Doing only one thing at a time is somewhat counter-cultural because we tend to be conditioned to multitask. It’s been an interesting lesson for me, throughout cancer, to be different…whether I’ve liked it or not.

I have chosen April to be a month where I don’t write every day because there’s just no way I could see myself having the brain space, the time space or the heart space to make it happen authentically. It’s simply too full a month. So far, 11 days in, I am learning quite a bit about myself: 1. I love writing and there is something about it that connects me to me…I’m missing it. Big time. 2. It takes a lot of my energy even though writing is life-giving and “easy” for me…I’m relieved I’m not trying to also fit this into my current days. 3. I’m proud of myself for choosing this change despite the internal pull to ignore capacity limits and ‘do all the things.’ And the fact that I have an internal pull shows me some things as well. 4. By taking daily writing “off,” I am gaining some significant insight into my “why’s.” Turns out that even when something is working, you can still push the pause button to see if it truly was working (as opposed to “if it ain’t broken, don’t fix it…).

As I sit here today, thinking back on the week in-between posts, so much life was lived. Some super full hours. Others not so much. Some beyond-my-limits physical strain. Some staring off into space with not a thought in my brain. Deeply valuable and very long and exhausting conversations. A lot of learning. And a lot of internal dialogue reminding myself to simply be where my feet were. It’s been interesting to be so disciplined in letting relief be relief and to not give in to the desire (read: self-inflicted, check-a-box, write-for-the-sake-of-writing pressure) to write.

So. I’ve chosen one small thing. And that one small thing has opened my eyes to some other small things. I love writing daily but I don’t *need* to write daily. I love being where my feet are but it still takes discipline to do so because it’s not my natural tendency. I love the pause as it helps clarify the why’s but the ‘why-space’ is a heavy space. I love learning new things about making cancer matter but living changed is the hardest thing to do. 

*Post 1095

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Past posts from 2018:

Old but New :: April 6, 2018

Today was my first normal day in many many weeks….. And I guess months if I’m gonna count the “hard” chemos, too……I helped with the morning routine, I helped with drop-off, I went straight to work because no appointments were scheduled, I got to work on time and left on time and came home to enjoy relaxing for a good long time tonight. And yet, while the routine was the same as it had been before all this happened, I am not. 

I see gratitude very differently. I am grateful for hair. For community. For quiet. For the unknown. For faith. For generosity. I am much quicker to be grateful for things big and small…

I’m not in a hurry anymore. (Well, most of the time, anyway…).I stop and smell the roses. Admire the scenery. Enjoy the present. I feel a depth to my emotions that I didn’t before. I’ve seen the inside of grief and loss, fear and faith. I’ve learned boldness to a whole new degree (being a woman and walking around without hair is hard!). I’ve empathized from my core. I’ve rallied when I haven’t wanted to or didn’t think possible. I’ve felt the tears right behind my eyes while I’m smiling. 

I compartmentalize better than I used to. Work is work. Success is measured differently…sometimes it’s just brushing my teeth before falling asleep and then being OK with that being successful.

I cherish different things. Relationships. Sleep. Doctors. Feeling well. Taste. Time. My kids’ teachers. My friends’ check-ins. Purple hair. Patience. Memories. Hard experiences that teach vital lessons.

Living changed looks so interesting when the life being lived is relatively unchanged……

My Momma :: April 7, 2018

The highlight of my week…..Hanging out with my momma today….like the old days. 🙂 Like the days before cancer…Panera. Talking about life. Eating cookies. Kohl’s. Talking while we shop and keeping seven stories going all at once. Spending time together. My mom taking care of me……and it just doesn’t matter how old I am. She bought me some new outfits. She said she had fun because we hadn’t gone shopping for almost 9 months since I haven’t felt well enough. And I loved being with her because I haven’t felt well enough for almost 9 months…….. Not to mention that having some new clothes is really nice because I don’t look the same in my old clothes. And that feels hard. And sad. And, actually since I’m not even comfortable in my own skin, having clothes that make me feel good is such a blessing and gift…. And again…as I begin to enjoy things that I did before cancer, I am reminded of the current battle. I had such fun with my mom today yet the exhaustion is extreme. And I have to get up at 5 so I can take Cate to her volleyball tournament in the morning…… Yikes. Bedtime.

7:30 :: April 8, 2018

7:30 bedtime because 5am came early….so early this morning. But it was worth it. Caty…volleyball…coaching…….. It was such a fun morning. But my tummy has hurt most of the day. And my skin is tight, cracking and peeling. And my muscles ache. I’m in pain almost constantly. As I wrap up this day and get ready to sleep away the pain, my spirits are high. My day with my family has filled my soul. And I’m ready for my first full normal scheduled week.

Close Your Eyes :: April 9, 2018

I’ve been trying to get at something for awhile now…..I’ve tried coming up with words and a mental picture to describe a main learning I have experienced through this cancer diagnosis… …”Widened perspective” …”Deeper understanding” …”A wide vision but narrow focus”

I think I got there today. I feel like I came up with something that describes this learning more accurately than I’ve been able to up to this point. “A sharp focus on the present moment with a wider peripheral vision.” To me I feel like this part of my story has helped teach me how to remain in the present better than I had been doing…to understand purpose in the present and not getting too prepared for what I didn’t know… 

And then at the same time, I feel like I’m learning to have this “wide vision”…this idea of “big-ness”… that I am a small part of a much much larger story and that this cancer diagnosis is transformative for both the now and the forever. From the beginning of this, I said “God wastes nothing so neither will I…” I don’t want to miss what this (cancer) is supposed to mean. I want to be changed. If I gotta go through this hell, it won’t be for nothing. And I think this idea of a sharp focus on now with a wide peripheral vision is a big part of what this cancer diagnosis is teaching me. 

A sharp focus on the now: …being present with my kids when I’m with my kids (and not being lost in my own preoccupations)….cherishing moments for what they hold because they could be my last….not losing energy or emotions on preparing for the unknown, instead being free to trust that the experiences that come are intended to come and I (along with a BIG God) can cross any bridge that presents itself no matter how rickety it may be…and trusting that if a rung falls out from under me, that I will land securely where I am intended to land….believing everything is temporary.

A wide peripheral vision: …acknowledging the fact that sorrow and joy are often held together and that it is possible to speak gratitude while in pain….being open to what lies ahead even though I cannot see it and planning for the next step but not the next horizon….knowing that while God is working in my heart, He is working in others’ as well; that this is bigger than me….believing everything is temporary.

There is a post I did many months ago, early on in this chapter of my story, where I spoke of bridges and the incredible meaning that metaphor held for me. Tonight, I think I came to a new depth of meaning for this metaphor. I imagine a rickety bridge over a big chasm…the depths of which are unknown because I cannot see “the bottom.” At this present time, I’m standing at the half way mark on the bridge. I can see the rung I am on crystal clear but the clarity of the space around me gets fuzzier the further away I look. I can see the parts of the bridge where I’ve already walked more clearly than what’s in front of me, but parts of what is left behind is slightly lost in a light haze. I cannot see the “end” of the bridge or if there is solid ground ahead or if the bridge becomes more stable or if the bridge goes in a new direction. But from where I currently stand, facing forward, I know there is a wide open horizon in a wide open peripheral behind the haze. And tonight, as I write this, my heart trusts that what is beyond the haze…in every direction…is good. I don’t know what’s next for me. I don’t know what tomorrow holds (an emotional crisis, followed by a major car accident, followed by a cancer diagnosis all in one year, are tangible reminders of this). 

And even though I can plan for 8 more chemos and a major surgery, I don’t actually know what lies ahead. (And my plastic surgeon even said that we can plan for this surgery but he won’t actually know he can do it till he gets in there to see what he’s got to work with…so I’ll have to wait till I wake up from it to know what I actually experienced………..) Hmmmm. Interesting stuff in light of this imagery. God, grant me the patience and perseverance and perspective to be present on the rung you have me on today. And then again tomorrow.

A Take-Away Nonetheless :: April 10, 2018

I’m kinda low tonight. It wasn’t a bad day, really, but tonight I feel the emotions right under the surface. I hurt all over…….my body…my heart. Sometimes there really isn’t much more to say. I do believe that there is something to take away from each day, but today it ain’t much. No revelations. No deeper understandings.  I’m just sad. And tired. And I guess simply acknowledging that is my take-away from today.

But We are Not Done For :: April 11, 2018

My family is tired. We have all had to carry a lot of difficult weight these past many months….My girls are overwhelmed. The entirety of their school year has been in the midst of cancer treatment for their mom. They have been asked to bear much……My marriage has undoubtedly been required to adapt and change to incredible challenge. It’s been forced to redefine many things…..I feel these heavy things tonight…..

I was at an event tonight with Annie where I saw a good friend who battled cancer in her late 20’s, 20 some years ago….and another good friend who was recently diagnosed and had both her mastectomy and reconstruction surgeries at the beginning of this year. Interesting to see them both, all three of us cancer survivors, all three of us very close friends, all three of us with very different stories but a shared camaraderie. 

This event was for the young girls of our church to learn about God’s design for our physical bodies, preparing for adolescence, and equipping mothers to have important discussions with their daughters about how their bodies work. When we got to the part about how God designed everything in our bodies to have a purpose, specifically breasts, my whole self felt that moment. I had a physiological response that I could instantly feel – I noticed I was trembling deep inside….like I was shivering but it wasn’t obvious to those around me. I had an emotional response – I literally felt my heart sink. And I do mean literally…I felt that pang in my heart and it felt heavy. I had a moment of anger at God pass through me…”By God’s Design” and the very things that brought life and health to my beautiful babies were literally cut off of me because of their capacity to kill. Wow. That’s trippy. I know cancer isn’t of God and He didn’t design it, but I can’t ignore the reality of how I felt….even if just for a moment. And then when the presenter said, “You girls, while it may come at different times, will all get your Woman’s body. We all have breasts and it’s by God’s great design.” My sweet 9 year old looked at me and said, “I guess not all of us. I’m sorry mommy that you don’t anymore.” Dear God. 

And then on the way home Annie and I saw the very recent aftermath of a horrific car accident……………. *Rubberband snap* to a very raw memory of being thrown into the path of a massive semi traveling at likely 55/60 miles per hour with all power to control the outcome, out of my hands. 

I know and trust that You’re up to something amazing, but dear God give us strength to endure. My heart is heavy and my soul, tired. But we are not done-for. 

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Past Posts from 2019

Pictures :: April 6, 2019

I needed to send some pictures of my story to a friend tonight. While it was hard looking back through them, there is a beauty to the story told through those really difficult images. 

Baldness on Christmas morning. The fatigue of fighting in my eyes. The weight of the burden of caring for me in my husband’s face. The sadness in the posture of my daughter. The before and afters of putting me back together. The nurses and doctors that care so beautifully in the ugliness of cancer. The amazing community of people that love me. My long hair. And then a shaved head. And then a purple wig. A gray complexion as chemo ravaged the inside of my body. A chubbiness as I needed to make fat so my surgeon could try and recreate breasts. Drains. And a drain apron. The old house that had many memories colored through cancer. 

Thankful for hard memories because of the story of transformation they tell.

Lose – Lose :: April 7, 2019

I feel awful – upset stomach, achy joints, foggy head, sad soul. 10 years is a long ass time. I’ll be 49 when I can stop taking tamoxifen. …………If I can last that long.  

It’s hard to accept a lose-lose situation. I keep taking tamoxifen – and it’s more of this – for 3000+ more days. I change to a different (not as effective) medication and have the awful laundry list of those side effects – for 3000+ more days. I don’t take any medication and my chance of recurrence rises significantly. I try non-pharmaceutical methods to prevent recurrence and who knows the risks because the research is lacking. 

I feel daunted tonight by the weight of cancer. And while the fact of the matter is, in comparison to last year, I appear to be “all better” …in reality, I’m just not. 

Time :: April 8, 2019

Time is such a relative thing. After my post last night, and considering what 3000+ days feels like, I thought more about time.

Time is fast… I blinked and my first baby is about to be a senior in high school, I have a second kid driving and my baby baby is going into middle school. I blinked and Chris and I have spent almost 21 years together. And it’s strange to me that while cancer and all of it’s ugliness is still a part of my every day, it was almost 2 years ago that I found the mass that would forever change my life. 

Time is slow… When I watch a clock, the ticking of the seconds make a minute feel like an hour. When I’m up in the middle of the night because I can’t sleep, time feels like it’s totally stopped and the relief of the morning is forever away. When I heard the words, “you have cancer” I couldn’t even imagine the next day let alone the “end” of chemo and the “end” of radiation and reconstruction felt like eons away. Not to mention the fact that 10 years from now feels like it’ll never come.

Time is ‘big picture’… The story of my life that is being written has quite the plot line. Twists, turns, ups, downs, villains, heroes and certainly many ‘morals to the story’. The puzzle pieces that make up my life are many and complex and the finished picture is incomplete. Time makes up all of this from the moment I came to be and if I live to be 100…whoa…that’s 61 more years. 

Time is present… As I have learned in this past 828 days, I truly can only live 5 minutes at a time. I don’t know any more than that. I can’t predict what’s coming…I can’t prepare for the next chapter…I can’t prescribe how I will handle what I don’t know…and I certainly can’t go back and relive the past. And while hindsight is truly 20/20, it only matters if I use what I’ve learned from the past to live changed in the now.

Time is patience… Watching the story unfold 5 minutes at a time because that is all that I know, is a slow process. 

Time is faith… Knowing that I cannot see into the future, accepting that I cannot fast forward to the end of the book, trusting the goodness of the Author and living fully in the now is a daily walk of faith.

Time is perspective… If I live for 61 more years, I still have more than half of my life to live on this earth and the next 10 years will be but a distant memory.

It’ll Be There When We Get There :: April 9, 2019

Chris and I went on a walk with Max tonight. While we were walking, Max was pulling so hard and couldn’t get one foot in front of the other fast enough. At one point, Chris said, “Max, chill! The smell will be there when you get there!”

I bet you can see where I’m going with this……

It is another real-life illustration of being present…. Tonight, as I was sitting here thinking about how I was feeling, the only word I could come up with was “stuck.” I was feeling like I wasn’t getting where I want to be, I was feeling like something was missing or I was missing something… it was as if I was trying to grab for something solid to anchor myself to but all I got was empty air. 

And then I thought of Chris’ comment. 

The “smell” will be there when we get there whether we are walking at a normal pace or walking at a pull-the-Master’s-arm-outta-its-socket walk/run……

The story will unfold, I will be unstuck, I will not miss what is intended for me, I will have anchors to grasp along the way….if I journey at a present pace. Because if I rush there, if I hurry so fast to get one foot in front of the other, if I grow impatient with the Master, I’ll miss the richness of the now. 

Undone :: April 10, 2019

Oh man I’m funky tonight. The best word to describe my feelings: Undone. It’s strange to feel “undone”… it’s like I’m walking in circles instead of in a forward moving line. I’m antsy in my own body. I’m on edge with time. I’m surrounded by fog and can’t see anything with clarity. My nerve endings are frayed and exposed. 

Undone is uncomfortable. 

Cancer Is. . . :: April 11, 2019

Really hard. 

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Past Posts from 2020

The Next Big Thing :: April 6, 2020

The reality of this…of covid…is heavy, no matter your opinion. All of us are experiencing this pandemic in our own unique ways – for some, it doesn’t feel like much is different, for others it is extreme trauma…and the spectrum is wide in the in-between. All of it is valid. All of it is real. Be mindful of that when you offer your opinion, solicited or unsolicited. This is something I’m learning as I process my own experience. I was blasé at first. Then annoyed. Then angry. Now, contemplative. 

I have an interesting filter. Cancer is this really big thing that has halted my life as I knew it and was this left (inside-out-upside-down) turn that I never saw coming. A turn that came with being figuratively t-boned by a figurative semi. …A turn that doesn’t meet back up with the path that I was on pre-diagnosis. I’ll never be the same. There is no ‘old normal’ to return to. And I think the collective is learning something about that through this pandemic. I hear it in people’s conversations – their words hitch a little when they start to say, “when things get back to……….well…..whatever it will look like……” There is a very real understanding that things will never ‘go back to the way they were.’ EVEN IF the economy recovers. EVEN IF jobs return. EVEN IF people close to them never got sick. EVEN IF … EVEN IF … EVEN IF. This pandemic is fundamentally changing people. And in the very real hopefulness of that, there also is very real grieving to do here. And in the grieving, the question, “How do I live changed when everything is different and nothing is certain?” presents itself. 

And that is a ginormous question.

For me, I’ve been learning how to live changed in the wake of my cancer diagnosis and treatment; how to make decisions, how to wife, how to parent, how to work, how to make memories. And all of that requires me to call cancer my companion. I don’t get to ‘let cancer go’ and I’m learning that I don’t want to. To most, that is downright crazy, but to me, that is my only ‘normal.’ 

And now, what I’m finding, is that this pandemic is ‘the next big thing’ in my life. Not only am I still learning how to live changed IN the wake of my cancer diagnosis and treatment, but I am also learning how to live changed OUTSIDE of the wake of my cancer diagnosis and treatment. Oh the layers upon layers…… 

What *IS* survivorship? It’s this. Exactly this. And then it’s going to be living changed in the next big thing. And then the next. And then the next. Until ‘that’ side of heaven…

(No posts for April 7, 8, 9, 10, or 11 2020)

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