“Not all girls are made of sugar and everything nice. Some girls are made of adventure, dark chocolate, intelligence, cuss words and courage.”
Brooke Hampton
*Post 901
The Stillness :: 9/22/17 :: Post 24
I had a very close friend come visit with me last night. It filled my soul… As he was leaving, he saw the “Be still and know that I am God” verse that I have on my wall here at home. He just mentioned it as he was walking past it (it was related on some level to the things we had been talking about)…and I said, “Yup, it’s tattooed on my wrist and on my house…” Clearly it holds significance. We also remembered that it was in a song that he had sent me several days earlier. One of the songs that I often hear in my head at the most “convenient” times.
Today I had my CT and bone scans at Rose. Today I had plenty of time to sit in the quiet…the quiet that I often speak about, write about, experience and crave. The quiet that sometimes brings peace….or sometimes not. The quiet that sometimes brings clarity….or sometimes not. The quiet that sometimes brings understanding…or sometimes not. The quiet that always brings something.
The quiet of today was difficult as the unknowns ahead are scary. Once again in this place of waiting for results that will largely determine what this battle really is. Once again in this place of waiting for results that literally illuminate the war going on inside my body. Once again in the place of waiting where I have no control of the outcome…just my response to it.
I went into today knowing that I would have a lot of time to sit and wait for the next directive. And I was right. Checked in. Got registered. Paid a huge co-pay. Was walked down to Radiology. Completed paperwork. Waited. Got called back and was poked with a needle for the I’ve-lost-track-of-how-many-times time. Was given an IV and then injected with radioactive dye…the kind that had to come out of a special little metal protective box with a code-lock on it. Waited some more. Got called into the CT scan room. Got situated on a little platform where I had to hold my hands over my head (and just 2 weeks post-op from a bilateral mastectomy, I don’t have that kind of range of motion….so that was incredibly painful. Not to mention I still have drains in and had to situate them, too). CT scan started, was injected with a different contrast dye, and about 10 minutes later, ended. Then I was told I could go “eat, drink and be merry” as I had no more restrictions as long as I was back by 1pm so that I could do my bone scan. Uh, okay? So we left and went to lunch. A little date of sorts. Then back to the hospital. Back to check in. Waiting again. I texted a few of my friends to pass the time. Got called back. Got situated on another platform. Situated the drains. And laid in the quiet for 40 minutes as the bone scan machine pulled me in, scanned my bones from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. No instructions other than to just lie as still as possible, breath normally, and relax….it will all be over soon.
When I was texting with my friends before my bone scan, a theme popped up in both of their texts back. “Stillness”….something that they were both being given the opportunity to understand its significance in their very different lives. I thought that was interesting in light of the night before (where this same friend noticed the verse on my wall). So my friend texted and part of his text said, “Stillness is pretty hard, isn’t it? I’m getting that today. It’s also so very good. Praying you hear God’s voice and that the unknowns do not overwhelm you entirely….” I appreciated this one phrase especially as it gave me the opportunity to understand its significance in my very different life. Why do I have it tattooed on my wrist? Why do I choose to have this verse adhered to my wall at home? What does “be still” mean.
My text response: “Stillness…I’m getting a lot of practice in the quiet. But stillness is different to me. Related, yes. But stillness feels a layer or so deeper. I can be in the quiet and I can listen. But stillness requires a quiet of the soul. A quiet that is founded in trust. Trust is hard during this. I trust. But I hold tightly. It’s like on my bridge… not knowing what step is ahead. But boldly taking it knowing that there could be sure footing or there could be a massive free fall. And either way…full trust. That feels like stillness. And yes, it’s hard.”
My bridge…..I’ve used a few analogies regarding life but one of the most poignant ones for me is the bridge. We all have paths we walk…we all encounter forks in the road…we all encounter mountains and valleys…we all encounter bridges. In other words, we don’t just stand in the middle of a meadow and don’t move. Bridges of all kinds occur in our paths. Sometimes we stand where we can choose which bridge to take. Sometimes the bridges are chosen for us. Bridges have a threshold and they also have “the other side.” Bridges can be easy and short. Bridges can be stable and secure…made of steel and immovable. Bridges can cross small rivers and bridges can treacherously stretch across deadly chasms. Bridges can have sure footing with each step, even over the bigger canyons and some bridges are weathered and worn and unsure, swaying in the wind with only a small fraying rope to hold on to. That’s the bridge I feel I am on…treacherous, unsure, swaying…crossing over a dark deep chasm…with fog so dense I can’t even see the condition of the board I am to put my foot on next. Fog so dense the “other side” is obscured from sight.
So during my bone scan…when I was literally forced to be still, for a 40 (possibly more) minute chunk of time, it occurred to me that I could practice stillness. With the context of my texts with my friend, I meditated on it as I laid on that hard platform unable to move except for to breathe. I prayed for stillness in my soul. I prayed Jesus’ name with every breath. I quieted my body and my soul. And I found stillness. I drifted into a visualization of me walking on my bridge and wasn’t even looking down. I wasn’t concerned about the step in front of me…the condition of it. I just kept taking them. One and then another. Never looking down.
Then the tech came back in, told me I was all done, that I got an A+, and wished me the best.
I can’t say that I’m sitting here tonight in total peace (considering I started bawling while I was eating a piece of pie after dinner) or that I have perfected total trust. …Even with my moment with stillness and peace and my visualization of full trust in this journey. But I can say that I have a better understanding of it. I can say that I know I will be able to find that place again. I can say that the bridge is still treacherous and scary and the uncertainties ahead are vast, but also that I have a new space to crave. The quiet and the stillness.
“Be still and know that I am God” looks and feels different to me than ever before and when I catch a glimpse of it on my wrist or while I’m walking down my stairs…I will learn to trust its depth.
Weird :: 9/22/18 :: Post 374
I’m struggling to find the words to describe how I feel…
“Weird” is the only thing I’ve come up with so far and it seems to be the only consistent descriptor I’ve found.
My physical body hurts in odd ways…like an awful period (but that just doesn’t make sense); a heaviness where there is actually a “lightness”; full when it’s actually empty.
Weird.
My emotions are low… I’m sad. I’m impatient. I’m prickly like a porcupine. I feel blah. I feel edgy I feel like my nerve endings are all exposed.
My mental capacity feels sluggish…my head feels heavy, my thoughts laden. I don’t feel sharp…
It might be that I’m recovering from major surgery. It might be my body adjusting to a whole set of organs being removed. It might be my body freaking out because of a sudden hormonal imbalance.
It might be pure exhaustion.
It might just be weird for awhile.
A Priceless Gift :: 9/22/19 :: Post 737
Two years ago, in between the time of “you have cancer” and waking up from a 7-hour surgery without body parts, Chris had found that there was such a thing as a mastectomy tattoo. He found that an organization exists that provides these tattoos for free and matches artists with survivors. He found that women who had experienced breast cancer and had any type of surgery related to it, would use the art of tattoos to cover the scars. So, he mentioned all of this to me and thought maybe it would help me get through this huge first hurdle and give me something to think about and focus on.
And I did. I thought about it when I was awake in the middle of the nights during my recovery, in pain and desperately sad. I thought about it the day I got my head shaved. I thought about it during chemo when I was wishing for heaven. I thought about it during my daily radiation treatments, wondering if my skin would ever heal to the point of being able to handle a tattoo. I thought about it as I recovered from my first major reconstructive surgery…. I thought about art ideas and would dream about it from time to time. I thought about it but never really knew if I would actually ever get to see it to completion. Would I even live to get there? Would I make it? Would the surgeries work? Would chemo and radiation kill the cancer or would they kill me?
I remember asking Dr. Williams about it when we first met and he told me, “that’s years away, dear girl, you have a lot to get through first.” Of course that was hard to hear, but it was really important that he told me that because in that moment, I was brought back into the reality that this was going to be a long journey and that I had no business getting too far ahead of myself because I wasn’t there yet. It was a reminder that I didn’t even know if the next day would exist. So, I had to hold the idea loosely. I couldn’t commit to something that I didn’t know would ever happen. I just had to wait and hope that someday I could look down and see a beautiful picture tell the story.
And then we did surgery. And chemo. And radiation. And reconstruction. And healing. And time…..‘years away’ time.
A few months ago, I felt I was far enough down this road to at least look into the application process for the organization that Chris had mentioned to me at the beginning of all of this. I thought maybe, at the very least, I could talk to an artist and start getting ideas out there for what I’d want this hugely meaningful and large piece to look like. Without having any idea what this part of the story was going to look like or feel like, I found the organization’s website and realized that the application process was incredibly difficult and that I would be one of thousands of women who would be applying. And I lost hope. I knew I wasn’t going to get chosen. I never win raffles…..like ever. So, I put my computer away that night. Discouraged. And sad.
Several days later, though, after talking with Chris, we decided that I was just going to go find an artist and pay them for the work. (I was so grateful that Chris was supportive of this next step even though it was going to be expensive.) That said, I knew the search was going to be daunting – I needed an artist who was good at big pieces, I needed an artist that had experience with extensive scarring, I needed an artist that was actually an artist so that they could design a piece for me using my story, I needed an artist that was reasonably priced so that this was actually doable….. This was a tall order, no doubt. And I wasn’t sure if anyone existed that matched all those needs. Nonetheless, I started the search and I started with the list of tattoo professionals that this organization used to see if any of them were local…to my relief, one was. He worked out of a shop in Boulder but as I looked through the website, it was very obvious that he would not be available until 2020. So, I looked through the rest of the artists on the shops website and perused their profiles. There was one particular picture that stood out to me – it was a black and gray piece with a couple of roses in it. I was so drawn to it that I scrolled until I found who the artist was that created that piece. He only had an Instagram handle that I could message him on, so I did. I sent a short message about me and my story and I asked him what his rates were for both art production and the tattoo itself….knowing it was likely going to be a pretty penny but willing to at least ask.
He messaged me back within the hour. “Thank you so much for reaching out. I would love to do your tattoo and be part of that experience with you and I would like to do this piece for you free of charge. It won’t cost you anything.”
What?
Free?
For real?
This guy doesn’t even know what I look like.
……I want to remember everything about this as it is now in my rear-view mirror. I want to hold tightly to what I’ve learned. I want to live out the story of the scars, not gone but beautifully woven into a picture that is worth far more than words.
Each time I’d show up at the shop, I’d experience something new. The first time – I was struck by how different Albert was from what his picture portrayed. I thought I’d meet this rough, life-worn guy who would be difficult to connect with, and instead, it is because this man is life-worn that his heart is gold…and conversation came easy. The next time, he was excited to show me his ideas and thrilled that I so easily picked one…confirming to both of us that we were meant to know each other for this time and for this purpose. The time after that, getting to see something start to materialize that for so long had only been a figment of my imagination yet having to patiently settle for a simple outline – what a metaphor for life. Then next, a rose, done. More waiting. More patience. More trusting he’d text me to set up the next time. Then another rose, done. And more waiting. And more patience. And more trusting that I’d get a text from him. Finally, as I’m driving to my last session with him, knowing this would be my last, my heart was full and it was heavy. Full of happy anticipation as my patience and faith in the process was being answered. Yet full of heaviness because the experience was about to become a memory. We laughed. We listened to fun music (from 90’s rap to chanting monks to Neil Diamond). We talked life and story and faith and fear. We sat in silence as he concentrated. We ate dinner together during much needed breaks.
We packed a lifetime of friendship into a few months and 20 some hours…and I am forever changed – both on the outside and on the inside.
This process, from start to finish, has been intense. It has required patience and trust, vulnerability and courage. I’ve had to embrace a slowness as these things just don’t happen overnight. I had to trust that this person would continue to show up, do quality work and finish what he started, especially because I wasn’t paying him. I had to allow him to see the scars and a surgeon’s attempt at putting my body back together, and while his attempt was valiant, it isn’t pretty. And I had to believe that he had my best interests at heart as he touched me and tattooed me, plunging needles full of ink into my fragile, radiated skin. And I had to do this all while holding the magnitude of the ‘why’ altogether.
“Well, I think it’s done.” He says. “And, amazingly, it’s just like I pictured in my head…. What do you think?”
The tears streaming down my face were the only things talking. I didn’t have words. I sobbed as my heart and body released all of the emotions that had culminated…going back 2 years to diagnosis, making it through treatment, living in surviving, telling the story…. The gift that I was looking at wasn’t just a tattoo. It wasn’t just ink. It wasn’t just Albert’s time and talent. It wasn’t just a $5000 freebie.
What a gift. What an incredible, selfless, generous, lifelong, beyond-belief gift….