First I have a praise…or two.  My incision is healed enough to not be too much of a bother.  I can dress as usual with no packing, machines, or tape.  That is big progress that I am very excited about.  My second exciting news is that my job is going to work closely with me so I can work as I feel like it.  This is a major thing that could’ve been a problem as I didn’t have 120 days sick leave saved.  I will be able to work in the office on days I feel good and not have to on other days.  The people I work with are fabulous…you know who you are!  They are so willing to help me out in this way and it is a relief to me to know that I will not have to go without pay because of not working.

 

Now on to other things…9/11  How can we look back on a day like today and not feel the shock all over again.  Something I wrote that week 5 years ago struck me as appropriate today…

 

              Steady

 

     God spoke to my heart, “I am calling to you…let me be your life.  I am near to the brokenhearted that includes, fearful, grieving and angry hearts.  I know every tear, every pain.  Come to me…come to me…breathe…in, out…in out.  I am as close as your breath.”

     There isn’t a word that describes this feeling.  Have you noticed now one can come up with the right word?  Multitudes of words are required.  Writers and singers, not one person has come up with the one word to describe our feelings this day.  Horror, disbelief, shock, anger, fear all of these are our feelings but not one of them stands alone as “the word.”  The closet word I can come up with is ‘violated.’

     Violate-to break, infringe or transgress; to break in upon or disturb rudely; to interfere thoughtlessly with; to break through by force or without right; to rape to treat irreverently or disrespectfully desecrate; profane; to treat with violence.

     Our country has been violated in the worse sense of the word.  An unknown, invisible stranger has forced himself upon us out of no where for no reason.  He violently forced his will upon us- and in the process took what was precious and valuable to us, all the while receiving sick pleasure form our suffering.  We wonder can we ever recover or are we to always replay the event in our minds?  Can we really not fear after what has happened? 

     Our innocence is gone and just like generations before us that saw the horrors of evil in men, so we too must face it.  But we will never be the same.  We will always remember what it feels to be violated.  A new seriousness and soberness has settled on this country in the few days most recently.  A “resolve” as the president calls it.  I think it is also a humbling.  We are not invincible after all.  We are vulnerable just like every other country in the world.  In many ways our country has been like a spoiled child expecting that everything revolves around us.  We’ve been put in our place to some degree.  I believe God is weeping for us to come to him for comfort and peace.  I know, personally, he can use the deep pain of suffering to draw us closer to him.  We have an opportunity to feel what he feels now, more than ever.  When souls are lost he weeps…when they are found he rejoices.  We have witnessed both this week…weeping and cheering.  We are made in his image after all.  The challenge this day is, spiritually, do we know him…I mean really know him or are we just playing games?

     Can worship ever be as sweet as when you have come through a huge crisis?  I don't know of a time that the closeness of God is as precious as it is now that I am being held so closely in his arms.  I can almost feel His breath on my cheek as I sing to Him.  It doesn't matter if it is in church or in my private songs with him, he is near and he is good. 

My time at church today was especially meaningful as we sang about how holds us up against our enemy.  That is the truth and singing it through tears of joy that I have made it this far inspired me.  I have not been left...not that I thought that I had...but it is ringing true this day.  I am not forgotten.  I am feeling almost normal today, except for being a little more tired than usual. 

To stand, and sing with my voice and my arms lifted high to his throne has got to be a taste of heaven on Earth.  I am so grateful that he has allowed freedom in worship.  If I close my eyes and just focus on the words as my prayer to him...nothing else...not cancer...not work...not even children...just focus on Him, it is as if the heavens open and I can feel him surround me.  I dare not open my eyes and spoil the moment...to be transported in my heart to the feet of the one who has saved me, it is not something that I can describe with words.  It is more real than words.  It is more real than cancer.  It is more real than the room I am standing in.  I wish everyone could feel this kind of love.  The pains of life dull in comparision. 

Today was a better day.  I was still sore and my bones ache but not as bad.  I got some good sleep last night so I had enough energy to go to the Gunnin reunion, then to Gainesville with the boys to get haircuts and out to dinner at Red Lobster.  Dinner tasted good so that is progress.  I am not completely great but there is hope that I will be getting better each day now instead of worse.  I went to the park and walked 4 laps so exercise is coming back slowly to help me recover and flush out toxins.  All in all a better day.

I now know what they mean when they say I will feel like I have been hit by a truck.  Yesterday things were pretty okay but in the night last night I started to hurt, in my bones.  I couldn't get comfortable because it felt like my bones were breaking.  Yucky doesn't begin to describe it.  This morning I got up and took medicine and went back to bed.  I was able to sleep some but found later that moving actually feels better than sitting still.  We just kind of hung around the house for most of the day.  Then Peter had a haircut and I went along just to get out.  It helped.  We had dinner, out of the freezer...thanks ladies... and went to Peter's soccer practice.  Getting out seems to distract me from the pain and make it more manageable.  We went for a short walk on the nature trail around the school, across from the soccer field.  That should help me to sleep well tonight...I hope.  I am feeling some better after being active but still slowly moving...because it still hurts.  I am hoping that today is the worst...just like I wished it yesterday. 

Today I feel like I am waiting for the shoe to drop.  I have pain in my joints but then it goes away.  I keep thinking it is supposed to be worse than this and while I don't feel great I don't feel terrible.  I am tired so I have napped.  I ache some so I take extra strength tylenol.  I have acid reflux instead of nausea so I take pepcid.  So far, even though I don't feel normal, the side effects are manageable.  I feel much better this evening than I did this morning but I know I could still have more tomorrow. 

I am trying to rest in the love of God and know that all of you are praying that this will be as painless as possible for me.  I am hanging on to that and hoping that what I have felt so far is the worst it will get. Trying to believe the best while waiting for the worst...sounds like doubt I know but it is where I am right now, knowing that God knows me and is building me up in the midst of this hard thing.  He is so good to me...and so are all of you! 

Infusion is an interesting word.  Webster’s says to infuse means ‘to cause to be permeated with something that alters for the better; to steep; to introduce one thing into another so as to affect it throughout; a pouring in of something that gives new life or significance; introduction of a quality that fills and permeated the whole being.’

  The reason I think this is worth looking at is because of my experience with chemotherapy infusion yesterday.  Chemo doesn’t exactly have a positive connotation to it.  If we are honest, when we hear the word chemotherapy we have the opposite reaction.  It is a negative thing and something to pity for anyone having to go through it.  Having started my treatment, I would agree it isn’t exactly something I look forward to doing again in three weeks.  But the word infusion on the door caught my eye yesterday and from there it worked its way into my mind.  First of all, because I know the word has a positive meaning, but second of all because of what that meaning is.  To permeate…that is serious mixing; mixing something good until it changes your whole being.   It is on a deep level this kind of life altering pouring in.  Of course, in my situation this causes me to view my treatments in a more positive light.  This is going to change my whole being.  My cancer will be gone and my life will have new significance.  Life changing.  Life giving. 

Now you know that I wouldn’t touch this word if I didn’t see a spiritual lesson in it.  I’m sure you can see it too.  When the Lord is infused into our lives it changes our whole being.  It is life changing and life giving.  It is deep mixing of his love into us and it will affect us throughout every area of life.  It changes the way we look at things around us and gives us new ways to think about things like chemotherapy.

I had a dream…more like a thought in between my waking and sleeping.  I saw the Holy Spirit pouring into my veins.  The fire of God was in my arms and legs, flowing throughout my body. He was infusing my blood with life.  He was searching out the darkness of my enemy, cancer, and burning it out of me.  It was an awesome power that had nothing to do with me but everything to do with his nature.  I woke with a new hope. 

Sitting in my chair at the “Infusion suite” yesterday I had a burning sensation when the chemicals went into my blood.  It did not feel good but the picture in my mind came to me fresh and I prayed that the Holy Spirit would burn up the bad cells and infuse me with his life.  It brought his hope into the darkness of the moment.  It gave me reason to hold on and get through the tough parts.  Today I feel okay…not great…but not terrible.  They say tomorrow most likely will be the worst day but I say I have hope.  I can do this.  I can get through it because I have been infused by the fire of the Holy Spirit!

     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.