Good Friday, 2016 – I began my first round of chemotherapy.
Good Friday, 2017 – I finished my last round of chemotherapy.
This past Friday I finished my herceptin chemotherapy. I didn’t share much about taking herceptin because it’s a low dose of chemotherapy and quiet frankly doesn’t make me sick. After being on four different, painfully awful chemotherapy drugs, herceptin is a walk in the park.
There are been a mix of emotions with the end of chemotherapy. I am so grateful to be done, but sad to not see my infusion nurses every few weeks. I am so grateful to not have cancer in my body, but sad to not have such a close relationship with my doctors.
Today was even more mixed emotions.
I had my port removed.
It seems weird, I’m sure, but I have become attached to my port. It’s become a security blanket to me. Something I truly hated, has become something I love. My port means my body is fighting. My port means I am winning. My port means cancer is defeated.
My port has become part of me. This small contraption has signified so much in my life and now it’s gone.
I processed these mixed emotions with some friends yesterday, and today was reminded by a sweet friend to take the time I need to grieve. Grieving over the loss of a port sounds odd when I think about it, but grief isn’t meant to look a certain way. So today I’m going to shed some tears for my port and all that it did for me.
And tomorrow I will celebrate my first day as a new creation – one without a trace of cancer or cancer related relics in my body.
That question sticks itself out there, probing and unavoidable. When you are going through a life-changing experience, people want to know how you’re doing. And not the glossed over “life is still good!” answer. They want the truth.
How am I doing, really?
Well, I’m numb. I feel like I’ve been given this huge cross to carry and no reason to carry it. I feel distant from God. I feel as though everyone around me is seeing their faith grow, their assurance increase, while I’m just waiting.
And I don’t even know what I’m waiting for.
Waiting for the feeling of faith? Waiting for some divine outcome? Waiting to see all the pieces fit together as to why I, of all people, got breast cancer?
All I really know is that I’m waiting for this to be over. I’m waiting for my doctor to say “remission”, for my life to go back to normal, and to no longer feel like I’m fumbling around in the dark.
Call it a testing of my faith. Call it the process of grief. Call it any number of psychological issues you want. All I know is this is how I’m really doing. I’m walking down uncharted territory and I don’t know what is around the next corner. I spend a lot of time praising God to others and questioning Him to myself. I’m afraid to get close to Him because being close means walking a hard walk. I’m afraid that this will get harder and not easier. I’m afraid that other people will see how this journey counted for something and I never will.
Yet, what is crazy to me is that even in the doubt I still know God is God and He is doing big things. I don’t feel it, I don’t see it. But, I believe it. I know He is here walking beside me. I know He is making this journey count. I continue to hold on to that fact. Because even in the darkness of my own emotions, even when I don’t feel Him, don’t see Him, He is still there.
I’m reminded of the man in Mark 9 who asked Jesus to heal his son. Jesus told the father that all things are possible for one who believes. The father, much like myself, cried out “I believe; help me overcome my unbelief!”
Just because I doubt, just because I wrestle doesn’t mean I don’t believe. Even when God feels distant and my path seems utterly dark, my heart still clings to Him and fights against the unbelief that bubbles up.
So, how am I really doing?
I’m struggling. I’m fighting. I’m trying my best to believe.
But I’m trusting that God will prove Himself faithful yet again.
Y’all, cancer sucks. And frankly, it scares me. Who knows the outcome of my treatments and surgery. Who knows if the cancer will spread. Who knows if the cancer will return.
There is an immense grief that floods me. When I hold my babies, I can’t help but wonder how long I will have that gift. When Jonathan and I spend time together, I can’t help but imagine his life without me.
Then I suffer the very present grief of feeling my body waste away. Touching my bald head. The fatigue that engulfs me down to my bones. The ever present pain of a nuclear war being raged inside me.
Grief wants to break my body and my spirit with a weight too heavy for any one person to carry. Grief wants to squelch out hope. It wants to rip all joy from my hands.
I’m there y’all. I’m walking through the grief. I’m walking the dark, lonely road that C.S. Lewis told us about.
But, I’m here to say, there is grace in the grief.
God doesn’t ask us to ignore our grief. We aren’t to run from it, deny it. We are told to cry out in our grief.
In my distress I called upon the LORD; to my God I cried for help. From his temple he heard my voice, and my cry to him reached his ears. Psalm 18:6
Hear my prayer, O Lord; let my cry come to you! Psalm 102:1
Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord! Psalm 130:1
In our grief, we are to cry out. We shouldn’t act like we have our lives put together. In fact, we should do the opposite. We should cry out. Wave our white flag. Beg for help.
But that’s hard. Because, help usually comes in forms we are too proud to accept. It comes in the form of friends who take your kids because you’re too sick to care for them. Or people who drive out of their way just to bring you flowers. Friends who spend their own time, their own money, to care for you. Family who schedules their lives around you.
Asking for help means admitting you are flawed. You aren’t strong enough, capable enough, to do things on your own. And that’s hard.
But inside the grief, when we call out for help, when we let go of our pride, embrace our flaws, there is a flooding of grace.
Grace in our life is a beautiful thing. It looks like forgiving a friend who betrayed your trust, like picking up the slack of a lazy co-worker, or like extending a hand to someone who doesn’t deserve your notice.
Grace looks like seeing your world crumble under the cruel hands of cancer, while those around you help to build it back up. Stronger this time.
Grace looks like facing death with an unwavering assurance that God is bigger than what my little world can realize. And while I trust that I will win this fight, I trust even more that He has already won my battle.
There is grace in the grieving. If you are in the midst of grieving right now, whether it be over a broken heart, jobloss, or a really crappy grade from that crotchety professor, know that there is grace here for you. Grace to fail. Grace to admit you aren’t perfect, you aren’t as Pinterest-y as you wish.
There is so much grace in your grieving. So, let’s be friends and doing this graceful grieving together.
On Thursday, February 25th, I woke up in the middle of the night with a vivid dream that I had breast cancer. Unable to sleep, I did a self-examination and found a lump in my left breast. I woke up Jonathan who felt the same lump. We prayed for peace and resolve unsure of what was about to unfold.
On Friday, February 26th, I scheduled an immediate visit with my primary physician, who also felt the lump. She recommended that I schedule a follow up appointment to have a mammogram and sonogram.
Over the weekend, we prayed and prayed… It was a long weekend!
On Tuesday, March 1st, I saw a radiologist who performed the mammogram and sonogram. Based on the images, there were three concerning areas she recommended we biopsy just to be sure of the cell type. That afternoon, I had all three spots biopsied.
We waited for the results over the next 48 hrs. And prayed. It was during this time that Jonathan and I were beginning to feel the magnitude of the situation.
On Thursday, March 3rd, my radiologist informed me that all three spots are in fact, breast cancer. Within a week, I went from totally healthy to totally SHOCKED.
It took 1 week to turn my life completely upside down.
The weeks of March 7th and March 14th were filled with appointments with surgeons and oncologists. And finally, thanks to my new medical team and family, we formulated a plan of action.
On March 25th, (my 34th birthday), I began the first of six chemotherapy treatments. Because of the type of breast cancer, the doctors want to act swiftly and aggressively. They are hopeful that all the cancer will be killed by time of surgery.
Life doesn’t always offer fairness. Sometimes, life hands you cards that seem impossible to handle. But, I know (and I’m still learning) that I have the choice to take the hardest moments and turn them into a good and glorious reality based on truth and love.
Without unshakable truths and an overshadowing love (which I’m writing a follow up post to talk more about), I wouldn’t be standing strong today.
On April 6th, I shaved off all my hair.
While I’ll be the first to admit, I’ve shed lots of tears since my diagnosis, I’ve also had a TON of reasons to laugh. My shave party was all love and all joy! Everyone came over for laughter and we turned this deeply saddening moment into something spectacular.
Of course, this year is going to be hard.
I’m not naive to think any less.
But I will continue to choose joy and laughter throughout the pain. Jonathan said to me,
“Hey, didn’t you run the Leadville marathon last summer. You finished in 8 hours, 29 mins, and 55 seconds, which was just 5 seconds before the cutoff which tells me
you are great at doing hard things
you actually thrive on hard things. And you never quit.
you will always have my support. And the support of so many others!”
He’s right. My motto in 2015 was to “Do Hard Things”. This year my motto is “Kick Cancer’s Ass”. Sounds reasonable?!
I would be amiss if I didn’t share an amazing verse that has spurred me on to remember what is truly important. My heart, mind, and spirit are moving closer and closer to what is unseen and eternal.
