Part Sixty-Five: This.

            The treatments—chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation—were successful and are DONE.  “Now,” said my medical oncologist, “we trust God for the rest.”  Yes.  Yes. Yes. 

            Perhaps the best measure of the peace I felt at this quarterly follow-up appointment was my good blood pressure reading, the lowest it’s been at any of my appointments.  I did not mind the drive to Tulsa, nor did I mind getting my port flushed and blood drawn.  It’s only been two weeks since I finished radiation, and I am feeling much better as my skin heals. 

            That appointment was the first of two yesterday.  Back in Bartlesville, I had a hearing aid fitting.  Twelve years ago I was supposed to get hearing aids but never did because my insurance did not cover them.  Now that I have insurance covering eighty percent of the cost, I did.  My world has suddenly become noisier.  Besides hearing conversations better, I’m noticing so many little things are louder—everything from my car’s turn signal to the chirping birds outside.  And the dining room clock, which I thought was silent, ticks quietly.  When I took out the left hearing aid last night, sound suddenly stopped.  All those years I lived in a muffled world without even realizing it. I’m sure there will be more hearing surprises as the days go on.

            Cancer gone, hearing restored:  double blessings in my life.  It doesn’t get much better than this.

Part Sixty-Four: Glory Gifts

            When I finally got going Saturday morning, my heart was singing.  Every little thing produced joy.  The pale green budding leaves on the trees.  The sunshine.  The sight of outdoor clearance racks at Walmart.  The availability of disinfectant wipes for the shopping cart handle.  You get the idea.

            Sometimes the Holy Spirit does stuff like that:  suffuse one’s being with joy over every little thing.  I like it when that happens.  I think I will call those times glory gifts.  They are glimpses of heavenly joy, packaged in the present.

            My evening was filled with even more glory gifts with an end-of-cancer treatment celebration at my daughter’s house.  Friend Joan came bearing gifts of tulips and a helium-filled Mylar “Celebrate!” balloon, which had a very short life due to an encounter with the ceiling fan.  Joelle enjoyed playing with the balloon before it popped, and after it popped, Josiah dragged it around the living room.  When we ate supper, Benjamin celebrated:  he loves having company over at mealtime. 

After those delicious hamburgers and homemade fries, we moved back to the living room where Dana and Shawn gave me a lovely present:  the Willow Tree Remembrance angel and the Sarah Young devotional, Jesus Lives.  Sleepy Benjamin retreated to his room; Joelle and Josiah ran and danced about as Dana sang and played her guitar.  During one lively worship song, Josiah ran about in circles, flinging one arm up in the air, his face alight with delight.  Afterwards, Joan bid us all adieu and left for home before dark. 

Still later, we enjoyed some ice cream and after the kids were all in bed, Shawn and Dana prayed for me.  What an evening of food, fellowship, and worship!

Thus begins a new season of life, full of possibilities.  Rest, recover, and renew are the words I think of to describe this time.  The Holy Spirit will lead the way on what unfolds over the next months.  I promise to be faithful to whatever avenues of ministry and service He opens.  And I plan to celebrate all the glory gifts along the way.

            

Part Sixty-Three: The Little Things

            Showing off OCSRI-Tulsa to friends Stephanie and Karen on Tuesday was fun.  The big smile and good-bye hug from one of the lovely ladies at the radiation front desk was nice.  Ringing the bell was happy.  Being done with cancer treatments is a relief.

            But it still doesn’t feel real.  Yet.

            Showing the bell-ringing video to my grandchildren gives me a kick.  Four-year-old Joelle exclaims, “You rang the bell, Grandma!  Jesus took your cancer away!  Your hair smells good.”  Eighteen-month-old Josiah watches the clip, then laughs and claps his hands over his head.  Even seven-year-old Benjamin (who has never been a fan of smartphones or computer screens) comes over to look and touches the top of my head.

            At home things are the same, though with an extra three hours to my day, I manage to get some stuff done.  And I can choose between morning and afternoon naps.

            The radiation site (where the Sharpie circles were drawn) of the last five treatments will continue to worsen for a few more days.  Aquaphor is my new best friend.  My armpit skin is peeling.  I’m gradually fading from red to brown.  The sharp, painful twinges still strike now and then. 

And, yes, I am bone-tired at times.  But this morning I vacuumed the stray pieces of popcorn from the rug under the dining room table as well as the scraps of dried leaves that enter on my shoes from the garage door to the kitchen.  And I even put away the clean dishes from both drainer and dishwasher, loaded up the dirty dishes, and then washed the non-dishwasher-approved stuff in the sink.  I’ve been taking it easy ever since.

Yesterday I went to a 12:15 p.m. sacred concert, picked up the two things I needed at Walmart (bananas and peanut butter), and wrote an article for the church bulletin.  I still need to file my taxes, though, which is easy to procrastinate since I don’t expect a return.

And God still shows up in the details:  the timing of a phone call, a devotional reading that is perfect for the day, an email that encourages me to write just when I need to, and words to share.

It’s the little things that make up a life, and I am grateful for all of them. 

Part Sixty-Two: A Matter of the Heart

"Simon, Simon, Satan has asked to sift you as wheat.  But I have prayed for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail"  (Luke 22:31-32a). 

Last summer, as I began chemotherapy treatments, Luke 22:31-32 spoke to my heart. Any number of times over the years, I have read the account of Peter's denial of Christ.  But never before had this particular verse become personal: it was as if Jesus were speaking directly to me. 

Let me assure you that the only characteristic I share with Simon Peter is that I, too, have denied my Lord at various points in my life.  It seemed presumptuous to take a statement from Jesus to Simon as a personal statement to me, but as I have pondered these two verses, I see them as a statement to all believers. 

We know from Job 1:6-12 that even Satan is accountable to God.  Just as he asked to tempt Job, he asked "to crush Simon Peter and the other disciples like grains of wheat.  He hoped to find only chaff and blow it away" (Life Application Study Bible note on Luke 22:31,32).  Satan uses every opportunity to tempt or crush believers.  I could see him using the opportunity of my aggressive cancer as a tool to crush my faith.  But God had a different plan. 

In verse 32, Jesus tells Simon, "But I have prayed for you . . . that your faith may not fail."  Those words struck home.  Jesus prayed for Simon.  Jesus prays for us (John 17:20). How powerful to think of Jesus praying for me individually!  That simple but profound knowledge brought me deep comfort.   

Just as He did for Simon, Jesus confounded Satan's plan for me.  Instead of destroying my faith, cancer strengthened my faith.  Disease and suffering pushed me into Jesus' embrace.  As He gave me peace, I trusted Him more, and as I trusted Him more, He gave me peace.   

Peace and trust: the process is never-ending.  God's part is perfect and whole.  Our part is imperfect and stumbling.  But because the triune God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—loves us with an extravagant love, He encourages us at every turn.   

When suffering threatens to crush you, remember that Jesus prays for you.  Remember that He has authority over the devil: He can take any circumstance in your life and use it for good (Romans 8:28).  He will draw you closer to His heart. 

Part Sixty-One: Interlude

On Wednesday, Dr. Nguyen took a look at my radiation-burned breast and cancelled my treatments until Monday.  She said my skin needed another rest before the last two treatments.  I am glad that someone who knows her stuff is watching out for me. 

I can no longer use the prescription creams that are supposed to help heal my skin because they sting so badly.  So I am trying something recommended by a friend:  Aquaphor.  It, and the passage of time, is helping.  The stabbing burn is fading even though my skin remains a hot red. 

I wondered how I would spend my two treatment-free days.  Could I make some progress on the messy house or the stacked-up files or the writing so easy to neglect?  Would I take a few walks or actually cook something for a change?  Evidently not. 

Thursday morning started with intense charley-horse cramps in both calves.  The left one went away but the right one did not.  I managed to hobble to the kitchen to prepare toast and coffee.  After eating the toast, drinking the coffee, and reading my morning devotional at the dining room table, I tried to get up.  I could not.  The right leg reacted with excruciating pain whenever I tried to straighten it or move it.  So I waited, very slowly tried brief stretches, and eventually—about two hours later—was able to stand and hobble again.  

Today (Friday) found me completely wiped out.  I got up for breakfast, went back to bed, got up an hour or two later, went back to bed, and finally got up and stayed up after 2 pm.  I am determined to go to dinner with a friend at five as planned, and I have started laundry, but that's it for today. 

Earlier during radiation therapy I had wondered how I would know when radiation fatigue set in.  After all, I have been tired for twenty years with fibromyalgia.  Well, now I know.  I am told that the fatigue will take several months at least to dissipate, the skin redness and soreness several weeks.  In the meantime, I am re-adjusting my expectations for this spring: a day at a time. Slow and easy. Gradual increase in physical activity as I tolerate it.   

I am grateful to have medical professionals watching over me.  I am grateful to have my loving Father watching over me.  I am glad that my worth in God's sight is not measured by how much I can do but by whose I am.  

Part Sixty: Pit Soliloquy

I've been neglecting my armpit. 

With the literal rash of other areas to tend to, the significance of one darker pit did not sink in until last night.  The painful stab that comes and goes often originates in the right pit.  Here's the blunt truth: though I deodorize the pits every morning, I have not moisturized them.  Ah, there's the rub. 

Dryness and radiation do not a happy pit make.  In fact, I would call them two of "the thousand natural shocks/that Flesh is heir to."  With the application of Cetaphil moisturizing cream instead of Crystal Essence natural deodorant I may "sweat under a weary life today."  Hopefully, no one will notice.  Except maybe Shakespeare as he turns in his grave. 

Part Fifty-Nine: The Boost

On Friday I had a day off from radiation therapy because my skin needed an extra day to recover before the four last treatments.  Thursday was the first of the five "boosts," in which the tumor location is targeted instead of the whole upper right quadrant of my body.  The initial set-up took maybe twenty minutes, the therapy itself a mere four minutes. 

How do I delicately explain Thursday's experience?  I'm already used to technicians peering at my tattoos to position my body and then covering me back up with my hospital gown.  For the boost therapy set-up, no one seemed real interested in my tattoos anymore, and just my right breast was uncovered.  After the technicians drew a marker line on my scar and lined up me and the machine, we waited for Dr. Nguyen to come check their work. 

She took a look and said I would have to take Friday off because of how red and irritated my skin was.  I was immediately disappointed, having set my heart on being done on the eighth.  She checked everything out, spoke with the technicians, and I was good to go.  The four minutes went very quickly, but I was not done yet. 

The technicians had a few more things to do while I stayed still on the table. First, they drew a circle around my scar, and then they put clear round stickers on the marker lines.  Just in case the marker lines wash off or I lose any stickers before Monday, they took a picture of their artwork.   

When I got home, I took a look in the mirror.  Let's just say that "preschool artwork" is a more accurate description of the shaky circle drawn with a Sharpie.   

By Friday morning, I had reconciled myself to the fact that I won't be done with treatments until March 9—unless my red, sore skin demands further days off.  As the day wore on, the skin irritation worsened.  Today (Saturday) I hurt more and am just plain wiped out. 

It turns out that Dr. Nguyen was absolutely right to make me take a three-day weekend.  Hopefully it will give me the boost I need to survive the boost. 

Part Fifty-Eight: Another's Story

Waiting at the front desk for my paper bracelet, I see elderly mother and daughter emerge from the door to the imaging areas.  Daughter stops to get her bracelet cut off while mother waits, a pleasant but fixed look upon her face.  Daughter then takes mother's arm in hers and heads out.  I notice that the mother's expression never changes, is somehow vacant behind the pleasant look, and her head wobbles as she walks.  Immediately, I am stricken with profound sadness. 

The mother and I have had several conversations in the waiting room in the last week or so as she waited for her daughter, who is being treated for lung cancer.  Once she sat down next to me, and once I sat down next to her.  Both times she was a well of words spilling over.  I learned about her daughter's cancer, a few of their struggles, and a little about the rest of the family.  She shared at length about her old neck injury and recent strokes, about the long and ongoing wait to see a neurologist.  (She did not remember the word for that specialty; I helped her guess it.)  From her attire and her words, it was clear that she and her daughter who lives with her are poor.  My heart went out to her as I listened. 

Seeing her today (March 1) and realizing she did not recognize me, I assume she has had another stroke. I cannot stop thinking about her and praying for her and her daughter.  I hope I have the opportunity to see her again.