Choosing Joy

Throughout this breast cancer roller coaster ride, I have tried to prepare myself to hear all sorts of news; weekly blood cell counts, test results, doctor recommendations, etc. It is tempting to prepare yourself for the worst so you aren’t caught off guard, but this can also be a slippery slope. Focusing on the bad news, setbacks or loss can bring its share of melancholy, fear, anxiety and depression. Once you steer down this rabbit hole, it can be difficult to climb out. My body has been physically wiped out by the chemotherapy and my mind has raced through every scenario and cloudy maze of possibilities – both good and bad. But as hard as I have tried, I cannot see what the future holds. I can only trust in the choices we have made, trust in modern medicine, trust in God’s ultimate love for His children and hope for the best. In The Mockingjay, a book in the Hunger Games series, a character advises the heroine that it is best not to give into the madness because it takes ten times longer to put yourself back together than it does to let yourself fall apart. I have found this to be true. I am usually a positive person by nature, a make-lemonade-out-of-lemons kind of person, but no one can stay positive 100% of the time. There are many negative people in the world, Debbie Downers who thrive on looking for the worst in others, the downside of all situations, or the tragedies of life. The internet is full of trolls and haters who continually look for opportunities to put others down, stir the negativity pot and dish out their ugliness. I wonder if spreading their pessimistic attitudes are an attempt to make themselves feel better somehow or if it secures their notion that all in the world is as ugly as they choose to see it. I have found that it takes just as much energy, if not more so, to remain in this constant negative emotional state. Being a grumpy cat can be exhausting. How we choose to see the world is an individual choice and everyday we wake up with the opportunity to choose for ourselves. We each have this free agency. No one can tell us which road to take because it is our decision and ours alone. I have found that trying to prepare or brace myself for bad news only robs me of experiencing small pleasures and receiving my daily allotment of joy. Did you know that each day has a joy allotment? It can be easy to miss if we are focused on the negative – but it is there. It might sound corny, but I can see it in the way the tree branches sway in the wind, I can hear it in the laughter of my children and sense it in the wag of my dog’s tail. Scripture reminds us that we are creatures who were meant to feel joy in our creation. It is not ignorance or tunnel vision, it is a choice in how we see the world around us. I must take responsibility for my choices – they were and continue to be mine alone – I own them.

As difficult as chemo was, it did its job. It killed the cancer cells and my tumor shrank to almost nothing. We were given the opportunity to choose the least invasive surgical option available. Tomorrow I will undergo surgery, a lumpectomy of the tissue area surrounding the tumor, the removal of my port and several lymph nodes. So in other words, it looks like I get to keep ‘the girls’. I could choose a mastectomy, single or double, but this is ultimately not what I wanted. I know several friends tried to look for the positive in all of this by pointing out I could have a boob job, but to be honest, I have never had the desire for a boob job. My breasts might be saggy and covered in stretch marks, but they are mine and I am thrilled to keep them in whatever capacity possible. We should have the pathology results from the surgery in about a week, but we feel it’s more of a precaution. I will start radiation treatments in September. In the meanwhile, I will recover from the surgery and look forward to starting my graduate teaching assistantship at BSU on August 15th. We are going camping for a few days and plan to enjoy the rest of the summer.

I sat with my feet in the neighborhood pool the other night and watched my kids swim, splash and joke with each other. We each felt joy in our creation – joy in our existence, in being together, in being alive. This is what God wants for us, this joy… its our job to find it.

Making a Wish

My last two eyelashes shot out from my right eyelid. Defiant little buggers, as if they could make a case on their own. Hmmm, these must be resilient, determined, stubborn eyelashes. They must not realize it’s the Alamo; all their friends have fluttered off in the wind. What do they hope to prove? They look ridiculous these two, all by themselves in contrast against a watery eye with a murky, muddy pupil. I used to have dark brown eyes, now they are more like hazel mush. Eyeliner doesn’t stay on or help much. My eyes have become lost in a blank landscape of steroids and medications; a pale and puffy bla. As much as I touch, rub or moisturize, this is not the face I know. Breast cancer has taken who I used to be over the past six months and left a blank faced blob in its place. It is usually easier not to look, to avoid mirrors when possible, but there are times when I catch a passing glimpse and I am shocked by the bald stranger peering back at me. Today is different. I sit behind the wheel of the car, feeling a light breeze while waiting in a parking lot. There is not much to do other than lower the visor and flip up the mirror to take a gander. I focus heavily on the two absurd eyelashes and wonder what makes them cling on… nothing. They are just remnants which don’t realize they’ve been left behind. With a small squeeze, they release their stronghold, no pain, no twinge of angst; they lay motionless on the tip of my numb fingertip. Now what? Make a wish baby. I remember balancing an eyelash for my daughter several years ago; it had fallen lightly on her cheek, I scooped up the treasure and we grinned at each other at the excitement of making a wish. Any wish. The options were endless and she relished in the moment of her heart’s desire. With a light puff the eyelash was gone and the wish delivered to the universe on the breath of a beautiful child.

Today is different. Today is just a desperate woman, staring at her last two eyelashes, wondering if the wish counts since she pulled them out herself. A wish is still a wish afterall… Today we’ll have the MRI. Today we will see if the months of pumping my body full of chemo treatments have done the job they were meant to do: the necessary evil of killing the growing cells, shrinking the tumor and somehow saving the rest of my body. Today my body will tell a story. Like most stories, the climax is cleverly disguised near the end and we must wait patiently for the answers to be recited back to us in a doctor’s office. We meet with the surgeons on Thursday. We will calmly discuss how much of my body to amputate, how much must be taken, as if the toll we’ve paid so far has meant nothing. This has all just been superficial. The loss of hair, the loss of health, physical strength and my place in the world. Even as fingernails bubble up, throb a steady pulse and threaten to fall away, I know they do not matter. They are collateral damage to the bigger picture. Have we done enough? Have we damaged the body to a point where the cancer will release its twisting grasp and relinquish its selfish claim? I imagine that if we damage the body with enough certainty, then the host becomes inhospitable, right? Unfriendly and unwelcoming to the foreigner who decided to set up camp several months ago. Get out of my body, I want to scream, you can’t have it anymore. But the words are weighed down below my collarbone, the suspense tightening around my chest like a vice, squeezing my ribs until they ache, making it difficult to breathe. I close my eyes and lean back, letting go of the fear, frustration and madness. I breathe in through my nose and peak out to see if the eyelashes still hopefully exist. There they stand, the two lonely lashes, balancing precariously on the tip of my pointer finger, waiting to be cast out into the world. Ok, you two little buggers, here we go: I examine them closely and wish for my life back. I wish for my husband’s happiness and to see our children grow old. I wish for time to slow down enough to savor every minute of each given day. I wish for laughter around the dinner table and the warmth of the sun shining on the faces of those I love. I wish for peace of mind and doctors who know how to help my body heal. I calmly blow the air out, every ounce I can muster and all the wishes I have left. The eyelashes are gone… a silent offering delivered to the universe on the breath of a wishful woman with muddy eyes.

 

Saying ‘Happy Father’s Day’ Doesn’t Do Him Justice

In the summer after 8^th grade, he briefly let go of my hand and smiled awkwardly as he wiped off his sweaty palm, then nervously grabbed my hand again and squeezed. With butterflies in my stomach, I thought it might be love.   

When he was sixteen, we rode up a chairlift on a cold winter day and I rubbed my hands together for warmth. He calmly took each of my gloves and blew into them with his warm breath, then placed the warmed gloves back on my frozen fingers. I looked into his kind eyes and knew it was a love too real for teenagers.

A year later, he had just been baptized and the Holy Spirit filled his heart, he hugged me tight in a crowded church lobby as tears streamed down his face. I thought how much God loved him and I knew he had a plan for us… either together or apart… I knew he would always be my first love.

He was a few months shy of nineteen, sitting on a picnic table in Mueller Park Canyon as I sobbed out the words, “I’m pregnant,” but this is when his eyes lit up and he enthusiastically exclaimed, “Now we can get married!” He held me tight and I thought I would never love him more than at that moment.

Six months later in a hospital room, a squirmy newborn flailed and screamed at the top of his lungs as we attempted to change our first diaper and realized we didn’t know what to do. I panicked and pushed the emergency nurse button. After the annoyed nurse rolled her eyes and reviewed the diapering  procedure once more, he looked at me with confidence and said, “It’s gonna be okay; we can do this.” I was skeptical, but I knew I couldn’t love him more.

Later that year, we each held one of our son’s tiny hands as he laid on a beautiful alter adorn in lace. Our sweet baby smiled at us as Tim looked me in the eyes and promised me forever.  We felt God’s love bless our little family and I thought I couldn’t love him more.

At twenty-three, he convinced me to move to Idaho where we didn’t know a single soul. I complained one night about missing my friends and he said he would be my best friend. The move turned out to be the best thing for our marriage and family; he’s been my best friend ever since and I thought I couldn’t love him more.

When he was twenty-seven years old, he took it upon himself to cook Sunday dinners. Everyone knows he’s a much better cook than I, but having this reprieve was priceless and became a tradition the kids looked forward to ever since. Each Sunday as we sit down for dinner together as a family, I swear I couldn’t love him more.  

At thirty, while stumbling over Legos, army men, and toddler toys, I was holding a baby on my hip and in denial that I could possibly be pregnant again, I watched him as he stood among a pile of laundry and methodically folded the clean clothes. I realized there is nothing more enduring than a man willingly folding laundry. I knew I couldn’t love him more.

At thirty-three, he fished, golfed, coached our kids’ sports teams, and took time off work to go to scout camp. He called home in tears one night as the realization sunk in that our oldest would never be like the other boys. He didn’t express self-pity or disappointment; it was an overwhelming compassion and love for our son as he wept, “I never fully understood.” Regardless of what the future held, I knew we were together in raising him the best we could and I had never loved him more than at that moment.

He was thirty-eight when a rebellious child declared his independent rage and frustration with a mother who was holding on too tight. He looked up to the growing child with a firm tone and warned him to never speak to his mother that way again. We slowly learned to let go, but our love for each other and united front has been a constant. I knew I couldn’t love him more.

At forty-two, he wiped away my tears while calmly explaining college algebra at 1am in the morning. He encouraged me and told me I could do it, that I was smarter than I realized. So whatever degree I would eventually earn, it belongs to him as well. I loved his logic and unwavering support, because college would simply not have been possible without him. I thought I couldn’t love him more... but I was wrong.

At forty-five he holds me tight through the pain and fear of breast cancer. He’s been there throughout the endless appointments, medications and sickness, caressing my patchy bald head and bloated face while insisting I will always be beautiful to him. His positive reassurance is what calms me the most, and his resolve that “We will do whatever it takes to be together another forty years.” There’s no way I could ever love him more. 

The love of my life has continued to amaze me, this incredibly steady and strong husband of mine. He has shown our children what true love is all about and what it means to be a good father… a good man. Whatever challenges, trials, or adventures life has brought throughout the years, I thought I couldn’t love him more – but he continues to prove me wrong each day as our love evolves and grows.      

Four weeks of chemo remaining...

Four weeks of chemo remaining...

Distractions are wonderful: June has brought much needed relief; summer has arrived, Jake has moved back home after graduating from ISU, Mason is preparing for a National IT Skills Competition in Kentucky, my sister Jill came from Austin, TX to visit and help us, the girls are both playing summer basketball for the high school throughout June and we love watching their games! Cheering them on and berating poor referee calls has been a great distraction. Having only four weekly chemo treatments remaining has given us something to look forward to as well. It seems we are over the worst of it, or my body has finally adjusted to the newer chemo treatments, or I am holding down more food, so I have more physical strength. Whatever it is, I feel renewed and can see light at the end of the tunnel even as I lose my eyelashes and eyebrows. The past three months were a real test, and I feel like I have crawled back from the abyss of darkness. It is interesting; my body is weaker than it’s ever been in my life, but I feel an unexplained spiritual strength. Is this the refiner’s fire? We still have a long way to go this year, but making it through these months of chemo and the subsequent physical (and emotional) changes has forever changed my perspective and spiritual outlook.

Thank you to our loved ones: Words cannot explain how much we have appreciated the caring thoughts, sweet cards and care packages from friends and family from around the country. Support from loved ones has carried us through a very dark time of medical upheaval and financial stress. Although we are still living in a limbo of unanswered questions and uncertainty, we know God is looking out for us. We know we can make it through whatever comes, and it is mainly because of our incredible support system. Thank you.

The scoop: As previously mentioned, we have four weekly chemo treatments remaining, with the final treatment around July 7^th. So, what’s next? We’ll have an MRI and other tests to see how much the chemo has reduced the size of the tumor. I can feel that it is smaller and it seems to have released the pectoral muscle, because the pain in this area has subsided. We will meet with our surgeon again to work out our game plan and discuss the surgical options. It seems we’ll have surgery around the first week of August, take four to six weeks to heal and then follow it up with radiation treatments. The oncologist says the radiation treatments will probably last six weeks, with treatments everyday Monday through Friday; roughly 30 radiation treatments in all. This seems like a lot, but we are prepared to do whatever it takes to rid my body of this cancer. 

In other news: God continues to answer prayers when we least expect it. I had applied for the BSU Communication Graduate Program before I was diagnosed and this spring we found out I was selected to receive one of three Graduate Teaching Assistantships. This is a substantial award, which waives the tuition costs of graduate school and includes a small stipend. I will have a small office on campus, be considered part of the Communication Department staff, take classes and train to receive my college teaching certificate. The department heads have been very supportive regarding my medical situation and we are sure this will open doors for our family in the future. Although we aren’t exactly sure how everything will play out with my surgery and radiation, we know where there is a will, there is a way! This opportunity is a blessing for our family; we are confident and have faith that God has blessed us with this opportunity for a reason. Part of the assistantship includes training and teaching Communication 101 classes, which were originally supposed to start the week of August 22^nd, but due to my medical issues, they have agreed to let me receive the training throughout the fall and start teaching next semester (in January). I love to teach and knowing the BSU Comm Department sees my potential has been a real confidence booster; exactly what we needed to make it through this trial. We just have to get through the next few months of surgery and radiation, but knowing some of what our future holds helps me personally feel empowered, which was exactly what I needed after losing my prior job in the middle of my chemo treatments. Isn’t it amazing how blessings arrive when we are at our lowest, when we least expect them? Isn’t it amazing to sit back and let God steer our lives? We just have to trust that he knows where He is taking us. He knows us better than we know ourselves; he knows what we are capable of achieving. He knows each of us and wants the best for us, we just need to trust in Him and let Him steer. Being the ultimate backseat driver (just ask Tim & the kids), it is never easy to relinquish control and let others steer, but if we have learned anything recently, it is that we must learn to let go and trust in Him. There have been days and weeks over the past few months when I was not sure I was going to survive and still often feel I am just hanging on by my feeble fingernails throughout this journey. Although we are far from finished, we know the trick is to hang on to what matters and to let go of everything else, to have faith and to trust in God. He loves us and knows what we stand in need of; He will see us through.  

We Do Hard Things

There was a sign hanging in a friend's house. It said, “We do hard things.”  We are not above engaging in hard labor. We were raised to pull weeds, whistle while we worked, and put our shoulders to the wheel. I personally believe that if both hands are not busy, then I am not being productive. We have never had a housekeeper, hence our house has never been spotless. We have made our kids clean and tolerated eye rolls as we’ve demonstrated the correct way to clean bathrooms. We have threatened to take away phones, bribed with allowance and have done everything in our power to instill some sort of work ethic in our children. Sometimes the only way to get it across to them it to physically show them. Showing we can accomplish unpleasant items demonstrates to them, “We can do hard things” which will someday add up to bigger accomplishments.  The big picture of this might be lost on teenagers sometimes, but similar work ethic is necessary when accomplishing school work and studying for tests as well as carrying over into the workplace.  We might not like everything we are asked to do, but to prove our ourselves capable in the world, “we do hard things.”

Cancer is hard. Chemo is hard. Coming to terms with my own physical and mental limitations has been excruciating.  This month has been plagued with uncontrollable coughing, nausea/vomiting, dry heaves, rampant diarrhea, stomach cramps and dehydration.  There have been things this past month that I wanted to do and needed to do but simply was not able to do them to the caliber I am accustom. We have had to learn how to function with limitations. We have learned to say, "good enough pig” from the movie Babe & just accept our efforts as is. We have added extra IV fluids and last week we postponed my chemo treatment all together to give my body a chance to catch up. There have been exhausting moments filled with tears in the bathroom and rants when I have sworn I could not go on. But realizing my own limitations makes me realize once again I can only do my part and it’s time to put my trust in God. To ask for priesthood blessings, and to be reminded of God’s promise in Matthew 10:29-31, “Are not two sparrows sod for a farthing? And one of then shall not fall on the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more valve than many sparrows.” He knows the (lack of numbers) of hairs on my head  and just like the loving farmer from Babe, has helped me realize that, “good enough pig” will have to do right now. He knows us; He knows what we are suffering through; He will get us through this.

   

Throughout the past couple of weeks, we have had a rollercoaster ride. I lost my job, but I was also able to spend time with friends and family who help put things in perspective. I graduated from Boise State University in Bachelor of Arts; Communication on Saturday, with honors Cum Laude and a minor in Nonprofit Management. We watched our son earn his bachelor’s degree from Idaho State University in Health & Sciences Physical Education. We can’t wait to see what the future holds for him. We moved him

home and our house is full again, which I absolutely love. Even though I am weaker and sicker than I have ever been in my life, God is opening doors. He is blessing our family with the kindness of others and other tender mercies. He knows the hairs on our heads; he knows what we stand in need of.  Sometimes we just need to “do hard things” and get on with life.