It's time to paint on my face.
It's time to walk outside into fresh air.
It's time to stop feeling sorry for myself, stop wasting time, stop the darkness from becoming so prevalent.
It's time for a ball cap and earrings.
It's time to stop by the church and say hello.
It's time to realize that whatever is going on with me, I still need to be a good steward, honor God, not spend time in needless, mindless sorrow.
It's time to live again.
I have spent the last month trying to second guess a hormone treatment that has caused me more pain, frustration, and doubt that anything we have tried over the last eight years. The real kicker here is that we don't know, won't know if it is working until I surrender to that ever-looming blood test and series of scans I believed the past month would offer relief, respite, recovery. Instead, I have suffered from aches, pains, chills, nausea and such terrible malaise that it is frightening. Middle-of-the night "episodes" that I cannot explain and make me yearn for a hospital. Daytime ickiness that keeps me on a sofa. The constant dizziness of lack of confidence and impending dread that this could be disease progression and not hormonal manipulation has been exhausting and defeating. Trying to stay the course through the roughest course yet.
But the funny thing about the trials of the last month is that life kept on going. Exciting times are still happening. God and my husband still love me through it all. My daughter graduated and found a full time job with a company she loves. Soon she will need my help moving into and decorating her new place to live. We are going to Florida next week. I just got back from the beach. Life goes on with or without me and it's time to jump back in the game.
Time to paint on my face...color in eyebrows, pretend I have lashes.
Time to put on dress pants instead of sweats.
Time to pray and ask forgiveness for my loss of faith.
Time to face the music and play along.
Time to walk in the sunlight of a beautiful day.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
The Light Within
In the book of Matthew, Jesus tells us that we are "the light of the world" and that people should not "light a lamp and put it under a bowl" but rather we should put the light "on a stand" to "give light to the everyone in the house." (Matthew 5:14, 15)
I have always hoped that I did this during my journey through this cancer-ridden battle. I took these scriptures to heart in trying to encourage, uplift, and help those who are like me; those who are dealing with the relentless beast. To bring some small light into a sub-world of fear, pain, sickness, struggle, and confusion. To be a beacon in the night, was more than I could ever pray for, ask for, and hope to accomplish. It is the whole goal of my journal, the true purpose of baring my soul.
But there are times, my friends, when I know you all can sense that my light is dimmer that normal. There are times when I don't write because I am tired of it all, or too busy concentrating on my family and other aspects of my life, or, like the past two weeks, times when I retreat inside myself.....allowing to be pulled toward the darkness.... putting my light under a bowl so no one can see. The past two weeks have been my toughest since stem cell. The past two weeks have been a daze of pain and nausea and dizziness and weakness while my body adjusts to a new treatment plan. It has been both frightening and upsetting. I felt like I have fallen so far so fast into darkness, weakness and despair that it was going to take a miracle to pull me out.
And then I remember the light. The light within me. The light that has always been there. It is a small flicker today, but I know that I am better this day than one week ago. I believe I will be better tomorrow than I am today. Our hope and prayer is that estrogen is going to become my friend, that disease progression will stop without the use of chemo, that I will grow stronger and the light will once again go from a small flame under a bowl to a bright beam on a stand for all to see.
As I navigate my way out of the darkness this time, I will be putting the light back on its stand.
Slowly but surely you and I will begin to see the brightness grow, the flicker become a flame,
the hope return. Forgive me for keeping it hidden these past two weeks. Just know that whether you hear from me or not, the light within me is always there. It's just that sometimes it is hidden by the enormous blackness that we in the fight have to wade through every day.
I have always hoped that I did this during my journey through this cancer-ridden battle. I took these scriptures to heart in trying to encourage, uplift, and help those who are like me; those who are dealing with the relentless beast. To bring some small light into a sub-world of fear, pain, sickness, struggle, and confusion. To be a beacon in the night, was more than I could ever pray for, ask for, and hope to accomplish. It is the whole goal of my journal, the true purpose of baring my soul.
But there are times, my friends, when I know you all can sense that my light is dimmer that normal. There are times when I don't write because I am tired of it all, or too busy concentrating on my family and other aspects of my life, or, like the past two weeks, times when I retreat inside myself.....allowing to be pulled toward the darkness.... putting my light under a bowl so no one can see. The past two weeks have been my toughest since stem cell. The past two weeks have been a daze of pain and nausea and dizziness and weakness while my body adjusts to a new treatment plan. It has been both frightening and upsetting. I felt like I have fallen so far so fast into darkness, weakness and despair that it was going to take a miracle to pull me out.
And then I remember the light. The light within me. The light that has always been there. It is a small flicker today, but I know that I am better this day than one week ago. I believe I will be better tomorrow than I am today. Our hope and prayer is that estrogen is going to become my friend, that disease progression will stop without the use of chemo, that I will grow stronger and the light will once again go from a small flame under a bowl to a bright beam on a stand for all to see.
As I navigate my way out of the darkness this time, I will be putting the light back on its stand.
Slowly but surely you and I will begin to see the brightness grow, the flicker become a flame,
the hope return. Forgive me for keeping it hidden these past two weeks. Just know that whether you hear from me or not, the light within me is always there. It's just that sometimes it is hidden by the enormous blackness that we in the fight have to wade through every day.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Time to Bloom
Hey guys,
Sorry for the lack of communication. There has just been too much life going on lately. Good and bad, happy and afraid, proud and deflated, the last two weeks have run the gamut. Oh and then there's tax day.
When I get a call on Friday afternoon and it's Maha, not Janet, it is never a good sign. But she knows that not knowing over the weekend is far worse than hearing that you latest round of chemo....the chemo that has put you in the bed, taken your hair, made your eyes permanent water spouts, taken a fingernail and a toe nail, taken away days of you life because you couldn't get out of bed...THAT chemo...has ceased to do its job and the numbers are on the rise again.
As disappointing as that may seem to most, in a way I was relieved. Relieved to not have to wonder if stopping Taxotere to try the Estrogen manipulation therapy was the right thing. It now became the ONLY thing. Relieved to know that I had a chance to try to help my body recover in any way it could, while I am off chemotherapy. Relieved, for just a while, to have permission to give up the struggle to past 3 months have presented and focus on something new
and maybe tremendously beneficial. Relieved to be able to fight in another way other than just getting through the side effects, being stuck and sick and tired.
Now I am taking three pills a day. Now I will get one IV a month. No we pray harder than ever, because we are again being pioneers in this world of chronic advanced breast cancer. Now is the time of spring, the resurrection, new growth, birthdays, graduations, sunshine on my face, time to bloom.
I wanted to start the pills yesterday, on Easter and also my husband's birthday, but he asked me to wait until today. He wanted a great day with no thought of what we were getting ready to dive into. He wanted to keep his day and Christ's day and a day spent with our daughter and new boyfriend separate from "Day 1" of Estrodial.
So day 1 is today. I am ready. I am hopeful. I am absolutely firm in my trust of the Lord and the plans He has for me, as well as the medical plan that Maha has laid before me. Even so, I ask all of you, as always, pray......without ceasing. Lift me up and keep me strong, my friends. You always have.
"I will sing of the Lord's great love forever; with my mouth I will make your faithfulness known through the generations.: Psalm 89:1
Sorry for the lack of communication. There has just been too much life going on lately. Good and bad, happy and afraid, proud and deflated, the last two weeks have run the gamut. Oh and then there's tax day.
When I get a call on Friday afternoon and it's Maha, not Janet, it is never a good sign. But she knows that not knowing over the weekend is far worse than hearing that you latest round of chemo....the chemo that has put you in the bed, taken your hair, made your eyes permanent water spouts, taken a fingernail and a toe nail, taken away days of you life because you couldn't get out of bed...THAT chemo...has ceased to do its job and the numbers are on the rise again.
As disappointing as that may seem to most, in a way I was relieved. Relieved to not have to wonder if stopping Taxotere to try the Estrogen manipulation therapy was the right thing. It now became the ONLY thing. Relieved to know that I had a chance to try to help my body recover in any way it could, while I am off chemotherapy. Relieved, for just a while, to have permission to give up the struggle to past 3 months have presented and focus on something new
and maybe tremendously beneficial. Relieved to be able to fight in another way other than just getting through the side effects, being stuck and sick and tired.
Now I am taking three pills a day. Now I will get one IV a month. No we pray harder than ever, because we are again being pioneers in this world of chronic advanced breast cancer. Now is the time of spring, the resurrection, new growth, birthdays, graduations, sunshine on my face, time to bloom.
I wanted to start the pills yesterday, on Easter and also my husband's birthday, but he asked me to wait until today. He wanted a great day with no thought of what we were getting ready to dive into. He wanted to keep his day and Christ's day and a day spent with our daughter and new boyfriend separate from "Day 1" of Estrodial.
So day 1 is today. I am ready. I am hopeful. I am absolutely firm in my trust of the Lord and the plans He has for me, as well as the medical plan that Maha has laid before me. Even so, I ask all of you, as always, pray......without ceasing. Lift me up and keep me strong, my friends. You always have.
"I will sing of the Lord's great love forever; with my mouth I will make your faithfulness known through the generations.: Psalm 89:1
Thursday, April 2, 2009
This Is What We Do
Stepping off of dry land. Back we go, into unknown waters. Molecular studies have been done on the cancer cells from my lung from the 2004 recurrence. Hi-tech/Sci-Fi print-outs of the make up of the enemy. A lot of information about the enemy. Recognisance run in a lab out in Arizona. We now have a better idea of what the cancer that roams around in my body may or may not respond to. It is fascinating. It is frightening. Such a resistant little devil, is the cancer, to most chemo agents. But not to all. One new name pops up that I have never been on. Some old names come back as surprisingly ineffective when we know it is not so. The real direction of the study, the deconstruction, seems to be hormonal manipulation. Something that was discussed in San Antonio this past December. Something Maha and I had talked about. Something we are going to try.
I seem to be the perfect candidate for this new course of attack. But it will mean stepping away from the chemotherapy and trusting a new theory of re-introducing the enemy to the one thing it craves the most....estrogen. Then we will snatch away the "candy" from the cancer and hit it with an aromitose inhibitor. Stop all the estrogen cold turkey. And like a reformed alcoholic who has fallen off the wagon and been drinking for days on end, when we remove the bottle, take away his precious source of addiction, we hope he (the cancer, of course) will have withdrawal so, so bad, that he just shrivels up and dies. Interesting approach, don't you think?
When I was standing in the office with Maha and chewing on all this stuff, I just kept trying to grasp the concept. Something new. Something that won't tear my body apart bit by bit. Something that will not require an IV infusion once a week. Something that won't make me feel like my bones are on fire, my tongue is splitting in half, my hair won't stay or food tastes like metal. Something different, exciting......scary. So I looked at her for a good 15 seconds. We just stood their looking at each other, nothing more to say. Just the unspoken understanding that I finally put words to. "Well," I said. "This is what we do."
She and I, Maha and Kathy, we will try anything and everything to keep the monster at bay.
I know without a doubt that she always has an ear out for what is new, what may help me, what the next step might be when needed. And she knows that I will be a willing partner, that I will believe in what she believes in when a new treatment starts.
So we are off on another adventure. We are stepping into unknown waters. We are excited, yet cautious. But our hearts are the same, our hopes are the same, and our dreams are the same.
How did I find a doctor like this??? Whenever you doubt about the perfect plans of God. Let me remind you about odd couple at 216 Asheville Ave. The devout Christian patient and the devout
Muslim oncologist. Eight years of standing beside me. It's perfect proof of a perfect plan.
"But those who plan what is good find love and faithfulness." Proverbs 14:22
I seem to be the perfect candidate for this new course of attack. But it will mean stepping away from the chemotherapy and trusting a new theory of re-introducing the enemy to the one thing it craves the most....estrogen. Then we will snatch away the "candy" from the cancer and hit it with an aromitose inhibitor. Stop all the estrogen cold turkey. And like a reformed alcoholic who has fallen off the wagon and been drinking for days on end, when we remove the bottle, take away his precious source of addiction, we hope he (the cancer, of course) will have withdrawal so, so bad, that he just shrivels up and dies. Interesting approach, don't you think?
When I was standing in the office with Maha and chewing on all this stuff, I just kept trying to grasp the concept. Something new. Something that won't tear my body apart bit by bit. Something that will not require an IV infusion once a week. Something that won't make me feel like my bones are on fire, my tongue is splitting in half, my hair won't stay or food tastes like metal. Something different, exciting......scary. So I looked at her for a good 15 seconds. We just stood their looking at each other, nothing more to say. Just the unspoken understanding that I finally put words to. "Well," I said. "This is what we do."
She and I, Maha and Kathy, we will try anything and everything to keep the monster at bay.
I know without a doubt that she always has an ear out for what is new, what may help me, what the next step might be when needed. And she knows that I will be a willing partner, that I will believe in what she believes in when a new treatment starts.
So we are off on another adventure. We are stepping into unknown waters. We are excited, yet cautious. But our hearts are the same, our hopes are the same, and our dreams are the same.
How did I find a doctor like this??? Whenever you doubt about the perfect plans of God. Let me remind you about odd couple at 216 Asheville Ave. The devout Christian patient and the devout
Muslim oncologist. Eight years of standing beside me. It's perfect proof of a perfect plan.
"But those who plan what is good find love and faithfulness." Proverbs 14:22
Friday, March 27, 2009
Finally, someone has an idea!
"You have no idea". How many times have you said that. If you are like me: a chronic cancer patient, been in the fight for years, always being hunted and hounded by the enemy, then you know what I'm talking about. People will ask you...how do you live with it??? I write about it all the time....living with the knowing. I describe the constant drone of my diagnosis as suffocating,
being held under water and let up to breathe every so often, just enough, just for a moment in time, to keep going. I describe it as a daily battle and part of a war. I describe it as a path I have to walk....I have no choice....no matter how crooked and hilly the path gets. But someone wrote a description in Cure magazine that I saw on their website and they hit the nail on the head.
To paraphrase, the woman was talking about what it is like to live with a Stage IV diagnosis and she described it something like this: It's like having a radio constantly playing in your head that is distracting you from life. You can never turn it off. You can only learn to turn down the volume.
I am not a crier, but those words brought tears to my eyes. Because that woman knows. She knows what it is like to live my life. She does have an idea of what it's like to have the constant cloud of cancer as your companion. And she found a way to describe it perfectly.
And so the radio plays on. There are some days when the volume is way up and I can't make the noise fade into the background. But most days, I make it a point to turn the volume down and listen to the sounds of life and the living. I am sure that this woman, like me, longs for the days when the soundtrack of her life played only the music she wanted to hear. Now we have
that irritating type of music you hear in the elevator. The kind of low-playing garbage that makes you want to hurry up and get off on your floor. If only we could........
So now, you of the undiagnosed and healthy, have an idea what it's like.
being held under water and let up to breathe every so often, just enough, just for a moment in time, to keep going. I describe it as a daily battle and part of a war. I describe it as a path I have to walk....I have no choice....no matter how crooked and hilly the path gets. But someone wrote a description in Cure magazine that I saw on their website and they hit the nail on the head.
To paraphrase, the woman was talking about what it is like to live with a Stage IV diagnosis and she described it something like this: It's like having a radio constantly playing in your head that is distracting you from life. You can never turn it off. You can only learn to turn down the volume.
I am not a crier, but those words brought tears to my eyes. Because that woman knows. She knows what it is like to live my life. She does have an idea of what it's like to have the constant cloud of cancer as your companion. And she found a way to describe it perfectly.
And so the radio plays on. There are some days when the volume is way up and I can't make the noise fade into the background. But most days, I make it a point to turn the volume down and listen to the sounds of life and the living. I am sure that this woman, like me, longs for the days when the soundtrack of her life played only the music she wanted to hear. Now we have
that irritating type of music you hear in the elevator. The kind of low-playing garbage that makes you want to hurry up and get off on your floor. If only we could........
So now, you of the undiagnosed and healthy, have an idea what it's like.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Clinging to small things
The things we cling to. I have to admit, sometimes they are so trivial, and yet they are so important. I met with Maha last week. I confessed that I was not tolerating the Taxotere/Xeloda regimen as well as I had five years ago. The doses must be different, I said. Five years ago, I did not get this tired, I did not have trouble with my mouth hands and feet, I did not lose my hair. I could barely tell I was getting anything. What is different this time?
The doses are slightly stronger...but mainly my body is getting tired of all the chemo. All the drugs...so many rounds of drugs. I have stopped counting. And now I have a brand new side effect that I had been complaining about for weeks. I told Janet, now I told Maha. My eyes will not stop watering. It is such a small thing but so irritating. Imagine what it is like to look through your tears about fifty percent of the time. I am constantly wiping, dabbing and blinking.
Maha told me it is a side effect of Taxotere.....(wow, really???I had no idea)... but it could also be that because I had no eyelashes that dirt and dust was........"No!" I stopped her right there. I HAVE EYELASHES! They are just so wet and clumped together you can't see them. But if I put on mascara, they are there!!
She just nodded and I felt stupid, becuase I am clinging to my eyelashes. I am also clinging to my eyebrows. I am losing the hair on my head with a slow and determined shed. I have had my head buzzed to 1-inch all around to keep it from hurting so much. I have a re-styled wig ready to go......but I am clinging to the fact that I will keep my eyelashes and eyebrows. I know it is impossible to fool anyone with even the best wig if you don't have eyelashes and eyebrows. They are a small yet strong source of vanity for me. Keep them and I can look healthy to those who don't know me. Eye make-up stays in place; wig-bangs can be brushed aside without the fear of revealing no brows. Here I am, after so many years, so many side effects, so many lessons learned, so many turn-arounds, miracles and medical wonders......clinging to a pitifully small number of eyelashes who are hanging in there despite all the drugs. Tiny little soldiers lined up in the relentless rain of unchecked tears. The metaphor seems to sad to even write about.
So as I sit here today, the 23rd of March 2009....one week before my daughter's 22nd birthday,
3 weeks before my husband's 54th and 6 short weeks before my daughter's college graduation,
I feel foolish for the importance I have given to those eyelashes. I should feel nothing but gratitude and love and faith. When it comes to clinging, I know I should be clinging to big things, really important things...the one BIG thing. Like the Psalmist David wrote from the desert:
"Because you are my help, I sing in the shadow of your wings. My soul clings to you; your right hand upholds me." Psalm 63:7-8
Again, I just need to remember. Remember that when I am clinging to the small things out of
vanity or stubbornness or fear, I need to let go and cling only to the Lord. And I need to sing in the shadows.
The doses are slightly stronger...but mainly my body is getting tired of all the chemo. All the drugs...so many rounds of drugs. I have stopped counting. And now I have a brand new side effect that I had been complaining about for weeks. I told Janet, now I told Maha. My eyes will not stop watering. It is such a small thing but so irritating. Imagine what it is like to look through your tears about fifty percent of the time. I am constantly wiping, dabbing and blinking.
Maha told me it is a side effect of Taxotere.....(wow, really???I had no idea)... but it could also be that because I had no eyelashes that dirt and dust was........"No!" I stopped her right there. I HAVE EYELASHES! They are just so wet and clumped together you can't see them. But if I put on mascara, they are there!!
She just nodded and I felt stupid, becuase I am clinging to my eyelashes. I am also clinging to my eyebrows. I am losing the hair on my head with a slow and determined shed. I have had my head buzzed to 1-inch all around to keep it from hurting so much. I have a re-styled wig ready to go......but I am clinging to the fact that I will keep my eyelashes and eyebrows. I know it is impossible to fool anyone with even the best wig if you don't have eyelashes and eyebrows. They are a small yet strong source of vanity for me. Keep them and I can look healthy to those who don't know me. Eye make-up stays in place; wig-bangs can be brushed aside without the fear of revealing no brows. Here I am, after so many years, so many side effects, so many lessons learned, so many turn-arounds, miracles and medical wonders......clinging to a pitifully small number of eyelashes who are hanging in there despite all the drugs. Tiny little soldiers lined up in the relentless rain of unchecked tears. The metaphor seems to sad to even write about.
So as I sit here today, the 23rd of March 2009....one week before my daughter's 22nd birthday,
3 weeks before my husband's 54th and 6 short weeks before my daughter's college graduation,
I feel foolish for the importance I have given to those eyelashes. I should feel nothing but gratitude and love and faith. When it comes to clinging, I know I should be clinging to big things, really important things...the one BIG thing. Like the Psalmist David wrote from the desert:
"Because you are my help, I sing in the shadow of your wings. My soul clings to you; your right hand upholds me." Psalm 63:7-8
Again, I just need to remember. Remember that when I am clinging to the small things out of
vanity or stubbornness or fear, I need to let go and cling only to the Lord. And I need to sing in the shadows.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
This Mountain of Sickness
What a description. I do a lot of "sporadic" reading. I have books, pamphlets, and journals where I pick up nuggets of inspiration, ideas, hope, direction, and prayers. I have rarely completed an entire book on healing or blessings or living strong and long. But I have certainly gleaned so much from these books. Their little sayings, attitudes, mantras and prayers are what help me start and get through each day. I have learned that God will usually make something leap off a page and hit me between the eyes that is so relative, so exactly what I need for that day, and it is so perfect that it can only be His words for me.
In a little devotional book on healing by Joe McIntyre, I found two sentences that I cannot let go of. They are my latest song, my latest chant, my latest prayer. McIntyre takes healing scriptures from the Bible, then gives you a daily prayer to say that goes along with the scripture.
In expanding on Proverbs 12:18, the author gives a long prayer to use on speaking health to yourself. I do this quite often, but two sentences in his prayer have stayed with me for over a month, so I thought it might be time to share. They go like this:
"The mountain of sickness is being removed and cast into the sea. It is being plucked up by the roots and thrown out of my life."
Notice how the author takes such a large thing (mountain) a reduces it in your mind to something small enough to be "plucked by the roots"....like a weed?
Cancer is so like this metaphor. Sometimes the disease appears on my horizon as a huge mountain. A mountain of fear. A mountain of pain. A mountain of treatments, tests, and uncertainties. A mountain so large and looming that there are days I have to turn away from it.
Crawl away from its shadow....hide from its enormity.
But if I follow through onto the next sentence and think of the mountain being plucked away like weed from a garden and thrown out of my life, it is so much easier to face. Bit by bit, weed by weed, no matter what your circumstance or diagnosis, aspects of cancer can be plucked up and thrown into the sea. Like your garden in the summer, you have to be ever-vigilant to keep up with the weeds. You have to pull at them everyday. If you don't, the weeds take over....the mountain looms....the enemy advances. But if you can just think of plucking the weeds for the day and throwing them away, you can weed out the fear for the day, the pain, the advancement, the uncertainty....for that one day.
So get out there people and pluck away....a little each day. Then the mountain of sickness won't be such a looming giant. Weed your garden, visualize the base of the mountain being chipped away....every day. Stand in the sun and ask God to help you rid yourself of the weeds. Speak it, pray it, sing it, chant it. He will hear you. He has on His gloves and will help you pluck. He will.
He has to. For He alone is the Master Gardener. And he is much much greater than our mountain of sickness.
"...but the tongue of the wise promotes health." Proverbs 12:18
In a little devotional book on healing by Joe McIntyre, I found two sentences that I cannot let go of. They are my latest song, my latest chant, my latest prayer. McIntyre takes healing scriptures from the Bible, then gives you a daily prayer to say that goes along with the scripture.
In expanding on Proverbs 12:18, the author gives a long prayer to use on speaking health to yourself. I do this quite often, but two sentences in his prayer have stayed with me for over a month, so I thought it might be time to share. They go like this:
"The mountain of sickness is being removed and cast into the sea. It is being plucked up by the roots and thrown out of my life."
Notice how the author takes such a large thing (mountain) a reduces it in your mind to something small enough to be "plucked by the roots"....like a weed?
Cancer is so like this metaphor. Sometimes the disease appears on my horizon as a huge mountain. A mountain of fear. A mountain of pain. A mountain of treatments, tests, and uncertainties. A mountain so large and looming that there are days I have to turn away from it.
Crawl away from its shadow....hide from its enormity.
But if I follow through onto the next sentence and think of the mountain being plucked away like weed from a garden and thrown out of my life, it is so much easier to face. Bit by bit, weed by weed, no matter what your circumstance or diagnosis, aspects of cancer can be plucked up and thrown into the sea. Like your garden in the summer, you have to be ever-vigilant to keep up with the weeds. You have to pull at them everyday. If you don't, the weeds take over....the mountain looms....the enemy advances. But if you can just think of plucking the weeds for the day and throwing them away, you can weed out the fear for the day, the pain, the advancement, the uncertainty....for that one day.
So get out there people and pluck away....a little each day. Then the mountain of sickness won't be such a looming giant. Weed your garden, visualize the base of the mountain being chipped away....every day. Stand in the sun and ask God to help you rid yourself of the weeds. Speak it, pray it, sing it, chant it. He will hear you. He has on His gloves and will help you pluck. He will.
He has to. For He alone is the Master Gardener. And he is much much greater than our mountain of sickness.
"...but the tongue of the wise promotes health." Proverbs 12:18
Thursday, March 5, 2009
She didn't make it to church
6:41 pm. That's what time the call from Janet came across last night. I saw the number on my caller ID. I felt it must be good news, important news for me to hear. She must have known that I did not want to spend another night waiting for blood results. She must have known if she did not call me on Wednesday, I would think that the news was bad......despair and disappointment would be waiting for me on Thursday.
So even though she wanted to make it to church, she sat down to a pile of e-mails and paperwork and found my reports and called me. Liver functions normal....tumor marker down 300 points.....regimen working.....runaway cells in retreat. We had been calling my condition what we wanted, if you remember. Standing on the scripture about Abraham's faith and "calling things that are not as though they were." We had gotten what we called for. God was listening.
Remarkable, really, that she would take the time at the end of the day to sort through all that information and bring relief, joy and peace to my evening. I know she didn't make it to church,
but I had a little church right in my living room because of that call. I don't think God minds that she worked her way past Wednesday night services. He knows her well. He knows her heart.
He knew she would make the choice to deliver the news of hope to me and miss some time in His house. And he knows I thank Him every day that she has the heart to make that call.
"You hear, O Lord the desire of the afflicted: you encourage them, and you listen to their cry."
Psalm 10:17
So even though she wanted to make it to church, she sat down to a pile of e-mails and paperwork and found my reports and called me. Liver functions normal....tumor marker down 300 points.....regimen working.....runaway cells in retreat. We had been calling my condition what we wanted, if you remember. Standing on the scripture about Abraham's faith and "calling things that are not as though they were." We had gotten what we called for. God was listening.
Remarkable, really, that she would take the time at the end of the day to sort through all that information and bring relief, joy and peace to my evening. I know she didn't make it to church,
but I had a little church right in my living room because of that call. I don't think God minds that she worked her way past Wednesday night services. He knows her well. He knows her heart.
He knew she would make the choice to deliver the news of hope to me and miss some time in His house. And he knows I thank Him every day that she has the heart to make that call.
"You hear, O Lord the desire of the afflicted: you encourage them, and you listen to their cry."
Psalm 10:17
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Knowing
Sorry, guys. I've been away from the computer for a while. I had just had enough of the intensity that this battle brings to my life and needed to not wake up and think of it so often.
I needed to hibernate for the winter. I needed a little time under the covers and away from the constant talk of treatments, developments, and numbers......always the numbers. I was sick of the side effects, sick of peeling finger tips, mouth sores, no appetite, and bad days.
As I was making the drive to Cary yesterday morning after a rough start of slipping on the ice and dumping the entire contents of my purse out into the snow.....yes, snow in March...., I started thinking that maybe I had been buried away long enough and it was time, even with the snow on the ground, to come out and start writing again. Renew myself. Be a yellow bloom of spring. Talk again about life and living and hope and fighting and winning battles, no matter how small.
I thought about several topics. Like what winter does to us as humans. How the short days and lack of anticipation toward anything other than Valentine's Day for three months, and the cold and decreased activity can really bring you down. Or how taking breaks from chemo, writing and talking about cancer is something everyone needs, if only for a few weeks, to recharge and re-focus. I finally decided to follow-up on something I had written about last year.
It really has to be the reason why I sometimes need a break. The reason why I will, on some days look at Janet, and shrug my shoulder and say, "oh well, it is what it is." The reason why I go under to covers, refuse to touch base with my friends, become nasty with my husband.
It's because there are times when the struggle and the questions and the feelings of foresakeness, the Living with the Knowing (see post from July 27, 2008) just overtake me and I have to give myself permission to be sad and angry and discouraged and disgusted and fed-up
and worn-out. If only for a day...but sometimes for a week or two.
Living with the Knowing is the distinct condition that those who have chronic cancer,....StageIV...
inoperable.....untreatable...terminal......whatever you want to call it, have to experience every day we wake up and live our lives. It is the fact that we know that something within us is determined to and more than likely will cut our lives short. Sometimes, the knowing is a good thing, because it keeps you focused on life, appreciative of what you have, thankful for your loved ones, glad to be here for one more milestone, one more birthday, one more graduation, funeral or wedding. But sometimes the knowing gets too hard to bear, to sad the think about,
too heavy a burden. That is when I need to hibernate...not write, not research, not discuss, not care....only pray.
As I was thinking of all this while driving down I-40...where most of my good thoughts come to me...I was thinking about the ad I had seen for a new movie. It is called Knowing. It stars Nicholas Cage. His son finds a scroll in a time capsule at his school. The scroll is in code and, of course, Mr. Cage's character cracks the code. He realizes that the scroll contains all the dates of and accurately predicts every major disaster that has hit the earth since the earth began. He also realizes that the BIG ONE, the end-of-the world type disaster is drawing very near. In the movie teaser, they show Nicholas Cage's face in one shot and it truly captures the burden of living with knowing that life is probably ending much sooner than he'd planned. Even though he is acting, he had gotten that look down pat. It's a heavy, heavy load sometimes, just knowing.
Then I began to think about someone who really knew what it was like to live with knowing that life would end early. This guy lived a perfect, sinless life, full of meaning and compassion,
teachings and miracles. The most faithful man ever, knew from a very early age that his path would take him down a rocky road from joy and love and worship to beatings and a trial and
a cross. He knew and he was afraid, just like us. He knew and asked his Father to "take this cup from me" (don't make me do this) He did all those wonderful things, taught us all how to live, became the light of the world, all the time knowing he would die a horrible death before going home to his Father. He once again, in circumstance that we who live with knowing experience all the time, walked before us with dignity, integrity, flawlessness, kindness, and most of all with love.
So when you are walking on your path of life with cancer and the burden is heavy. When you get like me and want to hang your head, give up, hibernate, make it stop, jump off the path and run away and never come back. Look ahead of you. Look ahead of you on the path and you will see a man in a loin cloth, carrying a heavy cross, on his way to a hilltop where they will nail his hands and his feet to the cross he is carrying on his back. They will pierce his side with their swords. He will suffer beyond anything you or I will ever know. And He did this for us, so we, that have to live with knowing, will never, ever, ever have to feel alone.
He alone knows better than anyone. He alone knows.
"Why are you cast down, O my soul? And why are you so disquieted within me? Hope in God; For I will yet praise Him. My Savior and my God." Psalm 42:11
I needed to hibernate for the winter. I needed a little time under the covers and away from the constant talk of treatments, developments, and numbers......always the numbers. I was sick of the side effects, sick of peeling finger tips, mouth sores, no appetite, and bad days.
As I was making the drive to Cary yesterday morning after a rough start of slipping on the ice and dumping the entire contents of my purse out into the snow.....yes, snow in March...., I started thinking that maybe I had been buried away long enough and it was time, even with the snow on the ground, to come out and start writing again. Renew myself. Be a yellow bloom of spring. Talk again about life and living and hope and fighting and winning battles, no matter how small.
I thought about several topics. Like what winter does to us as humans. How the short days and lack of anticipation toward anything other than Valentine's Day for three months, and the cold and decreased activity can really bring you down. Or how taking breaks from chemo, writing and talking about cancer is something everyone needs, if only for a few weeks, to recharge and re-focus. I finally decided to follow-up on something I had written about last year.
It really has to be the reason why I sometimes need a break. The reason why I will, on some days look at Janet, and shrug my shoulder and say, "oh well, it is what it is." The reason why I go under to covers, refuse to touch base with my friends, become nasty with my husband.
It's because there are times when the struggle and the questions and the feelings of foresakeness, the Living with the Knowing (see post from July 27, 2008) just overtake me and I have to give myself permission to be sad and angry and discouraged and disgusted and fed-up
and worn-out. If only for a day...but sometimes for a week or two.
Living with the Knowing is the distinct condition that those who have chronic cancer,....StageIV...
inoperable.....untreatable...terminal......whatever you want to call it, have to experience every day we wake up and live our lives. It is the fact that we know that something within us is determined to and more than likely will cut our lives short. Sometimes, the knowing is a good thing, because it keeps you focused on life, appreciative of what you have, thankful for your loved ones, glad to be here for one more milestone, one more birthday, one more graduation, funeral or wedding. But sometimes the knowing gets too hard to bear, to sad the think about,
too heavy a burden. That is when I need to hibernate...not write, not research, not discuss, not care....only pray.
As I was thinking of all this while driving down I-40...where most of my good thoughts come to me...I was thinking about the ad I had seen for a new movie. It is called Knowing. It stars Nicholas Cage. His son finds a scroll in a time capsule at his school. The scroll is in code and, of course, Mr. Cage's character cracks the code. He realizes that the scroll contains all the dates of and accurately predicts every major disaster that has hit the earth since the earth began. He also realizes that the BIG ONE, the end-of-the world type disaster is drawing very near. In the movie teaser, they show Nicholas Cage's face in one shot and it truly captures the burden of living with knowing that life is probably ending much sooner than he'd planned. Even though he is acting, he had gotten that look down pat. It's a heavy, heavy load sometimes, just knowing.
Then I began to think about someone who really knew what it was like to live with knowing that life would end early. This guy lived a perfect, sinless life, full of meaning and compassion,
teachings and miracles. The most faithful man ever, knew from a very early age that his path would take him down a rocky road from joy and love and worship to beatings and a trial and
a cross. He knew and he was afraid, just like us. He knew and asked his Father to "take this cup from me" (don't make me do this) He did all those wonderful things, taught us all how to live, became the light of the world, all the time knowing he would die a horrible death before going home to his Father. He once again, in circumstance that we who live with knowing experience all the time, walked before us with dignity, integrity, flawlessness, kindness, and most of all with love.
So when you are walking on your path of life with cancer and the burden is heavy. When you get like me and want to hang your head, give up, hibernate, make it stop, jump off the path and run away and never come back. Look ahead of you. Look ahead of you on the path and you will see a man in a loin cloth, carrying a heavy cross, on his way to a hilltop where they will nail his hands and his feet to the cross he is carrying on his back. They will pierce his side with their swords. He will suffer beyond anything you or I will ever know. And He did this for us, so we, that have to live with knowing, will never, ever, ever have to feel alone.
He alone knows better than anyone. He alone knows.
"Why are you cast down, O my soul? And why are you so disquieted within me? Hope in God; For I will yet praise Him. My Savior and my God." Psalm 42:11
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Anniversaries
Anniversaries are funny things. Sometimes we make a big deal out of them, sometimes, we don't. Some people want flowers, jewelry, presents...particularly to mark the milestone ones. I just had two milestone anniversaries last week.
Five years ago, on February 10th, 2004, I was admitted into Rex hospital for nine days. I had an emergency chest tube put in. One lung completely filled with fluid. Cancer had returned with a vengance. In my chest wall, in my lymph nodes, in my pelvis, rib, shoulder. Stage IV had come to call.
So when February 14, 2004 rolled around, I was in pajamas, a tube in my chest, hair unwashed,
pale, angry, depressed, feeling betrayed that after all we had done IT was back anyway, and there I was in the hospital. Eating bad food, watching bad TV and missing my 20th wedding anniversary with my husband. That's right. My 20th wedding anniversary was spent in the hospital. That year, I got jewelry.
So last week, I passed my five year since reccurence anniversary. It was mentioned, everyone smiled. I also had my 25th wedding anniversary. This time I was away for the weekend with my husband....showing dogs, seeing old friends, going out to dinner. I did not get jewlery...I did not even want it. When he asked me what I wanted as a gift I could think of nothing I didn't already have. The greatest anniversary gift ever had already been given to me by God and modern medicine and all the people in my boat. Hard to believe, yet not hard to believe that I made it to this milestone.
Hard to believe that I would be perfectly happy with the gift of time. Time to enjoy my husband's company. Time to watch him across a room of people a realize what an amazing man he is. Time to watch him savor authentic Cuban food at a small restaurant we found for our anniversary dinner. We didn't talk about it much, but we knew how absolutely fortunate we were to be together at this place and time, living this life, still loving each other. I'm telling you girls....time and appreciation and recognizing how lucky you are to be alive and have a good man and to be able to cross a milestone anniversary.....there is nothing better, nothing made by the hands of man, that could ever top that gift.
That's what anniversaries should be. A date, a moment that you appreciate the time you have been given. Whether it's time to be alive or time to be together in a marraige. All time is a precious, precious gift. When you look at an anniversary in that kind of light, it doesn't become about the presents or flowers...it is all about appreciation and gratitude and love.....and recognition of how you were blessed enough to be given such a gift. Just so you know that I know where my gift this year did come from, the apostle James will tell you:
"Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of heavenly lights,...."
James 1:17
Five years ago, on February 10th, 2004, I was admitted into Rex hospital for nine days. I had an emergency chest tube put in. One lung completely filled with fluid. Cancer had returned with a vengance. In my chest wall, in my lymph nodes, in my pelvis, rib, shoulder. Stage IV had come to call.
So when February 14, 2004 rolled around, I was in pajamas, a tube in my chest, hair unwashed,
pale, angry, depressed, feeling betrayed that after all we had done IT was back anyway, and there I was in the hospital. Eating bad food, watching bad TV and missing my 20th wedding anniversary with my husband. That's right. My 20th wedding anniversary was spent in the hospital. That year, I got jewelry.
So last week, I passed my five year since reccurence anniversary. It was mentioned, everyone smiled. I also had my 25th wedding anniversary. This time I was away for the weekend with my husband....showing dogs, seeing old friends, going out to dinner. I did not get jewlery...I did not even want it. When he asked me what I wanted as a gift I could think of nothing I didn't already have. The greatest anniversary gift ever had already been given to me by God and modern medicine and all the people in my boat. Hard to believe, yet not hard to believe that I made it to this milestone.
Hard to believe that I would be perfectly happy with the gift of time. Time to enjoy my husband's company. Time to watch him across a room of people a realize what an amazing man he is. Time to watch him savor authentic Cuban food at a small restaurant we found for our anniversary dinner. We didn't talk about it much, but we knew how absolutely fortunate we were to be together at this place and time, living this life, still loving each other. I'm telling you girls....time and appreciation and recognizing how lucky you are to be alive and have a good man and to be able to cross a milestone anniversary.....there is nothing better, nothing made by the hands of man, that could ever top that gift.
That's what anniversaries should be. A date, a moment that you appreciate the time you have been given. Whether it's time to be alive or time to be together in a marraige. All time is a precious, precious gift. When you look at an anniversary in that kind of light, it doesn't become about the presents or flowers...it is all about appreciation and gratitude and love.....and recognition of how you were blessed enough to be given such a gift. Just so you know that I know where my gift this year did come from, the apostle James will tell you:
"Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of heavenly lights,...."
James 1:17
Keeping Our Fingers Crossed
Call it what you want. We are all doing it. Thinking good thoughts. Keeping a positive attitude.
Meditating. Visualizing. Waiting. Hoping. We are all doing the same thing. Whether newly diagnosed, through with treatment and trying to get on with life, stuck in a cycle that comes with metastatic disease, or fighting to add months, weeks, even days to the life expectancy we've been told we have. We are all praying.
We are all praying in our own ways, our own traditions, our own religions. Some depending solely on a single loving God, some to many gods, some to themselves and their own inner strength. But we, the cancer patients, are always focused on the disease and if we will be one of the ones to outlive it...beat it....be cured....be healed. Prayer is a constant river that runs through each and every one of us who sit back in the chairs, sit with the people who sit in the chairs, or treat the people who sit in the chairs. We rarely talk about it amongst ourselves when sitting there in the treatment chairs on Asheville Avenue, but I feel it in my soul every time I turn the corner and walk past the glass partition. Among all the fear, pain, resignation, exhaustion, resentment, and depression that seems to lay low on the ground at our feet, there is the running stream of prayer, the waters of hope, the river that flows within us, confirming our spiritual strength, our power to believe:b the power of prayer.
Yesterday, while sitting in the chair and observing all that was going on around me (busy day for the girls), the nurse who was trying to access the veins of the elderly woman beside me was having a little problem. She had found the vein...."a good stick".... but the vein had "blown" or collapsed the minute she tried to put fluid in it. This happens a lot to those of us whose veins are tired and scarred and used up from years of all the sticking. So I knew the nurse felt bad and the older woman knew she would be stuck yet another time out of hundreds of times....maybe thousands. So what did I do? I prayed. I prayed that the next stick would be great and not blow and open up and let the medicine flow. I asked God for mercy for the nurse and the patient. Such a small thing, but why add to the suffering, Lord? And my prayer was answered.
I look back on yesterday and think.....such a small prayer, but one with an immediate, divine
"ok", and I think why not go for the BIG stuff, Lord. Why just show me the small???? I figure it was a small God moment that I needed to see to boost my faith. That God never promised us we would not suffer as his children, he promised that we would never be alone. That one small good stick was His way of saying to me, "I see you. I hear you. I am with you, always.....even in small ways." The nurse and patient totally unaware of the holy conversation taking place beside them. The immediate peace the second stick brought to me and known only to me, to be cherished by me.
When Maha and I had our meeting (exam) yesterday, we said we were hopeful that my numbers that we will run in two weeks will reflect the positive way my body has been behaving lately. Relatively speaking, I feel pretty darn good. Relatively speaking I am symptomless from what cancer may cause.....no bone pain, no abdominal pain, no shortness of breath, no fluid in the lungs, no abnormal nodes or swollen organs. Any problems I have seem to be from what I have to take and the years of what I have already taken. So, as two old comrades in the fight, knowing better than to let our guard down at any time and be too positive; knowing that even though my body is a good barometer of my overall health and status, and knowing we have been snake-bit before, Dr. Elkordy parted with these words: "We'll keep our fingers crossed."
I turned back to her immediately and said, "Oh no, we'll do much more than that." She nodded her head because she knows. And she knows that I know what we will be doing. We will be praying...praying like my life depends on it. Because it does.
"Be joyful always; Pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances....." 1Thessalonians 16-18
Meditating. Visualizing. Waiting. Hoping. We are all doing the same thing. Whether newly diagnosed, through with treatment and trying to get on with life, stuck in a cycle that comes with metastatic disease, or fighting to add months, weeks, even days to the life expectancy we've been told we have. We are all praying.
We are all praying in our own ways, our own traditions, our own religions. Some depending solely on a single loving God, some to many gods, some to themselves and their own inner strength. But we, the cancer patients, are always focused on the disease and if we will be one of the ones to outlive it...beat it....be cured....be healed. Prayer is a constant river that runs through each and every one of us who sit back in the chairs, sit with the people who sit in the chairs, or treat the people who sit in the chairs. We rarely talk about it amongst ourselves when sitting there in the treatment chairs on Asheville Avenue, but I feel it in my soul every time I turn the corner and walk past the glass partition. Among all the fear, pain, resignation, exhaustion, resentment, and depression that seems to lay low on the ground at our feet, there is the running stream of prayer, the waters of hope, the river that flows within us, confirming our spiritual strength, our power to believe:b the power of prayer.
Yesterday, while sitting in the chair and observing all that was going on around me (busy day for the girls), the nurse who was trying to access the veins of the elderly woman beside me was having a little problem. She had found the vein...."a good stick".... but the vein had "blown" or collapsed the minute she tried to put fluid in it. This happens a lot to those of us whose veins are tired and scarred and used up from years of all the sticking. So I knew the nurse felt bad and the older woman knew she would be stuck yet another time out of hundreds of times....maybe thousands. So what did I do? I prayed. I prayed that the next stick would be great and not blow and open up and let the medicine flow. I asked God for mercy for the nurse and the patient. Such a small thing, but why add to the suffering, Lord? And my prayer was answered.
I look back on yesterday and think.....such a small prayer, but one with an immediate, divine
"ok", and I think why not go for the BIG stuff, Lord. Why just show me the small???? I figure it was a small God moment that I needed to see to boost my faith. That God never promised us we would not suffer as his children, he promised that we would never be alone. That one small good stick was His way of saying to me, "I see you. I hear you. I am with you, always.....even in small ways." The nurse and patient totally unaware of the holy conversation taking place beside them. The immediate peace the second stick brought to me and known only to me, to be cherished by me.
When Maha and I had our meeting (exam) yesterday, we said we were hopeful that my numbers that we will run in two weeks will reflect the positive way my body has been behaving lately. Relatively speaking, I feel pretty darn good. Relatively speaking I am symptomless from what cancer may cause.....no bone pain, no abdominal pain, no shortness of breath, no fluid in the lungs, no abnormal nodes or swollen organs. Any problems I have seem to be from what I have to take and the years of what I have already taken. So, as two old comrades in the fight, knowing better than to let our guard down at any time and be too positive; knowing that even though my body is a good barometer of my overall health and status, and knowing we have been snake-bit before, Dr. Elkordy parted with these words: "We'll keep our fingers crossed."
I turned back to her immediately and said, "Oh no, we'll do much more than that." She nodded her head because she knows. And she knows that I know what we will be doing. We will be praying...praying like my life depends on it. Because it does.
"Be joyful always; Pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances....." 1Thessalonians 16-18
Friday, February 6, 2009
Call it what we want
"Yet (we) did not waver through unbelief regarding the promise of God, but were strengthened in (our) faith and gave glory to God, being fully persuaded that God had power to do what he had promised." Romans 4:20-21"
That's a powerful scripture, isn't it? Written by Paul about Abraham. The man with so much faith that he would have offered up his only son Isaac on an altar because God told him to. Oh, how could one man have so much absolute faith??? It seems like there are very few modern-day Abrahams around.
I, for one, have my moments when I do not waver. When I have been "fully persuaded" that God would do as he promised. Then, there are other times when I do waver. I struggle with purpose and intent and plan. I have unbelief. These are the times that, as well as asking God, I turn to others to ask for help in my unbelief. When the numbers come back not so great, but I am feeling great, I have learned that instead of wavering; instead of being sucked under by doubt and panic, that the people in my boat will band together, take the latest results and call it what we want to get me through to the next round. This time we are calling it a "deceleration of the rate of increase of the tumor marker". How's that for spin??? The marker didn't go down, but it didn't go up half as fast as it had been. And besides:
I just had one round of therapy.
I just started back on Avastin, which makes all chemotherapy work better.
Forward motion has to be slowed before it can stop completely and start going backwards. (good one from my boss)
I like that way of thinking. (standard friend reply)
We have to give this course of therapy time to work before we abandon it.
I am still relatively symptomless and feeling better than I have in months.
We can talk about a liver procedure "down the road."
I love it when someone says "down the road" or "next year" or "we're saving that for when we really need it" All these things my medical team, my friends, and my family say to me to keep me looking forward, to keep me focused, and to help me have the faith of Abraham. These words of analyzation, justification, and encouragement allow me to take a call from Janet about
the numbers I didn't want to hear and go right back to working a two-day trade show like nothing ever happened. They're not panicking so I'm not panicking. We're calling the latest round of numbers what we want. They are "not that bad" we say. They are just a stepping stone on the way to reversing the course, stemming the tide, and beating back the enemy. This is in no way a setback or a time for gnashing of teeth and ripping of clothes. Now is the time to be Abraham. And I have no doubt that we all will come together again and have that faith, that unwavering faith that the battle continues and we are strong and willing and life and the living will go on.
So look in my boat. My boat is full of people all with different first names and backgrounds and jobs and relationships to me. But they all have the same nickname and it is Abraham. Oh, and for those of you who are wondering about the lonely pain pill (earier post) that I have sitting on my nightstand, just in case I had another severe bout of bone pain in the middle of the night, well the pill is now gone. Gone back into the prescription bottle because I have faith that I will not need it. There's an Abraham moment for you. How absolutely cool is that?
That's a powerful scripture, isn't it? Written by Paul about Abraham. The man with so much faith that he would have offered up his only son Isaac on an altar because God told him to. Oh, how could one man have so much absolute faith??? It seems like there are very few modern-day Abrahams around.
I, for one, have my moments when I do not waver. When I have been "fully persuaded" that God would do as he promised. Then, there are other times when I do waver. I struggle with purpose and intent and plan. I have unbelief. These are the times that, as well as asking God, I turn to others to ask for help in my unbelief. When the numbers come back not so great, but I am feeling great, I have learned that instead of wavering; instead of being sucked under by doubt and panic, that the people in my boat will band together, take the latest results and call it what we want to get me through to the next round. This time we are calling it a "deceleration of the rate of increase of the tumor marker". How's that for spin??? The marker didn't go down, but it didn't go up half as fast as it had been. And besides:
I just had one round of therapy.
I just started back on Avastin, which makes all chemotherapy work better.
Forward motion has to be slowed before it can stop completely and start going backwards. (good one from my boss)
I like that way of thinking. (standard friend reply)
We have to give this course of therapy time to work before we abandon it.
I am still relatively symptomless and feeling better than I have in months.
We can talk about a liver procedure "down the road."
I love it when someone says "down the road" or "next year" or "we're saving that for when we really need it" All these things my medical team, my friends, and my family say to me to keep me looking forward, to keep me focused, and to help me have the faith of Abraham. These words of analyzation, justification, and encouragement allow me to take a call from Janet about
the numbers I didn't want to hear and go right back to working a two-day trade show like nothing ever happened. They're not panicking so I'm not panicking. We're calling the latest round of numbers what we want. They are "not that bad" we say. They are just a stepping stone on the way to reversing the course, stemming the tide, and beating back the enemy. This is in no way a setback or a time for gnashing of teeth and ripping of clothes. Now is the time to be Abraham. And I have no doubt that we all will come together again and have that faith, that unwavering faith that the battle continues and we are strong and willing and life and the living will go on.
So look in my boat. My boat is full of people all with different first names and backgrounds and jobs and relationships to me. But they all have the same nickname and it is Abraham. Oh, and for those of you who are wondering about the lonely pain pill (earier post) that I have sitting on my nightstand, just in case I had another severe bout of bone pain in the middle of the night, well the pill is now gone. Gone back into the prescription bottle because I have faith that I will not need it. There's an Abraham moment for you. How absolutely cool is that?
Saturday, January 31, 2009
To SJ at the Lake
When you get back on this blog, know this is for you: Do not be afraid, for I am with you. You are not alone now or ever. You may need to draw closer, but remember, I have always been right beside you. I am your rock, your strength, your redeemer.
There is so much I want to talk to you about, but have not been able to figure out how to respond to people who comment on this sight. Please e-mail me at kapers@northstate.net. There is so much in the journal meant to uplift and encourage. I can direct you to those posts. So far, I have lived five years with bone, lung, liver and brain mets. I am treated off and on between chemo and hormone therapies. Just did radiation on one site on my femur for pain and had two lesions removed in my brain by the wonders of the Cyber-knife. There is one of these marvelous machine in Concord and one Chapel Hill.
There is always hope, my dear, and at your stage of the game, there are countless combinations of drugs to try. This is a battle...a long one. But the good news is they are treating us as chronic patients, not terminal ones. Always remember that.....and if your Dr. doesn't take that position, find a new one. K
There is so much I want to talk to you about, but have not been able to figure out how to respond to people who comment on this sight. Please e-mail me at kapers@northstate.net. There is so much in the journal meant to uplift and encourage. I can direct you to those posts. So far, I have lived five years with bone, lung, liver and brain mets. I am treated off and on between chemo and hormone therapies. Just did radiation on one site on my femur for pain and had two lesions removed in my brain by the wonders of the Cyber-knife. There is one of these marvelous machine in Concord and one Chapel Hill.
There is always hope, my dear, and at your stage of the game, there are countless combinations of drugs to try. This is a battle...a long one. But the good news is they are treating us as chronic patients, not terminal ones. Always remember that.....and if your Dr. doesn't take that position, find a new one. K
The Fireman
Yesterday, I went back to UNC Hospital for a follow-up with Dr. Morris, the guy who did my Cyber-knife procedure back in December. You know, the marvelous wonder of a laser-knife
machine that burned out the two little lesions that have been haunting my brain for the past 14 months. The procedure where I walked in two days before Christmas and trusted that I would walk out within an hour with a new brain, a clear brain, a brain where cancer cells were dying off by the minute because they had been zapped in a big way. And, as far as we can tell, that's exactly what happened. Talk about faith. Dr. Morris and I have faith that even though we cannot see into my head right now, we know those two small lesions are gone.
I scored a ten out of ten on my neurological function tests. Dr. Morris was grinning from ear to ear.....the first time I have really seen him smile. He offered to do an MRI right there, just so we could take a peek. I turned him down. Why would I do that? Because I also have to have faith that not only would the two be gone, but no new ones would have appeared. Because if a new one would have shown up....what then??? Do we stop this round of chemo that seems to be working so well for me and put the knife on it???? Or do I live with the knowledge of the lesion's
existence for two more months while we finish up our chemo rounds??? Neither sounded like any kind a stress I needed to start the new year.
So I told him no and he was just fine with that. We will stick with the plan and wait two more months. I know he is ready and willing and will be standing by if I need the knife again. We talked about using it on my chest wall. That may be next. As he knows, he is my Fireman. His job is to put out any little fires that pop up all around the inside of me that qualify for "knifing". Even as the hot, slow-burning embers that make up the disease I fight continue to circulate and wreak their havoc, I have faith in the Fireman and he has faith in me. We both feel we can do some cutting-edge (pardon the pun) stuff together. We are up for the task.
I always look for profound stuff from my physicians. They usually say remarkable things to me,
if I am listening. I never thought I would get anything from the Fireman because he was so technical, so focused on the procedure. Busy and lost in thought. But yesterday was a different Dr. Morris. He was pleased with me and the exam and very personable. So I got a profound statement from him which really took my by surprise. Loosely translated, Dr. Morris' said: You know, way back when you got your stem-cell transplant, we all thought it was the best thing to do for women in your position. Now, we don't believe they should be done in breast cancer cases like yours. But I look at you and have to say that if anyone asked me if I thought it worked for you, my answer would have to be yes. Look at all you have been able to do.
Thanks, Mr. Fireman. What a great gift you gave me as I was leaving your office. Thanks for the boost, the affirmation, your non-analytical, straight from the gut opinion. It made my day
and landed you in my journal and filled me with gratitude. I sometime struggle with the fact that I chose that extreme and awful treatment path in 2001. To hear you say that was wonderful. And not only is it "look at all I have been able to do." But it is look at all I have been able to see. The list of amazing things is so long I can't even begin to put them in words. Most importantly, look at all the people I have been able to love.
I'll be back in the fireman's office in two months. They'll look around in my brain then. I have no doubt they will find nothing remarkable. No fires, not even a spark. But if I do decide to let Dr. Morris go after something else, I won't be so apprehensive this time. Because in the ten minutes we spent together this past Friday, I realized that he gets me. He really does get what I'm all about. He dropped all the techno-speak, data, and medical languages, and spoke to me, the woman in the fight. Another good man has secured his place in my boat and the raging sea has one more reason to calm itself.
"Be merciful to those who doubt; snatch others from the fire and save them;" Jude:22-23
machine that burned out the two little lesions that have been haunting my brain for the past 14 months. The procedure where I walked in two days before Christmas and trusted that I would walk out within an hour with a new brain, a clear brain, a brain where cancer cells were dying off by the minute because they had been zapped in a big way. And, as far as we can tell, that's exactly what happened. Talk about faith. Dr. Morris and I have faith that even though we cannot see into my head right now, we know those two small lesions are gone.
I scored a ten out of ten on my neurological function tests. Dr. Morris was grinning from ear to ear.....the first time I have really seen him smile. He offered to do an MRI right there, just so we could take a peek. I turned him down. Why would I do that? Because I also have to have faith that not only would the two be gone, but no new ones would have appeared. Because if a new one would have shown up....what then??? Do we stop this round of chemo that seems to be working so well for me and put the knife on it???? Or do I live with the knowledge of the lesion's
existence for two more months while we finish up our chemo rounds??? Neither sounded like any kind a stress I needed to start the new year.
So I told him no and he was just fine with that. We will stick with the plan and wait two more months. I know he is ready and willing and will be standing by if I need the knife again. We talked about using it on my chest wall. That may be next. As he knows, he is my Fireman. His job is to put out any little fires that pop up all around the inside of me that qualify for "knifing". Even as the hot, slow-burning embers that make up the disease I fight continue to circulate and wreak their havoc, I have faith in the Fireman and he has faith in me. We both feel we can do some cutting-edge (pardon the pun) stuff together. We are up for the task.
I always look for profound stuff from my physicians. They usually say remarkable things to me,
if I am listening. I never thought I would get anything from the Fireman because he was so technical, so focused on the procedure. Busy and lost in thought. But yesterday was a different Dr. Morris. He was pleased with me and the exam and very personable. So I got a profound statement from him which really took my by surprise. Loosely translated, Dr. Morris' said: You know, way back when you got your stem-cell transplant, we all thought it was the best thing to do for women in your position. Now, we don't believe they should be done in breast cancer cases like yours. But I look at you and have to say that if anyone asked me if I thought it worked for you, my answer would have to be yes. Look at all you have been able to do.
Thanks, Mr. Fireman. What a great gift you gave me as I was leaving your office. Thanks for the boost, the affirmation, your non-analytical, straight from the gut opinion. It made my day
and landed you in my journal and filled me with gratitude. I sometime struggle with the fact that I chose that extreme and awful treatment path in 2001. To hear you say that was wonderful. And not only is it "look at all I have been able to do." But it is look at all I have been able to see. The list of amazing things is so long I can't even begin to put them in words. Most importantly, look at all the people I have been able to love.
I'll be back in the fireman's office in two months. They'll look around in my brain then. I have no doubt they will find nothing remarkable. No fires, not even a spark. But if I do decide to let Dr. Morris go after something else, I won't be so apprehensive this time. Because in the ten minutes we spent together this past Friday, I realized that he gets me. He really does get what I'm all about. He dropped all the techno-speak, data, and medical languages, and spoke to me, the woman in the fight. Another good man has secured his place in my boat and the raging sea has one more reason to calm itself.
"Be merciful to those who doubt; snatch others from the fire and save them;" Jude:22-23
Monday, January 26, 2009
This is my testimony
I did something miraculous this past week. I attended a four day conference at my church. Guest speakers and ministers came every day to talk about the power of the Lord and the fact that He still wants to perform wonderful, miraculous things in our lives. It was great stuff.
What was so miraculous for me??? I was there all four days. From 8:30 in the morning to as late as 9:30 at night. We sat, we stood, we walked around, even danced a little.....two days it was more than 12 hours.
I kept waiting for it to "catch up" with me. Kept waiting for the pain in my hip to come and remind me of the darkness that was lurking in my bones. I slept every night with a pain pill on my night stand, thinking I would be bolted out of sleep by the screaming pain from my pelvis.....reminding me that I cannot do the same things as everyone else. Or that I should have known that my hip would give out and have to pay the price of 30 minutes of excruciating agony.
But the pill is still there. It is Monday morning, and that Vicodin tablet sits by a glass of water on the nightstand as a reminder to me to never underestimate the power of God when you are walking in a place that He wants you to be.
Not only is it unreal to me that I never had any pain, but I couldn't believe and neither could my husband, that I had the energy to put in four consecutive days of at least 11 hours of sitting, standing, and doing. I have to be honest....coming home several nights after nine o'clock was slightly disorienting for me. I am normally on the sofa by 7:00. So I had some mini-miracles.
It is now turning into memories, but it is a lesson I'll never forget in how good and faithful God can be.
When the conference was announced last winter and the dates began popping up on the church bulletins, I do remember wondering if I should even sign up. Would I be physically able to attend? Would I still be here??? I watched time go by and the conference grow near and finally trusted enough to register just two weeks ago, still thinking I would only attend several hours a day. How foolish of me to underestimate my God. I pray I will never forget this lesson.
And just to make me really aware that God was with me, showing me things, as always, the conference was kicked off by someone saying the exact words I had complained about in my last post. A church friend and dear, sweet woman whom I sat beside and hadn't seen since early fall, of course asked what had been happening over the last four months. After I had given her a brief history of all the treatments and ups and downs, she said, "But Kathy, considering all that, you look great." I told her that I didn't want to hear that.....I wanted to here of good number, great scans, working veins, etc. Her answer to me was absolutely perfect. Just what I needed to hear. Just what I needed to be humbled. From God's mouth to hers: "But this is your testimony. Just think what an encouragement you are when people look at you. Be thankful for what the Lord has enabled you to do."
Ouch. Forgive me. What a wussy I have been. So this is what I now want. I do want people to look at me and be amazed. I want them to think "how can this be?" For this is a big part of my testimony. Not only am I still here, but I am, relatively speaking, still going strong and I am strong in the power of the Lord. Amen
"Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes." Ephesians 6:10,11
What was so miraculous for me??? I was there all four days. From 8:30 in the morning to as late as 9:30 at night. We sat, we stood, we walked around, even danced a little.....two days it was more than 12 hours.
I kept waiting for it to "catch up" with me. Kept waiting for the pain in my hip to come and remind me of the darkness that was lurking in my bones. I slept every night with a pain pill on my night stand, thinking I would be bolted out of sleep by the screaming pain from my pelvis.....reminding me that I cannot do the same things as everyone else. Or that I should have known that my hip would give out and have to pay the price of 30 minutes of excruciating agony.
But the pill is still there. It is Monday morning, and that Vicodin tablet sits by a glass of water on the nightstand as a reminder to me to never underestimate the power of God when you are walking in a place that He wants you to be.
Not only is it unreal to me that I never had any pain, but I couldn't believe and neither could my husband, that I had the energy to put in four consecutive days of at least 11 hours of sitting, standing, and doing. I have to be honest....coming home several nights after nine o'clock was slightly disorienting for me. I am normally on the sofa by 7:00. So I had some mini-miracles.
It is now turning into memories, but it is a lesson I'll never forget in how good and faithful God can be.
When the conference was announced last winter and the dates began popping up on the church bulletins, I do remember wondering if I should even sign up. Would I be physically able to attend? Would I still be here??? I watched time go by and the conference grow near and finally trusted enough to register just two weeks ago, still thinking I would only attend several hours a day. How foolish of me to underestimate my God. I pray I will never forget this lesson.
And just to make me really aware that God was with me, showing me things, as always, the conference was kicked off by someone saying the exact words I had complained about in my last post. A church friend and dear, sweet woman whom I sat beside and hadn't seen since early fall, of course asked what had been happening over the last four months. After I had given her a brief history of all the treatments and ups and downs, she said, "But Kathy, considering all that, you look great." I told her that I didn't want to hear that.....I wanted to here of good number, great scans, working veins, etc. Her answer to me was absolutely perfect. Just what I needed to hear. Just what I needed to be humbled. From God's mouth to hers: "But this is your testimony. Just think what an encouragement you are when people look at you. Be thankful for what the Lord has enabled you to do."
Ouch. Forgive me. What a wussy I have been. So this is what I now want. I do want people to look at me and be amazed. I want them to think "how can this be?" For this is a big part of my testimony. Not only am I still here, but I am, relatively speaking, still going strong and I am strong in the power of the Lord. Amen
"Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes." Ephesians 6:10,11
Friday, January 9, 2009
The Trinity
A question was posed to me at my last exam at the oncologist's office. I had heard it before. It was now becoming a running theme. I had just finished up a month of seeing new doctors.....five of them to be exact......new nurses, at least 8, and new technicians, too many to remember. Between the scans, exams, tests and treatments in the world of radiation oncology, plus the now infamous liver biopsy, I have been paraded before dozens of health care professionals. So the question that was posed upon my return to the world of chemo treatments was, "was everyone amazed at how good you look?"
Well, yes. As a matter of fact they were. They always are. The people who hold my files and history in their hands for the first time are always surprised to see me looking like I do. If you saw me on the street, you would never know what lies beneath my skin. You would never guess the extent of the battle that is fought every day inside of me. There have been many times over the past eight years when I did look sick.....sometimes deathly sick....but not right now. Not in January of 2009.
And while I am pleased every time I am asked the question. While it still makes me smile when people say that I look amazing considering what I've been through, I try not to hang my hat on any compliments about my physical exterior. As a chronic cancer patient, I know that the good times....the times when I look "normal".... can change on a dime. Hair falls out when you least expect. Bone pain can make you hunch over as you walk, aging you by decades. Skin tone can wash out, faces puff out, arms bruise and breaths shorten. My physical appearance is fleeting...ever-changing....never to be trusted.
So when you see me and want to tell me how great I look, go ahead. I'll say thank you. But what I really want to say is this: You should see how I look on the inside. My organs and bones are riddled with ugly cells that are trying their best to kill me. My pelvis looks like swiss cheese, my lungs are scarred, my liver contains dark and ominous shadows. It feels like there is probably very little lining left in my stomach and esophagus. I have no feeling in my feet and right fingers. My boobs are fake, my chest is scarred and riddled with broken blood vessels, my veins are all collapsing. And there are days when I just want it all to stop and everyone to leave me alone because no matter how good I look to you all, this still bites, I still hurt, I still can't sleep. My mind never rests.
But that's okay. I'm still here. I'm still grateful. I still talk to my daughter every day, hug my husband, pet my dogs. I am still blessed. In the human version of a trinity; mind, body, and spirit, I'm still forming a triangle. I still have all three parts. And although the body is the weakest, you know what? It always was....always has been. My spirit is the strongest, praise God, and the mind...my mind, well it has its strong days and its weak days. My trinity has worked very well for me over this long and arduous cancer journey. At times the trinity it has been a stronger force than others. And it is only as strong as its weakest part.....that old, beat up on the inside, still lookin' good on the outside body of mine. I am very aware of this ever-weakening link.
And the next time some professional says, "you look fabulous considering what you have and what you've been through." (Dr. Rubin) I'll smile and nod as always. Just know that what I really want to say is can you make the inside of me match the outside???? Can we fix anything about
my current disease condition to make you say that about an MRI, CTscan, or blood work??? Can we still find a way to be amazed about lack of disease progression, tumor markers, CTCs??? THOSE are the compliments I am interested in. That's the amazement I want you to feel. That is the miracle I'm praying for.
"Death and life are in the power of the tongue: and they that love it will eat its fruit." Proverbs 18:21
Well, yes. As a matter of fact they were. They always are. The people who hold my files and history in their hands for the first time are always surprised to see me looking like I do. If you saw me on the street, you would never know what lies beneath my skin. You would never guess the extent of the battle that is fought every day inside of me. There have been many times over the past eight years when I did look sick.....sometimes deathly sick....but not right now. Not in January of 2009.
And while I am pleased every time I am asked the question. While it still makes me smile when people say that I look amazing considering what I've been through, I try not to hang my hat on any compliments about my physical exterior. As a chronic cancer patient, I know that the good times....the times when I look "normal".... can change on a dime. Hair falls out when you least expect. Bone pain can make you hunch over as you walk, aging you by decades. Skin tone can wash out, faces puff out, arms bruise and breaths shorten. My physical appearance is fleeting...ever-changing....never to be trusted.
So when you see me and want to tell me how great I look, go ahead. I'll say thank you. But what I really want to say is this: You should see how I look on the inside. My organs and bones are riddled with ugly cells that are trying their best to kill me. My pelvis looks like swiss cheese, my lungs are scarred, my liver contains dark and ominous shadows. It feels like there is probably very little lining left in my stomach and esophagus. I have no feeling in my feet and right fingers. My boobs are fake, my chest is scarred and riddled with broken blood vessels, my veins are all collapsing. And there are days when I just want it all to stop and everyone to leave me alone because no matter how good I look to you all, this still bites, I still hurt, I still can't sleep. My mind never rests.
But that's okay. I'm still here. I'm still grateful. I still talk to my daughter every day, hug my husband, pet my dogs. I am still blessed. In the human version of a trinity; mind, body, and spirit, I'm still forming a triangle. I still have all three parts. And although the body is the weakest, you know what? It always was....always has been. My spirit is the strongest, praise God, and the mind...my mind, well it has its strong days and its weak days. My trinity has worked very well for me over this long and arduous cancer journey. At times the trinity it has been a stronger force than others. And it is only as strong as its weakest part.....that old, beat up on the inside, still lookin' good on the outside body of mine. I am very aware of this ever-weakening link.
And the next time some professional says, "you look fabulous considering what you have and what you've been through." (Dr. Rubin) I'll smile and nod as always. Just know that what I really want to say is can you make the inside of me match the outside???? Can we fix anything about
my current disease condition to make you say that about an MRI, CTscan, or blood work??? Can we still find a way to be amazed about lack of disease progression, tumor markers, CTCs??? THOSE are the compliments I am interested in. That's the amazement I want you to feel. That is the miracle I'm praying for.
"Death and life are in the power of the tongue: and they that love it will eat its fruit." Proverbs 18:21
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Happy? New Year
Happy New Year, everyone.
Hope you had a good one. I hope 2009 is going to be a great one! 2008 did not quite end the way I had hoped. Despite advancements and treatments and tests and biopsies, I feel that the past year's work....the year we knew was THE YEAR yielded me just that. Another year. Don't get me wrong....every day, week, month, minute is precious to me. God gives me each day and I try my best to honor Him in the way I live it. But the whispers of the enemy are strong. The strain of living in pain is crushing. The lack of direction and feeling of losing ground is depressing.
And the anger I now feel over a failed liver biopsy that did not yield us enough cells for the one most important piece of information that I suffered through the procedure for is clouding my vision with tears and disappointment. New Year's Eve spent on my sofa, sore and sick from a procedure that will have to be repeated. What a way to ring out the old.
You would not know about any of my "feelings" was I not writing about them here. I look great.
I walk around most days upright and positive......blessed and highly favored. But some days....some days like yesterday that left me angry and confused and discouraged and directionless....just another body on a chair amidst the chaos in the back treatment room. Just the woman under her blanket, not hiding from the cold, but hiding from it all and hiding my tears from all of them. Finally feeling utterly alone.
And then I got God-slapped in the face...twice.
I left 216 Asheville Avenue and went to get my right hip x-rayed. Upset about the liver biopsy, upset about another long day of people messing with me. I was on the cell phone at the radiologist's office, when out in the lobby I noticed a woman, well dressed, pushing a wheelchair across the lobby floor and out the door. Expecting to see an old woman in the chair, I was shocked to realize that the woman was pushing a teenage girl. A girl not too much younger than my daughter. A girl, painfully thin, bald and wrapped in a blanket, drinking a ginger ale and leaving from some sort of radiation treatment. There but for the grace of God..........I suddenly was feeling very grateful.
Then, this morning, I got up and read my devotional for today...a new book which had been given to me by my sister-in-law for Christmas. The devotionalist was working from Proverbs 3:6, "In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths." Her commentary began like this:
Jesus is saying to His people: "You are a chosen one. Walk and talk with me
daily. Tell Me everything--then listen to Me. Let me tell you all things.
I love you....I watch over you....I hear your words. I AM with you
always to help you. I give you my peace."
Oh yeah. In my time of year's end and year's beginning I had forgotten to do that. I had forgotten that I am never alone and my agonies and diatribes and frustrations are always heard by holy ears that never turn away. I had forgotten that my suffering and disappointments and betrayals are miniscule compared to His. I need to remember that every time I want to cover my face in a blanket and weep that He is there with me saying "Tell me everything...I hear your words." What a promise. What a comfort.
So Happy New Year, everyone. This time, I mean it.
Hope you had a good one. I hope 2009 is going to be a great one! 2008 did not quite end the way I had hoped. Despite advancements and treatments and tests and biopsies, I feel that the past year's work....the year we knew was THE YEAR yielded me just that. Another year. Don't get me wrong....every day, week, month, minute is precious to me. God gives me each day and I try my best to honor Him in the way I live it. But the whispers of the enemy are strong. The strain of living in pain is crushing. The lack of direction and feeling of losing ground is depressing.
And the anger I now feel over a failed liver biopsy that did not yield us enough cells for the one most important piece of information that I suffered through the procedure for is clouding my vision with tears and disappointment. New Year's Eve spent on my sofa, sore and sick from a procedure that will have to be repeated. What a way to ring out the old.
You would not know about any of my "feelings" was I not writing about them here. I look great.
I walk around most days upright and positive......blessed and highly favored. But some days....some days like yesterday that left me angry and confused and discouraged and directionless....just another body on a chair amidst the chaos in the back treatment room. Just the woman under her blanket, not hiding from the cold, but hiding from it all and hiding my tears from all of them. Finally feeling utterly alone.
And then I got God-slapped in the face...twice.
I left 216 Asheville Avenue and went to get my right hip x-rayed. Upset about the liver biopsy, upset about another long day of people messing with me. I was on the cell phone at the radiologist's office, when out in the lobby I noticed a woman, well dressed, pushing a wheelchair across the lobby floor and out the door. Expecting to see an old woman in the chair, I was shocked to realize that the woman was pushing a teenage girl. A girl not too much younger than my daughter. A girl, painfully thin, bald and wrapped in a blanket, drinking a ginger ale and leaving from some sort of radiation treatment. There but for the grace of God..........I suddenly was feeling very grateful.
Then, this morning, I got up and read my devotional for today...a new book which had been given to me by my sister-in-law for Christmas. The devotionalist was working from Proverbs 3:6, "In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths." Her commentary began like this:
Jesus is saying to His people: "You are a chosen one. Walk and talk with me
daily. Tell Me everything--then listen to Me. Let me tell you all things.
I love you....I watch over you....I hear your words. I AM with you
always to help you. I give you my peace."
Oh yeah. In my time of year's end and year's beginning I had forgotten to do that. I had forgotten that I am never alone and my agonies and diatribes and frustrations are always heard by holy ears that never turn away. I had forgotten that my suffering and disappointments and betrayals are miniscule compared to His. I need to remember that every time I want to cover my face in a blanket and weep that He is there with me saying "Tell me everything...I hear your words." What a promise. What a comfort.
So Happy New Year, everyone. This time, I mean it.
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