“Courage, dear heart.”
C.S. Lewis

The root of the word courage is ‘cor’ – the Latin word for heart. Did you know that? Today, I am just sitting with that….that simply minding my heart is brave.

*Post 908

Two Steps Ahead :: 9/29/17 :: Post 32

Well, the bed didn’t work out last night. I tried. But it was too painful. I’ll give it a few more days and try again. It is incredible the things I have taken for granted. The “ADL’s” (activities of daily living) that I literally cannot do the same as I did before. The resilience of the human body is truly amazing and the fact that each day gets a little easier shows the body’s ability to heal. That said, it’s about to be put through some serious hell and I’m banking on the fact that it is resilient and strong.

I am experiencing some interesting transitions in how I see the road ahead…how I feel…where I am…where I am going. The counselor in me knows that this is a part of the process and acceptance comes in a variety of ways and at varying times. And that acceptance looks different for each individual. And that acceptance can very much be a two-steps-ahead-five-steps-backward type of thing. 

I find myself talking about my cancer in a new way – matter-of-fact. I don’t cry at the mere mention of cancer or when I utter the words, “I have cancer,” or when I think to myself cancer is now a part of my identity. I can sit and have an intelligent conversation with a nurse about what’s coming up. I can tell Medical Professional #54 why I am in for Medical Procedure #40 – “I have breast cancer and my doctor ordered this test for baseline results prior to chemotherapy” or whatever the reason is that I am in that place that day… and I can do it without visible emotion. It still is dreadful to hear myself say the words and I still don’t really know how to answer the question, “Hi, how are you today?” but I can certainly get words out without being a puddle on the floor. 

I am starting to feel like there will be parts of this that I will learn to embrace: the battle scars of a fighter…the literal and the figurative, the war wounds on my heart, the lessons learned and to be learned, the new me that will emerge from this dark place.

But wait………….. I say all of this but even as I am typing this tonight, I am texting with a friend. And I’m right back to “Nope, I just cannot believe I just said that….I cannot believe the words that I just typed. Chemo. The countdown is on to baldness…25 days. I’ll pick a wig on the 10th. What? 

…Two-steps-ahead-five-steps-back…

Today was difficult. Even with this new level of acceptance that shows itself from time to time. I got the vaginal ultrasound out of the way…been like 10 years since I’ve had one of those…and it was just as fun as I remember. Results will come on Monday. I managed to get through that by thinking of my clients at Alternatives and learning ways to make their time at our office(s) more pleasant as they wait for the unknowns of a medical procedure that is possibly quite foreign to them and holds answers that will have lifelong impact. I thought of them as I was seeing yellow because I had to pee so bad (I had to have a full bladder for the first part of the ultrasound and had to wait until the sonographer told me I could pee for the second part of the appointment). Saying to a client as I remind them of their appointment, “Please make sure you come with a full bladder” is far easier said than done. Noted…

Then I had my “Chemo Teach” at the Rocky Mountain Cancer Center at Rose Medical Center where I will be getting my chemo treatments for the next year. While it was SO helpful to walk through everything, talk directly with a nurse about what to expect, get to ask questions and have them answered, not be rushed through the process but rather to be given time and attention as we embark on this next subchapter of our lives, it was so difficult as I was wrapping my mind around what’s coming. So many drugs. So many instructions. So many what-ifs. And truly watching it unfold as a literal 10+ year chapter in this lifelong addition to my story. 

Talk about a weird space between acceptance of this reality and desperation for a different one.

…Two-steps-ahead-five-steps-back…

Finally, we were done with appointment 7 of 7 for the week. So.Beyond.Exhausted. Time to go home… But then Chris reminded me that Catelyn was playing in a volleyball tournament that we could hit on the way home, so we did. And it made Catelyn’s night (and mine, too). And tomorrow, I’ll go to a volleyball game of Annie’s. And hopefully sometime this next week, I’ll make it to one of Haleigh’s softball games… Because in the midst of all of this, there is still life. And no matter how tired I am, I gotta show up for them. Somehow. I can’t let cancer take that away from them…

So, I will try to rest. In my chair. I will rest my body. My heart. My spirit. And get up for another day of life. Life with cancer. Life with unknowns. Life with a hard road ahead. Life with gearing up for going back to work post-surgery. Life with chemo while working and wife-ing and parenting. 

Life. 

A Small Jesus :: 9/29/18 :: Post 381

I got to talk with a friend tonight that I haven’t seen in a long while. She has some significant health trauma, too. We share some interesting commonalities even though our traumas are vastly different. 

…The tension of gratitude for the transformation present in the treachery of the story while also wishing the treachery of the story didn’t exist. 

…The willingness to battle but the weariness of being called to battle. 

…The discomfort, the excruciating pain, the deep hurt. 

…The waiting. And the what’s-nexts. 

…The constant recovering. 

She said something tonight. “I’m done praying for the miracles…for the healing…. now I’m just praying for a small Jesus.” 

…That Jesus would be small enough to see the tears. The pain. The weariness. 

…That Jesus would see her. 

…That Jesus would show up in small ways to remind her that in the dark of the pain, He is still good. 

I’m grateful for her. And for her prayer. 

A small Jesus. Not an insignificant Jesus, just a Jesus that fits into each tear that falls. 

Implications :: 9/29/19 :: Post 744

I’m in a major funk. I’m tired. I’m hurting. I’m wresting with major insecurities… And I think as we continue to move into survivorship as a family, I am starting to see how cancer really affected us. 

Throughout treatment, our focus was to get from directive to directive…to make it to the next milestone and then to get through it. Our energies were on surviving. 

Survivorship, though, is very different. There isn’t a war going on where we put up the shield and just go into battle. Instead, it’s vague, it doesn’t have an outline – either literary or artistic, it doesn’t have form and structure. Survivorship is each of us experiencing encounters with the difficult implications of the battle…and as survivorship unfolds, so we will see the depth of those implications.