Part Twelve: Full Speed Ahead

Part Twelve:  Full Speed Ahead

            Waiting, with Holy Spirit peace surrounding and filling the time, is more serene than anxious.  For two months I have been waiting for the next doctor’s appointment, the next test, the next set of results.  Suddenly time gets ramped up:  I’m at the starting gate, and I’m not ready.  Chemo begins today.

            My port hurts.  Rather, the port site hurts.  It is closer to my neck than I had imagined.  When I move my neck, turn my head, or even chew, stabbing pain results.  Last night I blocked myself into bed with pillows.  The port is on the right, so I slept on my left—fortunately, that is my preferred sleeping position.  Memory foam pillow under my head, body pillow tucked between my knees, bed pillow elevating my right arm those few inches above my side to minimize the port pain. 

            It was Monday that I saw Dr. Moussa, my medical oncologist, who first explained the chemo schedule to me.  It is an intense schedule, different from what I expected, and the reason for it is that clinical studies have shown it yields the best final result.  The first four infusions (which start today) will be given in two-week intervals through the BARD power port installed yesterday:  anti-nausea meds and immune system support followed by the three-hour drip.  That takes me to August 10.  From thence we go to a weekly schedule of a different drug cocktail for another twelve infusions.  Looks like I’ll be done with chemo, the first leg of this cancer journey, before Thanksgiving.

            I am most afraid of nausea and vomiting.  Besides the medication given through my port, I have two prescriptions to use on an as-needed basis.  Oh, how I hope I will not need them.  I wonder if the fatigue will feel different than the fibro fatigue I am so used to and if the chemo brain will surpass the fibro fog.  One thing is certain:  hair loss occurs around day 21 of treatment. 

            Dana tells me that before every chemo treatment, she plans to pray with me.  I’m glad because I will likely forget.  We will be praying that the medications do their job of attacking and killing the cancer cells with as few side effects as possible. 

            Admittedly, I’ve allowed fear some entrance this week.  The road ahead seems long and impossibly hard.  But when I shift my focus to the One who loves me beyond my comprehension, peace returns.   Paul, in Galatians 6, reminds me that I am not alone in this journey:

Be prepared. You’re up against far more than you can handle on your own.  Take all the help you can get, every weapon God has issued, so that when it’s all over but the shouting you’ll still be on your feet.  Truth, righteousness, peace, faith, and salvation are more than words.  Learn how to apply them.  

Part Eleven: Context is Everything

            It was like living in a construction zone.  Or maybe it was a sword fight using steel pipes.  Besides the jangling of my nerves, my lower back hurt.  My shoulders hurt.  My legs hurt.  New pockets of pain appeared as the clanging and banging continued for a solid hour.  Next time I am going to take pain meds before submitting to an MRI.

            Holly was great company on the way to and from my appointment.  Especially on the drive back, I was grateful to be passenger instead of driver.  I was both rattled and exhausted from the hour on my back in the machine.

            Yet, I am so thankful for modern technology.  Here it is not quite 2 pm, and I have the radiologist’s report from my 9 am MRI.  If my back didn’t hurt so much despite the pain pill I swallowed once I got home, I would jump for joy.  No evidence of metastatic disease! 

            Alternating between the radiology report and Google definitions of terms, I inch my way through medical terminology.  It is clear to see that my back has arthritis issues with the biggest problems at T9-T10, though the rest of the thoracic spine is not in great shape, either.  So fibromyalgia is not the lone culprit of my pain.  Makes sense to me. 

            Funny how context shapes my reaction to results.  Finding out that my discs are degenerating and at least one is bulging is fantastic news.  I’ll take back pain over cancer spreading any day.  

Part Ten: The Time Between

            As I take a break from sorting through more of my mother’s files—and she kept everything—I have to laugh.  The file I just browsed through was labeled “Home Decoration,” and it was vintage Mom:  a collection of old greeting card fronts and cardboard calendar backs.  Yesterday I read through her Christmas letters from 1953 to 2006, keeping a copy of each one but tossing innumerable cards and letters from people I know and people I don’t.  I’ve looked through scraps of paper with grocery lists, phone numbers, home budgeting notes, and to-do lists; Medicare claims, doctor’s office visits, and hospital discharge instructions; bank statements, property information, trip expense ledgers, and receipts; yellowed newspaper clippings, old business cards, and 1970s articles on building dome and earth contact homes. And all that is from the first two of four drawers.

            Thus, the past few days I have been living in a type of time between past and present as I consider what the future may hold for me.  It has been a week since my bone scan and CT scan.  I have rested, reflected, and read, counting it a good sign that I was able to get lost in an absorbing historical novel instead of googling “triple negative breast cancer.”  I’ve spent time with friends, time with my grandchildren, time with my daughter and son-in-law, and time with my son.  (In fact, last night I actually won a Scrabble game played with my son.  The turning point was the word “snooze” placed on a triple word score.)  And thanks to the generous efforts of friends, I sit tonight in a clean house surrounded by a freshly mowed yard.

            In this in-between time, I’ve also had the plumber out to fix the stopped-up kitchen sink and slow flowing bathroom sinks.  That was Friday, just hours before my car decided it was not going to move in reverse any more.  That day’s happy surprise was a prayer quilt made by a dear friend.  Over the weekend, the cancellation of my Whidbey Island vacation plans for July was finalized.  On Monday, the Ford place fixed the transmission, covered by both recall and warranty, at no cost to me.

            Tomorrow morning my daughter takes me to my second MRI of the month—this time to check the T11 vertebra that lit up on last week’s bone scan.  Next week Dana will take me to my appointment with my medical oncologist on Monday afternoon and to my Tuesday morning port placement. 

            I am still in the easy, early days of this breast cancer journey, though the time since I discovered the lump—two months ago yesterday—seems like an eternity.  Sometimes I wish so much that I could call my mother and my sister to tell them all about what is happening, but neither one left me a phone line to heaven.  Mostly, I am amazed by the love showering down on me from family and friends.  And always, I am grateful for Jesus. Without him, I would be lost in more ways than one. 

            

Part Nine: Up and Down

            See Your Chart proves to be both bane and blessing.  It is the website on which I can access my medical records from Oklahoma Cancer Specialists and Research Institute (OCSRI, formerly the Tulsa Cancer Institute).  Having the actual reports—labs, pathology, imaging—with their detailed medical lingo is great for an information-seeker such as I.  Truth be told, I like deciphering the reports before hearing the simplified explanation from my doctors. Still, both ways of learning more about my cancer situation lead to ups and downs.

            Gosh, I’m sounding very detached and clinical here.  After yesterday’s bone scan at OCSRI and appointment with Dr. Smith at Breast Surgery of Tulsa, I have been emotionally and physically wiped out.  There was, however, the wonderful reminder and reprieve last night as I read and pondered Psalm 46:1

                        God is our refuge and strength,

                                    an ever-present help in trouble.

And there were also some hours of total exhaustion mixed in with plenty of dread.  Toss in some fine food and fellowship with Mona during yesterday’s hours between appointments in Tulsa, followed by the comforting company of my daughter from 6 to 10:30 am this morning, and you get an idea of how I’m spending my summer vacation.

            I’ve never had anything more than X-rays, mammograms, and ultrasounds, so three scans in one week has been a brand-new experience.  Naturally, every single one required an IV for some sort of contrast solution.  I had a good laugh with the bone scan technician when he asked me the required question: “Is there any chance you could be pregnant, or are you breastfeeding?”  Today, I almost panicked when the CT tech told me I had to drink two big Styrofoam cups of barium solution.  Fortunately, it was not the chalky white stuff about which I’ve heard horror stories.  Instead, it looked like and tasted like slightly dirty water.  But let’s get to the all-important results of the scans.

            Last week’s breast MRI showed the tumor, which is still less than 2 centimeters, but it has a worrisome little spike extending down close to the chest muscle.  The MRI also showed several suspicious lymph nodes.  Yesterday’s whole body bone scan revealed one concerning spot on T11, which may or may not be cancer.  (Thus, I will have a lumbar MRI next week.)  The bone scan also confirmed my theory that I have osteoarthritis—left wrist and both shoulders.  Today’s CT chest scan with contrast shows no sign of metastasis in abdomen or pelvis—hallelujah!  (Incidentally, the report did not include the exclamation “hallelujah!”  But isn’t it amazing that I can access the scan report the same day?)  The scan did show moderate degenerative disc disease at L3-L4, which explains some of the back pain and leg pain I’ve been wondering about lately.

            Summarizing the results here makes me realize that I’ve had good news as well as bad news.  Of course, there is more news to follow next week with the MRI, and even more news to follow within the month from genetic testing.  What does all of this add up to so far?  Chemotherapy first (hopefully to start soon, but I still need the appointment to have the port installed as well as a chemotherapy consultation with Dr. Moussa), followed by breast surgery, and then radiation therapy.  It is going to be a long haul.  I hope that by next summer I will be ready for a relaxing trip to Whidbey Island.

            

Part Eight: Neither Warrior Nor Worrier

            I do not understand why most everyone calls cancer a battle.  I get the idea that I am supposed to pit my will, spend my energy, and struggle on in a fight to win.  Frankly, all of that war talk simply exhausts me.

            Perhaps later in the journey I will feel like I am throwing every punch I can against the enemy, but for now, I’m not.  The idea of constant striving completely contradicts my current experience of a deep, joyful peace.

            The only explanation I have for serenity in the midst of a frightening disease is Jesus.  By nature, I am a worrier, not a warrior.  So worry should be dominating my thoughts and feelings.  Except that it isn’t.  Yes, I have moments of fear, but they always evaporate in the reality of God’s love. 

            I’ll admit that having cancer is no picnic.  Usually after appointments I am worn out.  I need a nap and quiet to restore both physical and emotional energy.  Eventually, I turn to blogging to record not just the day’s experience but also God’s faithfulness.  Every day He lifts my heart in worship and thanksgiving. 

            So why should I rage against cancer when there is no need to?  My Savior is waging the battle for me.  I am just following His reminders to worship, to relax, to receive, to rejoice.  There is enough to do with keeping appointments, improving my diet, and chronicling my journey.  I am savoring time with my family and friends, so thankful for all the blessings showering down on my life.  

Part Seven: Back and Forth

            So grateful to have friends who are early risers (unlike me), I meet Mona in the Food Pyramid parking lot at 7:30 a.m.  Today is my first appointment with medical oncologist Dr. Ali Moussa at the Oklahoma Cancer Specialists and Research Institute (OCSRI).  

            As we walk into the building, my first impression is that we have arrived at a festive airplane terminal check-in because of the bright yellow counter with the hanging “check-in” signs.  There is no chance to have to wonder for a second where to go.  At the check-in desk I receive my identifying bracelet and am directed to new patient registration.  I hand over the stack of paperwork I completed at home and my credit card.  In return, I receive the privacy statement and my stack of paperwork on a clipboard followed by my credit card and receipt. 

            I sit down in the front desk waiting area with Mona, and not two minutes later am summoned to a glassed-in office where I admire the lovely framed set of ribbon flowers on the wall and talk with the woman behind the desk.  (Too bad I’ve forgotten everyone’s names from today.)  She tells me it was a project she and her then-four-year-old granddaughter did together using all the different color ribbons representing different cancers.  After scanning my insurance card and driver’s license, she takes my picture and escorts Mona and me to the elevators and on up to the second floor where we wait in a bright, open area decorated in cheerful greens and pastel yellows.  The chairs are all cushioned and the curved couches look comfy, too.

            I am surprised when a medical assistant comes up to shake my hand and introduce herself, saying, “Glad to meet you, Janis.”  It takes a minute to realize that she has found me by my picture.  I get weighed—and I will spare you the details of those digital numbers—and we head on back to an exam room where she enters some information into the computer, checks my temperature, and takes my blood pressure.  She and the student who is shadowing her today leave, but within moments she is back, handing me a bright pink Rustic Cuff jewelry bag and a greeting card.  I pull out the pretty pink bracelet as she explains that 100 of them were donated to OCSRI for new breast cancer patients.  Wow.

            When Dr. Moussa comes in, he shakes hands with Mona and me and then settles down in front of the computer and my paperwork, asking me various questions about my health.  He talks over the biopsy report, explaining it shows a stage 1A cancer—over which I am very happy—looks at the sonogram and checks to see if the MRI results are available yet.  They are not.  He does a quick exam, and while he is waiting the few minutes for Dr. Smith to return his call for a brief phone consultation, he records my medical information on a digital recorder, referring to me three separate times as a “pleasant woman.”  He stops the recorder and smiles at me, saying, “That was the third time!”  I decide that means I am “triple pleasant,” a nice counter-note to having triple negative cancer.  He goes over what will come next: a blood draw today for a complete blood count and a breast cancer inflammatory marker.  Next week I will have a bone scan, a CT scan, and a PET scan.  Based on the information he has this morning, he says that surgery first followed by chemotherapy looks like the route to take after all. 

            Another medical assistant comes in after Dr. Moussa leaves and answers any questions I have, then escorts us back downstairs where I am to have the blood draw and stop at the scheduling desk for next week’s scans and a July 1 follow-up appointment.  The PET scan is not on the orders, so I figure that will come a little later.

            As Mona and I start the drive back to Bartlesville, she suggests stopping at Sprouts in Owasso.  What a great idea!  I love grocery shopping there.  While I am making decisions in the organic produce section, my phone rings.  It is an apologetic Angie from Dr. Smith’s office.  Evidently, the MRI results arrived after my appointment, and Dr. Smith has already consulted with Dr. Moussa via phone.  The MRI shows some lymph gland involvement.  My heart drops as I process this unwelcome news.  Good-bye, stage 1A.  Dr. Moussa’s office will be in touch with me:  the lymph gland involvement means we are back to the chemo first, surgery later scenario. 

            Mona is a good listener.  As we drive home, I talk and talk and talk, some of it serious, some of it silly.  The talking helps drain off my tension concerning the change in treatment plans.  Back at Food Pyramid parking lot, she helps me load my groceries into the car, and I thank her for the ride and company.  I hope I remembered to thank her again for the homemade essential oil products she gave me:  peppermint foot soak and lavender-lemongrass brown sugar body scrub.

            Back and forth, back and forth.  If nothing else, this breast cancer journey is going to teach me flexibility.  I am grateful that even though plans and schedules change moment by moment, I can rest in God’s care. 

            

Part Six: Post-Haste

            Waiting since Monday for the phone call that finally came Wednesday, I thought that Thursday would be relaxation day before Friday’s appointment with the medical oncologist. How wrong I can be!

            I could have gotten up at six a.m. but opted for a couple more hours of sleep.  Only after gazing at the clock, which read 8:38 a.m., did I remember it was only an hour till I was to babysit ten-month-old Josiah.  That spurred me on to shower before breakfast.  Just after 9 a.m. I checked my cellphone.  Three unexpected calls already.  After a flurry of return calls, I learned at 9:20 a.m. that I needed to be in Tulsa at Hillcrest Medical Center at 10:30 a.m. for an MRI.  Aagh! 

            My personal policy for this breast cancer business is to always have a driver because 1) I am a nervous driver in city traffic, 2) driving while distraught is never a good idea, and 3) another set of ears to take in medical information is always a good idea.  So when my daughter did not answer her phone, I called her husband.  “Shawn,” I said, “I need to be at Hillcrest at 10:30 for a mammogram.”  There went their breakfast date.  Shucks.  I’ve wanted to give them Thursday morning dates this summer, and already I’m cancelling the first one.

            Dana and Josiah and I were on the road by 9:45.   Shawn needed to stay home to finish up the last bit of bathroom demolition (they are putting in a new tub due to black mold behind the tiles) and to greet Benjamin when the bus dropped him off from summer school at 11:45.  We figured we would be back well before Joelle’s 2:45 pick up from Good Shepherd’s Child Development Center.  (She goes one day a week.)

            I learned this morning that my daughter is very capable of driving over the speed limit when necessary.  By 10:40 a.m. I was at Hillcrest’s registration desk.

            This was the first MRI I have ever had, so I was a little anxious.  The technician was wonderful, and the thirty minutes in the tube were not bad.  I could even hear the classic hymn selection that I requested coming through the headphones whenever there was a break in the clinging and clanging of the machine.  Naturally, there was a surprise blow-out of my vein in the first IV attempt before the MRI began.  (Only after it happened did I remember that my lovely protruding vein in my left hand has a history of blow-outs.)  Fortunately, the right hand was cooperative. 

            Afterward, Dana and I ate at Panera’s, which is conveniently located near the hospital, while Josiah enjoyed chewing on the highchair buckle more than eating his own food.    And then we drove home at a slower pace (I think) than on the way in.

            So tomorrow morning I will be on the road again, this time with friend Mona, for my first appointment with the medical oncologist.  Highway 75, here we come, but not post-haste at eighty like this morning.

            

Part Five: June 6

Psalm Reading

            It’s been probably eight years since I read through the Psalms.  And, if the truth be told, that probably is a good sign.

            You see, there have been a few times in my life in which I could not relate to any Scriptures except for the desperate cries and heartfelt pleas of the Psalms.  I was too shell-shocked and broken to relate to joyful praise.  I came to Psalms out of pure desperation and utter loneliness.

            On May 6, I started reading at Psalm 1 with a different set of eyes.  God has been so loving and gracious to me that joy bubbles up in my spirit as from a deep spring.  With more testimonies than ever before of God’s goodness, I am looking forward to all 150 psalms that express the gamut of human emotion and God-inspired devotion.

            It is June 6 when I come back to the above month-old writing.  That God-sourced joy continues to be my wellspring.  And I’ve learned a few things about “the peace that passes understanding” as well.  When Jesus said he would give us peace, he meant it.  I cannot manufacture such calm myself.  Yet, I’ve learned that I must do my part.  When fear tries to return, I turn to the psalms.  There is something calming about reading God’s Word out loud—it pushes panic away.  I am reminded that I am safe and secure in my Savior’s love.  No matter the outcome of this breast cancer, all will be well because of Jesus.

            Today I read Psalm 36.  There has been no plan, no certain number of chapters to cover; in fact, I thought I would be further along than I am now.  I know that I am still in the good, easy days before surgery scheduling and treatment plans.  Sometimes fear lurks in darkness, but worship restores the Sonlight all around.  Verse five is exactly what I need today: Your love, O Lord, reaches to the heavens, your faithfulness to the skies. The God of the Bible is the One I can trust. 

            The very second I finish writing the previous sentence, the phone rings.  The remaining biopsy results are in, and they are bad news:  triple negative breast cancer.  Yes, I am scared, but the God of the Bible is the One I can trust!

Fear Factor

            I email “Psalm Reading” in for my bi-weekly column in the church newsletter, sit back in my office chair, and shudder as the news sinks in.  I walk into the dining room and deep, heavy sobs shake me.  Five p.m. is just about the time my daughter’s family sits down to supper, but I call anyway, voice broken: “Shawn, please send Dana over.” 

Not two minutes later, Dana walks in through the front door.  I am sitting on the couch, sobbing out my fear and grief.  It is the first time I have wept in sorrow over the cancer. “There is no shame to crying,” I reassure myself in my mind.  I need the release.  I explain what I just found out, and my dear daughter hugs me to her shoulder as the storm passes.

            Dana has more questions than I have answers, but I explain what I know.  No mincing of words here.  I have triple negative cancer, which is the most aggressive grade of breast cancer.  Dr. Smith is referring me to a medical oncologist at Oklahoma Cancer Research Specialists Institute (OCRSI).  The likely course of treatment is chemotherapy first, then surgery.  I’ll get a phone call, probably tomorrow, setting up an appointment with Dr. Moussa.  My June 13^th appointment with Dr. Smith still stands.  Saint Francis Hospital is still working on insurance pre-approval for my MRI.

            I have been hoping for another week before the really hard stuff starts.  This morning was easy:  friend Callie took me to Tulsa for the blood draw for genetic testing.  It ain’t gonna be so easy from now on.  Dana and I talk for a while.  She asks if I want to eat supper with them, and I say no.  I need some more quiet time to process the news.  Instead, I accept her offer to come to their church’s Monday night prayer service.  She prays for me, and I send her on home.

            A few emails follow.  I find the OCRSI website.  I go to my medical insurance page but cannot find OCRSI.  Fortunately, I find Dr. Moussa on the list of network providers.  I click the link for details about him and practically melt with gratitude toward God when I see his sterling credentials.

            I am terrified, though.

Healing Prayer

            Even though organ music and traditional hymns are more my thing, I have learned to appreciate the contemporary music at New Expressions.  Of course, I also love hearing my daughter sing and play guitar. I hope to hold my ten-month-old grandson close to my heart.  He usually is quite the cuddle bug, but not tonight, so I take him back to the nursery to join his siblings.  My son-in-law, who normally leads the service, is back there taking care of the kids until help arrives.

            I am going to sit back and let the music flow over me.  After a short time, Ralph and Beverly, leaders in another small non-denominational church, stop in to share thanks with the little group for their participation in last night’s special service.  They are not staying for the whole evening since Beverly is coming down with a cold, but Ralph asks the group to pray for her, so they do.  Then I see Dana go up to Ralph and say something.  Sure enough, she has asked him to pray for me.

            I go stand next to Dana and the whole group gathers around me.  Ralph prays.  Beverly prays.  Just about everyone in the group takes a turn.  I am surrounded with love and healing prayer.  But most of all, I feel God’s holy presence filling me afresh with peace and joy.  The heaviness of fear evaporates.  I weep quietly, this time in response to God’s unconditional, freeing love.  I know I am safe in God’s hands.

Part Four: Not What I Imagined

            I had everything planned out in my mind.  On Friday morning I would have pen and paper handy on my dining room table so that when I called in to the clinic for the biopsy results, I’d be ready to take notes. 

            Thus, it was a shock when at 3:30 Thursday afternoon, on a tub and shower shopping expedition with Dana, Shawn, and children, my cell phone rang just as we entered the store.  The phone number looked vaguely familiar, so I answered.  It was the clinic with the pathology report.  I was unprepared.

            The news, however, was what I expected:  invasive ductal carcinoma, but possibly as early as Stage I.  Next step is an MRI at St. Francis Hospital in Tulsa.  And I need to make a quick decision about whether or not to have the genetic testing for BRCA 1 and BRCA 2.  My family history is strong: two or three paternal aunts and one half-sister whom I never met died from breast cancer.  My own sister died from ovarian cancer.

            Had I ever imagined I would have breast cancer?  Not until I found the lump on April 20.  I remember saying to the Lord that night, “I don’t want this,” but I was calm.  There have been plenty of other things I have not wanted in my life, but He has seen me through every single one of them.  Breast cancer certainly was never on my agenda, but now that it is, I want to keep leaning in to God’s love and God’s peace.  I’m finding that He is sufficient, even more than I ever imagined.

            

Part Three: Perks

            Pink is my favorite color, so I feel right at home in the waiting room of Breast Surgery of Tulsa.  It is the very nicest waiting room I have ever been in: cozy, comfortable chairs and sofas, artwork adorning the walls, and little framed family pictures on the wall ledge.  Dana has driven me here for my biopsy.

            I am nervous.  First thing this morning (June 1), I realized that instead of me driving there and Dana back, I preferred to be chauffeured both ways.  We arrive almost a half hour early, and I hand over the films and new patient forms at the front desk.  As we wait, Dana asks if I want her to come to the exam room with me, and I defer.  (As you may have noticed, I’m on a roll with rhyming.) 

            Finally, it’s my turn.  One of the medical assistants escorts me back to a large examination room, decorated—you guessed it!—in pale pink.  Three lovely flower paintings hang above a vintage cushioned love seat and matching chair. 

            The assistant does her thing, she leaves, and I undress to my waist.  The blue paper cape easily slides over my head.  It has two snaps in front for the unveiling that follows.  Dr. Smith is the perfect blend of professionalism and kindness.  She does a breast exam, checks the lump and lymph nodes in my armpit with the ultrasound device (all clear on the lymph nodes), and then readies me for the biopsy.  I mention that it is difficult to hold my right arm over my head due to an old shoulder dislocation, so she suggests draping it over my forehead, which is the perfect solution.  As she injects the local anesthetic, the nurse gently pats and squeezes my left hand, which is both comforting and distracting, taking my attention away from the little sting of the needle.  Doctor explains that I will hear a pop each time the core needle takes its tiny sample of tissue.  The sound reminds me of a cork gun.  I don’t feel a thing.

            Several steri-strips, gauze, tape, and absorbent padding later, I’m ready to go.  The nurse has carefully explained the aftercare and given me a printed instruction sheet.  At check-out, my next appointment has already been made for June 13, but I will not have to wait that long for the biopsy results:  those will be given me over the phone on Friday, just two days from now.

            There have been more than a few perks to today’s dreaded appointment:  the lovely pink waiting room and wonderful staff, the news that I can resume taking my Celebrex tomorrow, time spent with my daughter, lunch at Panera’s.  Also, I had wondered if I would descend into worry after the biopsy, but that is not the case.  Naturally, the lump is a steady presence in my mind (especially once the local anesthetic wore off) but God’s love is greater.

           

            

Part Two: A Memorable Memorial Day Weekend

Day By Day

            May 26 bedtime:  I decide to read a few Psalms aloud, followed by various verses that come to mind.  It is a powerful experience.  The words from the last piece of the Messiah come to mind: “Blessing and honor, power, and glory be unto Him . . .”  As I get ready for bed, I stop to find the album on my Kindle and hit play on the last song.  The music starts, sweeping up my soul in worship of the King.  Thank you, Jesus.

            May 27 at Bailey Medical Center:  Such a lovely waiting room!  The multi-shaded brown tiles and the soft sounds of a fountain create a peaceful atmosphere.  I leave my daughter there when I am called back to radiology for my appointment.  The mammogram technician is both friendly and professional.  She clearly knows her stuff.

            Diagnostic mammograms are quite different than the usual screening mammograms:  more pictures, more angles, harder squeezes, and impossible positions.  She patiently guides me through each step to get into the proper position.    

            “Stand up straight,” she says as she bends me forward at the waist and expertly scoops my breast over and onto the paddle.  “Relax your shoulder,” she reminds me as she guides my arm to bend up and over to grab the bar on the far side of the platform.  “Now, stay relaxed,” she repeats as she instructs me to turn my head as far as I can to the right, which makes the face guard cut into my cheek.  My neck and shoulder muscles are straining to hold the position as she operates the machine to tightly squeeze my breast.  “Keep that arm relaxed. Stay perfectly still.  Don’t breathe,” she says as she steps behind the barrier to take the picture.

            I think she takes about sixteen pictures.  All of them put intense pressure on the lump that brought me here, which is a little tender anyway.  The prize at the end is a warmed blanket wrapped around my shoulders.  Ahhhh.

            Before I am ready to give up my warm blanket, the ultrasound tech is ready for me.  Lying on my back with arm over my head, even though this is the arm that does not particularly like to go over my head since the shoulder dislocation a dozen years ago, is positively relaxing.  Just moments later, the pictures are taken, I’m calling my daughter to come back for the report, and the radiologist appears long before she can.

            I appreciate straightforwardness, and this radiologist is a master at it.  I do not quote him exactly, but here is the gist of it. “You have a cancerous mass in your right breast.  You need to schedule a biopsy with your physician as soon as possible.”  I sit quietly absorbing the impact of his words and ask a couple questions.  He leaves, I go get dressed, and my daughter arrives.  Stepping out from the curtained changing area, I say to her, “It’s cancer,” all the while feeling so bad for her because she was not expecting this.  I was, to a certain degree.

            I’m glad Dana is with me.  Even though this news is not entirely new to me after the many hours I spent googling “fixed hard lump in breast,” I’m too stunned and shaky to be driving, even though I am also calm and confident.  It is an interesting combination. 

            Once I’m home, it takes three hours of phone calls made and received to notify a few friends and arrange for a biopsy.  Because my primary care physician’s office is closed for Memorial Day weekend, I decide to call my breast surgeon of choice and make the appointment directly with her office.  Hopefully, my doctor will call to make the official referral on Tuesday.  My biopsy is scheduled for Wednesday, June 1.

            Later that evening, after hanging out with my daughter’s family, I come home.  It’s been quite a day.

May 28:  Friend Joan rides with me to pick up the radiology films at the hospital.  The beautiful 45-minute drive on a sunny day followed by lunch at a favorite restaurant is not even dimmed by the fact that we are picking up the mammogram and the sonogram at the hospital emergency room, since this is a Saturday.  I am finding already, however, that my new role is to comfort my friends.

            Once home, I carefully open the radiology folder and pull out the sonogram page.  Holding it up to the light and carefully looking at each image and all the foreign abbreviations, I quickly learn that it tells me nothing.  Well, except that the mass is in the 6 o’clock position, which I already knew.  After more googling, I realize the folder might also hold the radiologist’s report.  I look up various terms used in the report, and my brain quickly gets muddled with definitions.  The one part I understand due to my Internet education—but which I google again just to make sure—is the BI-RADs 5.

            Dining out twice in one day is rather unusual for me, but dinnertime finds me at a local Chinese buffet to celebrate my daughter’s birthday one day late.  We make a busy table with two adults and one senior (guess who the senior isJ), plus seven-year-old Benjamin, three-year-old Joelle, and ten-month-old Josiah.  Dana and Shawn are experts at managing their children in a restaurant environment.  Josiah is happy, Joelle is talkative, and Benjamin is beaming at every person who passes by our table. 

            Back at home later, I go back to my Chromebook and spend more time reviewing what I already know from earlier:  that the chance for malignancy is over 95%.  After a while, I find myself getting really, really scared and worried.  It’s past time to close the Chromebook and open my Bible.  Using the concordance, I look up various verses containing the words “fear” or “trust.”  Those word start their calming effect on my soul.  Pretty soon, I find myself not only cleaning the bathroom (which I have successfully put off for more than a week now) but also singing a simple praise tune that gets made up as I sing, along with lyrics that spontaneously rise up. 

            I’m feeling a lot better by the time I get ready for bed.  Sitting down on the edge of my bed and holding my pillow close, I start to pray.  “Thank You, Thank You,” are the words that spill out and continue to spill out even as I weep, wrapped up in God’s love.  After drying my tears, which have refreshed me, I select the Chris Rice album on my Kindle that I have not listened to much lately.  The first hymn, “It Is Well With My Soul,” washes over me, lifting my heart in holy praise as I settle in for the night.

May 29:  During prayer request time in Sunday worship, I praise God for the peace he is giving me and announce the cancer, asking for prayers.  My heart is singing.  After the service during our fellowship time, I have the opportunity to share last night’s experience with various people.  This is what I’ve been praying for:  that God will use my circumstances to glorify Him.

            Admittedly, not every moment of the day is so full of joy and peace.  But even when I find myself pondering the many possibilities that lie ahead, there is very little fear.  True, I am not looking forward to cancer treatments.  I want to live to see my grandchildren grow up, yet the thought of being with Jesus is sweet as well.  I am happy to be in His care.

Part One: On the Road to Healing

Discovery

            I couldn’t get to sleep.  Remembering that it had been months since I had done a breast self-exam, I did one for distraction’s sake.  To my surprise, I found a hard, pecan-sized lump.  And then I fell asleep.

            That was on April 20.  Today is May 15.  I’ve had plenty of time to think, to do oodles of Google searches, and to pray while I wait for my May 27 mammogram and ultrasound.  There has been a certain amount of anxiety pushing my Internet education.  I check my lump daily.  It is a little uncomfortable.  I’ve learned about cysts, benign tumors, and malignant tumors.  I know a little bit about fine needle aspiration, core biopsy, and stereotactic biopsy.  Yet, stronger than any worry is the certainty that I am in God’s hands.  His love fills and surrounds.  No matter the outcome of the imaging, all will be well.

Back Stories

            To most tales there is a back story, and mine is no different.  First, let’s go way, way back to my early teen years and the first self-breast exam I ever did.  Instead of peace, there was panic.  “Oh my God!  I must be riddled with cancer!  What am I going to do?”  The answer was simple:  nothing.  If I told anyone about my horrific discovery, it would become real.  Just thinking about it, though, made me feel like some tragic heroine, bravely and silently facing her end.  However, that did not last long because a flash of understanding broke through my melodramatic despair:  there was no tumor.  I was feeling my ribs!

            The real back story to this abiding sense of peace started with an unearthing of long-ago trauma and search for healing.  I am a firm believer in God’s desire to bring wholeness and healing.  The Holy Spirit digs up buried pockets of pain and sin at the perfect times in our lives so wounds can be lanced, drained, and healed if we are willing to cooperate with Him.

Kingdom Mindset

 Don’t copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think. Then you will learn to know God’s will for you, which is good and pleasing and perfect.  ~Romans 12:2

            First this morning of April 7, 2016, was an eye-opening conversation with my daughter.  Next was the afternoon women’s Bible study class including a reference to Romans 12:2, which pretty well summed up the morning dialogue.  And, finally, this evening I am ready to stop running and face this verse head on.

            You see, I’ve been running away from myself these first few months of 2016.  Some old trauma has resurfaced, compounded by the death of two friends back on Whidbey Island and three almost-acquaintances from Colby, Kansas.  (My definition of an almost-acquaintance is someone you may have talked with, known by sight, or known someone else who knew them.)  In other words, I’ve been avoiding the grieving I need to do.

            Instead, I’ve been numbing out with food, You Tube videos, and novel reading.  I find my happiness fixes with the grandkids, but then I come home and the malaise returns.  I need some focused prayer sessions to work through my grief and rediscover the joy that intimacy with Christ brings. 

            The only way I know to let Christ transform my thinking and being is to be honest with myself and with Him.  The general process starts with taking the time to experience my emotional pain so I can genuinely release it and myself to God’s care.  Along with that goes repentance of my sins related to the issue at hand and forgiveness of those who have harmed me. 

            It is so easy for me to gradually distance myself from God without even realizing it.  After all, I’m reading my lessons for Bible Study Fellowship, Sunday School, and women’s Bible study, and I’m serving in the church, in the community, and in my family.  But what about talk time with God?  That seems to slip away so easily.  Without that personal time in prayer every day, especially the praising part that transforms my mindset, I get negative and depressed and muddled in my thinking.

            Surely, the desire to live in communion with the triune God (how amazing that He loves us and wants us to simply be with Him!) should surpass all my mind-numbing time wasters.  If I want to have my mind renewed and my life transformed, then it’s time to put Romans 12:2 to the test. 

Postscript:  Immediately after writing this, I poured my heart out to God.  He took my burden of grief and turned it into intercessory prayer and heartfelt praise.  Through the Holy Spirit I learned something new:  when I am burdened down, if I take everything to Him in prayer, not only does He bless me with His presence, but He also turns the burdens into intercession that He can use for the good of others.  Isn’t God amazing?

Doorways to Prayer

On April 16, I decided to take another step toward emotional healing and had two friends who are trained in the practice of healing prayer pray with and for me.  During that hour together, I received fresh insight into the depth of God’s love for me.  I could picture Jesus surrounding me with the shield of His love, even and especially in times of trauma.  Psalm 3:3 became a living Word to me: “But you, LORD, are my shield!  You are my glory!  You are the one who restores me” (CEB).  I forgave those who hurt me.  I repented of my resentment toward them.

            Silly as it may seem, I started to pray in the doorways inside my home.  They represented the step from what was behind me to what is ahead of me.  Asking God to open the eyes of my heart, I continued to receive the awesome, healing love of the Father and moved from age-old despair into worship.

            You see, through the unearthing of old traumas and the fresh grief of loss, God spurred me to seek Him for emotional and spiritual healing.  Rediscovering that God loves you personally and fully and unconditionally is the truest type of healing there is.  And good old God—He was about to emphasize His love again in another setting: a Cursillo weekend.  Cursillo is a spiritual retreat, a learning of basic Christian principles in loving community.  That sentence sounds so sterile.  Those four days were packed with generous, abounding love and prayer and learning.  And playing and laughter and fun, so much joy and worship and fellowship.  It is what church should be.  During that retreat, we celebrated!

            It should come as no surprise that I found the lump the day before the retreat began.  The retreat ensured that I would not even have the chance to slip into worry and self-pity.  Instead, I basked in God’s love and trusted myself to His care—both easy to do in that vibrant Christian community.

            So here I am now on May 26, the night before the imaging, grateful for the peace God has given me during the five weeks of waiting.  I better be honest:  it has not been perfect peace.  Sometimes I have felt deeply afraid.  But as I return to the Father time and again, His peace sustains me.  I'm hoping that lump turns out to be a simple benign cyst.  But even if it is not, I know that I can trust in my Savior’s love to carry me through whatever the future holds.