Today I enter a room with seven recliners arranged in a circle. Four are gray and three are tan with a geometric design; each one with its own IV standing as a guard towering over its prisoner. There are people coming in and out with different treatments…some are long, some are short, some have to come everyday, some like me only come every three weeks.  

     Each station has a white ladder back chair for loved ones or personal items to be stored.  The room is bright and decorated elegantly with several windows and a patio so patients can get out for some fresh air.  The walls are decorated with tasteful pictures and classic neutral wallpaper.  The biggest and most visible picture in the room has a caption that says Hope has Power in bold letters.  Under the heading are the words: “Dreams are renewable no matter what our age or condition, there are untapped possibilities within us and new beauty waiting to be born.” Over these words there is a picture of an enormous crashing wave that visually shows the power of hope.  This is not a morbid place even though each person has faced death as a possibility.  It is a place of hope and courage.  As I watch I am inspired by everyone in the room.  Some look sicklier than others but all are in the fight.  There are people there younger than me and some much older.  One girl comes in crying, after a word of encouragement from the nurse she settles in to do battle through the tubes in her arms once again.      Although this is a hopeful room is also a hard place.  I have to close my eyes at times so I don’t see the pain that is so evident in the faces.  I am not the only one afraid here.  It is the same dichotomy I see in my own struggle between faith and fear.  Everyone here is living it too because this enemy called cancer is no respecter of persons.  There is a small refrigerator for storing juice and lunches for those of us that have to be here all day. 

     A coffee pot, water cooler and basket of snacks sit on the counter top over the fridge in an attempt to give a homey feel to a sterile place.  There is a bookshelf with blankets, horseshoe neck pillows and magazines to make patients more comfortable as they do battle.  In the back of the room is the nurse’s station with the computers that keep all the treatment schedules for everyone in the room.  A CD player is playing elevator music (not my favorite) in the room and there is an adjoining room with a TV to take your mind off of the treatment.

     I am afraid as I enter this new environment with my chin held up to hold myself together.  The nurses already know that I am anxious…they say everyone is their first time.  That helps me…a little.  I find out that I will be getting medication for six straight hours and that makes the fear grow.  They put an ice pack on my port since it is still sore from surgery.  This is to numb the area before they have to stick it. They hook me up using my port.  It only hurts for a second or two, until they add medication and then it stings badly.  I find out that this is not normal…they missed the port and the medicine is pumping into my shoulder.       After the second try all is well and my pre-meds start pumping.  I have three that I have to get as preparation to ward-off side effects before they start.  They make me sleepy so I rest for awhile.  Then they add the big chemical.  They have to watch me closely for 15 minutes to make sure I don’t have an allergic reaction.  I do not…yeah!  This one will take 2 1/2 hours to get in.  After an hour or so I start to have a warm feeling in my hands and feet.  It then travels throughout my body.  It isn’t a problem according to the nurse.  I feel weak and tired, so I rest. My arms feel heavy and I can’t really move a lot. When Bill brings lunch he says I am pale and peaked.  After I eat I am some better and the big medicine is finished.  Next one starts and will take another hour to finish.  Not as many side effects as this one goes in.  I start to feel back to normal as it gets closer to being finished.  Saline solution has to go through to wash everything out. Then I am done.  Only five treatments left to go!

This weekend I have been in conflict with myself.  Sounds crazy I know, but there is part of me that is full of faith about this next phase of my journey.  I am expecting to get better and not to have too many bad effects.  I am glad to move forward, one step closer to normal; one step closer to being finished with all of this, like the light at the end of the tunnel.

The other part of me, the little frightened girl, is scared to death. Chemotherapy is serious business. My nightmare with the IV team last week brought to the surface my medical fears. It was a reminder of all the things I hate and how wrong simple things can go for me. It also reminded me that I have no choices in the matter.  These painful things will be done no matter if I like it or not.  Somehow my scared little girl doesn’t think that is right!  I also have been thinking how sometimes it is the other way around…sometimes as a woman I am scared and the faith of my little child rises up, fearless.  Either way there is hope and faith built into me by my creator.  It comes when I need it most because I have trusted him to pour into me what I need.  He is so faithful to do that. 

God made us so multi-dimensional…very much like himself…in his image.   When Jesus was in the garden he was afraid as he begged the Father to let this cup pass and yet he found the courage to go forward when God’s answer didn’t match what he himself had asked for.  It is a comfort to know that he has faced the fearful unknown before me.  He found strength because he is strength.  He will be my strength and courage as well so that my inner conflict can be resolved and peace can follow.  He will still my head/heart battle and allow me to rest in the presence of this enemy called cancer.  I will overcome by his grace...the blood of the Lamb and the word of my testimony.

The normal everyday things like Friday night football are so comforting somehow.  I don't exactly know why that is unless it is because I realize that life goes on and will go on no matter how I feel.  Getting out in the crowd, even when we loose badly, is fun and so regular.  It is a break from the medical things up ahead that I fear the most.  It gets my mind off of myself and my "condition" long enough to breathe easy and relax.  Our team got killed...or at least was getting killed when I left at half time. (Those concrete seats aren't to good for recovering from abdominal surgery.)  But even in loosing there was life all around.  Kids being kids.  Cheering, talking with friends.  It was good to be out.  I am planning to have a fun weekend before my next phase of treatment begins next week. 

Have you ever felt like a pin cushion?  Yesterday I had to have minor surgery to get a port for my chemo. It was supposed to take 45 minutes or so.  Did I mention I hate having surgery?  For me the IV is one of the worst parts of the whole surgical experience because my veins are bad.  Therefore needles in general and IV needles more specifically, scare me to death.  They have since I was a kid, just ask my mom.  As I have ‘matured’ I have learned not to run from the building screaming like I did when I was younger.  I have mastered the art of looking like I am in total control.  I can talk and laugh through the drawing of blood, as long as I don’t look at the needle.  I can grit my teeth for the stick part and sometimes through the digging if it doesn’t take more than a few seconds.  When my veins blow, roll, or collapse I just laugh and say I am used to it.  I am a great actress. 

But IV needles are different.  They are big.  They hurt longer. I am more afraid of them.  It feels like five minutes each time they slide the needle under the skin.  They try to plunge it into the vein, only the vein moves away. This is easily fixed by moving the needle under the skin to try to catch the offending vein, kind of like hide and seek. Once caught and punctured, the blood goes everywhere but in the waiting tube…but only for a minute until the vein collapses.  Each time the needle goes in I get a hole…usually a pretty big hole because of all the maneuvering to catch the tiny, sneaky, wiggly snake in my arm. 

Once all the arm veins have been tried they move on to the hands.  These veins are even more difficult than the ones in the arm.  They are between knuckles which prove to be a tricky place to stick an IV needle.  At this point the needle goes down a size from a 20 to a 22 to try to make it easier.  It doesn’t. Maybe a 24?  Nope, still nothing.

You haven’t lived until you have been stuck in the wrist with an IV needle.  The logic is that if you can see my veins maybe it will be easier to puncture them.  They appear so much bigger than the previous little hairs in my hands, but to no avail. And maybe if they shoot some Novocain in there first it won’t hurt so badly. No one says that it actually causes the veins to draw up and get smaller.  A few bee stings of Novocain and my veins still won’t give in to the needles that are tormenting them over and over again. 

The needle size drops again to a 26.  I am told that this is what they use on babies.  By now my tears show clearly that I am one. With all the veins in my upper body exhausted my foot becomes the next target.  Did you know there isn’t much tissue between the bones in your feet so your veins are easier to see and don’t have much moving room?  Determined to find its mark, the needle takes a dive into my foot.  I am holding back a loud scream as tears make a puddle on Bill’s shirt.  He says it’s okay to scream…so I do, over and over again.  The needle is finally in. The anesthesiologist, the charge nurse, the 3 lab technicians and my surgery nurse cheer. The nurses at the nurses station in the hall breathe a sigh of relief that they won’t also be called into the room to add another hole to the ten I already have. There is celebration that the 1hour and 45 minute ordeal is over so that they can begin my 45 minute surgery which goes as smooth as silk. They say my fears of needles are irrational.  I disagree.

 

Yesterday was teeth cleaning and of course they found 3 cavities.  The worked me in today for 2 of them so I could get them filled before chemo.  They couldn't get my teeth numb so I had numerous shots trying to make it work.  Finally I am through but my teeth hurt and my gums are sore. 

Tomorrow I have my port put in.  It will be outpatient but I am not looking forward to being put to sleep again.  Pray for my courage as I face this medical phobia I have once again. 

Then on Thursday I go meet with my Chemo doctor and he will give the the clearance for next week.  That all depends on if my incision is healed enough.  If it is small enough he may stitch it up.  Three days of needles and poking....not my idea of a good time!

Birthdays are a celebration of life.  Family and friends gather, send cards, and make phone calls to honor the birth of a loved one. There is cake and there are gifts.  This year for my birthday I had all of these things.  It was a much needed celebration made special by those close to me.  I am a blessed woman.  God has given me gifts in the form of these people that love me and he shows me his love for me through them.  It is wonderful the way God expresses himself to me.  When a nightmare becomes reality it is important to look for God’s hand around you.  As I do, I find that his hand is in the smallest details of my days; old friendships are renewed, families have grown stronger, close friends have helped carry the burden.

 On this birthday I am also grateful for the unexpected gifts he has given me while on my difficult journey.  I have made new friends through the shared pain of disease.  There is an instant bond with others that have walked a similar road…and they are numerous.  I have found the suffering of others many times is hidden away in the deep places of their hearts.  My trauma draws out their pain in the form of compassion and tenderness.  It is beautiful to have a stranger tell his or her story as they commit to pray for me.  I know it is an act born of experience and shared to bring comfort.  In the telling and hearing of the story there is healing for both the teller and the hearer.  Understanding passes between them as the story is told.  With each story, fears surface and are put in perspective by the hope and more importantly faith.  Both of us are strengthened as I walk out my path and somehow give purpose to those that have walked it before me.  I know that someday in the future I will be the storyteller encouraging someone else to hang on and look up.  That is truly a gift worth getting.

Happy Birthday to me, Happy birthday to me...

Happy birthday, happy birthday

Happy birthday to me.   

My freezer is full today thanks to some of my dear friends.  So is my life...thanks to the same dear friends.  It is funny how comparisons go through my mind.  When my freezer is close to empty, there are great people there to come and help me, so it is with my life. 

 My life is in need right now of healthy things...Healthy things that I cannot always provide for myself.  Those healthy things provide nurishment for me and thereby provide nurishment for my family.  I am in need and God meets the need through my friends.  Now I can rest and know that He has provided what my family needs, even though I cannot. He has filled my life with nourishment to use at will when needed.  Funny how a full freezer can mean so much more than a full freezer... 

Today I have felt more normal than I have in a while.  We went to the store and my incision is feeling better.  The nurse came and changed the dressing and there was no pain!!!  She even commented that it is probably better that we got rid of the wound-vac because my anxiety level has dropped enormously...ya think???  The reaction from the tape is better and I napped today on my SIDE not my back!  It is my hope that this continues until chemo starts.  I have some dear friends coming to cook with me tomorrow to put up food in the freezer.  That will allow the kids to cook more and depending on my reaction to chemo it will keep me from having to do alot of cooking.  We will be filling my freezer...yeah!  Normal is a really great feeling.

I am constantly amazed at the faithfulness of God.  In this journey he has already shown his faithfulness more times than I can count.  I was reading through some of my old writings today and I came across one that talks about God's faithfulness to us...it is utterly consistant no matter what.  I originally wrote this in response to 9/11 but as I read it today I see how it applies to my current journey.  It is called 16 a Minute.

There’s just something about watching children play in the ocean.  That sense of awe and wonder all while having the time of their lives.  They are curious about what’s under the water.  They are thrilled riding on the water.  They love to dig in the sand.  It is amazing to watch them with their laughter and sense of discovery.  It’s like an adventure.  And in all that they do they seem unaware that the waves keep beating on the shore…consistently, faithfully with a steady rhythm.

 Did you know that if you time the waves there are sixteen a minute?  During storms waves are big but there are still sixteen a minute.  When it is calm there are sixteen a minute.  I have timed them as I write this and there are sixteen a minute.  That is an amazing testimony of God’s faithfulness.  It is unbelievable and yet inspiring.  I think that is why the sound of the waves is so appealing to so many people.  We are drawn to the fact that it will always be there.  You can count on the sound of the waves…no matter what.

We are like the children.  We are going through life and it’s an adventure.  We play in God’s faithfulness and never really give it a thought.  It is a given, it is expected and deep down we know it will always be there.  Sometimes we build a great sandcastle or ride a great wave and we forget that it’s not about us.  Then the unthinkable happens in our lives.  Something we can’t possibly understand and we clamor looking for hope and explanations.  Sandcastles and riding waves are no longer our focus.  Suddenly we are looking for something stable and reassuring.  If we could just remember that all creation testifies…there were sixteen waves a minute the day the unthinkable happened.  There are sixteen waves a minute now.  There will be sixteen waves a minute tomorrow.  Sound familiar?  I am the same yesterday, today and forever.  I am the great I am.