Note to my readers: For the past few months, I have been trying, and failing, to write in my blog. Somehow I have gotten the misguided belief that each and every blog entry must be long and full of thought and intention and the result has been blog silence. Because I am apparently not capable of thought and intention these days. What I have been doing instead is writing long Facebook posts that could very well be blog posts. So I am trying to write the tiny bits of whatever is in my mind, and posting them as blog posts. Because, I've got to get this ship moving again. And this seems like a good way to start. I am so grateful for your patience, and faithfulness. It means everything to me!

And here we go....


I'm listening to worship music while making supper, and as always, I am amazed at how holy and lovely it is to serve God by caring for my family. I've written before about the glorious mundane, the gift of doing routine, common, humble duties with reverence and love, because God is in those we serve, and He is worthy. And we love our people so much, it is joy to meet their needs. And yes, I am in love with my people!

I remember, in another age, being in a group of men who were discussing how monks had missed God's calling by cloistering themselves in monasteries, studying the Word of God, praying and serving the communities around them. Apparently, by limiting themselves to service, they were missing the CALLING. THE BIG THING.

So, they worked in their gardens, fed wandering travelers, prayed for hours daily, ministered to the small communities around them. Just imagine what they could have been doing! What glories! What important, noteworthy work they missed out on!

At the time, I disagreed, even though I knew little about the work and life of the monastery. It just felt wrong, arrogant, to judge a community without understanding them, their motives, their calling.

I understand now that there is glory in service, in small things, in serving those who cannot repay us. The glory is not in the rewards, even though they are promised. To be honest, I don't have the discipline to work for rewards that linger somewhere in the future. The reward is in seeing those that we love experiencing our love, in tangible, close ways. The reward is love.

So I sing worship songs to God while I make food that will nourish my family, I dance in my kitchen while my little dog hovers about, hoping for dropped bits, I bring each one of my children before God as I brush chicken breasts with butter, I speak with God about my husband as I saute spinach with butter and garlic and I pray for my dad, my step mom, my mother in law as I rinse out dishes.

And in it all, I dare to consider that what is a BIG THING to God, may not be the BIG THING to the world.

And I'm okay with that.

Now, please excuse me. The chicken needs more butter.

Almost there...

Tomorrow morning I am going into the hospital overnight so that I can have the last three treatments of internal radiation, or brachytherapy.  It will be a repeat of the stay that I had last week, with a few tweaks and changes to help improve my experience and pain levels.  Dr. Bradford, oncologist extraordinaire, wants me to have an epidural this time, for better pain relief. I really struggled with pain last week, despite having access to powerful pain meds with a pump that I pushed every time the little green light gave me permission to.

The apparatus that was placed inside me, through my cervix and into my uterus as well as to either side of my cervix, is called a tandem and ovoids, and it was packed tightly in there with, well, some kind of packing material. Gauze maybe? I didn't get a look at it, although when I was brought to my room after the surgery to implant it, my nurse, a sweet, kind young man, offered to check it out for me and let me know what was going on down there. He had never had a patient who was undergoing brachytherapy and since we were both curious, I took him up on his offer. Because nothing cures any modesty issues one might have about one's lady bits like having some kind of lady bit cancer.  Every body and their brother have been down there, and the focus is on what might be found in there, not so much on the fact that someone is actually down there in the first place.

Anyway, the tandem and ovoids and packing material caused a tremendous amount of pain. The catheter was a misery and having to lay flat on my back for two days (to avoid displacing the tandem and ovoids) caused constant painful muscle spasms in my lower back. Hence the epidural suggestion.  I've been on powerful opioids since I came home, and am still struggling with pain and weakness.  This procedure enables doctors to treat Mutant with high dose radiation, and to place the radiation in direct contact with the tumor.  It's brilliant stuff, but it just requires time for recovery. I had hoped to feel better before I had to go in again, but I am also eager to finish Mutant off.

I have to say, with no exceptions, the people who took care of me were amazing, compassionate, nurturing, and attentive.  From the young cutie nurse who described my nether regions to me and then made me a longed-for cup of tea, to the doctors who clothed their ninja cancer fighting skills with gentleness and humor.  Kindness covers a multitude of miseries.  Then there was Brian, my own personal Superman.  I am deeply grateful for every blessing God has provided in these hard days, and especially so for Brian.  I keep saying that because time isn't an issue for God, He is walking on my future path as surely as He is with me in the present. He knows and exists in my coming days, and has prepared the way.  Brian and I are a huge part of God's graceful provision for these days, and I am so grateful.

So I'm going back in tomorrow.  I'm not thrilled, but I am a little relieved that we've reached the end.  I am looking forward to a cancer-free diagnosis.  Which doesn't mean that I won't be seeing cancer in every ache and pain, every bump and bruise, every cramp and grumble. I may have to encourage my family doctor to load up on "it's not cancer" stickers for when I visit her with bursitis and hangnails. I've already got a few moles that I want her to check out.  I don't think I'll ever be free from the possibility of cancer. After all, that's why I'll be going for check ups every three months for life.  We'll always be looking for it. It may come back.  My relative youth means it is probable that I'll have to deal with it again.  But that's not today, is it? And today I'm not feeling great but I am content and happy. I am looking forward to feeling better, stronger. I have flowers, herbs to plant and a graduation party to help plan. A summer to enjoy. A gorgeous little pup to walk.  A God to serve and a life to live.

Just a thought.

Mutant's Imminent Demise

I've been working on another "random thoughts" blog post, tentatively entitled "Daily Diarrhea, My New Normal," or possibly "How Cancer turned Me into a Potty Mouth." Fortunately for us all, I received a call from my oncologist, the lovely Dr. Bradford. She informed me that Mutant has shrunk considerably, even more than she had anticipated. Yay! I felt positively giddy as I thanked her profusely, kind of almost listened to what she was saying about the next step of my treatment, and then rushed about telling everyone my good news. It was a happy day.

I'm still excited. I really am. Reality has a way of moving in and turning a happy dance into a not-as-much-fun-but-totally-necessary march forward, though.  Some serious battles have been won but the war continues. Last week Brian and I met with my radiologist, Dr. Moni, to discuss step two, internal radiation. 

While surgery is still an option, it looks like it may not be necessary, at least not now.  Because my cancer had spread outside of my uterus, surgery would have to be more extensive than a regular hysterectomy. The risks of damage and poor healing from surgery on a previously radiated area are higher than normal, and includes the increased possibility of fistulas forming. Don't know what a fistula is? Neither did I. Google it.

Shudder.

The internal radiation is not for that faint of heart, either.  It will require two hospital stays of a night and two days each. I'll arrive early in the morning and head into an operating room where I will be given general anesthetic. Bless.  Once out, a foley catheter will be inserted into my bladder, my cervix will be dilated, and a three pronged tube will be placed inside me, with the center tube going into my uterus, and the two outer tubes resting on either side of my cervix.  The opening to the tube will be left hanging outside of my body. This is the radiation deliver system.  Once I am awake and ready to go, I will have an MRI to make sure that everything is in the right place, and then I'll have the first treatment.  Radiation will be applied through the tubes directly to the cancerous area. This is a simple twenty minute procedure. The actual treatment is not supposed to be painful but the whole tube/catheter thing will require pain meds, which will be in the form of a pump that I will be able to control. Again, bless. 

I'll have three treatments, one on day one, two the next day. Then once everything is working again, I'll go home to recover. I'll start the whole thing again a week later. Between treatments, in the hospital, I won't be allowed to get up, hence the foley catheter. My head will be raised a bit and I can bend my knees, but I have to remain fairly still so that the tubes don't change position too much.  We don't want to accidentally deliver a large dose of radiation to the wrong bits now, do we? 

Hearing the details of this new step had a sobering effect on me.  This is going to be hard.  Brian has arranged to be there with me as much as he's allowed, and I completely trust my doctors. Happily, Dr. Moni's nurse, Chris, is going to be my nurse during both my stays.  She is a wonderful lady, and such a momma.  There are certain times in our lives when we feel the need for a momma, and these past months have been like that for me.  Between Brian, my friends Sandy and Cathy and my daughter, Grace, I feel so taken care of.  The last time I saw Dr. Moni, Chris hugged me, kissed the top of my head and called me kiddo. I melted. It's that added bit of "I got this" that mommas have when taking care of their kids. I'm not going to over think it, I just know I need that and am grateful that during my treatments, she'll be there.

I've spent a lot of time lately, thinking about how to describe the role that God has played in all this. I am falling deeper and deeper in love with Him every day, because of His care for me.  Kind of like I am with Brian, as he cares for me. Of course there are questions. God could heal me. Brian can't, although if ice cream healed cancer, he'd have me all better months ago.  I don't know why, or even if there is a why. Stuff happens. Hard stuff.

I do know that because of God, when my outer life gets really difficult, my inner life, my ability to love, to be patient, to empathize with others, to trust, to open myself, to simply be, gets sweeter.  Easier. More natural.  Every day for years now I've prayed for more love, to love with Jesus' love.  Passionately.  Extravagantly. Unconditionally. Dangerously. Is this my answer? And if it is, is that okay? For me, right now, I think it is. There was a time in my life where my emotional life was much more wrecked than it is now, over much less. I suffered more from lesser difficulties. It's not unusual for someone who has been diagnosed with cancer to be asking God why. I asked Him a few times myself. And then, reality hit. I was asking the Almighty God, who's Spirit dwells within me, in this earthen vessel.  Emmanuel. God with us. This is a thought that I find delightfully distracting.  Why does this body have cancer? How about, how does the God of the Universe make His home in this body, this mind, this spirit?

There is so much that I don't know. Why I have cancer is one of those things.  And when these treatments suddenly bring on menopause, I may have more questions and less patience.  For now, though, God is my shelter, my helper, my counselor, my friend, my Savior and my hope.  And I'm okay.

Just a thought.

Last Thursday was my final external radiation treatment. Brian and I celebrated by going out to supper on Saturday night. It had been a while since we had gone on a date together, just to relax and be together.  I even put make up on.  We ate and drank and talked about things other than our kids and my cancer.  We even flirted, which, to be honest, isn't that much of a surprise since we flirt a lot. Brian actually came on to me the day we met my oncologist for the first time.  In her office. While I waited under a sheet, to be examined. And I flirted back. It's what we do.

I'd love to say that I've been healing and gaining energy since my last treatment, but that's not the way radiation works. It's the gift that keeps on giving. Which sucks for me, but it also sucks for Mutant so I'm okay with it. I am grateful to have tolerated the treatments well.  I didn't have any skin damage, and my IC (interstitial cystitis )  symptoms have been mild. The radiation caused bladder irritation and diarrhea which is now the new normal until things start healing in there, the fatigue is a force to be reckoned with, and there was a bit of emotional upheaval while my family adapted to my being out of commission and I learned to take care of myself.  Grace was a God-send. When I was moaning about how I was going to be able to do everything once I became really ill, she calmly reminded me that I wasn't going to be able to do everything. When anyone else is sick, they don't do anything, she said. So when you are sick, you don't do anything you can't do.  Which led to a very proud momma moment. When did she become so grown up?

Mutant has shrunk quite a bit, which is a good thing.  I had a MRI this week to see exactly what is happening in there.  The next step is internal radiation.  I meet with my radiologist next week to discuss how we are going to proceed.  I am hoping that we will be able to do five treatments in two days with a night spent in the hospital.  Apparently the internal radiation for uterine cancer will be easier on the  bladder and bowels, but murder on the lady bits. In any case, I am hoping that it will spell the end for Mutant.  If not, surgery is the third step, but I'd really like to avoid that.  Because the cancer had spread to my cervix, it wouldn't be a simple hysterectomy, and surgery in a radiated area can cause all kinds of miserable side effects. Like fistulas. Google it. Yikes!

Some random thoughts on the last month...

Ahhhh, I finally have my laptop back from the shop, where it went to be de-buggified.  Stupid viruses. So much has happened, I'm just four treatments away from the end of the external radiation. It's been a rough ride, but also a learning experience and a time of great blessings. I wasn't really sure how to sum it all up, or even if I should try to sum it up at all.  What I've decided to do is to just record, at random, the things that come to mind when I think of the last three weeks.  It has been an eventful time, even if it does feel like I've spent most of it in bed, wanting to be in bed, daydreaming about being in bed, mournfully leaving my bed, longing for my bed, or crawling back into my bed.

So here we go.

Grace was here. Yay! Grace spent two weeks here in March, and I loved every minute of it.  She was visiting from England, and it was her first visit in a year, which we both decided was too long to go between visits. It was amazing to be with her, we spent every spare moment together. She even sat in bed with me, reading while I took naps.  She was such a help, doing many of the little jobs that tend to fall by the wayside when I get sick.  Like my laundry. It was sweet to see little things done without having to ask, like the cat litter cleaned, things picked up and put away, the kitchen tidied, etc.

We also spent hours talking. The wonderful thing is that, thanks to the internet, there was really no need for "catch up" time.  We talk so often that there really weren't any surprises.  It was the small details of our lives that we needed to share. We checked out each others wardrobes and stuff, sharing all the stories - she got this at a boot sale, this was gorgeous and a steal, this was a Christmas present, these are my new batman jammies, a 1$ Walmart treat, check out this new skirt, I'm using this face cream now, she bought a new toothbrush, I love your make up bag, see how my plants are doing? I was hungry to know the small things, what perfume does she wear now? Where did she get the gorgeous boots? Does she still drink herbal tea? It's really in these seemingly mundane details, the places where we live our daily lives, that we are ourselves. I miss these things, I want to KNOW my child, and to learn what might have changed or evolved in her life, in her self. Through Skype chats and messages I continue to know her heart and mind, her spirit, her loves and dislikes, her successes and failures, her victories and struggles. But how does she take her tea? Does she still love my biscuits? What does her hair smell like?

 It was wonderful to draw closer to her in these ways, and achingly painful to say good bye to her at the end of her visit. Grace suggested that it would be easier on all of us when she left if we had the next visit nailed down, and so the tentative plan is that she and hopefully Darren will come here in the fall, and I will go to England to stay at Poppyland with them for a visit in the Spring. 

I admit that I struggled with her departure.  I felt dull, empty.  Maybe it was the fatigue from the radiation treatments, maybe it was the pain, I felt so sad that I couldn't cry. It was too big. This is our life now, though, isn't it? The joy and anticipation of visits, the deep pain of saying good bye and the constant missing, longing. The bit of me that is not there. The bit of me that is living, thriving, growing, blooming, shining across the pond.

 Needless to say I have informed the other children that under no circumstances is ANYONE allowed to move too far away.  They'll just have to bloom where they're planted and they're going to have to plant themselves close by.  At least, that's the plan, until someone feels the urge to fly and we have to bite our lips, wipe our eyes and wrap them in love for the journey. 

We'll continue this list of randomness next time as well, since I've only just begun.  So much to share, so little time.

Blessings!

On being an Easter person...

Easter has passed, in a flurry of rainy weather, food and flowers. With a bit of chocolate thrown in.  At first, I felt a little surprised by the coming of Easter. It seemed like it sneaked up on me while I wasn't looking. I felt a bit lost, because usually the Easter season is a time of reflection for me, aided by liturgical material that helps me draw close into worship and a renewed focus on Jesus's life and power at work within me and my world.  When Easter just seemed to jump out at me this year, I initially felt that I had been negligent, too focused on Mutant to meditate on my Lord.

 I waited for the tsunami of guilt to hit.  What came instead was grace.  And clarity.  I've been clinging to Jesus, like a monkey on her mother's back.  Forget holding onto the hem of His robe, I've jumped into His arms and am clinging to His neck with everything I've got. My face is pressed into His chest, when my hands shake with nerves, He takes them in His own and holds them until I am calm again. He wraps Himself around me at night, in my husband's love.  He responds to the prayers of others with a deep sense of His peace and stillness.  He throws His head back and laughs joyfully with me in the sweetness of my children.  He breathes hope into me in the quiet life of the forest. He speaks into my Spirit through His Word. He is undeniably, powerfully, soothingly, honestly, deeply here. Alive. In me.

Yesterday, on Easter Sunday, I remembered a sermon I once heard that encouraged me to be an Easter person.  Easter people are alive, deeply, extravagantly, spiritually alive.  Easter people live daily filled with the power that raised Christ from the dead, alive and active within them. (Eph. 1:19-20)  To me, in these days, being an Easter person means being brilliantly alive even as Mutant is trying to end my life. It means serving others with the power of gentleness and compassion even as I struggle with pain in my body.  The power of Easter, the power that lives in all those who have welcomed the Spirit of Christ into them, is the power of love, of patience, compassion, gentleness, humility, forgiveness, protectiveness, trust and hope. (1Cor. 13:4-7)  We have access to the power to love, radically, sacrificially, extravagantly, but we don't all choose to live in that power.  Easter people love fearlessly.  Ah, but we have to have common sense.  No, we don't. In fact, Easter is the celebration of what God can and will do when we put down common sense and self interest and embrace love fully.

So, I think the reason the Easter weekend surprised me is because I have been living as an Easter person more and more these days. Thanks, oddly, to Mutant.  Don't get me wrong, I still want her dead, dead, dead.  And to that end, I'll be starting radiation treatments this week. 

Oh, and Grace is coming home this week!!! She'll be here with us on Sunday!  Lately I have literally been pining for her, that aching longing to have her in my arms again.  Oh my goodness, I am happy that I will be seeing her soon!

Peace out!

On ray guns, armor and hiding under the bed

Last Thursday I met my radiologist in Worcester, after which I went to the cancer clinic in Fitchburg where I'll be receiving radiation treatments. Both Brian and I really liked my radiologist, Dr. Moni. She explained everything well, and was very honest with us. There were some hard things that she had to share with us, mostly about how the radiation treatments will affect my body, and in particular, my bladder.  It's not pretty.  But I'll get back to that.

I'll be having my treatments in Fitchburg because it is closer to where we live. The treatments will take place five days a week for five weeks, and it's important that we are able to do them at a center that is as close as possible. Fitchburg is only about 20 minutes away from us. The staff at the cancer center were wonderful. I spent almost an hour in a CT simulation, where the treatment team worked to identify the area that the radiation will be aimed at.  Dr. Moni had asked them to scan me twice, I think probably in an effort to be even more precise, to avoid my bladder as much as possible.  Everything is set up so that when I arrive for the treatments, they just need to put me into my pre-arranged position, punch in the appropriate setting on their ray gun and zap!

Dr. Moni made it very clear that five weeks of radiation won't be enough. The cancer hasn't spread past my cervix, at least not in any discernible way, but it is oddly aggressive and is growing in my uterus. I'll also need internal radiation, where radiation nuggets (bullets?) will be placed inside me, right onto the cancerous area.  And after this, I may still need surgery.

There was a moment, after I had received all the information about what the plan was, what the radiation will do, to the Mutant and to the rest of me, that it all seemed to sink in at once.  I was inside the CT scanner, lying on my back, relaxed, listening to the whir of the machine that was holding me.  Everything that I had been told in the previous hours flooded my mind, and my heart plummeted. I was filled with a feeling of dread. This is going to be awful. Worse than awful. Not only would the therapy cause issues with my bladder, bowels and lady bits during the treatment, some of the damage, particularity to my bladder, could be permanent. These treatments could make my IC worse, permanently.

Durn.

Over the past six months, I've been working with both my family doctor and my urologist to change medications and implement some healthier lifestyle choices, and I've been able to decrease my pain levels quite a bit.  I feel like my IC has been manageable, probably for the first time in 15 years.  The thought of the pain volume being cranked up again is discouraging.

The day after the visit to the radiologist and the cancer center was a quiet one. I was still exhausted and I felt sad and droopy.  Up to this moment, I had been feeling all empowered, jazzed up, ready to kick cancer's ass. Now, after learning, in detail, about how I wouldn't be kicking cancer's ass without kicking the crap out of myself at the same time, I felt like I wanted to take a nap. For two years. Maybe longer.

I told Brian, I felt like in Lord of the Rings, during the battle at Helms Deep, when all the soldiers stood on the ramparts in the rain, waiting for the battle to start. In the fields before them, thousands of angry, mutant orcs waited, ready for battle.  The thing is, I'm not Gimli, standing in the front row, jumpy with anticipation, looking forward to burying my ax in an orc's head. No, I'm the guy about five rows back, the one whose shield is too small and whose sword is too heavy. I'm the one who's silently wondering if this fort has a back door and would anyone notice if I slipped out?  My stupid helmet keeps slipping down over my eyes and my feet are cold. I'm done. I want to go home.

Of course, I'm not going home. I am home. The enemy is in my house.  I'm going to fight, and I am going to kick cancer's ass. I'll probably just whine about it a lot. You may find me hiding under my bed on occasion.  I'm reminded of Ephesians 6, and the armor of God. I'm glad to have the shield of faith, which is always the right size. And the helmet of salvation, which gives me clearer vision even if it does fall over my eyes, and the sword of the sweet Spirit, who will protect me in the eternal ways, and who will fight for me, always. Add the belt of truth, the breastplate of righteousness and the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace covering my cold toes and I'm fully equipped.  Also, I have a housecoat of snuggly warmth, friends and family of support and love, and a plush kitty of immense cuddliness.

I can't sugar coat this and mentally, spiritually prepare for it at the same time.  Sometimes reality stinks.  That's the truth.  It is my faith in God that gives me the courage to see things the way they are, not the way I want them to be.  Battles are called battles for a reason.  It's "fighting cancer," not "having tea with cancer" or "swing dancing with cancer."  I believe that God is here with me in my bloody, ugly, oozing, agonizing, miserable reality, and I believe that He is going to walk me through this.  My strength is from Him.  He is in me, and we will do this.  And because of Him, there will be laughter, and joy and so much love in this mess.  There is an otherworldly, ethereal grace that emanates from the Spirit of God in a wounded soul, for those who have eyes to see.  It's love, and grace, and incredibly powerful.

So, I'm gripping my sword a little tighter and pushing my helmet away from my eyes.  I may be so scared that I think I peed a little, but I'm ready to fight. Later.  After my nap.

Just a thought.

On Google and overthinking...

Today was a rough day. Mutant is causing quite a bit of pain, as well as messing with me in other ways.  As a chronic pain patient, I am accustom to living with some level of pelvic pain on a daily basis, and often the pain from my IC (interstitial cystitis) is more intense than what Mutant is doing to me now. But Mutant pain is more difficult to deal with emotionally.  I have spent years getting used to the idea that pelvic pain, no matter how strong, is not dangerous.  IC pain has been described as at times equaling the pain of bladder cancer.  It's benign though, always. While I may get irritable and weepy after several days of intense IC pain, I always know that at some point it's going to recede and I'm going to be fine.

Cancer pain is not like that.  It's malignant, threatening.  Cancer pain makes me feel fragile in a way that I am not used to.  It's difficult not to obsess on it. What is Mutant doing? Why is she hurting so much now, why is she bleeding?  Why do I feel so bloated and tired and why do my hands keep shaking? Why does my blood pressure keep dropping, leaving me feeling weak, shaky and dizzy? And what's with my new obsession with scary movies and television shows? And cereal? And super hero pjs?

My mum used to tell me that I over think everything. She was right. When I was younger, I think I used to frustrate her.  Everything was a big deal.  Being an over thinker is rough business when you're young and don't have a lot of perspective.

There's no question that I'm going to totally over think the cancer thing.  I think I need to. I need to know not just what I'm feeling, but why I'm feeling it.  As I've gotten older, I've learned that thinking and talking about life experiences, especially hard ones like death, illness and heart break, serve a purpose.  Talking abut hard subjects gives others the freedom to share as well, if they wish to. It breaks open the lie that we are alone, no matter how we may feel.  To hear someone articulate what we are going through, because they're going through it too, is a powerful thing.  The Bible speaks often about the power of words, about the importance of speaking truth out loud, to ourselves, our loved ones, our communities.

I think I also need to pay attention to the cancer thing because over the years, I have learned to ignore symptoms.  Chronic illness does that.  For a while I was hyper vigilant about my body and symptoms, but who can keep that up for years on end? Now, I'm like, Meh, if I wait long enough, it'll go away.  Enter cancer.  About two and a half, maybe three months ago I started hemorrhaging vaginally at around 11pm and it continued until almost 4am.  My response? Huh. That's weird. It didn't hurt, so how bad could it be? I figured I'm perimenopausal, it must be some kind of freak uterine last hoorah before the whole thing shuts down production at what I hoped was the near future. It made for a long night, but eventually it stopped and life went on. Needless to say, I wouldn't be as blase about something like that now.  Live and learn, huh?

To be honest, I am depending on God to keep me grounded.  To keep me from wandering too far into the future, from borrowing too much trouble from tomorrow.  Because frankly, Google is no help at all.  Google will not only offer me terrifying tidbits from my own future, but from other people's as well!  You wouldn't believe how many of my prayers begin with, "Okay, God? I was just on Google, and..." God is, like, child, back away from the computer...

Yes, God keeps me grounded, and filled with a sense of His care, and love.  And patience. Man alive, does He have patience!

Tomorrow I have a meeting with my radiologist, and hopefully treatments will begin soon. And on a positive note, I did read (yes, on Google) that the hair loss that is associated with radiation treatment is confined to the area being radiated.  So my mop should be just fine.  Woot!

And the beat goes on...

But Jesus...

This past week end, my two dearest friends, Sandy and Cathy, came to spend the week end in Massachusetts with me. They stayed in a hotel in Gardner, and I spent Saturday night at the hotel with them. It was brilliant. We went to Texas Roadhouse for supper, I got a 1$ pair of Batman pajamas and Sandy and I both bought robes that were so soft, they're like being wrapped in kittens. Alive kittens, of course. Purring, alive kittens. Glorious.

Then we watched a silly movie, laughed a lot and went to sleep. The next day, after a yummy breakfast, I got to take my friends to what has become, in my mind at least, my woods around my pond. 

And of course, in, around, over and under all of these activities, we talked. And laughed, and cried.  Okay, I didn't cry. I'm not sure why, you'd think I'd have reason to, but I haven't yet.  I'm too busy COPING. Although having Sandy and Cathy here just made me so happy, I forgot about coping. I was just really, really happy.  There was such a positive spirit. I think I really needed that. It's not like we don't have troubles. Mutant may be the reason we got together, but we are all dealing with some pretty heavy, painful stuff. And much of our conversation was about what is going on in our lives. We shared our pain, our concerns and losses and feelings about potential losses and fears about moving forward into more potential pain and struggles.  Still, we laughed a lot.

The thing is, Sandy, Cathy and I are all united in one area. We love Jesus and know that if we ever let go of Him, these trials we are in now are going to feel like a frikken picnic compared to life without Him..  Our hearts would break. I love how Cathy calls Him "sweet Jesus." She's so intimate and loving. When Sandy and I share pain that we never could have imagined living through, always one of us, in some way, says some version of, "...but Jesus..."

 For example, when I talk about how radiation might affect my already wounded bladder, how my urologist winced when I said that I might need radiation treatments, when I think that after 15 years of IC pain, Mutant might leave me with an even more damaged bladder, and in even more pain than ever...then I pause.  And look into the faces of my friends. I see their compassion, their frustration and, yes, even anger that this is happening to me. We take deep breaths. Hope nudges us. We nod thoughtfully, and someone inevitably says, "...but Jesus..."

But Jesus will give us strength.  But Jesus knows what we will be going through, and He is preparing us. But remember that time when we went through *insert trial here* and we didn't know how we'd make it and somehow we did? Because of Jesus?

Cathy, who has been through more than I can even imagine and who has a faith and love for God that is an inspiration to anyone with eyes to see and ears to hear, read this out loud to Sandy and I -

"Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you will know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything” James 1:2–4

 I think our unity comes in our belief that our struggles can be redemptive, that God is making us gentler, kinder, more patient, more selfless, more loving.  Stronger in all the best ways. In the holy ways. There is a fragrant air of peace and hope in our sharing, it is a place of rest and restoration to me.  Even my body was strengthened.  It was what I want to be for the lovelies in my life, my people who mean the world to me. 

I have a feeling this is the calm before the storm.  That's okay, because Jesus...

Just a thought. 

Note to self...

Note to self - stop scaring the whoosiewhatsit out of your husband. Seriously.

I know that you don't like doctors. It's nothing personal, it's just the whole doctor thing. You've never really got past the "they'll think I'm faking" phase. Consequently, you can be doubled over in IC pain, clutching your heating pad and a useless bottle of advil, weeping and maintaining through gritted teeth, "It's fine, it's just my bladder."  As idiotic as that was, (chill, friend, I'm the only one allowed to call you an idiot, remember?) it really was just your IC, a miserably painful but oddly benign disease.

Now, you realize of course that Mutant is not benign.  Not only is Mutant malignant, but she is weirdly malignant, going from stage one to stage two in two weeks.  If ever there was a time when it is okay to get compulsively obsessed with the happenings of your body, now would be it. Feel free to err on the side of stupid, woman. Your husband loves you with everything he has, and you need to honor the fact that his love means that he is properly freaked out. And with good reason. He lost the mother of his children, and it was a nightmare for him. You know how scared he is, how scared all of your loved ones are.  Yes, you are scared too.  We're all a freakin' mess of stress hormones over here.

But being afraid is not a reason to stop being kind. So you need to buck up and call the doctor when weird things happen, like yesterday when your blood pressure dropped to 77/50 and you kept having to sit down so you wouldn't pass out. That's just not normal, hun.

Listen, if there ever was a time when it was okay to be a whining, compulsive, "doctor's number on speed dial" pain in the ass kind of person, now is it.

You know, he could just say, "Screw this!" and call the doctor himself. He's not doing that, though.  He's trusting you.  Honor that trust and make the call if you need to.

Still friends? Loveyameanit.

About Mutant - a plan is afoot!

Last Thursday I had my first appointment with my gyn-oncologist, Dr. Bradford. I was hoping to learn more about the Mutant (someone suggested I name the cancer, and Mutant seemed as good a name as any) and what the plan was to get rid of it.  During an internal examination, the Mutant started bleeding profusely.  I had been bleeding to some extent, daily, for two weeks and without realizing it, I had also having symptoms of anemia;  fatigue, weakness, dizziness, dropping blood pressure, etc. Dr. Bradford decided to admit me into the hospital to watch the bleeding, because my blood count was already low and the bleeding would make it worse. I think she was also concerned that I might hemorrhage.  I was also experiencing some pain, which was fairly intense. I stayed in the hospital overnight, and by late the next afternoon the bleeding had subsided to spotting and I was released.

The initial biopsy had indicated that Mutant was low-grade, which indicates that it is unlikely to spread. But when Dr. Bradford did the examination, she could see that it had made some significant changes since the biopsy two weeks before, and that it may involve my cervix as well. I had an MRI done while I was in the hospital and it showed that the uterine cancer was stage two, which essentially means it has spread to my cervix, but from what they can tell, not beyond.

My next appointment with Dr. Bradford will be to discuss treatment options.  I really like Dr. Bradford. She is sweet and compassionate, and smart.  I felt taken care of, which is important for me, because I have a tendency to slip into caregiver mode at the slightest sign of need.  Especially in times of stress.

Every day when Grace messages me and asks "How are you?" I have to fight the immediate temptation to divert her attention by answering, "I'm fine, how are YOU?" I'm learning to answer honestly, and to trust her ability and willingness to struggle though this along with me. That applies to most of my loved ones, even Brian.

The focus for now is to rest and do whatever I can to keep from bleeding again.  With rest and gentle activity I seem to be doing okay.  I've been thinking of the bleeding as menstrual bleeding, which is inconvenient but not too troublesome. In fact, what is happening is that Mutant is bleeding, the miserable sop, and that is not a good thing, especially when it goes on for weeks.  Oops.

One of the things that I have to get used to is the idea of pain as a signal that something is dangerously wrong. I live with chronic pain, which means I have conditioned myself not to react to it. If my IC bladder pain is intense, it may need to be coped with, but it isn't dangerous.  When Mutant hurts, even a bit, it's a different thing altogether.

I'm still not sure how I am doing.  I find myself wanting to blurt out, "I have cancer!" at random times. Like when a waitress asks if I want dessert.  Or a telemarketer offers me a free Bahamian cruise.  Brian asked me to do his laundry the day after we found out, and I whined at him, "Really? I have CANCER and you want me to do your LAUNDRY?!" He grinned at me and said, "Yup." And then we laughed. Ah, good times.

Of course I am afraid.  I read that radiation treatments on the pelvic area can burn the lining of the bladder. I was, like, "Ahhhhhhh!" What lining of my bladder? It's already compromised! In fact, the idea of radiation treatments now has caused so much stress that I keep forgetting the word "radiation."  Seriously. It slips from my mind, and I keep needing someone else to fill it in for me.

I'm okay with that, though.  I am surrounded by loving, patient people, and I feel cared for and nurtured.  I feel scared and safe, in pain and comforted and so very loved.  A plan is slowly coming together to deal with Mutant. For today, I am okay. And that means a lot.

Just a thought.

A word of encouragement for all the beautiful "Burkies" in my life

So, what exactly is a "Burkie"?

Grace and I spent the past week at a family Christian camp in Burke, N.Y.  The camp is called Burke Camp. Which makes sense. And the campers? Burkies.

What can I say? It works for us. Plus, it's fun to say.

Anywhooo...

Burke Camp is an amazing place, a small, loving community in a gorgeous, rugged setting. Yes, rugged. Because having to walk 2 minutes to the bathroom in the middle of the night counts as roughing it in my books.

Burke Camp is very much a spiritual retreat for most of its campers.  There are Bible studies and evening services with youth and adult evangelists, prayer walks and activities that serve to teach and encourage our faith.  What I find most lovely about Burke Camp is that ministry happens all over the camp, at all times of the day, and by all the campers.  People are encouraged and taken care of, prayed over and with, counseled and listened to, hugged and loved in a million different ways.  This year, my spirit was ministered to by a baby, who let me hold her and love on her in complete trust, a teen-age boy who came to me after a service and offered a word of encouragement from God, the evangelist who listened and counseled me, and the youth pastor who, in praying for me at the altar after one evening service, spoke two scripture verses over me that God had given to me many, many years ago.  The spiritual work that happens at Burke Camp is powerful and life changing, and very, very real.

One of the concerns that sometimes troubles campers as they leave the grounds for the last time at the end of camp is how to continue on with the work that has started at Burke.  When God has given us guidance and healing in our relationships, when we have been encouraged in our work and families, when we have recognized and dealt with sinful attitudes and behaviours that have been wreaking havoc in our lives,  how do we keep moving forward once we hit the real world?

The last day of camp was July 20th, and that morning as I read my devotion from Oswald Chambers "My Utmost for His Highest", I had to smile to myself as God placed the answer before me.

Isaiah 40:31 says, "those who hope in  the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint."  Oswald Chambers writes, "Having the reality of God's presence is not dependent on our being in a particular circumstance or place, but is only dependent on our determination to keep the Lord before us continually. Our problems arise when we refuse to place our trust in the reality of His presence."

So often, as we leave a place or time of intense spiritual growth and learning, we come away with questions. What do I do now?  How do I keep it going? How can I avoid messing this up?  The common denominator in all of these inquiries is "I".  The problem is, when it comes to spiritual things, "I" didn't do the work in the first place, so "I" am not going to be able to keep it up. What I can do is place myself in the hands of the One who has worked in me and changed my heart.  I can "show up." I can be. And He will do the rest.

What does this look like, practically?  It looks like life. It looks like obeying what we already know while living out our lives. It's obedience in the mundane.   Washing dishes and changing the oil in the car, buying groceries and going to meetings, taxiing kids to piano lessons and jogging in the park, walking the dog and changing the cat litter, making peanut butter sandwiches and steaks on the grill, brushing our teeth and changing our socks. It's about living, and doing it all with God. Living in the love that we have now, for God and others, and believing that as we walk through our lives, God is changing our hearts and giving us more of Himself, more of His love.  Have we messed up? We apologize, ask forgiveness and trust that God is working.

Philippians 1:6 says that God, who began the good work in us, will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.  We can trust Him.

Walking with God is about talking to Him and listening to Him, reading the Bible and obeying what He is showing us, speaking words of life and not death and lots of asking when we fail.  Basically, it's trusting in the reality of God's Presence in our lives, and living in the truth of our intimate relationship with Him. 

Oh, and having fun.  Can't forget the having fun part.

After all, we are Burkies.

Of Mutants and Cockroaches and Being Okay

In the four days since I found out about my cancer, I have watched a three part Ken Burn's documentary called "Cancer, the Emperor of Maladies,"  a Canadian documentary called "A Day without Cancer," and I'm in the middle of 'The Bucket List," a movie that I've seen before and enjoyed about two men with end stage cancer who chose to spend their last days fulfilling their bucket lists.  I've also spent so much time googling uterine/endometrial cancer that Google has started asking me, "Are you sure you want to see this AGAIN?"

Everyone deals with this stuff differently, I think.  What I want to do is talk about it incessantly, but that's not always possible.  While talking about it may decrease my anxiety, I have seen that it increases the anxiety for others, which is the last thing that I want to do.  So I listen to others talking about it on Netflix.

The problem is that the enemy is invisible.  Although I have to admit, calling cancer "the enemy" feels weird because it's my own mutated cells.  The freaking little mutants.  Wouldn't it be nice if life was like a movie and mutated cells gave super powers instead of being death nuggets? Like spidey senses? Or the ability to fly? Or even better, the ability to stalk computer savvy teens without them knowing it?

But alas, my mutated cells are of the garden variety, the kind that grow in weird places just because and make a nuisance  of themselves. Or worse.

It's kind of like discovering that while you were out, someone came into your house and released 5 000 000 cockroaches in it.  Hours ago.  You stand in your living room, your skin crawling, the hair on the back of your neck bristling. You can't see them.  Not even one. But they're there. Doing whatever evil, disgusting things cockroaches do.  You want to run out the door screaming like a banshee, never to return. But this is your house! Your next impulse is to burn it to the ground. But again, your house. You have to live here.  You do a little ninja dance of horror, stomping on invisible bugs, scratching your head and arms compulsively, and cringing as you think of the places they might be. In your underwear drawer! Your kitchen cupboards! THE BABY'S ROOM!!!

Eventually, when you are ready, you take a deep breath and straighten your shoulders. It will take a long time. It will be hard, really, really hard. You will lose things, items that you treasure but just can't keep anymore.  You'll have to get used to the crawly skin feeling because it's not going away any time soon. You'll sweat and hurt and cry and rage and talk about torching the house a lot before you're done, but one day, you will be done.

I stand in the mirror, staring at my house. Frowning. I know where my mutants began, where they were released, but have they had a chance to check out other rooms? I run my fingers through my hair. Damn. I don't want to lose my hair. I really, really don't want to lose my hair. I'm not going to look good bald.  Although, my mad scientist eyebrows could use a good thinning. Of course, losing my hair, even having chemotherapy at all is not a sure thing for me. I may not need it, if the mutants haven't spread. So that's something.

I haven't gotten to the ninja dance of horror yet. I'll probably catch Schmitty licking my toast some morning and go ballistic. Should I warn my family, or let them be as surprised as I will be?

All I know is that it's going to be okay.  Or more accurately, I will be okay with whatever it is. Because God. And my people. And cats. And sun and Spring and music and love.

Just a thought.

Oh dear...

Last week I had an uterine biopsy. It was a routine procedure, my periods have been getting very irregular and I've been bleeding or spotting almost daily.  I've also been having increasing pelvic pain that, as time has gone by, I began to recognize as not coming from my IC bladder. In preparation for a uterine ablation, a procedure that would shut down my menstrual cycle for good, the biopsy would just make sure everything was okay in there.

After the biopsy was completed, a quick procedure in my doctor's office, I was told that the results would take two weeks to come in, and that I would be given an appointment in two weeks to discuss them.

On Tuesday, less than a week after the biopsy, I received a call from my gynecologist's office.  The results had come in and my doctor wanted to see me right away. The receptionist asked if I could come in that morning, but I couldn't, so I made an appointment for the next day.

Then the fear hit. Why would they need me to come in sooner? If it's for biopsy results, there can only be one reason. Two if you include the possibility of a very insensitive gynecologist who forgot that he asked me to make an appointment in two weeks. And a receptionist who doesn't have a clue. Which doesn't describe Dr. Blake or his practice at all.

To be honest, the transcript of my brain for the first hour after the phone call reads like this - "Crap on a cracker! Crap on a cracker! Crap on a cracker!"

It turns out that crap on a cracker was an appropriate response. Brian and I went to see Dr. Blake on Wednesday and he told us that I have uterine cancer. I have cancer. That is a very odd sentence to write. It is impossibly simple, and yet indicative of a huge event, a life changing reality. I have cancer.

Dr. Blake is a sweet man, simple, straight-forward and kind. He reassured us that if I was to have any cancer, this is the one I'd want. With a very low mortality rate if caught early, I should be fine. Eventually.  After all, it's in a completely disposable organ. I was, like, how soon can we take this sucker out?

I have to admit that I wasn't caught off guard. In the day's time between the call to come in to hear the biopsy results and actually going in, I did a lot of research on uterine cancer. After all, what else could it be? I wanted to know as much as I could, and when I was told that I had cancer, that information helped me cope. I know that's not the way everyone works, but but it's how I work.

I still don't know much. I have an appointment on Thursday with a gyn-oncologist, and I'll know more then.  We'll know more then. Brian is an absolute rock.  The news hit him hard, as it would me if he was the one with cancer.  I feel like he is putting his anxious energy into taking care of me, in any way he can.  While my mind feels pretty calm about the whole thing, my body is reacting strongly to the diagnosis. I don't know whether I am in emotional denial or whether I'm at peace with it all, but physically I'm a trembling mess. Literally. I feel like I am perpetually shaking inside. Brian understands the way my body reacts to stress, and has been wonderful about helping me to physically relax. I feel like he is engulfing me with warmth and care, enabling me to melt into him and relax. I am so grateful.

I'm pretty sure I am going to be writing quite a bit about this in the future.  One of my best coping mechanisms is working out my difficult times "on paper," so to speak. I believe there is hope in shared experiences, the understanding that we are not alone in our trials, that we cannot underestimate the power of our stories.

It's time, now, to take a deep, trembling breath and step out onto the path, into the unknown future.  I may not know what lies on this path, but I know Who's walking with me, The Spirit of God in me, around me, behind and before me.

Just a thought.

More about "Someday."

Yesterday morning I was poking around in my Facebook memories, and I found a blog post that I wrote three years ago, called "'Someday' is waiting for us!" I wrote this at a time when I was feeling very alone and vulnerable, and deeply insecure.  I wrote about what I was feeling from the perspective of a disciple of Jesus Christ, as one who is being "transformed in His image." (2Cor3:18) I believe that being a follower of Jesus means change, not by my own feeble efforts but by my submission to the trans-formative power of God.  In the blog post of three years ago, I wrote that change comes, not by pursuing it, but by pursuing loving relationships with God and others.  I am in love with God, and because of this, I pursue Him. I talk to Him in prayer because I can't not talk to Him. I'd miss Him. I read the scriptures because He is there, and He speaks to me through them. I want to hear from Him. I strive to obey Him because I trust Him and His desires for me, and I believe that He knows the way to wholeness, to healthy, loving relationships with Him, with others and with myself.

Because of all this, someday is a very real place to me.  I realize, though, that in the social media world of sound bite pseudo-wisdom, looking forward to "someday" is not encouraged.  We are to live for today, rest in the moment, breathe, experience every moment with eyes wide open. And I agree. I am a "live in the moment" kind of person. I stop and smell the roses. And the cookies. And the autumn leaves. I am intentional about listening to my children, knowing full well that these days of adolescence and young adulthood will pass quickly. I practice yoga, and I know how to breathe out stress, to breathe in the calm.

I am convinced, though, of the importance of the somedays. Parenting teenagers has taught me this.  One of the most important words teens need to hear from adults is "someday."  Living is hard, and it is especially hard for our young people.  Teens feel things deeply. Emotions come fast and loud for them.  They feel the expectations of their parents, teachers, peers, society, expectations which are often conflicting.  They need to know that, whatever difficult thing they are feeling or experiencing, they will not always feel like they do in the moment.  Life does get better. Their emotions will calm, and they will become better at the whole "living" thing.  Someday is hopeful for teens, because it challenges the despair of strong, painful emotions that threaten to stay forever.

The promise of someday is not necessarily about different circumstances, though.  Stuff happens. Stuff will always happen.  Heartaches, jobs losses, conflicts with friends and loved ones, illness and death...the world can be a scary place.  Even when circumstances do become more favorable, good happenings can lead to new kinds of difficulties. For me, meeting Brian and falling in love was a wonderful thing.  It led to marriage, three brilliant step children, a new home and family, and a love relationship that is beyond anything that I could have imagined.   It also meant moving away from all of my people. Changing countries.  Lots of goodbyes. Kissing my sweet daughter good-bye as she headed off on her own adventure in England. Letting go.

 Within my happiness and security and peace, there is a heaviness.  In my life, someday meant changed circumstances, but more importantly, it meant a changed me. God has been strengthening and empowering me to be whole in the face of my losses, and I understand that He has done that by calling me to deeply and sacrificially love those that He has given me here in Massachusetts.  How do I nurse my wounded heart when I miss my daughter so much, it physically hurts?  By taking care of my father-in-law, or loving my step kids, or serving my husband.  Loving others does not replace Grace in my life.  Our hurts and losses are too real to simply be replaced.  Love does heal, though. It is powerful stuff.  God's love, poured through us onto others is a glory, blessing us as He blesses those around us.

When someday means, someday when I'm thin, or someday when I win the lottery, or someday when the kids leave the house, or someday when my dream job opens up, or someday when I meet Mr. or Mrs. Right, looking for someday will just hold us back.  There is too much living to be done, and too little time.

Still, looking forward to a "someday" that we can start moving towards right this minute is a blessing. If I reach out to God, if I choose to trust in His trans-formative work in me, if I remember how far He has already brought me, if I choose love over fear in the circumstance that is right in front of me now, someday I am going to be stronger, steadier, more secure, more loving. More whole.


To me, that makes "someday" a day worth waiting for!

Here's to being back...

Ah, the age old question - how to write a post in a blog that has been silent for ten months. Okay, maybe it's not an age-old question, but I've been thinking about it for ages, so...same thing. It has been an eventful ten months.  I spent the summer in Franklin Centre, Quebec, with my dearest friend and her family. It was a wonderful opportunity to spend time with her before I was to move six hours away, to Massachusetts. Which I did, at the end of August. I married my sweet Brian, became a step mother to three brilliant young people, and I have settled into my new home where we live with Brian's parents, Allen and Judy.  I spent hours Skyping with Grace in England, enjoying her stories about work as a receptionist at a holiday park. I started going to a new church, Bethany Bible Chapel. At least it's new to me.  Brian and his family have been going there for quite a while.

So much has happened. There have been many changes, losses, gains, feelings.  So much living.  Some tears. A lot of laughter.  A crazy amount of hormones, thanks to the perfect storm of a house full of teenagers and peri-menopausal me.  Still, we've all survived and have been melding into a comfortable, weird, funny, loud, moody, messy, loving family.

I'm settled now, and I'm back.  With thoughts.  And pictures. And feels, and ideas, and questions, and confidence and doubts and stupidities.

It has taken me three days to break the ice and write this post. So, here's to pushing through, to broken ice and being back.

And this picture - just because.

Grace and Darren, A Visit from England. (Or the alternate title - The Quickest Three Weeks in History!)

Three weeks ago today, I was at the Trudeau airport in Montreal, waiting at the arrivals gate, staring intently at the people coming through the doors. My Grace and her love, Darren were arriving from England It had been three months since I had last seen Grace. I had yet to physically meet Darren, but I knew him well through Skype chats and instant messages, and through the best source of all, the woman who loved him. My daughter.

The reigning couple, at Yankee Candle

When they finally arrived, my world exploded into happy activity. Hugs and kisses for them both, the joy of holding my child again, of being with her. I may even have done a little happy dance, in spirit if not actually. Three weeks! We had three whole weeks together! So much to do, so many people to see, so much TIME to catch up and hang out and to talk and be like we used to be. Together!

I held on to every moment. I tried, I really did. Three weeks went by much too quickly and today I saw two teary young people off on a plane back to England and my heart hurts again.

Fish Fry

It was harder this time. For one thing, I was sending them both off, and I have grown to love Darren. He is everything I could have asked for in a partner for Grace. He is sweet and intelligent, unfailingly kind and creative and he adores Grace. Plus, don't tell him I said this, but he is beyond adorable. Like, seriously. The dimples? Oh my goodness!

It's so hard.

It feels a bit like the air has less oxygen in it when Grace leaves.  Like it hurts a little to breathe, to think, to be. I don't worry about her. Instead, I long for her. I want her with me. Or at least nearby.

Which candle to buy? Duking it out...

She belongs in England, though. She has blossomed there. She is happy, although I know that she misses her home and people very much.  She is surrounded by an amazing group of family and friends in England, and I know that for her, home is where Darren is. Seeing them together these past few weeks has been a joy.  They truly do take care of each other. They bring out the best in each other, and they encourage each other on to great things, especially in their faith in God.  It's so exciting to watch.

Leaving the Montreal Holocaust Memorial

I don't know if I'll ever get used to this, but I do know that I'll adjust.  Grace posted a status on Facebook this morning, writing about how grateful she was to have so many people in her life that she loves and misses. She's right, of course. The more beautiful life gets, the more potential, and likelihood there is that there will be pain.  That's part of the beauty of being human. The pain of loss and separation doesn't have to make us love less, in order to avoid it. We can choose to love better, more deeply, with more intent and freedom.  In this way, we make it worth the pain.  In this way, we transcend the pain.

In this way, love wins.

So...feels like time for a Skype date!

Baymax, from the movie, Big Hero 6, courtesy of Grace, Darren and
the endless winter of 2015.

The Montreal Holocaust Centre, Part Two

 Today I went with Grace, Darren and Grace's dad, Mark to  The Montreal Holocaust Memorial Centre.  It was a second visit for all of us except for Darren, and it was good, in the way that difficult and powerful moments are good. Darren is an English historian, an expert on the world wars and the 1940s. Still, he felt that there were gaps in his knowledge about the Holocaust, and the Memorial Centre was the perfect place to help fill in some of the blanks for him.

Picture courtesy of The Montreal Holocaust Memorial

I wrote about my first visit to the Memorial Centre here.  At the time, there really were no words, I felt the pain and horror of what I had seen and heard deeply and to try to put my feelings into words would only serve to minimize the unfathomable.

Today was different.  There still are no words. No words that I can speak or write, that is. For the past few months, the thought that God keeps bringing to my mind is "listen."  I've spent a lot of time, over the years, finding my own voice and trusting God's encouragement to use it in His wisdom and will. Becoming acquainted with  my own voice has made me more aware of the voices of others.

Oddly enough, I talked more and listened less when I didn't trust my own voice or accept the freedom and responsibility of using it.  Going into the Holocaust Memorial Centre today, I was eager to listen to the voices of the survivors, to hear their stories, from their thoughts and their words. I spent almost an hour and a half in the Memorial, equipped with an iPad and ear piece, lingering over the pictures and artifacts, reading the stories and listening to the experiences of those who had survived.

The first time we went to the Holocaust Memorial, it was with our CEGEP history class.  Someone asked me, at that time, why I wanted to go. To be honest, I wondered the same thing. Not because I thought I shouldn't want to go. I just wanted to know why. Curiosity? To gain knowledge? Was I looking for something? 

Today, my reason for wanting to visit the Memorial back then and even today became clear.  The Nazi Holocaust was an organized, brutal, horrific attempt to silence the voices of an entire people. In the process, they sought to also silence anyone that they deemed unworthy. Millions and millions of voices were silenced forever. The sick and disabled, the poor, homosexuals, immigrants, people of color, political prisoners. What can one do against such evil? It is despairing, tortuous to learn of the depths of horror and tragedy, the torture and death, degradation and destruction, and to feel helpless to do anything.  Not only was it so long ago, but it was so overpowering and demonic. My heart is compelled to do something, anything. But what can I do? What can any of us do?

What is the ultimate rebellion against an evil that seeks to silence the voices of others? The ultimate rebellion is to listen. Hear. Absorb. Believe.  I wanted to step into the light of truth that shone over the darkness of hatred, violence, deceit and secrecy. I wanted to hear the voices calling to me, from letters and videos and pictures and dolls and prayer shawls and blue and white striped tunics and shoes and trains and death camps disguised as train stations, death chambers as shower rooms.

I wanted to honor the memories of the dead by listening to those who remained to tell their stories. Because evil doesn't want these stories told.    And because there are voices, even today, that are being silenced and I want to be in the habit of listening to the stories of others, of reaching out and connecting to people who have stories that they need to tell. And who may need to hear some of my stories.

There are people in all of our lives who need us to listen to them.  How did the Holocaust get so big, so evil, so quickly? The answer is, by the powerful ability of the Nazi party to silence the victims and the equally powerful determination of the people not to listen.  We say, never again. But are we willing to live lives that says, never again? 

We are surrounded by powerful voices that tell us what to believe about people groups that do not have strong voices of their own. I will not rely on the media or politicians or advertisers or televangelists or actors to tell me about those living in poverty, about people of different religions, about prisoners and immigrants and addicts and the mentally ill and the many, many groups that struggle daily just to get by.  If I want to know about them, I will do two things. I will go Jesus and ask Him to give me His heart for people, and then I will go to them and listen to their voices. I will choose not to fear, because love casts out fear and anyone who tries to instill and control me through fear will be shut down and thrown out of my head.  I will answer to a call to the courage and power that is found in the powerful love of God.

Mostly, though, with God's grace and help, I will listen. 

It may not seem like much, but I am beginning the think that it just may be the most powerful thing.
After all, if it wasn't so powerful, it'd probably be a lot easier, wouldn't it?

Lord, give us strength....

Bell ~ Let's Talk

Today, Wednesday, January 28th, is Bell Let's Talk Day, an initiative from Bell Canada that focuses on raising awareness about mental health issues.  The premise is simple and one that is close to my heart, that if people will tell their stories and listen to the stories of others, much of the stigma and shame associated with mental illness will be replaced by understanding, compassion and empathy.

My sister, Dana, started the story telling this morning by sharing her struggle with depression. The truth is that my family is and has been full of brave, intelligent, capable, resilient people who have walked their life paths hand in hand with the darkness of mental illness, including the black dog of depression, and in my life, anxiety.

I can't remember ever not being anxious.  From infancy and probably even earlier, for various reasons, my body and brain, my personality and intellect developed while awash in a potent cocktail of stress hormones, specifically cortisol.  From a very young age, I learned to deal with overwhelming stress by "disappearing."  I froze, withdrew, and was compliantly, passively and quietly non-existent.

Anxiety controlled my life.  "Disappearing" could, at least in some respects, protect me from the outward stressors, but I could never get away from the inner turmoil.  As an introvert, when faced with a fight or flight trigger (which, due to the chronic anxiety, happened often), I withdrew.  Shut down. Shut up. My mind, though, was rarely quiet.  I was, and am an introvert, but I am also passionate, thoughtful, strong minded and full of questions.  I struggled with the silence. I was bright and opinionated, but repeatedly had to choose safety over freedom.

Because I had never been free from anxiety, I thought everyone felt this way.  As an adult, I became a Christian and began to grow in faith. I heard over and over, "Fear not."  It had the authority of a command, but there was always a whisper of hope attached to it.  Fear not. Was that even possible? The God I knew, the One who had rescued me from a life of darkness, who loved me in ways that I was only beginning to understand, would not ask something of me that wasn't possible, that He couldn't or wouldn't help me acheive.  As I walked with Jesus, through Bible study and with the help of faithful and honest counsellors and friends, I began to gain control of my thought life. The Scriptures and God's intimate counsel led me through a path of cognitive training that set me free from negative thoughts that kept me trapped in fear.

One of the aspects of mental illness that is often overlooked involves physical symptoms. A lifetime of chronic anxiety had conditioned and fitted my body to react in extreme ways to situations and circumstances that my mind, emotions and stress hormones were slapping danger signs on.  Retraining my mind, and even my emotions set me free to some extent, but I soon realized that my body had a mind of its own in these matters.  I was diagnosed with a chronic bladder disease called interstitial cystitis (IC) or painful bladder syndrome (PBS) when I was in my early 30s.  One of the most consistent and frequent triggers was stress.  A few years after the IC diagnosis, I suffered a heart attack. I had no markers for heart disease, other than the fact that I was overweight.  My blood pressure and cholesterol were low to normal, I had no family history of heart disease, I didn't smoke or do drugs, and I was young. The diagnosis was coronary artery spasms, a condition that was very susceptible to stress. 

It felt like my body was saying, that's enough! I had to face the possibility that cognitive training and the peace that I felt in God was not going to stop my body from reacting to the stress of life.  I prayed for healing, and I knew that it was possible.  I had experienced healing in my mind and heart.  As I continued to struggle with the physical effects of stress, I began to think about asking for help from my doctor. As in meds. I hated the very thought of it. Nerve pills. Oh, pshaw.

I saw it as an easy fix, a sign of my weakness.  I never questioned the strength of my faith. God and I had been though that when I first got IC. I knew that He could heal me. There was no question in my mind. I struggled with Him, when He didn't heal me, and we worked it out.  Somehow, though, I had gotten to the point where I believed that I had to tough it out to be strong, that being brave always meant pushing through the fear, pushing, pushing, pushing until I wasn't afraid anymore.  Unfortunately, my body wasn't getting the message, and the pushing through was killing me. It was one thing when the stress only meant searing pain in my abdomen, but when it also meant my coronary arteries spazzing closed, choking off the blood supply to my heart, I needed to pay attention.

So I went on meds.  The first time I took a anti anxiety medication, I was at home. The phone rang, and as I answered it, I was acutely aware of an odd sensation. Or, more accurately, an odd lack of a sensation. Fear.  Every single time I heard a phone ring, a swoosh of adrenaline would go through my body, burning through my stomach and bladder, trembling my hands, muddling my thoughts. Except this time.  This time my stomach stayed calm. My hands didn't shake.  I was amazed.  Is this what normal feels like?

Adding anti anxiety medication to the cocktail of daily meds that I take for the IC and heart problem was the right choice for me.  I still struggle with anxiety, and I have moments when my body spirals out of control and all I can do is hang on and wait it out.  I have discovered that sorrow feels very much like fear to my body. Sometimes I choose to deal with triggering events and the resulting flash of anxiety and pain through yoga, meditation, deep breaths, laughter and reaching out to loved ones. The amount of medication that I take daily works for the stress of daily life. Sometimes I take less. Sometimes more. I pay close attention to my body, and try to take care of myself. I am learning to nurture my body in the same way that my heart calls me to nurture and care for those around me.

Chronic anxiety is still a part of my life, but it doesn't own me.  I am grateful for the availability of medications that can help, for the grace and understanding of my family, and for the opportunity to tell my story, and to listen to the stories of others.  Yes, there are dark voices from the past, taunting, mocking, complaining voices that grew angry at me when I could not be what they demanded me to be, but the loving voices are stronger, bolder and most importantly, truer. 

I pray that as we walk this path together, we will be encouraged and emboldened to turn to the voices that are saying to us, "Tell me your story. It's okay, I'm listening."

Tell me your story.  It's okay, I'm listening.

Derek - Kindness is magic (repost)

This a repost from September 23rd, 2013.  I watched the last episode of the first series again this morning, and was reminded of the strength of kindness, especially when it is sacrificial.  Dear Lord God, if I am to err, let it be on the side of kindness. Amen. 

 

 

Grace and I have a new favorite television show. It's a British production called Derek, written, directed by and starring Ricky Gervais.  I'm not usually a fan of Gervais', I find his humor a little harsh.  This show, on the other hand, is brilliant. The entire first series is on Netflix, and I watched all 7 episodes in one week-end. The last episode left me in tears.  Not just a little weepy, either. I'm talking big, gulping, falling over onto the sofa hugging a cat sobbing. Brilliant.

Ricky Gervais stars as Derek Noakes, a care worker in a small senior's home.  The show features a cast of  "quirky characters", working and struggling together to take care of the residents of the home, as well as each other.  The underlying theme is this, that "kindness is magic". And it's presented in a powerful way. Filmed in a mockumentary style, the characters interact with the camera and each other in ways that run the gamut from downright disturbing to heart-breakingly real and crazily hilarious. Sometimes, the most "real" moments are the most disturbing, and the heart of the show is this - through the life and words and actions of Derek, kindness is shown as something that costs something, that can leave scars on the heart of the giver and that shines most brightly when it is least deserved.  

Derek is the kind of show that everyone should see.  After finishing the first episode, I wanted to recommend it to everyone I know. Unfortunately, there is a problem. There is quite a bit of swearing, as well as offensive jokes about body functions and parts, etc. That's not the big problem, though. The power of Derek's message is that he loves everyone. Everyone. And that includes people like Kev.  Kev is a homeless, jobless man who hangs around the home, sleeps on the floor of Derek and Dougie's flat, is the third member of what Derek affectionately calls his gang, and just generally behaves in disturbing, disgusting ways.  There are lots and lots of really gross sex jokes. Lots of references to his lack of hygiene, and just general over-all ickiness.  Kev is a very difficult character to tolerate, let alone like.  The thing is, Derek loves him. Derek's kindness towards Kev is not blind. For the most part, he sees and hears and smells what everyone else does in Kev.  Still, Derek loves him.

That is one of the reasons that I love this show. In the beginning, scenes that had Kev in them literally made me shrink a little back into the sofa. Gervais has done a great job of writing a character that is truly unlikable.  There is nothing of television's classic lovable jerk in Kev. He is not lovable in any way.  Other characters, like Dougie (played by "An Idiot Abroad's" Karl Pinkington), can be a bit caustic but they always have inevitable moments of redemption and latent strength of character. Not Kev. Still as difficult as Kev is to accept, he is real. And being real means that there are moments of vulnerability hidden in the bravado and posturing.  Kev's disgusting behaviour is rooted in weakness and fear, and this becomes obvious as the show progresses. 

The thing is, to fully appreciate the power of Derek's willingness to treat everyone kindly, one has to stick with the show. Keep watching.  At first, I thought, we have to be able to look past Kev's character in order to enjoy the show. But now, I don't think looking "past" Kev is such a great idea.  I think we need to look at Kev, to get to know him even as we get to know the other characters.  Hannah, the manager of the home, has a heart of gold. Dougie, while a serious pessimist with a tendency to grumble incessantly, is fiercely protective of his friends and the residents and stands up for them in the face of manipulation and greed.  Derek is...well, Derek.  And Kev is Kev.

There is a scene in the last episode of the first series, where in true mockumentary fashion and in light of the death of one of the residents, the characters are being asked some fairly deep questions.  Kev's answer to the question of whether or not he has any regrets about his life made me weep. I want to cry now, just thinking about it.  

Derek is just a television show. Kev is a fictional character. He doesn't need us to pay attention to him, to really see him, to accept that he is what he is and to care for him unconditionally. He's not real. I think, though, that we need to do these things.  Gervais has created a show that challenges us to move past our own comfort levels and stay invested in the story, in the characters, even when doing so makes us squirm in our seats.  Not for their sakes, but for ours.  Everyone likes to think of themselves as kind people.  Yet we walk past characters like Kev on a regular basis, and we reason that there are some people who are just too far gone to even care if we are kind to them. Derek doesn't think so. Derek doesn't think about it at all.  Derek is kind because that's who he is. And if we stick with him on the journey, if we give this show and this character a chance, we just may find ourselves, after 7 episodes, listening and really hearing the heart of someone who, it turns out, isn't too far gone at all.  

Keep the tissues handy. Just in case.