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.

Moving Targets

            Beginning archery lessons in a grade school YMCA summer day camp:  I seem to have a vague memory of bow in hand and wobbly arrow shot.  I was better at hitting tin can targets with a BB gun.

            I’d like to think I actually hit a bullseye once in a while, but that could well be in the wishful thinking department, right along with my mistaken belief that because I had read about horseback riding in Trixie Belden books that meant I could actually do it.  Anyway, targets are hard to hit when you are a beginner.  With time and practice, though, you can improve.  But what happens if they start to move erratically?  Unless you’re a sharpshooter, you’re sunk.

            Despite close to twenty years of aiming at fibromyalgia’s moving targets, my aim to eliminate pain is still wobbly.  Just when I think I know where the target is, it moves and morphs into something new.  The pain changes locations.  It even changes its essence:  aching to stabbing to burning to lightning bolt.  Muscle to bone to joint to skin.  One evening this week my left leg was cramping badly.  Thinking to ease the pain, I got out the muscle rub gel.  The second I touched my leg, I had a nasty surprise:  not only was the muscle cramping, but the skin was suddenly excruciatingly sensitive to touch.  Aargh.

            Of course, pain is not the only moving target.  There is the foggy brain target, the tired target, the skin rash target, the gastrointestinal target, the clumsy target, and other body system targets I cannot remember right now.  You take aim at the targets with any weapon at your disposal:  prescription medications, alternative medicine, diet, supplements, gentle exercise.  And just when you think you have hit the bullseye, the target moves or changes.  Sometimes it disappears altogether and you think that all your target practice has paid off . . . until days, months, or years later that particular target reappears, usually with some new target-friends in tow.

            Even though my aim is still not so good, I have learned that there is much more to life than target practice.  In fact, sometimes the best thing to do is to just take a break and aim my sights elsewhere.  Let the targets be.  But don’t deny they still exist like I did a few minutes ago, wrestling with a leaf bag and the “easy-to-use” cardboard leaf chute.  Ten minutes of awkward struggle in the garage (I did not want the neighbors to see my clownish clumsiness) left me too tired to tackle last fall’s pile of leaves against the fence.  And all that work only succeeded in ripping open the side of the bag and reminding me of the pain targets in hands and arms and shoulder and neck. 

            On the bright side, at least I know where today’s targets are.

           

            

The Seal

            “Mom, why was there a seal on Jesus’ tomb?”

            Immediately, I understood what my young son meant.  “Oh, honey,” I answered, “the Bible doesn’t mean the animal kind of seal.  It means that the opening to the tomb was covered up by a big stone so nobody could go in—or get out.”

            Now, those may have not been my exact words, but you get the idea.   And if you read Matthew 27: 65-66, my son’s literal interpretation becomes clearer.  When the chief priests and Pharisees brought their concerns to Pilate that the disciples might steal Jesus’ body to deceive the people into thinking Jesus had actually risen from the dead, Pilate took immediate action:

“Take a guard,” Pilate answered.  “Go, make the tomb as secure as you know how.”  So they went and made the tomb secure by putting a seal on the stone and posting the guard.

            To be honest, I enjoy picturing a real, live seal sitting atop the stone.  Its flippers clapping together and its honking kind of bark would signal that something extra special was going to take place.  People would gather to see this unique sight.  The guards would have to hold the crowds back as well as slip a fresh fish or two to the seal. 

            Of course, it did not happen that way.  But imagining the scene of live seal on real tomb helps me understand the puzzlement my son Joseph must have felt when he asked me that question 20+ years ago. 

            Maybe, as adults, we should puzzle over the gospels more.  We should study out our questions to discover the pertinent answers the Bible has to give.  Seemingly silly questions deserve serious thought.  Leaving no stone unturned (and, perhaps, no seal unexamined), as we dig into serious study we will uncover the ultimate answer to our questions in a Person: Jesus the Christ.  He is the baby born in a manger, the former carpenter teaching the crowds and healing the sick, the suffering servant hanging on the cross, and the Son of God risen from the dead.

           

Pure Joy

            We walk across the street, his hand clasped in mine.  Happiness incarnate, Benjamin walks eagerly with his distinctive slapdash steps, crooning his delight.  Once we reach my driveway, he breaks free, hurrying to the prize called Grandma’s house.

            I open the front door and he bolts in to play the piano.  Smash ups of notes travel up the scale followed by single low tones.  He throws his head back, singing “ahhh” and moving with the pure celebration of sound.  Then he is off to the toy room.  I hear the familiar strains of “The Farmer in the Dell” before I see him cross-legged on the floor playing with the See ‘N Say. 

            Retreating to the kitchen to peel cucumbers, I soon hear Benjamin’s familiar footsteps down the hall.  “Dih, Dih, Dih, Dih,” he says as he enters the kitchen and plops down on the floor.  Smiling ear to ear and continuing to vocalize, now adding in sweeps of musical “oohs,” he looks up at the hood over my stovetop as if he is greeting his best friend.  I can’t help but wonder if I have a resident angel there.

            Benjamin continues his rounds through my house.  Back to the piano, he does more of his boogie-woogie note smash and then stands by the bench expectantly signing “please” and looking my way.  “Oh, do you want me to play ‘The Wheels on the Bus’?” I ask.  His answer is signs for “yes” and “please.”  So I plunk out the tune and sing his favorite song.  He bounces to the beat and hits a final palm-width of the low keys just as I play the last note. 

And then he is off again. A walk-through of my bedroom is essential, as is a stroll into the bathroom.  Hearing the top lid drop, I hurry in.  Ever hopeful, I ask, “Do you want to go potty?”  Smiling up at me, he does his “The Wheels on the Bus” sign.  Oh, well.  I sing and do the motions to the song, and he is satisfied. 

            Benjamin comes back into the kitchen with his smiling request for my best monkey sounds, handing me the stuffed monkey.  I wiggle it while saying, “Ooh, ooh, ooh, aah, aah, aah, muah” always ending with a monkey kiss on his cheeks. 

            And then he is done.  He stands by my front door, waiting for me to unlock and open it.  We walk back across the street.  Six-year-old Benjamin has done it again:  though he does not yet speak, he eloquently teaches me joy.