show up at the crucifixion, those cowards.
But Mary was no coward. She knew how much Christ had done for her. Nothing could keep her away from the one who healed her and then welcomed her into his band of followers. In a time and place where women were treated as property and cast aside at the whim of angry or vindictive men, Mary had found a place of welcome, refuge and safety with Christ.
So even on the darkest, saddest, emptiest day of her life, Mary stayed close by, near the tomb, not even hoping for a miracle. After all, she was waiting to anoint a cadaver, not welcome a triumphant and resurrected man back to life.
In her book, Just a Sister Away, Renita Weems speculates about her seven demons this way, "Indeed the 'demons' that claimed Mary are the same demons that prey on many of us: depression, fear, low self-esteem, doubts, procrastination, bitterness, and self-pity." I would add: loneliness, rejection, joblessness, infertility, kanswer, hopelessness, divorce, diabetes, addiction, disappointment, broken promises, abandonment, misunderstanding, poverty, miscarriages, infidelity - the list of demons that plague us as women, as people, is long.
So is every dark night of waiting, praying,
hoping for a reprieve,
for a miraculous healing,
for a desperately needed job offer,
for a wandering child to come home,
for the courage to initiate a difficult conversation,
for each of life's impossibly heavy stones to be rolled away.
I too am waiting, praying, and hoping
for a miracle,
for hope and a future,
for promises to be kept,
for help to arrive,
for the courage to speak truth,
and for a few heavy stones to be rolled away
on this Saturday night in early spring.
I am here - waiting with Mary.
This could be a very long night.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Thankful Thursday
These weeks are flying by. Thursday seems to get here quicker and quicker every week. The good news is that there is always so much to be thankful for.
Today I'm thankful for -
* the energetic and encouraging men and women who work at Presbyterian Hospital Matthews
* the two women who did my post-chemo echocardiogram this morning were funny, inquisitive about homeschooling, encouraging about my kanswer journey
* their good news - my heart looks strong even after chemo
* the fact that they broke ranks and gave me the good news on the spot and didn't make me wait to hear from the doctor
* the woman who did my paper work this morning is herself a recent breast kanswer survivor. She was high-spirited and caring. As she walked me to the echo area, she said, "I was meant to have you this morning." I appreciated her warm hug more than she will ever know.
* Gibbs!!! My closest, most faithful friend through this kanswer process. She left her house before 7 this morning to meet me for the echo. And then she treated me to breakfast. Where do such amazing people come from???
* my husband of 21+ years who celebrated his 48th birthday this week
* being able to surprise him with a night away from home at a local hotel
* the look on his face when I told him we weren't going home that night
* safe travel back and forth from all the places we go every day and every week
* the fact that my mother was not injured in the car accident she was involved in this morning
* the four "good samaritans" who got out of their cars to check on her after she was rear-ended
* quickly blanched broccoli and tri-color peppers sauteed with sea salt and freshly ground pepper
* time spent every day sitting on my yoga block, cross legged, eyes closed, mind quiet, steeped in peace
* the undeniable layer of peach fuzz on my head (and also on other body parts...)
* wandering through the Nordstrom shoe section with my daughter
* I'm soooooooo grateful that I'm not "a shoe person."
* Recently I remembered an earlier post in which I declared that, in the face of kanswer and all its attendant treatments, I was not afraid. I had some time alone in my car today and used some of that time to take the pulse of my soul, my mind, my spirit in light of the fact that the first three days of next week will include meeting with my oncologist, my ob-gyn, and my surgeon in order to make final plans and decisions about surgery. I found that fear is still not a factor for me these days. I am not looking forward to the surgery that is soon to be scheduled. Nor am I looking forward to radiation treatments. However, I look forward to all of these treatments being behind me. But I am not afraid.
* Propped up in my bed on a sunny, cool Thursday evening in March, I am grateful to be alive, to be married, to have two children I adore, to have a kanswer support team that checks in with me regularly, and above all, I am grateful to be loved.
Today I'm thankful for -
* the energetic and encouraging men and women who work at Presbyterian Hospital Matthews
* the two women who did my post-chemo echocardiogram this morning were funny, inquisitive about homeschooling, encouraging about my kanswer journey
* their good news - my heart looks strong even after chemo
* the fact that they broke ranks and gave me the good news on the spot and didn't make me wait to hear from the doctor
* the woman who did my paper work this morning is herself a recent breast kanswer survivor. She was high-spirited and caring. As she walked me to the echo area, she said, "I was meant to have you this morning." I appreciated her warm hug more than she will ever know.
* Gibbs!!! My closest, most faithful friend through this kanswer process. She left her house before 7 this morning to meet me for the echo. And then she treated me to breakfast. Where do such amazing people come from???
* my husband of 21+ years who celebrated his 48th birthday this week
* being able to surprise him with a night away from home at a local hotel
* the look on his face when I told him we weren't going home that night
* safe travel back and forth from all the places we go every day and every week
* the fact that my mother was not injured in the car accident she was involved in this morning
* the four "good samaritans" who got out of their cars to check on her after she was rear-ended
* quickly blanched broccoli and tri-color peppers sauteed with sea salt and freshly ground pepper
* time spent every day sitting on my yoga block, cross legged, eyes closed, mind quiet, steeped in peace
* the undeniable layer of peach fuzz on my head (and also on other body parts...)
* wandering through the Nordstrom shoe section with my daughter
I am not a fan of high heeled shoes...
especially after seeing this price tag!
Flats are much more my style...
until I saw this price tag.
* I'm soooooooo grateful that I'm not "a shoe person."
* Recently I remembered an earlier post in which I declared that, in the face of kanswer and all its attendant treatments, I was not afraid. I had some time alone in my car today and used some of that time to take the pulse of my soul, my mind, my spirit in light of the fact that the first three days of next week will include meeting with my oncologist, my ob-gyn, and my surgeon in order to make final plans and decisions about surgery. I found that fear is still not a factor for me these days. I am not looking forward to the surgery that is soon to be scheduled. Nor am I looking forward to radiation treatments. However, I look forward to all of these treatments being behind me. But I am not afraid.
* Propped up in my bed on a sunny, cool Thursday evening in March, I am grateful to be alive, to be married, to have two children I adore, to have a kanswer support team that checks in with me regularly, and above all, I am grateful to be loved.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Holy Week
I've often wondered why this week is called "holy" in the church. For me, the days between Palm Sunday and Resurrection Sunday are the darkest in the story of our faith. These were the days when Jesus was betrayed, denied, arrested, murdered, and buried. It has never felt like a holy time to me. But that's what this week is called - Holy.
Ann Weems wrote a few lines that are resounding in my head on this Holy Monday night. These lines come from a poem she called "Holy Week," from a book she called Kneeling in Jerusalem.
Holy is the week...
Holy, consecrated, belonging to God...
We move from hosannas to horror
with the preditable ease
of those who know not what they do.
Our hosannas sung,
our palms waved,
let us go with passion into this week.
It is time to curse fig trees that do not yield fruit.
It is time to cleanse our temples of any blasphemy.
It is time to greet Jesus as the Lord's Anointed One,
to lavishly break our alabaster
and pour perfume out for him
without counting the cost.
It is time for preparation...
The time to give thanks and break bread is upon us.
The time to give thanks and drink of the cup is imminent.
Eat, drink, remember:
On this night of nights, each one must ask,
as we dip our bread in the wine,
"Is it I?"
And on that darkest of days, each of us must stand
beneath the tree
and watch the dying
if we are to be there
when the stone is rolled away.
The only road to Easter morning
is through the unrelenting shadows of that Friday.
Only then will the alleluias be sung;
only then will the dancing begin.
*****************
I do remember why this is called holy.
It's because after the betrayal, denial, the suffering and the dying,
there will be an empty tomb on Sunday morning.
Because that is when he rose again.
That is when light overcame darkness.
That is when life overcame death.
Holy Lord!
Holy Light!
Holy Redeemer!
Holy Resurrection!
I don't know about you, but I am ready for new life.
I am ready for giving thanks and shouting alleluia.
I am ready for eating, drinking and merry dancing.
I am ready to celebrate the craziest story of love, of life,
of resurrection and redemption ever told.
May this week be holy.
May every day be holy.
Ann Weems wrote a few lines that are resounding in my head on this Holy Monday night. These lines come from a poem she called "Holy Week," from a book she called Kneeling in Jerusalem.
Holy is the week...
Holy, consecrated, belonging to God...
We move from hosannas to horror
with the preditable ease
of those who know not what they do.
Our hosannas sung,
our palms waved,
let us go with passion into this week.
It is time to curse fig trees that do not yield fruit.
It is time to cleanse our temples of any blasphemy.
It is time to greet Jesus as the Lord's Anointed One,
to lavishly break our alabaster
and pour perfume out for him
without counting the cost.
It is time for preparation...
The time to give thanks and break bread is upon us.
The time to give thanks and drink of the cup is imminent.
Eat, drink, remember:
On this night of nights, each one must ask,
as we dip our bread in the wine,
"Is it I?"
And on that darkest of days, each of us must stand
beneath the tree
and watch the dying
if we are to be there
when the stone is rolled away.
The only road to Easter morning
is through the unrelenting shadows of that Friday.
Only then will the alleluias be sung;
only then will the dancing begin.
*****************
I do remember why this is called holy.
It's because after the betrayal, denial, the suffering and the dying,
there will be an empty tomb on Sunday morning.
Because that is when he rose again.
That is when light overcame darkness.
That is when life overcame death.
Holy Lord!
Holy Light!
Holy Redeemer!
Holy Resurrection!
I don't know about you, but I am ready for new life.
I am ready for giving thanks and shouting alleluia.
I am ready for eating, drinking and merry dancing.
I am ready to celebrate the craziest story of love, of life,
of resurrection and redemption ever told.
May this week be holy.
May every day be holy.
Friday, March 22, 2013
If only more introductions were this honest...
A few weeks ago, my home phone rang.
I picked it up, looked at the caller ID screen, and saw this.
I didn't answer.
If poorly manufactured products came with a similar label,
we probably wouldn't buy them.
If seedy, greedy potential partners flashed this message across their foreheads,
we probably wouldn't date them.
If preachers and teachers who preached and taught only about the wrath of God,
never touching on the love, mercy, grace, and forgiveness of God,
had these words emblazoned on the big screens overhead,
we wouldn't attend their churches anymore.
Unfortunately, we don't always get such a clear message.
We've gotta keep our eyes, ears, hearts, and minds wide open,
first listening to what others do and say
and then noticing how their words and actions affect our hearts and minds.
I need to listen first and then notice how those things affect my heart and my mind.
I need to make this all more personal.
I have purchased cheap appliances, shoes, writing utensils, clothing, and more -
and had to discard them far sooner than anticipated.
I have been discarded by seedy, greedy partners.
And don't get me started on the wounds I have suffered as a result of the words and actions of past pastors. Don't even get me started!
Even though the "fraudulent call" sign doesn't appear in my life very often,
the warning light in my heart does.
In my mind and my spirit as well.
Saying things like -
"Don't believe a word of this."
"Don't try to fix this. It's not your problem to solve."
"Don't answer that email."
"That's it. I'm done. It's time to go."
"Just say no. 'No' is a complete sentence."
"You said what you needed to say. Now leave it alone."
More often, though, I hear positive messages like this -
"She is safe and trustworthy."
"He is a true friend."
"Listen closely. Then decide."
"Take a chance. Say yes."
"Go ahead, Gail. Do it. Enjoy yourself."
"I am not alone. I am being held and loved."
"Something healing this way comes." (This one is from Jen Lemen.)
"All is well, Gail. All is well. All manner of things shall be well."
I picked it up, looked at the caller ID screen, and saw this.
I didn't answer.
If poorly manufactured products came with a similar label,
we probably wouldn't buy them.
If seedy, greedy potential partners flashed this message across their foreheads,
we probably wouldn't date them.
If preachers and teachers who preached and taught only about the wrath of God,
never touching on the love, mercy, grace, and forgiveness of God,
had these words emblazoned on the big screens overhead,
we wouldn't attend their churches anymore.
Unfortunately, we don't always get such a clear message.
We've gotta keep our eyes, ears, hearts, and minds wide open,
first listening to what others do and say
and then noticing how their words and actions affect our hearts and minds.
I need to listen first and then notice how those things affect my heart and my mind.
I need to make this all more personal.
I have purchased cheap appliances, shoes, writing utensils, clothing, and more -
and had to discard them far sooner than anticipated.
I have been discarded by seedy, greedy partners.
And don't get me started on the wounds I have suffered as a result of the words and actions of past pastors. Don't even get me started!
Even though the "fraudulent call" sign doesn't appear in my life very often,
the warning light in my heart does.
In my mind and my spirit as well.
Saying things like -
"Don't believe a word of this."
"Don't try to fix this. It's not your problem to solve."
"Don't answer that email."
"That's it. I'm done. It's time to go."
"Just say no. 'No' is a complete sentence."
"You said what you needed to say. Now leave it alone."
More often, though, I hear positive messages like this -
"She is safe and trustworthy."
"He is a true friend."
"Listen closely. Then decide."
"Take a chance. Say yes."
"Go ahead, Gail. Do it. Enjoy yourself."
"I am not alone. I am being held and loved."
"Something healing this way comes." (This one is from Jen Lemen.)
"All is well, Gail. All is well. All manner of things shall be well."
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Speaking of neuropathy
One of the many side effects of one of the drugs used in healing therapy for kanswer is neuropathy.
Tingling and that "pins and needles" feeling come first.
My fingers no longer sense the keyboard, so I type the same letters over and over.
It feels like there's a thick pad between my feet and the floor.
A thick pad of nothingness.
Then numbness strikes.
There is no feeling at all.
Last week, my oncologist explained to me that different doctors handle the neuropathy problem in different ways. The deeper the infiltration of the drugs in the body's systems, the more acute the numbness - and the less likely it is that feeling will return. Ever. However, the deeper the infiltration, some doctors think, the greater the effect of the medication on the kanswer. Some doctors say elimination of kanswer is more important than anything else. They say that numbness is better than pain, better than kanswer. Many of their patients, myself included, disagree.
From another perspective, when also considering surgery, radiation, tamoxiphen, and other treatments that are often administered, there are doctors who argue that permanent loss of feeling in the hands and feet is a high price to pay for one small part of the overall healing protocol. My doctor falls into this latter group - and I'm grateful he does.
Speaking of neuropathy naturally got me to thinking about feeling - or the lack thereof - in other areas of my life.
Sometimes I will wake up in the middle of a conversation and find myself listening to someone telling me stories of discoveries and disappointments, their breakthroughs and insights - and I realize that I simply don't care. I don't want to hear another story about another great website or book. I don't want more advice on how to deal with kanswer or marriage or disappointment or parenting teenagers or saving for retirement or a possible war in Iran or homeschooling or environmental awareness or whether or not I still drink coffee with sugar.
I'm numb. I'm deaf. I'm blind. And I can't taste anything at all. I'm overwhelmed. I'm underwhelmed. I'm exhausted. I'm living through the biggest battle of my life. I'm numb, folks. The pins and needles feeling is long gone. There's a big fat pad of nothingness between me and you, between my soul and yours. Neuropathy has set in, big time.
Worst of all, there are many moments when I wake up in the middle of a meal or at the end of a meal, after a workout, after a shower, after a marathon session of staring at a blank page in my journal and playing with the pen in my hand - and I realize that I'm feeling a certain numbness with regard to my own life. I know I'm supposed to be paying close attention, but I'm not. I'm supposed to be gaining deep insight about the things of faith, life, hope, health, balance, and grace, but I'm not. I'm supposed to be coming up with new and innovative ways to homeschool and parent, to be a wife and daughter, to live out my big dreams and impact others in my life and sphere of influence - but I'm not. I find myself slouching and shuffling through too many days not writing, not reading, not reaching out to my friends, and not taking phone calls. I'm numb. There's a big fat pad of nothingness between me and my own mind, my own body, and my own soul.
What I'm discovering these days is that many of the truths about chemo-related neuropathy apply to the numbness I so often feel in my mind and soul as well.
The longer the numbness lasts, the less likely it seems that the feeling will come back. Ever.
The less likely I am to do make the decision to stop the numbing treatments.
The less likely I am to want to feel again.
Because it's kind of nice to not feel pain or loneliness or fear or inadequacy.
It's nice to not be plagued with questions and doubts.
It's nice to have a big fat pad of nothingness between myself and life's greatest challenges.
Numbness has its benefits.
Not so much!
Besides I don't want to have a nice life.
I want a passionate life, a committed life,
a life of connection and love,
intimacy and relationship.
Numbness sucks.
Numbness allows people to step on nails or splinters, not notice, develop an infection - and die.
Numbness allows people to handle hot pots and pans and not feel the pain - but their flesh is still destroyed.
Numbness allows parents to watch idly while their children grow up and move away without ever enjoying deep and meaningful connections with them.
Numbness allows people to spend money mindlessly or save money joylessly and never understand either.
Numbness allows marriages to disintegrate because neither partner is willing to be vulnerable enough to express true needs, feelings, desires, or fears with the other. We shut down. We close ourselves off.
Numbness allows us deny our strength, our courage, our determination because we stop believing we are worthy of honor and praise for just how hard we work to stay alive and stay involved in our lives.
Numbness allows us to get to the place where we can't even put words to our desires and passions and longings because we don't allow ourselves to feel anything good.
Numbness allows us to say that nothing is wrong because nothing really is wrong. Nothing much is happening at all.
Numbness allows us to get to the place where we can't even remember what life used to feel like.
Numbness is not good.
Numbness sucks.
On Friday, I began to feel strange and unwelcome feeling in my feet. Pins and needles. Ouch. Walking was painful. I changed my socks. I changed my slippers. Nothing seemed to help. Ouch.
My fingers throbbed, especially my fingertips. And typing on my Blackberry caused me to wince. Ouch.
Crap! Here we go - more side effects.
Wait, Gail - this is what you wanted.
Feeling is returning. It doesn't feel great yet. It doesn't feel like it used to feel before all this happened. But at least I feel something.
Same thing with my heart.
I'm waking up again.
Listening to others more intentionally.
Listening to myself, my body, and my soul most of all.
Letting the tears flow.
Kanswer is lonely. Kanswer is scary. Healing is hard.
Nothing will ever be the same as it used to be. Nothing. Ever.
I'm trying hard to believe and accept that that is a good thing.
Letting the laughter come as well.
I have very funny friends. I have enormously generous friends.
My children's friends are pretty awesome too.
There is some funny stuff on Youtube.
There is beauty all around me and also within me.
Paint, crayons, markers, pencils, scissors, glue tape, paper clips, and needles and thread have been flying around here this week. It's fun being creative.
The sun is shining. Birds are landing on our deck.
Ants are making thousands of small red hills in our neighborhood.
Kristiana said it looks like my hair might be starting to grow back.
(We are boundless optimists, my daughter and I!)
I am accepting compliments from those around me.
For someone who just finished six rounds of chemotherapy, I do look pretty good.
It is pretty great that I can cook, clean, do laundry, walk the dog, go to the supermarket and take care of my children even during these long weeks of treatment.
I wish I didn't have to do all of this at this time
(I wish someone could make me numb to how hard that truth is...)
but I am doing it - and I'm doing it pretty doggone well.
Numbness has its uses. Numbness has its place.
But I'm tired of talking about neuropathy.
I'm ready for full sensation again.
I'm ready to touch and be touched,
to listen and be listened to,
to see and be seen,
and I am ready to taste and be tasted.
Again.
For the first time.
Tingling and that "pins and needles" feeling come first.
My fingers no longer sense the keyboard, so I type the same letters over and over.
It feels like there's a thick pad between my feet and the floor.
A thick pad of nothingness.
Then numbness strikes.
There is no feeling at all.
Last week, my oncologist explained to me that different doctors handle the neuropathy problem in different ways. The deeper the infiltration of the drugs in the body's systems, the more acute the numbness - and the less likely it is that feeling will return. Ever. However, the deeper the infiltration, some doctors think, the greater the effect of the medication on the kanswer. Some doctors say elimination of kanswer is more important than anything else. They say that numbness is better than pain, better than kanswer. Many of their patients, myself included, disagree.
From another perspective, when also considering surgery, radiation, tamoxiphen, and other treatments that are often administered, there are doctors who argue that permanent loss of feeling in the hands and feet is a high price to pay for one small part of the overall healing protocol. My doctor falls into this latter group - and I'm grateful he does.
Speaking of neuropathy naturally got me to thinking about feeling - or the lack thereof - in other areas of my life.
Sometimes I will wake up in the middle of a conversation and find myself listening to someone telling me stories of discoveries and disappointments, their breakthroughs and insights - and I realize that I simply don't care. I don't want to hear another story about another great website or book. I don't want more advice on how to deal with kanswer or marriage or disappointment or parenting teenagers or saving for retirement or a possible war in Iran or homeschooling or environmental awareness or whether or not I still drink coffee with sugar.
I'm numb. I'm deaf. I'm blind. And I can't taste anything at all. I'm overwhelmed. I'm underwhelmed. I'm exhausted. I'm living through the biggest battle of my life. I'm numb, folks. The pins and needles feeling is long gone. There's a big fat pad of nothingness between me and you, between my soul and yours. Neuropathy has set in, big time.
Worst of all, there are many moments when I wake up in the middle of a meal or at the end of a meal, after a workout, after a shower, after a marathon session of staring at a blank page in my journal and playing with the pen in my hand - and I realize that I'm feeling a certain numbness with regard to my own life. I know I'm supposed to be paying close attention, but I'm not. I'm supposed to be gaining deep insight about the things of faith, life, hope, health, balance, and grace, but I'm not. I'm supposed to be coming up with new and innovative ways to homeschool and parent, to be a wife and daughter, to live out my big dreams and impact others in my life and sphere of influence - but I'm not. I find myself slouching and shuffling through too many days not writing, not reading, not reaching out to my friends, and not taking phone calls. I'm numb. There's a big fat pad of nothingness between me and my own mind, my own body, and my own soul.
What I'm discovering these days is that many of the truths about chemo-related neuropathy apply to the numbness I so often feel in my mind and soul as well.
The longer the numbness lasts, the less likely it seems that the feeling will come back. Ever.
The less likely I am to do make the decision to stop the numbing treatments.
The less likely I am to want to feel again.
Because it's kind of nice to not feel pain or loneliness or fear or inadequacy.
It's nice to not be plagued with questions and doubts.
It's nice to have a big fat pad of nothingness between myself and life's greatest challenges.
Numbness has its benefits.
Not so much!
Besides I don't want to have a nice life.
I want a passionate life, a committed life,
a life of connection and love,
intimacy and relationship.
Numbness sucks.
Numbness allows people to step on nails or splinters, not notice, develop an infection - and die.
Numbness allows people to handle hot pots and pans and not feel the pain - but their flesh is still destroyed.
Numbness allows parents to watch idly while their children grow up and move away without ever enjoying deep and meaningful connections with them.
Numbness allows people to spend money mindlessly or save money joylessly and never understand either.
Numbness allows marriages to disintegrate because neither partner is willing to be vulnerable enough to express true needs, feelings, desires, or fears with the other. We shut down. We close ourselves off.
Numbness allows us deny our strength, our courage, our determination because we stop believing we are worthy of honor and praise for just how hard we work to stay alive and stay involved in our lives.
Numbness allows us to get to the place where we can't even put words to our desires and passions and longings because we don't allow ourselves to feel anything good.
Numbness allows us to say that nothing is wrong because nothing really is wrong. Nothing much is happening at all.
Numbness allows us to get to the place where we can't even remember what life used to feel like.
Numbness is not good.
Numbness sucks.
On Friday, I began to feel strange and unwelcome feeling in my feet. Pins and needles. Ouch. Walking was painful. I changed my socks. I changed my slippers. Nothing seemed to help. Ouch.
My fingers throbbed, especially my fingertips. And typing on my Blackberry caused me to wince. Ouch.
Crap! Here we go - more side effects.
Wait, Gail - this is what you wanted.
Feeling is returning. It doesn't feel great yet. It doesn't feel like it used to feel before all this happened. But at least I feel something.
Same thing with my heart.
I'm waking up again.
Listening to others more intentionally.
Listening to myself, my body, and my soul most of all.
Letting the tears flow.
Kanswer is lonely. Kanswer is scary. Healing is hard.
Nothing will ever be the same as it used to be. Nothing. Ever.
I'm trying hard to believe and accept that that is a good thing.
Letting the laughter come as well.
I have very funny friends. I have enormously generous friends.
My children's friends are pretty awesome too.
There is some funny stuff on Youtube.
There is beauty all around me and also within me.
Paint, crayons, markers, pencils, scissors, glue tape, paper clips, and needles and thread have been flying around here this week. It's fun being creative.
The sun is shining. Birds are landing on our deck.
Ants are making thousands of small red hills in our neighborhood.
Kristiana said it looks like my hair might be starting to grow back.
(We are boundless optimists, my daughter and I!)
I am accepting compliments from those around me.
For someone who just finished six rounds of chemotherapy, I do look pretty good.
It is pretty great that I can cook, clean, do laundry, walk the dog, go to the supermarket and take care of my children even during these long weeks of treatment.
I wish I didn't have to do all of this at this time
(I wish someone could make me numb to how hard that truth is...)
but I am doing it - and I'm doing it pretty doggone well.
Numbness has its uses. Numbness has its place.
But I'm tired of talking about neuropathy.
I'm ready for full sensation again.
I'm ready to touch and be touched,
to listen and be listened to,
to see and be seen,
and I am ready to taste and be tasted.
Again.
For the first time.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Thankful Thursday
The week of my healing treatments is hard. Very hard. Following the Monday morning infusion, I spend the rest of the week exhausted, achy, slightly queasy, and pissed off that I have kanswer. I get really angry about the kanswer thing. But this week is different - because it is my last one!!! Thanks be to God!
The treatment I underwent this past Monday varied from the previous five rounds in one crucially important aspect: I did not receive the drug that causes the numbness in my hands and feet. The oncologist informed me that the worse the numbness gets, the less likely it is that it will ever go away. So when he offered me the option to forego that dastardly drug on this last round, what do you think I said??? I still feel pretty crappy today, as I always do on the Thursday of treatment week, but there is more hope in today's crappiness!
That last sentence may be the oddest one I have ever written... but it is true: in spite of today's crappiness, I feel a deep sense of hope and also of gratitude.
Today, I am grateful for:
* the sunshine that is brightening my bedroom as I write this
* the ease of borrowing books and movies from the library
* laughter
* the pale green quilt thrown casually over my ice cold, slightly numb feet
* how easy it is to spend hours watching Iron Chef America and Man vs. Food
* the freedom and space that result from decluttering
* the ways in which so many dreams are coming true - books published (go Glennon!), exhibitions put up in galleries (go Pamela!), and even an appearance on Oprah (go Brene!)
* the ability to watch them bring their dreams to life without any nagging sense of jealousy or envy (most of the time!)
* the peace the comes from knowing that this is my story - right here, right now - and consciously making the choice to live out this story as it is being written for me and through me, one day, one breath, one moment at a time
* the fact that I am able to take all this time and space to rest and recover from chemo. I cannot imagine how difficult it must be to work full-time outside of the home and also be able to take gentle and tender care of oneself during treatment for this or any dis-ease.
* the ways in which my my eyes, my mind, and my heart are being opened to the suffering and needs of others because of my current situation
* the fact that my husband and children don't care about any kanswer-fighting diet - they know and still love "the old me" and they keep bringing me candy and cookies because that's the stuff that used to make me so happy
* the simple, complex, miraculous, life-altering, and profound gift of being seen, heard, and loved just as I am
* how frequently my most challenging moments occur at exactly the same time that someone is moved to write to me, call me, or check in here at the blog - and then they reach out and tell me about the synchronicity of the need and the prayer, the pain and the remembrance, the loneliness and the loving thought
* the knowledge that three weeks from now, I won't be recovering from another round of healing therapy
* the undeniable buds of hope and joy that are pushing up through the winter-burned soil of my soul
Kanswer sucks. So do so many things that all of us are dealing with. I've heard from many of you - financial challenges, recovery from surgery, broken relationships, children in distress, addiction, fear, loneliness - we all are dealing with something. I can't promise that things will get better. No one can. I can't promise that the job will come through before the next mortgage payment is due or that he will make the right choice or that the diagnosis will be in your favor.
One thing I know for sure is this - hope and joy are always possible. We can cling to faith. We can cling to each other. We can cling to God. I don't know about you, but I refuse to give up hope. I refuse to give up on the future. I refuse because I have the rest of my life to live. I have two teenagers yet to push out of the nest. I have a husband who has never given up on me. So how can I give up on him or them or myself? What else have we got, folks? What else have we got?
* One last thing - I am grateful to be alive.
The treatment I underwent this past Monday varied from the previous five rounds in one crucially important aspect: I did not receive the drug that causes the numbness in my hands and feet. The oncologist informed me that the worse the numbness gets, the less likely it is that it will ever go away. So when he offered me the option to forego that dastardly drug on this last round, what do you think I said??? I still feel pretty crappy today, as I always do on the Thursday of treatment week, but there is more hope in today's crappiness!
That last sentence may be the oddest one I have ever written... but it is true: in spite of today's crappiness, I feel a deep sense of hope and also of gratitude.
Today, I am grateful for:
* the sunshine that is brightening my bedroom as I write this
* the ease of borrowing books and movies from the library
* laughter
* the pale green quilt thrown casually over my ice cold, slightly numb feet
* how easy it is to spend hours watching Iron Chef America and Man vs. Food
* the freedom and space that result from decluttering
* the ways in which so many dreams are coming true - books published (go Glennon!), exhibitions put up in galleries (go Pamela!), and even an appearance on Oprah (go Brene!)
* the ability to watch them bring their dreams to life without any nagging sense of jealousy or envy (most of the time!)
* the peace the comes from knowing that this is my story - right here, right now - and consciously making the choice to live out this story as it is being written for me and through me, one day, one breath, one moment at a time
* the fact that I am able to take all this time and space to rest and recover from chemo. I cannot imagine how difficult it must be to work full-time outside of the home and also be able to take gentle and tender care of oneself during treatment for this or any dis-ease.
* the ways in which my my eyes, my mind, and my heart are being opened to the suffering and needs of others because of my current situation
* the fact that my husband and children don't care about any kanswer-fighting diet - they know and still love "the old me" and they keep bringing me candy and cookies because that's the stuff that used to make me so happy
* the simple, complex, miraculous, life-altering, and profound gift of being seen, heard, and loved just as I am
* how frequently my most challenging moments occur at exactly the same time that someone is moved to write to me, call me, or check in here at the blog - and then they reach out and tell me about the synchronicity of the need and the prayer, the pain and the remembrance, the loneliness and the loving thought
* the knowledge that three weeks from now, I won't be recovering from another round of healing therapy
* my wonderful chiropractor who has supported me with supplements, information, and encouragement since the day of my diagnosis, and also with palpable excitement about what I will be able to do to reduce the chances of kanswer's recurrence and live a healthier life once all of this is behind me
Kanswer sucks. So do so many things that all of us are dealing with. I've heard from many of you - financial challenges, recovery from surgery, broken relationships, children in distress, addiction, fear, loneliness - we all are dealing with something. I can't promise that things will get better. No one can. I can't promise that the job will come through before the next mortgage payment is due or that he will make the right choice or that the diagnosis will be in your favor.
One thing I know for sure is this - hope and joy are always possible. We can cling to faith. We can cling to each other. We can cling to God. I don't know about you, but I refuse to give up hope. I refuse to give up on the future. I refuse because I have the rest of my life to live. I have two teenagers yet to push out of the nest. I have a husband who has never given up on me. So how can I give up on him or them or myself? What else have we got, folks? What else have we got?
* One last thing - I am grateful to be alive.
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