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.

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....

Meeting Brian

Yesterday I drove to Malone and sat parked in the wrong place for almost an hour (thanks a lot Google maps....yeah, let's blame them) and then drove back down the street, found the right place, pulled into a parking spot next to a huge black truck filled with three teen-agers and one beautiful man.  I jumped out of the car and he stepped out of the truck, and my profuse apologies were smothered by the biggest hug I have ever had in my life.

And I was home.

Odd, to find home in an embrace that I had never been in before.  Odd, to feel several months of soul sharing and laughing and crying and emails and phone calls and skype chats and pictures and prayer and longing and singing and talking and talking and talking, all compress into one warm, safe, lovely hug.

I felt myself relax. It reminded me of  yoga class in the beginning, when we would end our classes with a relaxation time. I would lie on my mat, totally secure in my relaxedness. And then the instructor would begin to talk us through our bodies.  And bit by bit, I became aware of how tense I was.  I would literally feel my body sink into the floor, by inches, when I had previously thought that I was actually already on the floor. Shoulders, relaxed...who knew they were all tensed up around my ears? Breathing, large, deep breaths. Relaxed. Not the short, nervous sucking of air that I so often do, suddenly, startling even myself. Breathe, woman, breathe!

I felt myself relax into the embrace of this wonderful bear of a man, a man that personifies the protective, nurturing, loving power of God.  I remember well the gentle whisper of God, when faced with the knowledge that sometimes He frightened me. "I fight for you, child, not against you." My bear is like that.  Wrapped up in his strength, his power, I am secure, confident, even bold, because his power is for me, not against me.  I am free to relax.

So we had lunch. And the offspring were delightful. And funny. And smart.

And I met Brian.

And I was home.

Good Friday Thoughts - This is Love

I was at the church this morning, working on the bulletin and doing other tasks. At one point, I was in the sanctuary. As I walked across the platform to change the hymn numbers on the board, I saw a crown of thorns, resting on the pulpit. I stopped and picked it up. There were others around me, but they faded into the distance. I ran my finger along one of the thorns. It was long, sharp. There were many of them in the crown. I didn't have to try to imagine them being pushed down onto Jesus' head. The picture just came. I pressed my thumb into one of the thorns. Felt the sting. Saw a tiny bead of blood come to the surface of my skin. My heart filled with sorrow and love. 

My Jesus wore that crown so that I would one day be able to gently place it back on the pulpit, take a deep breath, whisper a prayer of love, and walk away from it. 

It is a mystery of grace, of passion and love. I do not understand it. I do not deserve it. I cannot yet, after over 25 years of following Jesus, fathom it. But I live it, and walk it and breathe it, and find myself in it. And am healed.

Thank you, dearest Lord Jesus.

THIS IS LOVE

music and lyric by Steve Bell

adapted from John 13-17

Father, just before the hour comes

That was set aside to glorify your son

With a glory from before the world began

With a glory given to no other man

Protect the one's you've given me to love

I so desire that none of them be lost

They've yet to understand the mystery

Why the Son of God would wash another's feet

But this is not the same

It's a different thing altogether

This is not the same

It's a different thing altogether

This is love

My prayer is not for only these alone

But for those who follow after I'm gone

May they understand the love you have for me

As the kind of love that changes everything

They argue who will sit next to the throne

I cringe to hear them say "Thy kingdom come"

They think they know what they're getting into

But we both know that they haven't got a clue...

'Cause this is not the same

It's a different thing altogether

This is not the same

It's a different thing altogether

This is love

Now here's something that they won't like

Someone's coming to take the life

No one has to look farther than me

For I Am He

Some will trust in the things they think they know

They should think again and let them go

Put away the sword and get behind

And let me die

This is not the same

It's a different thing altogether

This is not the same

It's a better thing altogether

This is love

This is love

Merry Christmas!!!

I want to wish all my readers, known and unknown, friends and family, all the amazing people who wander in and out of these pages, a merry, merry Christmas.

We are all in so many different places, in this world, in our lives, in our hearts and minds and years, and I am grateful for the small moments that we get to connect here.  I re-read my Christmas post from last year, and back then, I wrote about being "ready for Christmas".  And how I wasn't.  And yet, was.

I think it still applies today, for me.  I wrote about Mary and Joseph, and how, outwardly, they were incredibly unready for the birth of Jesus.  They didn't even have a room for Mary to give birth in, let alone a midwife...or ice chips...or heated blankets...or an epidural.  They had nothing, and yet they still found themselves holding everything. In their arms. In their hearts.

Grace and I have much more than Mary and Joseph did back then.  In the context of our time, our culture, the "way things are done", though, we're lagging behind. Money is tight. We're both celebrating the end of the last semester with illness.  The tree is already dried out...who was in charge of keeping it watered, anyway? But that's okay.  Because we tend to live our lives in "His" time, anyway.  And in Jesus' time, there is room for joy in the pain.  There is a place for laughter through the tears.  Love shines brighter than the hatred.  Truth obliterates the lies.  There is Life in the manger, in the fatigue, in the grime, in the dark...and beyond death.

This morning in church, we sang "The Little Drummer Boy".  It's my favorite Christmas song.  I love the message of being small and having little to give, offering it anyway and seeing God smile with delight.  Not because of the gift, but because of the giver...the Beloved.  Us.  Me.

So I sang with all my heart, clutching a wad of wet Kleenex, my voice choked with tears...

And God smiled at me.