Unremarkable: "not particularly interesting or surprising"

            I have an unremarkable liver.  And I’ve been spending too much time with dead relatives lately.

            At my quarterly check-up in June, my port decided it did not want to release my blood.  The nurse tried everything, including an extra saline flush or two.  She had me sit up in the reclining chair, lay back, hold my right arm over my head, turn my head to the left, take a deep breath.  I believe we tried everything except standing on my head.  At this point, an unyielding port is not serious, just a hassle.  Finally, she decided on a last resort:  having the blood for my lab work drawn from a vein in my left arm.  Maybe next time my port will work.

            For this appointment, I saw my oncology nurse, who gave me a folder filled with information concerning all of my cancer treatments as well as general information for cancer survivors.  She also noted that a couple of my liver enzymes were still elevated, so I got scheduled for an abdominal ultrasound.  She suggested some simple stretches for my right arm, which has lost a little of its range of motion, urged me to exercise more and lose fifteen pounds (though fifty would take me back to my twenties).  She also predicted that the elevated enzymes were likely due to a fatty liver.

            Naturally, I went home and googled fatty liver disease.  What I found was not pleasant.  I also googled metastatic breast cancer, which was even less pleasant.  My worst-case scenario thinking crops up in times like these. 

            The following week I had my ultrasound, and the radiologist report showed up just a day or two later in my See Your Chart file.  I read through the description of the findings, which were basically incomprehensible to me except for the final notation: “unremarkable liver.”  I understood that.  Well, actually there were two other things I understood: “normal gall bladder” and that some little part they wanted to see was obstructed from view by intestinal gas.  Somehow I am not surprised.

            I am very proud of my unremarkable liver and quite determined that I will not let it get fat.  I would rather not mention my rounded waistline where most of my excess weight gathers. 

            But you will have to wait till later to hear about my dead relatives.

Choosing

            Two-year-old Josiah handed me the wide-brimmed straw hat.  I placed it upon his head.  Immediately pleased, he smiled and walked into my dining room.  Standing in front of the mirrored curio cabinet, he admired his reflection. 

            Four-year-old Joelle asked for fizzy water with ice and a straw.  She chose a purple straw while I dispensed her drink, and then she drank it happily.

            Eight-year-old Benjamin grinned at me and led me to the piano.  I knew what he wanted, so I played and sang “The Wheels on the Bus” while he rocked to the beat.

            Three children.  Three requests granted.  Nothing earth-shattering, just happy little interactions that make this grandma’s heart sing.

            I wonder what would happen if we adults lived in the simple trust that God was happy to interact with us.  If we came to him for help.  If we came to him with our thirst.  If we came to him with our joy.

            We would find that simple choices to place our confidence in him would lead to loving interactions.  We would open ourselves to receive every little thing he wants to give.  We would find our delight in choosing him in all things, big and small.  And God’s heart would sing.

"If I only had a brain"

                The waitress was ready to take my breakfast order.  “l’ll have the fruit parfait . . . It comes with the yogurt, muffin, and ---.”  I paused.  What was the word for the item pictured on the menu?  In my mind’s eye, I could see the strawberries, blueberries, grapes, cantaloupe, and pineapple neatly arranged on a lettuce leaf. “Fruit,” said one of the women in our Cursillo fellowship.  A second of embarrassing silence followed, broken by Kristy’s friendly laugh and side hug.

                How could I forget the word “fruit” right after I had said it?  What is going on between my brain’s synapses?  (Not much, it appears.)  Such lapses are downright disturbing.  I’ve been misreading words of late as well.  Scrolling down my Facebook feed, I’ll glance at a post, think “What?!” and go back to the offending word, which turns out to be something quite different than I initially thought.  If I could remember an example, I’d tell you.

                But worrying won’t make my memory issues go away.  So I’ll claim chemo brain, which is way more reassuring than Alzheimer’s.  It does give one pause, though, to crash right up against such blanks.  Yesterday, I was addressing a birthday card to my brother John when I suddenly could not remember the number of his street address.  Now that would not normally be a disturbing development, but I lived at that address for five years. I knew it started with a “5” and had three digits, but I couldn’t remember the last two.  I finally went and looked it up.

                This weekend, I’m celebrating the first anniversary of my first chemotherapy treatment.  It is a good place to be, one year out from the hardest months of my life.  But still.  I’d like my brain back.