It was at about this same time that I was coming to, the deep sleep and fog of anesthesia slowly lifting with each minute that passed. I tried to move but my body felt too heavy. Of course, that is normal after surgery but there was also this weight on my soul that was undeniable. The realities of what had transpired that day and what awaited us just ahead were astronomical. I wished to be anywhere else. I closed my eyes tight and reopened them hoping for a different view and when it wasn’t, I cried. And then I’d squeeze my eyes shut again. Each time taking longer to open them back up. Each time opening them to a clearer, more vivid, deeply devastating view. I tried to move again but the pain meds were still in effect so no pain accompanied the movements – that bizarre moment in space and time where the head starts to put the pieces together while the body remains in oblivion…that bizarre moment that has to come to an end at some point. I didn’t want to look. I was angry and bitter that I woke up without the miracle. I remember laying there, experiencing the shock waves of reality. The confusion of feeling relief that the tumors were removed but anguished with the nothing that remained and the fear of what was yet to come. This was only the beginning and what a beginning to start from. And then I looked……………… People might wonder why I still recall the memories, or maybe they wonder more about why I *choose* to recall the memories, about why I continue to write about the same things years later. About why I’m not “over it.” Tonight, it’s for two reasons. 

1. Just like I posted the other day – stepping in the same footsteps going the other direction offers new insights that couldn’t have been acknowledged before. The look on the nurse’s face as she cared for me—I didn’t notice it that night because I was otherwise occupied—but tonight, I can close my eyes and see her face and its expression, one that reflected the weight of genuine care, having seen many others walk this road. Or seeing the tangibility of “God wastes nothing” by walking backwards through that day and seeing the miracles through His eyes rather than my own. 

And then 2. I’ll share and keep sharing to offer people the opportunity to practice empathy. We all tend to “common-ize” everything. We may hear a word but then often, we don’t connect to the word; we don’t consider the *inside* of that word. “Mastectomy” is so every-day-language. Same with “premature baby” or dare I even say “covid death.” We somehow think it’s better that whatever hard is being shared, isn’t a unique hard. The sting of the word is determined by its common-ized usage – the more common the word, the less intense our connection to it has to be. Think about it: in order to protect ourselves from hurting with someone, (because we don’t like the vulnerability that comes with empathy) we have to qualify that person’s hard. After a mastectomy: “well, you are alive so…” After a premature birth: “technology is so advanced, premature babies survive at such a high rate…” After a covid death: “Well, how old were they? Did they have preexisting conditions?…” We remove the sting so we can handle someone else’s pain easier. But what about their pain? It doesn’t matter how common a thing is. It doesn’t matter how rare, either. And the timeline of it all really really doesn’t matter. It. All. H U R T S. 

Empathy isn’t actually about walking in someone else’s shoes. It’s not even about taking their shoes from them. It’s about asking them how they feel in their own shoes. Empathy is an active choice and while not everyone is good at it, everyone is capable of practicing it intentionally. Stop “common-izing” circumstances by qualifying them and instead, empathize by asking and then choosing to listen even if it hurts.

*Post 887

3 Years Ago Today :: 9/8/17

Post 7 :: Checked In…

Well, I’m here. Checked in and about to get an injection of radioactive dye. Then off to pre-op. Then waiting. Time is so so so slow. My heart is heavy. My stomach hurts. I’m nervous and anxious. But I’m here. And I’m ready. And I want the cancer out. Jesus, walk with me today. Be with Chris in the waiting room. Be with the girls where they are. Be with my momma and dad. Be with my family and friends.

Post 8 :: Waiting is the Hardest Part…

Pre-op is mostly over. I have a sweet nurse. Pam. The IV was the worst part so far but God love her, she got it on the first try. Thank you, Jesus. I’m feeling so tired. And vulnerable. At the mercy of so many people doing their jobs. I’m feeling sad. The tears are flowing. I know that I should feel positive cuz this is the first step to getting better. But I’m not there yet. The reality of what’s ahead is elephant-sized. I have a big thing happening today. 12-6:30 is what the surgery board says about my surgery. Oh and I put my gown on the wrong way for my plastic surgeon to come in and do his markings. That was embarrassing. *eye roll. And I had medical professionals #42 and #43 see me naked (the radiologist and nurse that injected me with radioactive dye). (Not that crazy of an exaggeration by the way…)

And then the questions…..”Your name” “Your date of birth” “Why are you here today?” “What is your understanding of the procedure” “Tell me your name again” “Any history of breast cancer in your family?” “What medications are you taking?” “When was the last time you peed?”

I sit in this strange place of wanting time to fast forward while wanting time to move so slow as this will be the last day I am as I was. Weird. Surreal. Hard. And now I have to pee. That’ll be fun…the nurse will have to help me pee. Great.

Chris Havekost · Sep 8 at 2:56 pm :: Update 1

Hi all, just a quick update, but I don’t have a lot to share yet. Amber’s surgery got started about an hour late, so we’re almost 2 hours in. I expect her medical surgeon will finish in the next 30-60 minutes, at which point she’ll come out and update me. I’ll share more then. Thank you all for your prayers and support

Chris Havekost · Sep 8 at 3:56 pm :: Update 2

Hi all, Amber’s medical surgeon has finished her portion of the surgery. She just came out and gave me her update. Her portion of the surgery went very smoothly, and Amber is doing great. Final results of the pathology report will tell the full story in terms of how far the cancer has progressed. We expect to receive that next Tuesday or Wednesday. She did share that they did find cancer cells in the sentinel lymph node and the next couple of nodes beyond that, which while it is not the outcome we were hoping for, it doesn’t necessarily change her path in terms of future treatment. Her estimate is that her plastic surgeon has another 1-2 hours before he will be finished and into recovery. I’ll provide more info as soon as I have it. Thank you all for your continued prayers and support

Chris Havekost · Sep 8 at 6:41 pm :: Update 3

Hi all, Amber is out of surgery and into recovery. Both surgeons report that everything went smoothly. I was able to see her briefly in recovery a few minutes ago. She was awake and talking, but still very groggy. I’m sure I’ll be answering the same questions again later for her. She’s resting now and will be admitted shortly once they have a room for her. The surgeons will be checking in on her in be morning, and expect she will go home by noon, barring complications. Thank you for the support. Please keep the prayer coming. She’s processing a lot and is understandably very sad. 

Chris Havekost · Sep 8 at 10:24 pm :: Final Update for Tonight

Hi all, I finally got to see Amber in her room around 8:30. She’s in a lot of pain and so very sad. The reality of this situation and the battle ahead has hit us both full force and we’re managing a lot of emotions. We’re so thankful the tumors are out, and for all the support we’ve received from so many. It is humbling and overwhelming all at once. The girls are holding it together, thanks in large part to Christine, Amber’s mom. Haleigh softball team at Faith wore pink for their game this afternoon to support Haleigh and Amber. Very touching. Thanks all for keeping us in your prayers. I suspect Amber will take over on the updates tomorrow, but if not, I will keep them coming. 

2 Years Ago Today :: 9/8/18

Post 359 :: 9.8

My heart is heavy tonight. I acknowledge the distance we have come from a year ago today but I will forever grieve the loss of September 8, 2017. A part of my body was cut off and sent to a lab. (…What a job….a courier of body parts….) That morning, I woke up early, I was grateful but hateful to have gotten to that day, I had radioactive dye injected into my veins, I was naked and drawn all over by a plastic surgeon, I was given a little post-surgery gift from a nurse navigator, and then I was wheeled into an OR. The first of what would turn out to be many….. And I wasn’t certain I’d wake up. And I wasn’t certain if I did wake up, what I’d feel. 

Pain. Anguish. Despair. 

Flatness. 

Drains. 

A hospital overnight.

And a swirling storm of unknowns.

I’m at a loss for any more words tonight…..I’m grateful that I’m here a year later but I hate all that I (we) have had to endure. I’m grateful for the transformation but I hate the things I (we) have had to see. My heart is heavy.

1 Year Ago Today :: 9/8/19

Post 724 :: The Tip of the Iceberg

I hate you, cancer. I hate what you have done. I hate what you have taken. 

Today has been a painful day. The memory of mastectomy is a brutal one…the awful juxtaposition that cancer forced me into is one I’m finding myself very bitter for tonight….the relief of removing the tumors but the devastating collateral damage that came with it — The identity crisis — The soul-crushing-heart-wrenching-mind-disturbing-body-rearranging hell — The piercing vulnerability… Mastectomy, you didn’t just take cancer cells. And cancer, you didn’t just take breasts…. Most nights I can sit here and make sense of the things I am grateful for in the midst of the pain. Tonight, though, my heart wails with grief. Tonight, the intensity of the memory is suffocating. Tonight, the fury is overwhelming. 

I am lucid enough to find my way into the present reality, where the fog of anesthesia is gone enough to acknowledge where I am. The pain in my core and in my back and shoulders and in the holes left behind is nothing I have ever felt, nor could have been prepared for. I gasp as I look down at the scarred flatness that remains…it literally just took my breath away. I feel so empty. On one hand I’m relieved but on the other, I am enraged at that thought. And I’m feeling hopeless because despite the enormous emotional and physical pain I am in, they tell me I won’t have answers for what is to come for at least 2 weeks. What stage am i? Is this my death sentence? Do I have 6 weeks to live? Will I have to have chemo? Please no chemo…please. I can’t believe this is actually happening…. 

I had to sit. Sit in the loss. Sit in the pain. Sit in the fear. Sit in the silence of unknown. And little did I know that that was just the tip of the iceberg.