Another Treatment Day

I am having a hard day.

At 10:30 this morning in the treatment room hooked up to my pre-meds, I had a migraine aura, which is my signal to take my pain medication before the migraine headache starts. I asked a nurse if I could take my Tylenol with codeine pill, and she contacted the pharmacist, who said it was okay. (Just the hour before, I had been given the usual 625mg of regular Tylenol, which is part of the treatment regimen.) So, I did, and it prevented the severe pain that every migraine sufferer knows about.

With migraines, my eyes are quite sensitive, and it’s best to keep them closed, even if the headache does not manifest. So, I did for most of the remaining four hours. I’m glad that the hospital vinyl recliners are comfortable, especially with a warmed blanket and the chair’s heating and vibration functions.

My cancer friends—John and his wife Sharon from southeast Kansas, and Elaine, a local—were there, too, until about 11:30. It’s unclear when I will get to see them again because Elaine and John’s treatment regimens are about to change. Sharon did something exceptionally sweet. She brought roses to give to the nurses and gave me two lovely red roses and one white rose in a vase. These three people have been such a blessing.

My son picked me up when I got done at 2:30, and I felt worse as the day wore on. Still no headache, but a heavy, body wide discomfort and queasy stomach.

This is my first treatment day wearing my new fitness tracker. Called Visible, it is a wrist band and an app on my phone that tracks my heart rate. Visible is for people with chronic illness and persistent fatigue. Among other features, it tracks heart rate, dividing the numbers into three categories: rest, activity, and exertion. Based on a lengthy questionnaire about symptoms and an initial four-day tracking, it helps you pace yourself better based on heart rate variability and giving alerts when you are using more energy and should take some time to rest.  The whole idea of pacing is to help avoid the big crashes that can occur from pushing yourself too hard.

It's not just physical exertion that can add up, but emotional and mental exertion as well. Today I got a better idea of just how taxing cancer treatment is on the body. I’ve been in the exertion zone much of the day, even when I am lying down and relaxing! No wonder I spend the first week after treatment doing very little: my body needs lots of rest. I find the deep breathing exercises to be an excellent tool to help my body relax. There is much to learn, and I’m glad I have this additional tool to help me navigate cancer fatigue and fibromyalgia.

                                In time of trouble my consolation is this, that thy promise has given me life (Psalm 119:50).

Updates

 How is Benjamin doing?

His seizures have reduced somewhat as his old medication is being tapered off and his new medication is being gradually added in. He is sleepier than usual, but that will likely change.

How am I doing?

Unexpectedly and happily, I’ve had an increase of energy over the past couple days. This morning, though, I did too much and will be spending the afternoon in the recliner to rest up before going over to Dana and Shawn’s for supper and family time with Benjamin, Joelle, Josiah, Ava, Elijah, and Annabelle.

Next Thursday is my infusion day. Life is good.

Stress

Stress caught up with me today in the form of a migraine. Fortunately, pain medication wiped out the headache, but I’ve been light and sound sensitive today and have spent most of the day in bed. I’m still not using my eyes; instead, I’m typing “blind” and will correct errors before I post.

Summer heat in the triple digits here in northeastern Oklahoma has been stressful for everyone. About six pm I checked a weather app, which said the heat index is 111.  I am very grateful for central air conditioning.

Cancer treatment fatigue from my August 6^th infusion has been the usual. Wanting to get out of the house, I went to pick up a few groceries at Aldi yesterday morning, which did me in. You’d think I’d learn!

My son’s part-time janitorial job ended two weeks ago. (Goodwill, his erstwhile employer, ended its contract with the office building that Joseph and another employee cleaned.) Joseph did receive a retention bonus for working up through the last day, but still, all I can say at this point is “ouch.”

But the biggest stress is Benjamin’s current situation. Shawn brought him home yesterday from the children’s hospital in Oklahoma City, where they’ve been since August 7^th.

It will take weeks to gradually make the change off his current anti-seizure meds and onto the new one (planned out by the neurologist, of course). And then it will take time until the new med takes full effect, which we hope will be to eliminate or at least lessen the frequency of his seizures.

In the meantime, Dana and Shawn are taking extra measures to keep him safe from falls. One is having him wear a protective helmet. Another is using a strap around his waist that they can on hold on to when he is up and around. After a week in a hospital bed, he needs to be up and moving to build up his strength. The very hard part, of course, is maintaining constant supervision. Shawn is exhausted after a week in the hospital with Benjamin 24/7, and Dana is exhausted from the week at home with the other five children. It’s been a hard time for everyone.

On Monday, Benjamin will go back to school (Paths to Independence, a private school for children and young adults with autism). The director will assign an aide to always be with him, which is an awesome thing in my book.

Please pray for all of us. 

God's Blessings

From a July 19th sermon on Matthew 13:25-30, 36-43. I took a few notes so that I would not forget: God will remove the weeds at his coming. Trust God’s goodness even amid evil and suffering.

From a July 26^th sermon on Jeremiah 29: 1-7. I took a few notes so that I would not forget: Work for the benefit of the place you live even if you are exiled there.  Even though our congregation is closing soon, we still have things to do that God is calling us to do. Don’t put things off.  Do what’s within your reach.  God is with us through it all.  This reminded me to have hope and simply do the everyday things that I can do, what is within my reach.

And some quotations and notes from my daily Psalm reading in the New English Bible:

July 23                 I love the LORD, for he has heard me

                                                and listens to my prayer;

                                for he has given me a hearing

                                                whenever I have cried to him. (Psalm 116: 1-2)

July 29                 Grant this to me, thy servant: let me live

                                                and, living, keep thy word. (Psalm 119: 17)

                That is my prayer, oh Lord. Help me not be blinded by my limitations but see beyond them to You and Your Word. Use me to bless and encourage my children and grandchildren. Give me discernment and understanding to really hear and see their inner selves.

July 31                  In time of trouble my consolation is this,

                                                that thy promise has given me life. (Psalm 119: 50)

August 6             Thy word is a lamp to guide my feet

                                                and a light on my path (Psalm 119: 105)

 

I had my infusion yesterday and am experiencing the usual fatigue and brain fog. But my attitude has improved because of God’s encouragement over the past few weeks. That makes all the difference.

And a non-cancer prayer request: Benjamin, my 17-year-old grandson who has severe impairments from Down Syndrome and nonverbal autism, has had multiple seizures this week despite his anti-seizure medications. This morning, he fell face first in the kitchen, causing a deep cut just under his right eyebrow. The local ER consulted with his neurologist, who advised sending him to an Oklahoma City hospital (I don’t know the name) where there is a specialist for the types of seizures he has. Because no ambulances were available here, Shawn took him. Please pray for him and the whole family.

 

 

Stage IV

Day before yesterday, I was feeling sad, so I sat down at my computer to write about it. Writing is how I work through things, whether they be emotions or ideas. Right away, I started to cry. And as I wrote, I realized that I have not grieved the losses. Cancer has stolen so much, completely upending my life. Instead of grieving, I went straight to adjusting, adapting, and coping (with plenty of prayer thrown in the mix). Words and tears poured out that day, the type of heavy weeping you do when someone you love dies.

 Here are the hard parts:             Life goes on while mine stands still.

                                                                                                The treatments never end unless I do.

                                                                                                Fatigue drains physical ability and brain power.

                                                                                                Side effects knock out what I want to do.

Stark? Yes. True? Yes.

Some days my positive attitude goes down the drain.

Today I am finally crying. I’ve lost so much to cancer.

It’s another day alone in my home.

I was lucky enough to be able to put away the clean dishes from the dishwasher without getting dizzy.

It’s too hot to chance going outside.

What was it like to be able to work?

Or pick up my grandsons from school?

Or take a walk?

I miss my life.

I don’t remember the last time I cried.

Somehow, I put off grieving without realizing it.

I embraced acceptance right away, knowing Jesus would see me through.

And he has. And he is.

But still, this life is hard.

Bear witness to my tears.

After my first round of cancer, I had eight years cancer-free. I rarely even thought about the possibility of recurrence, which must have been a God-given grace. When the cancer reappeared in July 2024, it was considered curable. And it was, though about half of my energy disappeared with the cure.  I knew that there was a high risk of another recurrence, but I didn’t waste time worrying about it. What I did not expect was that it would return so soon, in less than a year. This time it was not curable but treatable, which makes a huge difference.

When cancer is considered curable, you count your treatments, aiming for the time you will be done. That helps a lot. Someday, you know, you will ring the bell. But with palliative care, which can be just as difficult as curative care, there is no timeline. There is the blessing of longer life but with restrictions that are usually referred to as side effects. Some people breeze through treatment, but not I. My side effects (mostly fatigue) rule my life. “Pushing through” makes me sicker instead of stronger. So, I pay attention to my body and rest a lot.

Being a productive person becomes a thing of the past. The fatigue goes far beyond anything that is cured by rest, though if I don’t rest, the fatigue gets worse. Much of the time the fatigue is not just limited to my body; my brain is tired, too. Sometimes I cannot focus to read at all. If I have enough energy to write, I do that. And then go rest again. This morning, I went on a short errand to a local downtown market, something I’ve wanted to do for a week. I was gone (driving time included) for less than thirty minutes and then spent much of the day in my recliner. I’ve done several five-minute tasks around the house and took a nap. But the tears are gone.

 

                                                               

False Alarm

 July 14

My July 10^th PET scan report said that two small spots lit up, their exact location unclear. Lower right lobe of lungs or top of liver. And now I wait until tomorrow’s oncology appointment to find out what that will mean for me.

I’m guessing lungs because of the coughing fits and beginning of breathlessness. But still the wait is hard.

Will Dr. Moussa order an additional scan? The radiologist report recommended either a watch and wait until my next PET scan or a CT or MRI with contrast. Will my treatment schedule change? Will my treatment itself change? Is this the beginning of harder times?

I’ve been wondering what’s up since my infusion three weeks ago. The usual one-week fatigue turned into three weeks, with July 3 and 4 being the worst days. I am hoping this will not be my new normal.

July 17

Turns out there was no need to panic because no solid mass was found. I will have a PET scan follow up and, in the meantime, continue my course of treatment.

As far as the coughing fits (my lungs sounded normal), Nurse Ashley suggested cutting back on the Mucinex I take daily. It had not occurred to me that it contributes to my postnasal drip. I cut back, and that has made a big difference already.

The unanswered question is why my fatigue lasted so much longer than usual. I will carefully monitor the fatigue from yesterday’s infusion and report back to Dr. Moussa at my next appointment on August 5.

Yesterday afternoon I had several hours of feeling super lousy. But today has been the usual fatigue. This morning, I did a few too many things (started a load of laundry and took trash out) that didn’t help. It’s been a quiet afternoon in my recliner.

This morning’s Psalm reading, chapter 111, brought encouragement. Verse 1a, “With all my heart will I praise the Lord,” reminded me to praise God especially when I don’t feel so great. And verse 4b followed up with this beautiful truth: “the Lord is gracious and compassionate.” He is.

 

 

 

Fifty Years Ago

Fifty years ago today, during some extremely hot weather in Freiburg, Germany, a friend and I hiked up a small mountain (or was it a big hill?) and had a picnic in a cow pasture. At age 20, I could not even imagine being 70 or what I might be doing on the 250th anniversary of our nation’s founding.

I surely would not have imagined what yesterday and today have been like for me.

My most recent infusion was on June 25^th. Normally, once a week has passed, I’m ready to reenter the world, meaning driving my car and getting out of the house for a while. I’ve come to depend on that. One week of staying home and resting gets balanced out with the two weeks of feeling better until my next infusion.

Assumptions are dangerous when you have cancer. They make reality harder to bear.

Today, like yesterday, I’ve been the type of tired that is not relieved by rest but nonetheless demands it. I get fatigued by relaxing in the recliner, so then I go lie down in bed for an hour or more. Sitting up to write at my computer means I’ll be back in bed again or at the least reclined in my recliner pretty soon here.

But I need to write right now to deal with this unexpected severe fatigue. Is this a fluke? I’ve not been outside and keep my house at 73 degrees. (The air conditioning bill is going to be painful, but feeling warm at all brings on nausea, so keeping cool is worth it. Especially since weeks two and three are marked by nausea anyway. Fortunately, I have two prescriptions that I can choose from, and do, at the first sign of queasiness.)

Could this be my fibromyalgia acting up? It’s hard to sort out what is fibromyalgia and what are side effects from cancer treatment.

And the big, scary question: is this how week two after treatment is going to be from now on?  Or are my white blood cell counts low? (something that has not been a problem this third time with cancer) If it is merely low counts, that can be solved with a shot the day after treatment. If this severe fatigue is a heightened side effect . . . well, I do not know.

So far, I’ve been fortunate that my side effects have been minimal in the larger scheme of things. Yes, I’m borrowing trouble by wondering if that is going to change. I’m feeling afraid, something I claimed in an earlier post that I rarely have experienced in this whole cancer saga.

The problem with severe fatigue is that it is isolating and boring. After a week of staying home, I am tired of staying home with no energy to do anything.

Okay, I’m done complaining for now. I’m going to remind myself that no matter how I feel, God is still present. And I’m going to post this now, then eat something and go rest again.

Thanks for listening.

 

 

This Week

This week I’ve unexpectedly developed the dreaded moon face. In other words, the steroid given in every infusion has caught up with me. My face has become quite round. Why this has happened now (two weeks out from my last infusion) and in just a couple days is a mystery to me.

I had hoped that with the infusions reduced to once every three weeks since March, I could avoid moon face. Alas, not so.

Doing a little Internet research, I discovered that steroids also can redistribute fat to the belly. That solves the mystery of why my belly keeps looking bigger even though I have not gained weight. (I suppose that one perk of having cancer is that my oncologist and primary care doctor don’t want me to lose weight.)

Sometimes I wish I could go incognito with my cancer, but now I see it would take more work and discomfort than I am willing to endure. Wigs are uncomfortably hot. Plus, since my eyebrows and eyelashes are virtually nonexistent, I would need to draw on eyebrows and see if fake eyelashes would fasten to my eyelids. That would mean wearing makeup to avoid looking totally ridiculous. Too much hassle.

Since it is obvious with my hats that I am bald, I may yet get brave enough to be bald in public.

Several weeks ago, my four-year-old grandson said with the certainty that only young children possess, that I was not a girl. I assume he came to that conclusion because I am bald. On the other hand, he regularly tells me that I am beautiful. And I found out last week that he thinks I am five years old! Of course, there was the time that he patted my tummy and said “Baby?”

No, baby, but I’m holding on to the idea that bald is beautiful!

Complaints and Prayer

 Recently, I realized that I have been receiving chemo/immunotherapy for eight months. That is twice as long as the chemotherapy I had with either of the two previous triple-negative breast cancers.

Truth be told, I am tired of having cancer—though I hasten to say I am very thankful that the treatments are working so well. Here’s what I’ve noticed so far.

I need a full week after my treatment devoted to rest. I’ve learned that the best way to handle those days is to stay home and, as I can, do a few little 5-10 minute tasks each day, things like putting dishes away or starting a load of laundry. That at least gets me moving more and makes me feel like I’m accomplishing something. You might think that I would be reading books, but my concentration level usually is not up to that.

Then, during the two weeks before my next treatment when I’m feeling better, I try to get out of the house every day, which usually means short errands. And I love being able to drive myself over to see the grandkids. (Dana and Shawn are good about picking me up otherwise.)

In addition to getting fatigued easily, I sometimes need sensory time-outs resting in my quiet, dark bedroom.

Now, those are the general guidelines. Sometimes a surprise pops up, like not feeling good on a day I am “supposed” to feel good. Or unexpectedly and suddenly completely running out of energy.

Though eight months is a long time, I hope for a much longer time to live with cancer. Yet, the limitations do bother me at times.

One morning last week, I was reading Psalm 80 and really liked the line, “O God of Hosts, restore us.” So, I made a little change and wrote a prayer, which I am revising and editing as I copy it here:

O God of Hosts, restore me. I am tired of cancer. I am tired of my limitations and same old routines every day.

O God of Hosts, restore me. I miss clarity of mind. I miss being able to focus as well as I used to. I also miss being able to move freely, such as taking a walk longer than a block to enjoy the outdoors.

O God of Hosts, restore me. Help me discover new patterns of living within my limitations that are life-giving.

O God of Hosts, restore me. Help me live into Your presence and purpose throughout each day and appreciate anew the gifts of the present.

O God of Hosts, thank You for life itself!

fibromyalgia flare + infusion side effects

make a line drawing

of your body to contain the pain

and then fill it in

 

zig-zag line stretching from ear to ear

is the buzzing of tinnitus

 

two rows of half-moons with the straight lines on top

represent dull pain behind the forehead

 

a slide from the back of neck splits in two—

spreads out to each shoulder

and continues to the upper back

the dark shading on the sides of the neck

identify intensity

and gray out to aching of the upper back

 

draw your spine line

with a small gray box on T 9-10

for the intense ache there and

another on L 2-3 (I believe)

 

copy a frowning face emoji

on the abdomen for discomfort

 

a wide path from shoulders to elbows

demarcates muscle tension

on the right arm only

make a squiggle from elbow—make that two—

one extending to the end of the pinkie

with electrical fire needles

the other knifing through the carpal tunnel and wrist

 

your fingers

have grown into fat sausages

that do not like to bend

draw swirls that threaten to grow outside the lines

to burst the skin

 

 create thick lines down the centers of your legs

to indicate their heaviness

and wobbly circles in the knees

 

finally spikes within toes

show the sharp ache of arthritis

 

and now you’ve sketched my pain

 

oh, I forgot my sluggish brain

(which has kindly provided a temporary clear space for writing)

it wants quiet rest and dozing into dreams

maybe draw grey clouds behind the half-moons

 

this, too, shall pass

after an hour one Tylenol #3 partly erases the pain

sleep and tomorrow I hope will erase

the rest of this body pain map

 

*I wrote this yesterday and am glad to report that today I’m only dealing with fatigue and the usual brain fog, of course, today.  Finding a way to describe my pain helped me deal with it.

 

 

 

 

 

What About Fear? (written May 31st)

I read a lot of cancer blogs on Facebook. A recurring theme is fear: before and after treatments and scans, daily fear, fear of recurrence. There is a lot of anxiety around cancer and rightly so. It upends your life, causes pain and suffering and trauma, and is unbelievably hard.

So why am I not afraid most of the time? My nature is to worry and be fearful. And there are times when I do get anxious/afraid, but those seem to be the exceptions rather than the rule.

I know why I am not afraid. Because of God. I don’t really know how he keeps me from being fearful about cancer. But I am immensely grateful.

The first time I found out I had cancer was in May 2016. God took that opportunity to bless me with joy. I remember sitting on the edge of my bed, listening to music, and weeping with joy. Strange reaction, right? I was not happy about the diagnosis, but I was filled with Holy Spirit joy.

Admittedly, when I learned the specifics (Stage IIIb triple negative breast cancer), I was initially very afraid of both the cancer and the upcoming treatment: chemotherapy, lumpectomy, radiation.

Early in the chemotherapy treatment cycles, I went to a worship service with my daughter. Someone prayed for me and confidently declared that I would not ever have a recurrence. I trusted that and never worried about the cancer coming back.

And it didn’t—until the summer of 2024. I recognized the signs early, got the diagnosis (Stage IIa triple negative breast cancer), and then had a mastectomy followed by four rounds of chemotherapy. I read the pathology report from the surgery and noted I was at high risk for recurrence. I decided I did not want to waste my life worrying, and I didn’t.

The recurrence came in the summer of 2025, disguised as a pleural effusion. It was the same cancer but only in the pleural fluid. And terminal (Stage IV). My oncologist started me on a palliative care treatment that is working brilliantly to ward off more cancer and extend my life.

No one should ever feel bad about having anxiety and fear alongside cancer. That is a normal response. I hope that when I have written about not being afraid that it does not put off those who do fear. I am simply thankful that God has given me peace and joy that conquer fear.

Blessed is the Lord;

He carries us day by day

God our salvation

 (Psalm 68:14, New English Bible)

Just What I Needed

 It’s been a rough week. Infusion side effects have been stronger and lingered longer than I expected.

The intense scattered, buzzy brain fog did not clear until Monday. Tuesday evening, I thought I could handle a brief Walmart run, so I went. The moment I walked into the store I realized it was not such a good idea: I was totally wiped out by the time I got home less than an hour later. Wednesday evening, I needed to pick up the 12-hour decongestant that helps keep my pollen allergies somewhat under control. Walking into CVS told me I was pushing my limits again.

It feels like these side effects are worse than usual, but I’m not sure, except for the brain fog accentuated by a constant, lout buzzing tinnitus. It hasn’t helped that I’m not sleeping well.

This morning, I did a second round of music listening, changing out Fernando Ortega’s album, Come Down, O Love Divine to The Shadow of Your Wings. I turned the volume down a little lower than usual to accommodate my sound sensitivity. I felt washed and refreshed by God’s gentle and generous love.

When I finally got up for the day, I realized that I needed to scrap my plans to get out this morning to pick up a few groceries at Aldi. My body tells me I need another low-key day.

So, here we stay. I’ll do a few ten-minute tasks around the house throughout the day (my equivalent to gentle exercise), but nothing taxing. The tinnitus continues. I am bone-weary and depressed. But I am also refreshed by God’s grace, which is just what I needed.

Scattered

Yesterday was infusion day.

Scattered is my word for today. My thoughts flit around, never staying on one thing very long. Some days I can focus on the lyrics of the Christian music I listen to, but not today. I’ll catch part of a verse and then, before I know it, my brain has wandered off again to some miscellaneous stuff.

I’m glad that the car shopping business ended last Thursday with the purchase of a 2014 Ford Fusion from Ron Tate Auto Sales. It had been an Oklahoma City government car, which meant excellent maintenance. It’s a dream to drive, and I’m especially grateful I did not need to take out a loan.

I get a little down in the days before an infusion, knowing that I’ll have a week of not feeling well enough to drive or do much of anything. It is awfully nice to have the next two weeks of being able to drive and get out of the house most days for a few hours at a time. So, I look forward to that.

And I am so very blessed that so far, this third round of cancer is so much easier than the first two.

 

Getting the Hang of It

Perhaps I am finally getting the hang of it.

Yesterday was my infusion. Today I am fatigued, both body and brain. I’ve had a long day alone at home, which is what I needed though not exactly what I wanted.

But today, the “hang of it” was moving around more. Besides the usual time in my recliner, plus a 1⁺ hour nap, I did little things that took less than five minutes before going back to sit. You know, putting things away, taking care of the trash, starting the dishwasher. I even took a walk most of the way down the block. There was no strain, just the gain of feeling like I was accomplishing something.

The brain fatigue seems worse than usual, though it did not keep me from Bible reading/brief journaling. And it is not keeping me from writing this blog post. But now I am ready to return to my recliner.

Catching Up

A couple surprising things happened last Monday.

Let’s start with the red pickup rental. Somehow, over the weekend of not going anywhere, my fear of driving the truck disappeared. However, I still wanted to return it for a few reasons. One, I had to pull myself up by the steering wheel to get in. Two, it barely fit in my garage. And three, its gas mileage was not great by my standards.

So, I returned it, exchanging it for a 2025 Toyota Rav 4. The car rental place here is a small operation that appears to do a brisk business, so there was no choice on my part but to accept what was offered. I would have preferred a regular sedan or compact, but at least I’m comfortable driving an SUV, and it gets good gas mileage. However, it presented a problem that I reported the next day: at 49 mph, it shimmies rather badly. Because of the amount of dried mud on the frame inside the back doors, I wondered if the previous customer had driven it in some rugged, muddy conditions. But since I was not offered another vehicle, I’ve simply kept the speed down. Not a problem except for the drive out to my daughter’s house, which involves a stretch of two-lane highway with a speed limit of 65 mph. Fortunately, there was not much traffic the two times I went there—just a few vehicles were anxious to get past me each time.

The second surprising thing is that on Monday my pre-stage IV cancer energy level suddenly returned. I woke up that morning feeling normal. I measure my energy by how much I can do in a day. Remember that after my first infusion in October, I chose not to drive because it used too much of my energy. Eventually, I came to the point that a week after an infusion, I could do a brief errand most days. And now? Well, I’ve driven my son to and from work each day, plus doing errands, even grocery shopping alone. On Thursday afternoon, I hit a wall, so to speak, and suddenly became exhausted. So, I rested up the rest of the day and took it easy on Friday as well. I was back to this new normal by Saturday morning.

And I expect to stay there until I have my next infusion this coming Thursday. Then, I’ll hang around at home for a few days to a week until the side effects subside. What a beautiful gift it is to be able to do normal, everyday things again at my former pace.

  

Overwhelmed

Forty-five years ago, I sometimes drove my husband’s truck. If my memory serves me right, it was a 1962 Chevrolet, manual transmission. Obviously, no power steering. I even managed to drive it when close to nine months pregnant. It was a close fit, with my belly touching the giant steering wheel so I could reach the pedals. No problem.

Yesterday, though, picking up a rental vehicle just about did me in. State Farm had requested a sedan, but Enterprise gave me a “small” truck, saying that was all they had. And not just any truck, and certainly not “small” by my reckoning. It was a brand new (the odometer showed less than 400 miles), bright red Nissan Frontier. Anyone else would be thrilled to drive it. But not me.

It did not help that rain was pouring down right after I drove it off the lot. I thought I would be okay. But in just a few minutes I was panicked. This monster of a truck was simply too big for me to ever feel comfortable driving it. Within a few minutes, I was ready to take it back. I should have done so; after all, there were twenty minutes left until the Enterprise office closed for the weekend. (Now, who has ever heard of a car rental business—in fact, the only one in Bartlesville—closed on weekends?) But I was already late for picking up my son from work. And I quickly decided that Joseph would not drive the truck—he’s only had his license for a couple years and has no truck experience.

By the time I got home, I was pretty much an emotional wreck. And then I had to get it in my garage. It barely fit. By the time I turned off the engine, I had decided that the next time I would drive it would be Monday morning to return it and request a sedan. So much for the in-person car shopping I had planned to start over the weekend.

I am scared to drive that monster truck again. Afraid I will do something wrong and get a scratch on the gleaming surface. Or that it will hail, and I will be liable for the damage (yes, that is the policy). I’ve lost my nerve.

I’ve spent the day relaxing. I’m over the flu, and the side effects from last week’s infusion have subsided. I’m resting up for Monday morning’s drive back to Enterprise. There is no way I am going to drive that truck to church tomorrow, especially since thunderstorms are in the forecast.

Maybe it’s kind of weird that having stage IV cancer does not overwhelm me, but the prospect of driving that truck does. I’ll be in the market for a compact or a subcompact car.

Brain Fog

 So, it turns out that chemo/immunotherapy side effects plus stress plus stomach flu is a bad combination.

The additional stress arrived Monday evening with my son’s car accident less than a block from home. The intersection of Sooner and Brentwood is tricky due to cars parked on a short driveway on Brentwood that blocks your view of oncoming traffic. Joseph failed to yield at the yield sign, though he was going slowly. A truck came barreling down Brentwood going well over the speed limit and crashed into the driver’s side front of the car. The truck stopped for a few seconds and then took off. I don’t know the details, but that driver was arrested shortly thereafter. My 2007 Ford Focus was totaled, but fortunately Joseph was not seriously hurt, just some muscle pain in his neck and shoulders. (He was checked over in the ER.)

Some of you may or may not know that only a year ago, on March 19, 2025, I was T-boned at a busy intersection near Walmart, which totaled my 2021 Chevy Trax . . . but I was not hurt, just shaken up. I have a feeling that my car insurance premiums are going to go up.

A short-lived stomach flu arrived Tuesday evening. On Wednesday I was able to eat crackers and chicken noodle soup. Today, I’m doing better and have just eaten a regular meal.

The part that is not better is my brain. I’m not processing information very well and naturally I cannot think of an easy-to-explain example. But by tomorrow, when a rental car becomes available, I should be able to drive it.

My late sister used to say that pain medication for her migraines dropped her IQ by ten or so points, and that seems to be what last week’s cancer treatment plus stress plus stomach flu have done for me! I do pray that God will help me make good decisions as I start car shopping next week.

Here’s what I am thankful for: that Joseph was not injured. That my next-door neighbor provided his Ring video of the accident to the police. That Shawn, my son-in-law, has been providing transportation to and from work for Joseph. That Alice, my across-the-street neighbor, picked up a few things for me at the store yesterday. That Hopestone’s meal delivery yesterday included homemade chicken noodle soup. And soon I hope to be grateful for a less foggy brain.

 

Side Effects

Wham!!

That’s how last week’s infusion hit me. Fatigue, brain fog, head buzzing, sound sensitivity, and imbalance all played their part. I feel like a cancer patient again.

It turns out that the extra week off treatments is enough time to make me forget the side effects of my miracle drug, Trodelvy, which is handily keeping the cancer at bay and thus extending my life. While it is true that all the above side effects hang around in real time, they get more muted by that third week of respite.

Today is Monday, and the infusion was on Thursday. I’m able to be up and around a bit more, but the off-balance feeling and head buzzing (tinnitus), sound sensitivity, brain fog, and fatigue linger on in their enhanced state. Hopefully they will mute more in the next few days. Oops, I forgot the two that show up on the Sundays after treatment and linger for a while: wobbly knees and shaky hands.

So, I’m not doing much, just little bits here and there, punctuated by more recliner time and usually a silent hour lying down in my darkened bedroom. The sensory stress sends me there if not the fatigue.

And then I start to feel the disconnect between God’s constant care and my lack of motivation. Am I simply wasting precious hours alone here in my house? I think of people who spend their time completing a bucket list of things to do before they die and realize I don’t even have a bucket list other than wanting to declutter my house. Well, that’s not quite true. I also want to spend one-on-one time with my grandchildren, but that requires energy I still do not have.

There are also writing projects that sit, waiting for my efforts. I’m lucky to keep up with blog and church newsletter. Okay, now I’m starting to sound whiny. Enough of that!

I guess the point is wanting to be useful, for my daily life to count for something. But right now, the head buzzing is loud enough that I need to lie down for a while and just relax. 

Intersection

I always find it interesting when my daily Bible reading intersects with something in the secular world. Such was the case today.

Psalm 13 begins with lament and ends with rejoicing. Verse 2 says this: “How long must I suffer anguish in my soul, grief in my heart, day and night?”

In 1991, as a newly divorced mother of two children, that verse described my daily inner experience. I was overwhelmed with the responsibility of raising my kids alone, emotionally burdened with unresolved trauma, and unknowingly deeply depressed. This was all despite recently coming back to faith in Jesus Christ. I continued in that state, ever leaning on Jesus but still depressed, for years.

But in the past decade or so, my inner reality has profoundly changed from despair to hope. Yes, I still deal with depression of a milder sort. Lack of motivation to do things and fatigue seem to go hand in hand with depression and with chronic illness. However, verses 5-6 are now true in my life: “But for my part I trust in thy true love. My heart shall rejoice, for thou hast set me free. I will sing to the LORD, who has granted all my desire.”

I don’t know how to explain that change, except to say that over the years I kept seeking, and God kept leading me into more healing. Not to say I’ve reached complete healing: I have not. (And who has, this side of heaven?) But through his generous grace, he has brought peace and joy into my life.

Later this morning, a magazine article I almost scrolled past on my phone turned out to be an intersection of Psalm 13 with the secular world. This statement stood out to me:

. . . being reliably held by someone else makes it possible to relax into oneself. It creates enough internal safety to play, to improvise, to stay present without constant supervision. Over time, that experience of being accompanied continues inwardly, becoming a way of being with oneself. *

Let me explain. According to the article, “being held” means having others in your life who are dependable and supportive. It means not feeling like you are the only one who is holding things together, not being hypervigilant. It allows you to relax, to be fully in the present moment, and to be friends, so to speak, with solitude.

Here’s the thing. It’s not only people that can hold us. God does. Both are important.

I am blessed to have people in my life who are holding me during this cancer journey. My son who lives with me. My daughter, son-in-law, and their children. My church family. My blog readers. Excellent doctors and nurses. Hopestone Cancer Support Center supplying home-cooked meals. Elder Care housekeeping. Friends. People, known and unknown, who pray for me. I appreciate them. They make my life richer and easier.

But without God holding me as well, I would not have inner peace and joy regardless of my circumstances. I am grateful beyond words.

*Donald Winnicott, quoted by Elizabeth Burns Dyer in psyche: know your self, “The capacity to be alone depends on the sense of being held.” 27 March 2026.

Results

Yesterday, I had my fourth PET scan. Previous ones were in August 2024 and September & December 2025. These are standard fare for me now, every three months. On the drive to Tulsa, I admitted to Bev that I had some anxiety over what the results would be.

Today, the first verse in my daily Psalm reading gave me comfort: “In the Lord I have found my refuge.” I journaled briefly:

I had some anxiety yesterday over my PET scan that lingers today: fear over the possible results. What if the scan shows active cancer? Here’s the answer: God will be with me. If the results are good, God will be with me. He has seen me through so much in my life. I can trust him; he is my ever-present help in trouble and my refuge. (Psalm 11:1a)

Early this evening, my scan results showed up in my patient portal:  all clear. I am thankful!