What if you set your bias aside? You don’t have to lose your passions or compromise your convictions to do so, and you can even still have your “IMOs” and your “TBHs,” but what if? In this politically charged, nuanced narrative, agenda driven season, we are each tied up, safely bound and protected by our own certainty because we’ve done the research and we’ve developed our positions.

In this metaphor, all tied up and safe in our certainty, it’s a big ask to unfurl the ropes that hold ourselves together so that we can open our arms to another perspective. There is just too much vulnerability in that. And there is just too much at stake. I get it. But what if?

What if you could loosen (not lose) your convictions from the safety of your clutch? What if you could hold them with outstretched arms? What if you could hold them in the same open hands that are open to another perspective? Take a moment and act this out – take your tightly crossed arms and uncross them holding your hands out in front of you, palms facing upwards, a slight bend in your elbow. A softness to your posture, your core still strong. What does that feel like?

Now imagine your hands holding your convictions, your passions, your opinions, your perspectives. They still matter. Deeply, of course. You’re still feeling their weight as you hold them. You’re still showing their priority because they are front and center. And you’ve accepted the vulnerability that comes with this pose.
Now, you’re across from someone who is doing the same thing. No one is asking you to trade. No one is telling you to switch. No one is pressuring you, you’re just holding yours. And they, their’s.
And then a conversation begins. Each describing what they hold. The temptation is to pull those important things inward, especially if they are different than the other’s. But, you resist. Another temptation arises, one where you want the other to hold the same things you are so that they ‘get it.’ But, again, you resist.
Both+And. I am here, both holding what is important to me and open to hearing what is important to you.

This week, I had a couple of challenging conversations with someone very important to me, a different set of convictions in their hands. And it was there that this picture came to mind. I was, at first, holding so tightly to my convictions and bristling at theirs. But then:

They trusted me.
They chose vulnerability.
They desired to be understood.
They shared.
They held open hands out front…

In turn, they listened to me.
They tried to understand.
They responded respectfully.
They encouraged me to unfurl my tightly wound-up perspectives.
Because they cared about what I had to say.

My point: Despite our differing perspectives, ones that we weren’t asking the other to give up, I saw something. The heart underlying and informing their convictions was beautiful. Resilient. Caring. Selfless. Thoughtful. Empathetic. Compassionate. Kind and merciful. Gracious. Forgiving. Loving.

This is both+and. Neither of us losing our convictions; both of us, though, seeing the other’s worth beyond them.

And guys, this was my 12 year old. . .

*Post 945

Maybe Tomorrow :: 11/4/17 :: Post 68

I see so many tiny little babies…so many new moms and dads navigating one of the hardest times of life. The joys and hardships of pregnancy, the joys and pain of labor and delivery, the unknowns of nursing or bottle feeding or supplementing, the fears of sleeping and hoping they lay their baby down correctly, the waking in the middle of the night (in a fatigue unique only to this season of life) to feed their newest little bundle, the seeking of routine because routine can make a huge difference, the beautiful hair and nails of pregnancy and the falling out of said beautiful hair after pregnancy is over, the doctors visits, the well-checks, the questions of “what can I be doing better…”

I see all of this and I am happy for them. I’ve been down that road and it is riddled with hard stuff while being so full of hope and joy and laughter.

I see all of this and I am also desperately sad. I wish that was my story now. I wish that I was getting to be a part of a new life. So much of what I am experiencing is so parallel to my pregnancies. I just have a totally different battle on my hands with, what feels like, a far less life-giving outcome.

I feel the nausea. I feel the puking. I feel the extreme fatigue. I feel the pain. I feel the lack of appetite. I feel the anxiety of the unknown. I feel the hair falling out. I feel the guilt of not being able to do more. I feel the frustration that my capacity is so severely diminished. I feel all of the feelings but have no hope for the life-giving outcome of a new baby to love and nurture and raise. I just have cancer. I have a battle that makes me reminiscent of all of the hard but beautiful things about the best part of my world (my girls) and yet I sit here defeated because all I have to show for it is a bald head, a sickly face, a diminished capacity, and a battle far from over. I sit here depleted of hope because I have to saddle up for numerous other rounds of poison and walk into the deep dark unknown of what is to come from each one.

Sure, I’m not naïve enough to think that there won’t be something life-giving at the end of all of this. I know that’s not how God works, and I know that He’s got something planned for me through this battle. But I am in the throes of a battle I never wanted, and I cannot see the end, nor can I see very clearly where I have come from – it’s too blurry.

I got angry with myself today thinking that I needed to Buck Up and have a more fighting attitude. Isn’t it time that I got to that place? Shouldn’t I be stronger and more willing to face the next battle? Where is my faith? How disgustingly weak I am! I wanted to scream to myself, “Stop crying and just get over it….pull up your big girl panties and go to war.” And then I cried some more. I don’t want to. I don’t have the strength. I can’t imagine having to go through this 5-drug-chemo-hell again and again for 3 more months. I can’t imagine having to keep going in for “piece of cake 2-drug” infusions for 11 more months (whatever THAT means). I can’t imagine having to go to daily radiation for 2 months straight in March and April. I can’t imagine going through yet another difficult major surgery over the summer. And I can’t imagine that this time next year I’ll still have another major surgery to consider. …….I know I’m not doing myself any favors by looking so far ahead. I have people telling me I need to stop that. But like I said yesterday, I’m really having a hard time with that. There is an end, yes, but it is so.far.away.

My heart is exhausted. My soul, tired. I need sleep…….good solid sleep. Normally, I’d be giddy that tonight is Daylight Savings… But the nights are the hardest parts of my days and sleep doesn’t come easy…

Maybe tonight will be different…

The NYC Marathon :: 11/4/18 :: Post 418

Today was incredible.

Felicia running the NYC Marathon in her Amber’s Army shirt as she raised money for cancer research and to honor the “marathon” I’ve been running for the past year and a half has been one of the highlights of my life.

We went to mile markers 14 and 23 to cheer her on (with her sister, dad and some friends) and it was so amazing to see her run by. It was amazing to witness thousands of runners run the biggest marathon in the world and it was amazing to see thousands of people cheering on these runners.

Felicia says she is inspired by me……oh my sweet girl, how I am inspired by YOU. Your drive, your determination, your character, your story….Your willingness to boldly and authentically and intentionally walk out your faith.

I am so grateful for getting to be here with you.
…For getting to participate in this moment with you.
……For getting to be present in this memory with YOU.
Thank you.

Gratitude Month Day 4 :: 11/4/19 :: Post 780

Today was hard. I had a follow up appointment with my oncologist and I went in with a heavy heart. …Rewind, though, to just yesterday – I didn’t even remember I had this appointment. Funny, and clearly shows how unconcerned, un-anxious I was. I mean, of course I had a list of questions going in my head (and on my phone because my head can’t be trusted to remember), but there just wasn’t much more than that. And then last night I had this nightmare: My oncologist and I were discussing a scan image of my body, lymph nodes scattered across its entirety, lit up – almost glowing – with cancer. “I’m sorry, Amber, your cancer has spread.” So, with that image seared in my memory, I went about getting ready this morning, trying to shake it, telling myself it was a dream, reminding myself to stay grounded in the accurate narrative, not the inaccurate one of a dream. I went in to work for a bit before my appointment but struggled to focus, realizing just how high my anxiety levels were. My body hurts so much. Everywhere. My brain has been extra foggy lately. My fatigue has been more noticeable. Headaches, nausea, dizziness… Of course, all of this could be justified as responses to major life change, a new job, a new school year, a hefty schedule to maintain, the dynamics of being wife, mom, coach, daughter, friend, employee, counselor, client and patient….and not as new cancer…

Anyways, Chris comes and picks me up and already, the memories are firing. As we’ve done a hundred times, we drove to Rose together listening to talk radio and sitting in pensive quiet. What will this appointment look like, what will it bring? Will it be straightforward like some or will it be difficult like others? Will our questions get answered or will we leave with new ones? Likely both.

Dr. B was concerned about all I was telling her. And while I’m grateful for her concern, it’s unsettling to say the least. She listened. She pondered. She inquired. She lingered on my collarbone and neck during her exam of lymph nodes more than she ever has in the past. She then ordered an MRI to be completed before the end of the week, ‘being cautious and thorough but imagines a clean scan’ (which is the identical thing my OB told me as she was ordering my mammogram…). The reality is that the things I am experiencing are not normal for where I am post-treatment. She’s concerned I have rheumatoid arthritis as a result of chemo, she wants to rule out metastasis in my brain because of some of my symptoms and she confirmed that this is no longer tied to Anastrozole or Tamoxifen.

Turns out, they had room for me to have an MRI today. And it was supposed to be with contrast. But, after 30 minutes in the tube and another 45 for 2 nurses to attempt and fail with 4 sticks resulting in 4 blown out veins, there was no successful push of contrast. After another 15 minutes of clanking and clacking and clicking, I left Rose heavier than I went in. Sitting in a very familiar uncertainty.

Gratitude Month Day 4 – Today was so reminiscent of some of the hardest days of my life. And I have a few pretty big unknowns ahead. And I’m not going to pretend I’m not scared. AND I’m also going to recognize that I have new ways of coping because I have allowed cancer to change me. So while I sit here in a dreadful familiarity, I also sit here knowing that I’ll know what I need to when I need to and I’ll be able to take the next step on whatever plank of whatever bridge lies ahead of me…and most of all, I won’t be making that step alone.