It's only about 3 inches tall and light brown. It has my name on it and unlimited refills. And I've never been so scared of anything in my life. I've put off starting Tamoxifen for exactly two months. Though there seem to be just as many women who handle the symptoms fine as those who can't tolerate it, just the thought of popping it is making me physically sick. My head is pounding, my stomach is spinning and I feel like I might pass out. I'm so angry at myself for allowing a little white pill to have this much power over me.
I feel great. A few pounds heavier than when we started this journey, but all-in-all I am a happy girl. I'm so happy that I could easily forget that I just had cancer. I would LOVE to forget it. What I wouldn't give to take my painful, rock-hard saline filled sacks and move on. It will never be that way, though. Once cancer has touched you, you spend the rest of your life chasing it.
I experienced some of this after Daddy died- some fear and paranoia- so you would think I would be able to handle this with more grace. I was okay until my last visit to the oncologist. She explained that my 8% risk of recurrence is a risk of what the cancer world calls "mets." That there is some little breast cancer cell floating around in my body trying to attach itself to something else. There's an 8% chance that will happen, and if it happens I will die. I'm scared shitless.
I'm a Christian, so it's not so much that I'm afraid of dying. It's that I can't bear the thought of missing any of my girls lives and not being here to help them raise their babies. Then there are the thoughts of seeing what Daddy went through and how I would just about rather jump from the top of a tall building than subject anyone I love to that. Yes, there's a 92% chance that it will never happen, but the oncologist also said that there was less than a 1% chance of this happening to me- and it happened. None of us is holding the same hand in this card game.
When I heard the doctor's explanation I felt bad for not starting the meds sooner. I pictured this little white pill running around in my body chasing cancer cells. I should be thankful that I have it, and I am, but I know that as soon as I pop that first pill I'm on my way to a decade- A DECADE- of chasing cancer. Every night before bed I'll have a little white reminder that I'd better do this right. I know I can't be alone because I read a study that said that a large percentage of women stop taking it early because they feel great and the pill reminds them of the cancer. Of course those women have a higher recurrence rate. I don't want to be a part of anymore statistics.
Sometimes, like tonight, I feel incredibly alone. I know I'm not. I had an amazing team rallying around me over the last few months. But now the big surgery's over. The cancer's "out." I appear to have boobs. I didn't lose my hair. To most of the world, I'm pretty much okay. I don't want or deserve a pity party because I do feel wonderful considering the circumstances, but sometimes this is still a lonely club. Nobody can take the pill for me. Nobody will understand my anger and discouragement if it makes me feel like shit, nor will they fully understand my relief if it doesn't. I'm just in limbo now. That young mom that just had a double mastectomy, but they got it all and she's all better now. Only she's not. Not really.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Instaboob guilt
I was so touched this week when one of the readers of this blog posted to ask me what the results were at my doctor's visit. Usually I treat this blog somewhat as a diary. My only hope being that someday, some other terrified 34-year-old mother of three whose world is crashing down will find it and somehow find a measure of peace. I am so grateful for the kind thoughts from all of you.
So, I went to that doctor's appointment to get the results of what is called an Oncotype DX test. The test gauges your likelihood of recurrence of cancer (I believe for the next 10 years). You can score anywhere from 1-100. Anything below 18 is low risk and it has been determined that chemo is more detrimental than helpful for this group. 18-31 is intermediate risk. The rest are high risk. I thought for sure I would be intermediate risk. Up to that point, my cancer had been so strange, unusual and unpredictable. I figured it would continue to confound me and put me in a position to make a difficult decision. It surprised me. My score was a 13. You may notice I didn't say, "my score was a 13!!!"
Although it was one of the most exciting moments of my life (that absolutely required a follow-up fruity alcoholic drink, huge bowl of pasta and some retail therapy), I found myself experiencing an interesting emotion on the way home. Guilt. Lots of guilt. I couldn't think of anything except all of the amazing women (and even some men) who have not been as lucky as me. I had spent the last six weeks dreading with every fiber of my being the day my hair would begin to fall out. I cried when the girls would worry out loud about how "different" I would look. I laid awake at night trying to prepare myself for how to deal with constant nausea and still be a mommy. I stared at the checkbook wondering how we would pay the bills if I continued to miss work. Suddenly, all of that was gone. But for so many women, it's not gone. Would they resent me? Is my battle a lesser one because this? Can I even share stories with them? What else will go wrong since I have caught such a lucky break?
Four days later, I had my stitches out and one more drain. One additional drain is STILL in and is the bane of my existence, but they said that I'm healing perfectly. They were able to do my first "fill." I was warned that it would be something like the Barbie doll of the '60's that grew breasts when you pumped her arm. They used a magnet to find my port, shoved a needle in like I was a basketball and started pumping. Sure enough- Instaboob (I'm trademarking that). While it was by far the most disconcerting experience I ever hope to have, I was so thankful to have something that made me look like a woman to the outside. I will probably have to do it two or three more times before I can have my permanent implants put in. And in case you're wondering, the answer is YES. They will keep doing fills until I say "stop."
I still have waves of guilt, but going back to work has helped distract me. I would sit at home wavering back and forth between resenting my circumstances and then feeling guilty for doing it. Going back to work allowed me to return to an identity other than "cancer patient with no boobs." This week, though, I think I've reached some new stage. For reading's sake, I'll call it the, "Oh God, I'm going to die," stage. My self-analyzing says that over the last six weeks I've been in "fight" mode. Between planning and doctor's visits I didn't have time to think about the future ramifications of this disease. It only really hit me the night I tried to sleep in bed for the first time. I laid there in the dark (with no TV to distract me), and the silence reminded me that I could be dead. One change in my recent circumstances- a cancelled doctor's appointment, an inexperienced medical intern doing the breast exams, a less concerned midwife- I would be one of those even rarer cases. The ones that make you shake your head and hide from the fear that it could be you.
Nighttime is when numbers creep into my head. I start analyzing all of the percentages (95% estrogen receptor positive, 82% progesterone receptor positive, 13 Oncotype, 8% recurrence) and then I start remembering Daddy. I have these flashbacks of Daddy in his last two weeks. Bloated, yellow and distant. Then in his last two days- unable to walk and finally unable to speak. I become terrified that it will be me. I knew before that it COULD happen. We all know that, in theory, our bodies can turn on us. For those of us who have seen it, we are even more acutely aware of that possibility. But now it has actually happened. Estrogen made me grow a tumor (an additional 5 cm. of it still in my duct) that could have killed me. It could come back. It could have spread without us knowing it. I remember asking the chemo nurses how they avoid becoming paranoid. They told me that every day one of them "has cancer." So will I live in fear of cancer for the rest of my life? My body turned on me once- will it do it again?
Now I have been given several decisions to make regarding my future treatment. My loyal oncologist who treated my father recommended (without question or debate) 5 or maybe 10 years of Tamoxifen, which he claims 90% of women "tolerate well." He wants me to start it "yesterday" and have a hysterectomy before the end of the year. Primarily he wants my ovaries out, but after five years on Tamoxifen you are at an increased risk of uterine cancer, so he said they "might as well" take out my uterus while they're in there. My oncological surgeon's PA was shocked by this and asked me to get a second opinion. I met again with the humorless German female oncologist who first treated me. She gave me two options: Tamoxifen for 10 years or an oophorectomy (removal of my ovaries) followed by 5 years of Arimidex (which she claimed is "better" than Tamoxifen). She said that the risk of uterine cancer from Tamoxifen is 1 in 1000 and none of them have been fatal, so she would not recommend that more extreme surgery and said that it has a four week recovery time (compared to 2-3 days with the oophorectomy). She told me she would choose the second option if it were her.
Some people might appreciate these options. The problem is that it gives me the illusion that I have some control over my ultimate fate. I feel like I'm choosing between not doing enough and getting cancer again (Tamoxifen alone) or going overboard and becoming a menopausal monster at age 34 (the oophorectomy will immediately put me into menopause).
As a Christian, I know that my future is in God's hands, but He has now put this decision in front of me- and it's a life or death decision. So I have been researching until my fingers bleed, hoping that something or someone will make the answers clear to me. I have given myself permission to wait and think for just a little while, but waiting even a little while scares me. Because I am premenopausal I think I have decided that I will try Tamoxifen first instead of Arimidex, but I will wait until I have adjusted to my "new normal." I want to be feeling my best and be prepared for whatever side effects may head my way. I know that, ultimately, I must have the surgery to minimize my risk. If I don't, and something comes back, I will never forgive myself. I'm just not ready to commit, though. I've lost so much of what makes me a woman already- I'm just not ready to give anything else up quite yet. I'll decide and commit before Christmas and I think I'll have the surgery by my birthday in May. I wrote it down so I'm committed. I'm also writing this down- I'm going to run a half marathon in 2014. It's something that I have said for years I would never, and could never, do. I've never run farther than five miles. On the other hand, until last year I had never seen someone I love die. I didn't think I could survive it, but I did. Until this year, I had never had cancer invade my body. I didn't think I could make it through, but I have. I assume I'm incapable of running 13.1 miles next year, but I'm thinking maybe I could be wrong, because obviously I've been wrong before. Now I just have to prove it to myself.
So, I went to that doctor's appointment to get the results of what is called an Oncotype DX test. The test gauges your likelihood of recurrence of cancer (I believe for the next 10 years). You can score anywhere from 1-100. Anything below 18 is low risk and it has been determined that chemo is more detrimental than helpful for this group. 18-31 is intermediate risk. The rest are high risk. I thought for sure I would be intermediate risk. Up to that point, my cancer had been so strange, unusual and unpredictable. I figured it would continue to confound me and put me in a position to make a difficult decision. It surprised me. My score was a 13. You may notice I didn't say, "my score was a 13!!!"
Although it was one of the most exciting moments of my life (that absolutely required a follow-up fruity alcoholic drink, huge bowl of pasta and some retail therapy), I found myself experiencing an interesting emotion on the way home. Guilt. Lots of guilt. I couldn't think of anything except all of the amazing women (and even some men) who have not been as lucky as me. I had spent the last six weeks dreading with every fiber of my being the day my hair would begin to fall out. I cried when the girls would worry out loud about how "different" I would look. I laid awake at night trying to prepare myself for how to deal with constant nausea and still be a mommy. I stared at the checkbook wondering how we would pay the bills if I continued to miss work. Suddenly, all of that was gone. But for so many women, it's not gone. Would they resent me? Is my battle a lesser one because this? Can I even share stories with them? What else will go wrong since I have caught such a lucky break?
Four days later, I had my stitches out and one more drain. One additional drain is STILL in and is the bane of my existence, but they said that I'm healing perfectly. They were able to do my first "fill." I was warned that it would be something like the Barbie doll of the '60's that grew breasts when you pumped her arm. They used a magnet to find my port, shoved a needle in like I was a basketball and started pumping. Sure enough- Instaboob (I'm trademarking that). While it was by far the most disconcerting experience I ever hope to have, I was so thankful to have something that made me look like a woman to the outside. I will probably have to do it two or three more times before I can have my permanent implants put in. And in case you're wondering, the answer is YES. They will keep doing fills until I say "stop."
I still have waves of guilt, but going back to work has helped distract me. I would sit at home wavering back and forth between resenting my circumstances and then feeling guilty for doing it. Going back to work allowed me to return to an identity other than "cancer patient with no boobs." This week, though, I think I've reached some new stage. For reading's sake, I'll call it the, "Oh God, I'm going to die," stage. My self-analyzing says that over the last six weeks I've been in "fight" mode. Between planning and doctor's visits I didn't have time to think about the future ramifications of this disease. It only really hit me the night I tried to sleep in bed for the first time. I laid there in the dark (with no TV to distract me), and the silence reminded me that I could be dead. One change in my recent circumstances- a cancelled doctor's appointment, an inexperienced medical intern doing the breast exams, a less concerned midwife- I would be one of those even rarer cases. The ones that make you shake your head and hide from the fear that it could be you.
Nighttime is when numbers creep into my head. I start analyzing all of the percentages (95% estrogen receptor positive, 82% progesterone receptor positive, 13 Oncotype, 8% recurrence) and then I start remembering Daddy. I have these flashbacks of Daddy in his last two weeks. Bloated, yellow and distant. Then in his last two days- unable to walk and finally unable to speak. I become terrified that it will be me. I knew before that it COULD happen. We all know that, in theory, our bodies can turn on us. For those of us who have seen it, we are even more acutely aware of that possibility. But now it has actually happened. Estrogen made me grow a tumor (an additional 5 cm. of it still in my duct) that could have killed me. It could come back. It could have spread without us knowing it. I remember asking the chemo nurses how they avoid becoming paranoid. They told me that every day one of them "has cancer." So will I live in fear of cancer for the rest of my life? My body turned on me once- will it do it again?
Now I have been given several decisions to make regarding my future treatment. My loyal oncologist who treated my father recommended (without question or debate) 5 or maybe 10 years of Tamoxifen, which he claims 90% of women "tolerate well." He wants me to start it "yesterday" and have a hysterectomy before the end of the year. Primarily he wants my ovaries out, but after five years on Tamoxifen you are at an increased risk of uterine cancer, so he said they "might as well" take out my uterus while they're in there. My oncological surgeon's PA was shocked by this and asked me to get a second opinion. I met again with the humorless German female oncologist who first treated me. She gave me two options: Tamoxifen for 10 years or an oophorectomy (removal of my ovaries) followed by 5 years of Arimidex (which she claimed is "better" than Tamoxifen). She said that the risk of uterine cancer from Tamoxifen is 1 in 1000 and none of them have been fatal, so she would not recommend that more extreme surgery and said that it has a four week recovery time (compared to 2-3 days with the oophorectomy). She told me she would choose the second option if it were her.
Some people might appreciate these options. The problem is that it gives me the illusion that I have some control over my ultimate fate. I feel like I'm choosing between not doing enough and getting cancer again (Tamoxifen alone) or going overboard and becoming a menopausal monster at age 34 (the oophorectomy will immediately put me into menopause).
As a Christian, I know that my future is in God's hands, but He has now put this decision in front of me- and it's a life or death decision. So I have been researching until my fingers bleed, hoping that something or someone will make the answers clear to me. I have given myself permission to wait and think for just a little while, but waiting even a little while scares me. Because I am premenopausal I think I have decided that I will try Tamoxifen first instead of Arimidex, but I will wait until I have adjusted to my "new normal." I want to be feeling my best and be prepared for whatever side effects may head my way. I know that, ultimately, I must have the surgery to minimize my risk. If I don't, and something comes back, I will never forgive myself. I'm just not ready to commit, though. I've lost so much of what makes me a woman already- I'm just not ready to give anything else up quite yet. I'll decide and commit before Christmas and I think I'll have the surgery by my birthday in May. I wrote it down so I'm committed. I'm also writing this down- I'm going to run a half marathon in 2014. It's something that I have said for years I would never, and could never, do. I've never run farther than five miles. On the other hand, until last year I had never seen someone I love die. I didn't think I could survive it, but I did. Until this year, I had never had cancer invade my body. I didn't think I could make it through, but I have. I assume I'm incapable of running 13.1 miles next year, but I'm thinking maybe I could be wrong, because obviously I've been wrong before. Now I just have to prove it to myself.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
My Self
I know I wrote about perspective yesterday. I know I'm supposed to look back at those words and live them. Lead my girls by example. But right now I feel worthless. I feel angry, empty, lost and worthless. I know we all have worth, and I know that I don't deserve anything better than anyone else, I'm just telling you how I feel.
I keep trying as hard as I can. I got dressed and did my hair today. I went out to the mobile mammography unit to hold someone else's hand while she had her first mammogram in decades. The fresh air felt so good. Yesterday I looked at my chest for the first time without crying. I decided to tell myself to be proud of those lines. Those deep, primitive looking wounds that will surely remain there for the rest of my life. I nodded my head in agreement when everyone told me how lucky I was that "they got it early." I talked about how sure I am that I'll be back to work next week. Back to life. Moving on with my "new normal."
By the time I got home three hours later, my body hurt so badly that I could barely walk into the house. I slept the afternoon away and could barely sit up to kiss my sweet babies when they got home. I can't get their drinks at dinner, I can't pack their lunches, I can't help them with their homework, I can't pick them up and hold them when they get hurt, I can't take them to get their hair cut for picture day. I can't help them clean their rooms, I can't hug my husband, I can't snuggle with my puppy, I can't even bend over to tie my own damn shoe. And it hurts. It doesn't matter how many pills I pop, there are hard plastic shells where I once had breasts and they are being drained by 12 inch tubes and sometimes it hurts so much. Sometimes it feels like fire. If I brush my chest with my hand, it feels like I've just jammed a knife in my exposed muscle. Sometimes I'll even have "ghost pains" like an amputee. I feel like a burden. Like a shell of myself. I feel like a terrible Mom and wife.
While I was sleeping half of the day away my oncologist called. The message said they have the results of the test that will gauge the likelihood of my cancer reoccurring. I had been so caught up in recovering from this surgery and moving on with my life that I think I put the idea of chemo right out of my head. The message said that the doctor needs to discuss the results of the test with me in person on Monday. I think I know what that means. I could be wrong, but you know how I feel about hope, so I'm not going to waste my time "hoping." I know that the reality of my cancer is that most women have to follow up with some chemo, I knew in my head that I'll be going into menopause by Christmas, but I was so proud to have faced my fears over the last week that I completely forgot that my battle may only be half over.
Just as I was beginning to force myself to adjust to the new me, I remembered that I don't even know who the 'new me' is. I don't know how to accept the fact that just as I was beginning to like myself, my self is being ripped away from me- cut out of me- poisoned out of me. I don't know myself at all right now. I don't know how to do this. I know I can. I know I have to. But I don't want to.
I keep trying as hard as I can. I got dressed and did my hair today. I went out to the mobile mammography unit to hold someone else's hand while she had her first mammogram in decades. The fresh air felt so good. Yesterday I looked at my chest for the first time without crying. I decided to tell myself to be proud of those lines. Those deep, primitive looking wounds that will surely remain there for the rest of my life. I nodded my head in agreement when everyone told me how lucky I was that "they got it early." I talked about how sure I am that I'll be back to work next week. Back to life. Moving on with my "new normal."
By the time I got home three hours later, my body hurt so badly that I could barely walk into the house. I slept the afternoon away and could barely sit up to kiss my sweet babies when they got home. I can't get their drinks at dinner, I can't pack their lunches, I can't help them with their homework, I can't pick them up and hold them when they get hurt, I can't take them to get their hair cut for picture day. I can't help them clean their rooms, I can't hug my husband, I can't snuggle with my puppy, I can't even bend over to tie my own damn shoe. And it hurts. It doesn't matter how many pills I pop, there are hard plastic shells where I once had breasts and they are being drained by 12 inch tubes and sometimes it hurts so much. Sometimes it feels like fire. If I brush my chest with my hand, it feels like I've just jammed a knife in my exposed muscle. Sometimes I'll even have "ghost pains" like an amputee. I feel like a burden. Like a shell of myself. I feel like a terrible Mom and wife.
While I was sleeping half of the day away my oncologist called. The message said they have the results of the test that will gauge the likelihood of my cancer reoccurring. I had been so caught up in recovering from this surgery and moving on with my life that I think I put the idea of chemo right out of my head. The message said that the doctor needs to discuss the results of the test with me in person on Monday. I think I know what that means. I could be wrong, but you know how I feel about hope, so I'm not going to waste my time "hoping." I know that the reality of my cancer is that most women have to follow up with some chemo, I knew in my head that I'll be going into menopause by Christmas, but I was so proud to have faced my fears over the last week that I completely forgot that my battle may only be half over.
Just as I was beginning to force myself to adjust to the new me, I remembered that I don't even know who the 'new me' is. I don't know how to accept the fact that just as I was beginning to like myself, my self is being ripped away from me- cut out of me- poisoned out of me. I don't know myself at all right now. I don't know how to do this. I know I can. I know I have to. But I don't want to.
Monday, October 7, 2013
Perspective
When we went for a second surgical opinion, I wasn't expecting much. I held a secret hope that they would tell me I was the perfect candidate for the muscle-sparing TRAM flap (aka tummy tuck) surgery. In reality, though, I was just so tired of being touched that I spent the 3-hour drive thinking about how I was probably wasting my time. Either way, someone would eventually be getting this crap out of my body. Perspective.
The female surgeon was very nice and efficient. I felt comforted by the fact that she actually had breasts. . and children. It's like the difference between an OB who has a vagina and one who doesn't. At least if I had to be here, I had finally found someone who could relate to what I was feeling. Perspective.
As she went through the physical portion of the exam, she pressed on my stomach and moved her hands back and forth. I noticed immediately that it hurt. I thought maybe that Subway breakfast sandwich I inhaled on the way over was going to come right back up. She looked at me and said, "what's this?" I said, "Ham and egg white on flat bread?" She said it was a "suspicious mass."
For those of you who don't know, my Daddy had abdominal pain 22 months ago. They sent him for an abdominal CT scan and found the suspicious mass that took him away from us nine months later. So when the surgeon looked at her nurse and said, "get her downstairs for an abdominal CT scan right now," the floor fell out from underneath me. She said she didn't know what it was and that we would investigate. I tried to mumble something about how a suspicious abdominal mass killed my Daddy. Neither John or I remember much else from the meeting. She agreed with most of the other opinions. I wouldn't be a TRAM flap candidate, but the healing time for that would be so much worse anyway, she said. She seemed to think that I would be excited that I would be allowed to keep my nipples. And that there is a 20% chance of necrosis of the nipple. Yeah- that means it dies and falls off- so sexy. Then she told me that it would be at least another month before they could do my surgery. Suddenly Mr. Magoo was looking a little better. Perspective.
We listened as long as we could before we told her that all we wanted to do was get the CT scan over. It was like we were in some alternate universe where they didn't understand that they were causing us the greatest degree of mental distress possible. I wanted to scream at them and run.
They walked us downstairs where a nice man in his 50's who reminded me of my Daddy told me that I would have to drink 44 ounces of nuclear fruit punch and sit around for 90 minutes thinking about dying before he could even do the scan. I wandered around the hospital shop looking at wigs and with every sip I wondered if I would even have the chance to wear one. Perspective.
As we sat, we never uttered a single word. We thought I was dying. I wondered if I would get longer than nine months. John wondered what he would do without me. I wondered why God was punishing me.
After about two hours, they took me back and injected me with some hot radioactive dye. As I started to cry, I explained to the nice man that it was my 10th anniversary and I thought I was dying like my Daddy. He told me he would make sure I wouldn't have to wait until Monday for my results.
While we sat back in the waiting room, two middle-aged women with breast cancer sat and talked loudly about how horrible chemo is and how their bodies went to shit once they stopped producing estrogen. If I hadn't been so scared that I was dying, I would have kicked both of them right in the head. At that moment I felt so abandoned by God- almost as if Satan himself was laughing at how terrified I was.
After half an hour the nice man brought the phone in with my doctor on the other end. I held my breath as she told me that I had an anomaly that I was born with. It's called a horseshoe kidney. My kidneys are fused together in a horseshoe shape and are slightly enlarged, but they are functioning perfectly and it's completely harmless. Are you f*ing kidding me?! We ran out of that hospital as quickly as we could. We sat in the car and watched two young hipsters get into their Prius with their Starbucks Vente Latte's and we cussed at them just for fun. We sat in our sound proof car and told them how they better appreciate their perfect f*ing yuppy cancer-free life with no mysterious stomach masses and perfect f*ing boobs.
At our over-priced anniversary meal, John looked at me with a huge smile and said, "this is the best anniversary ever." I stared at him with a very clear "what the F are you talking about- this is the WORST anniversary I could ever have imagined," look. "It's the best anniversary ever because you're not dying," he said, "and I can't make it without you." Perspective.
The female surgeon was very nice and efficient. I felt comforted by the fact that she actually had breasts. . and children. It's like the difference between an OB who has a vagina and one who doesn't. At least if I had to be here, I had finally found someone who could relate to what I was feeling. Perspective.
As she went through the physical portion of the exam, she pressed on my stomach and moved her hands back and forth. I noticed immediately that it hurt. I thought maybe that Subway breakfast sandwich I inhaled on the way over was going to come right back up. She looked at me and said, "what's this?" I said, "Ham and egg white on flat bread?" She said it was a "suspicious mass."
For those of you who don't know, my Daddy had abdominal pain 22 months ago. They sent him for an abdominal CT scan and found the suspicious mass that took him away from us nine months later. So when the surgeon looked at her nurse and said, "get her downstairs for an abdominal CT scan right now," the floor fell out from underneath me. She said she didn't know what it was and that we would investigate. I tried to mumble something about how a suspicious abdominal mass killed my Daddy. Neither John or I remember much else from the meeting. She agreed with most of the other opinions. I wouldn't be a TRAM flap candidate, but the healing time for that would be so much worse anyway, she said. She seemed to think that I would be excited that I would be allowed to keep my nipples. And that there is a 20% chance of necrosis of the nipple. Yeah- that means it dies and falls off- so sexy. Then she told me that it would be at least another month before they could do my surgery. Suddenly Mr. Magoo was looking a little better. Perspective.
We listened as long as we could before we told her that all we wanted to do was get the CT scan over. It was like we were in some alternate universe where they didn't understand that they were causing us the greatest degree of mental distress possible. I wanted to scream at them and run.
They walked us downstairs where a nice man in his 50's who reminded me of my Daddy told me that I would have to drink 44 ounces of nuclear fruit punch and sit around for 90 minutes thinking about dying before he could even do the scan. I wandered around the hospital shop looking at wigs and with every sip I wondered if I would even have the chance to wear one. Perspective.
As we sat, we never uttered a single word. We thought I was dying. I wondered if I would get longer than nine months. John wondered what he would do without me. I wondered why God was punishing me.
After about two hours, they took me back and injected me with some hot radioactive dye. As I started to cry, I explained to the nice man that it was my 10th anniversary and I thought I was dying like my Daddy. He told me he would make sure I wouldn't have to wait until Monday for my results.
While we sat back in the waiting room, two middle-aged women with breast cancer sat and talked loudly about how horrible chemo is and how their bodies went to shit once they stopped producing estrogen. If I hadn't been so scared that I was dying, I would have kicked both of them right in the head. At that moment I felt so abandoned by God- almost as if Satan himself was laughing at how terrified I was.
After half an hour the nice man brought the phone in with my doctor on the other end. I held my breath as she told me that I had an anomaly that I was born with. It's called a horseshoe kidney. My kidneys are fused together in a horseshoe shape and are slightly enlarged, but they are functioning perfectly and it's completely harmless. Are you f*ing kidding me?! We ran out of that hospital as quickly as we could. We sat in the car and watched two young hipsters get into their Prius with their Starbucks Vente Latte's and we cussed at them just for fun. We sat in our sound proof car and told them how they better appreciate their perfect f*ing yuppy cancer-free life with no mysterious stomach masses and perfect f*ing boobs.
At our over-priced anniversary meal, John looked at me with a huge smile and said, "this is the best anniversary ever." I stared at him with a very clear "what the F are you talking about- this is the WORST anniversary I could ever have imagined," look. "It's the best anniversary ever because you're not dying," he said, "and I can't make it without you." Perspective.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Cancer positives
Man, oh, man cancer is exhausting. I want to whine about it so bad, but I remind myself of the women fighting a stage 4 who will never be able to relax- who have no end to the doctor's appointments, the long drives, the theories, the blood draws, the medical bills, the questions. Still, I'm tired.
We had a second opinion on Monday from the wonderful man who was my Daddy's oncologist. He started the visit by asking me what the hell I was doing there and telling me how shocked he was to see me. I was so relieved when he told me that he shared my feeling that there must be a link to Daddy's cancer and that he would be looking for studies we could help with. I learned during that visit that my cancer started growing about two years ago. You know what that means, don't you? That I actually probably had cancer even before we knew about Daddy's. That is SO creepy. All of those hours in that chemo center and I had no idea that could be my recliner in a year. Part of me almost wishes that we had known, that Daddy and I could have shared our journey on an even deeper level, but I know that the stress of that would not have helped him. I'll settle for the thought that when I meet him again in heaven I'll have one hell of a story for him.
Dr. H also said that he will not make a determination on chemo until I have the Oncotype DX test. This is a relatively new technology that will determine my risk of reoccurance. He went so far as to give me a 70/30 chance that I WON'T need chemo. I think this freaked DH out. Chemo is associated with killing the monster and it seems that he's afraid that this technology could be wrong. For now we have to wait for pathology to come back on the tumor. The doc also said that the Tamoxifen is a must for 5-10 years and he wants me to have a hysterectomy. Right now I'm not terribly bothered by that idea. It will eliminate my chances of ovarian and uterine cancer so I know it's a necessary evil. I wonder, though, how I will feel when at age 34 I have virtually nothing of my own that makes me a woman. He is sending us to meet with a surgeon in a bigger city this week. We will explore whether her hospital performs any of the other "flap" surgeries and if I would be a candidate for them. I'm not holding my breath, but it should be interesting.
I'm in a place now that leaves me feeling a little numb. I'm somewhere between being resigned to the idea of this life change and terrified of what lies ahead. Over the last couple of weeks, though, I have been making note of the good things about having cancer. Yep, they exist.
-You never know how much you're loved until you're sick. I wouldn't wish this on anyone, but if everyone could have the opportunity to feel as loved as I feel now, the world would be a much better place.
-The little things become much less important. The only things that really matter right now are my health and the well being of my family. Isn't that how we should all try to view life?
-Cancer forces you to learn how to say 'NO.' I am famous (or infamous) for saying yes until I am completely burned out. It has led to personal and marital distress more than once. There are so many things to which I would love to give my time, but right now there's barely enough time to get to doctor's appointments and raise the girls. While it has been an adjustment, it has also simplified things and given me a really good excuse to avoid distractions.
-I have a built-in excuse to go shopping. After all, I only have one button-down shirt and nothing in pink. I have to wear pink now, right?
-Cancer makes mean people nicer. True story. Especially older people. There's an exceptionally grumpy older man at my work who, prior to this week, referred to me as "that girl" (on a good day) and was wholly disapproving of my entire existence. After he found out about the cancer he began calling me "that pretty little girl" and telling me that I'm doing a good job. And yes, I am going to milk that one a little bit.
-Cancer has helped me grow a pair (and I'm not talking about boobs). Sorry, but it's true. I mean I had a pretty good pair before, but now they're really big. You wanna shoot dye into my arm and shove me in a giant machine? Cool. You wanna put a long needle in my chest and pull the trigger? Sounds good. Cut my boobs off and sew some plastic balloons in there? Let's do it. I don't want my girls to see a fearful person when they see me. I don't want to see that in myself. So I have no choice but to become stronger and more brave. (As I write this I realize that Daddy probably experienced this same feeling).
-I am humbled. I mean big, big time. It's not in the size of the things people give or do for us, but in the love they put into it. I am so amazed and humbled by the thoughtfulness people have shown me that I know I will come through this as a more thoughtful and loving person. Sometimes I am actually embarrassed by the love and attention, but receiving it is teaching me what it means to truly be humbled.
-Cancer makes you nicer. Those people closest to me might disagree because they have heard a great deal of profanity out of me lately, but truly it makes you so conscious of the fact that everyone is fighting a battle. That person in Wal-Mart or the car in front of you may be fighting a battle even worse than mine. We might as well be nice to each other.
-In my fear I have no choice but to try to become closer to God. I'm not really very good at it, but who else is there to hear my jumbled thoughts at one in the morning? God and I have some major work to do, but I know He's there and I'm working on intentionally building that relationship.
We had a second opinion on Monday from the wonderful man who was my Daddy's oncologist. He started the visit by asking me what the hell I was doing there and telling me how shocked he was to see me. I was so relieved when he told me that he shared my feeling that there must be a link to Daddy's cancer and that he would be looking for studies we could help with. I learned during that visit that my cancer started growing about two years ago. You know what that means, don't you? That I actually probably had cancer even before we knew about Daddy's. That is SO creepy. All of those hours in that chemo center and I had no idea that could be my recliner in a year. Part of me almost wishes that we had known, that Daddy and I could have shared our journey on an even deeper level, but I know that the stress of that would not have helped him. I'll settle for the thought that when I meet him again in heaven I'll have one hell of a story for him.
Dr. H also said that he will not make a determination on chemo until I have the Oncotype DX test. This is a relatively new technology that will determine my risk of reoccurance. He went so far as to give me a 70/30 chance that I WON'T need chemo. I think this freaked DH out. Chemo is associated with killing the monster and it seems that he's afraid that this technology could be wrong. For now we have to wait for pathology to come back on the tumor. The doc also said that the Tamoxifen is a must for 5-10 years and he wants me to have a hysterectomy. Right now I'm not terribly bothered by that idea. It will eliminate my chances of ovarian and uterine cancer so I know it's a necessary evil. I wonder, though, how I will feel when at age 34 I have virtually nothing of my own that makes me a woman. He is sending us to meet with a surgeon in a bigger city this week. We will explore whether her hospital performs any of the other "flap" surgeries and if I would be a candidate for them. I'm not holding my breath, but it should be interesting.
I'm in a place now that leaves me feeling a little numb. I'm somewhere between being resigned to the idea of this life change and terrified of what lies ahead. Over the last couple of weeks, though, I have been making note of the good things about having cancer. Yep, they exist.
-You never know how much you're loved until you're sick. I wouldn't wish this on anyone, but if everyone could have the opportunity to feel as loved as I feel now, the world would be a much better place.
-The little things become much less important. The only things that really matter right now are my health and the well being of my family. Isn't that how we should all try to view life?
-Cancer forces you to learn how to say 'NO.' I am famous (or infamous) for saying yes until I am completely burned out. It has led to personal and marital distress more than once. There are so many things to which I would love to give my time, but right now there's barely enough time to get to doctor's appointments and raise the girls. While it has been an adjustment, it has also simplified things and given me a really good excuse to avoid distractions.
-I have a built-in excuse to go shopping. After all, I only have one button-down shirt and nothing in pink. I have to wear pink now, right?
-Cancer makes mean people nicer. True story. Especially older people. There's an exceptionally grumpy older man at my work who, prior to this week, referred to me as "that girl" (on a good day) and was wholly disapproving of my entire existence. After he found out about the cancer he began calling me "that pretty little girl" and telling me that I'm doing a good job. And yes, I am going to milk that one a little bit.
-Cancer has helped me grow a pair (and I'm not talking about boobs). Sorry, but it's true. I mean I had a pretty good pair before, but now they're really big. You wanna shoot dye into my arm and shove me in a giant machine? Cool. You wanna put a long needle in my chest and pull the trigger? Sounds good. Cut my boobs off and sew some plastic balloons in there? Let's do it. I don't want my girls to see a fearful person when they see me. I don't want to see that in myself. So I have no choice but to become stronger and more brave. (As I write this I realize that Daddy probably experienced this same feeling).
-I am humbled. I mean big, big time. It's not in the size of the things people give or do for us, but in the love they put into it. I am so amazed and humbled by the thoughtfulness people have shown me that I know I will come through this as a more thoughtful and loving person. Sometimes I am actually embarrassed by the love and attention, but receiving it is teaching me what it means to truly be humbled.
-Cancer makes you nicer. Those people closest to me might disagree because they have heard a great deal of profanity out of me lately, but truly it makes you so conscious of the fact that everyone is fighting a battle. That person in Wal-Mart or the car in front of you may be fighting a battle even worse than mine. We might as well be nice to each other.
-In my fear I have no choice but to try to become closer to God. I'm not really very good at it, but who else is there to hear my jumbled thoughts at one in the morning? God and I have some major work to do, but I know He's there and I'm working on intentionally building that relationship.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Nuns and Mr. Magoo
I have a bad attitude. I'm just going to tell you that right off the bat. I know I'm letting some of you down- I'm letting myself down. I want so badly to set a good example for my girls and to have an attitude of thankfulness, but it's just not there today. Or yesterday. But this blog is about honesty and reality, so here's my reality.
I'm so frustrated and angry and scared that I really want to crawl into a hole and stay there for a good long while. Not because I don't love my life, but because I'm so tired of all of this and I'd like to go somewhere it can't find me for a while.
I miss my 3-weeks-ago-life. More than I could possibly express to you. I miss just being able to enjoy my babies and my new job. Everything now is scarred. My joyful things have the scar of cancer across them- again- and I am really, super angry about it. Some people have said that it's good to get angry- that I can channel it towards the cancer, but this isn't that kind of anger. It's aimless and random- hard to explain. It's not the kind of anger that makes you want to fight- it's the kind that makes you want to run.
I know I said I don't 'hope' for much, but the doctors had given me some concrete (I thought) positive news. There was a chance that I wouldn't need chemo and that I would be able to have a flap reconstruction that would mean a one-step surgery and great results to look forward to. Today I learned that my tumor has already grown in size and I can count on chemo. A few months worth at least. And apparently all of that hard work I put into losing weight and getting healthy means that I don't have enough fat and skin to perform a flap surgery. That means a 6-12 month process before the painful and embarrassing reconstruction process is complete. To make matters worse, I just couldn't stand the surgeon. It's not really anything he did or didn't do- I just don't like him. Of course it didn't work to his favor that he was about the 10th person this week to ask me the same 30 questions and then make me take my clothes off so he could poke me like the guy from the 'Operation' game. Also he appeared to be 80 years old and mostly blind.
I think maybe I was having a premonition yesterday. I woke up depressed and grumpy. Pissed off that I can't even crack an eyeball in the morning without the word 'cancer' being immediately present in my brain. I tried to listen to my 'screw cancer' songs on the way to work, but then got a notification that I had almost reached my data limit, so I had to turn on the radio. There was a nun speaking on the Catholic station and she sounded so old and sweet that I felt guilty changing it, so I started listening. I'll be damned if she didn't start talking about how we need to treat the challenges in our lives as blessings and lessons from God- and accept them with grace. Then she talked about a 45-year-old sister who had very advanced cancer and how much she admired this woman because all she wanted to do was enjoy whatever time she had left with her sisters and her God. Geez. I felt like such a whiny baby. I know that particular message was meant for me, and I tried so hard to soak it in, but it just kind of bounced off my heart. So then when I got the news today from Mr. Magoo I was just so incredibly mad, and not in a good productive way, but in a "I'm going to punch the nearest person and then drink too much" way. Finally the question of which of my many sins brought this particular punishment upon me crossed my mind. Yes, I know that all indications are that God doesn't work that way, but if you have met a sick person who hasn't wondered it nonetheless, I'd like to meet them. (Okay, so that nun probably never wondered that, but she doesn't count). And that's when I really began mourning my three-weeks-ago life.
Three weeks ago I could go to the grocery store without wondering what food I needed for the freezer meals I would make to get my family through. I could go to work without spending the whole day wondering what my new boss would think of me when I'm gone for a month. I could get dressed without staring at myself- trying to take in what it looks like so I can remember next month when it's gone. I could brush my hair without thinking about how much I have taken it for granted and how much I'm going to miss it. I could exercise without wondering what it will feel like after they cut through my muscles. I could look at my husband and not wonder what he will think of me when I'm bald and scarred. I could cuddle with the girls without thinking about how I won't be able to hold them close to my chest for months. I could yell at them without thinking about whether they would have good memories of me if I die on the operating table. And as much as I want to be positive and uplifting, I can't help but wonder what will be next. What if, in a few months, something else happens and THIS becomes my three-weeks ago life? While most days I can be thankful that we caught it early and I am lucky, these are the other kinds of days. The days when I remember that being "lucky" today does not, in fact, exempt me from further unluckiness in the future. And that's just kind of a crapper.
I'm so frustrated and angry and scared that I really want to crawl into a hole and stay there for a good long while. Not because I don't love my life, but because I'm so tired of all of this and I'd like to go somewhere it can't find me for a while.
I miss my 3-weeks-ago-life. More than I could possibly express to you. I miss just being able to enjoy my babies and my new job. Everything now is scarred. My joyful things have the scar of cancer across them- again- and I am really, super angry about it. Some people have said that it's good to get angry- that I can channel it towards the cancer, but this isn't that kind of anger. It's aimless and random- hard to explain. It's not the kind of anger that makes you want to fight- it's the kind that makes you want to run.
I know I said I don't 'hope' for much, but the doctors had given me some concrete (I thought) positive news. There was a chance that I wouldn't need chemo and that I would be able to have a flap reconstruction that would mean a one-step surgery and great results to look forward to. Today I learned that my tumor has already grown in size and I can count on chemo. A few months worth at least. And apparently all of that hard work I put into losing weight and getting healthy means that I don't have enough fat and skin to perform a flap surgery. That means a 6-12 month process before the painful and embarrassing reconstruction process is complete. To make matters worse, I just couldn't stand the surgeon. It's not really anything he did or didn't do- I just don't like him. Of course it didn't work to his favor that he was about the 10th person this week to ask me the same 30 questions and then make me take my clothes off so he could poke me like the guy from the 'Operation' game. Also he appeared to be 80 years old and mostly blind.
I think maybe I was having a premonition yesterday. I woke up depressed and grumpy. Pissed off that I can't even crack an eyeball in the morning without the word 'cancer' being immediately present in my brain. I tried to listen to my 'screw cancer' songs on the way to work, but then got a notification that I had almost reached my data limit, so I had to turn on the radio. There was a nun speaking on the Catholic station and she sounded so old and sweet that I felt guilty changing it, so I started listening. I'll be damned if she didn't start talking about how we need to treat the challenges in our lives as blessings and lessons from God- and accept them with grace. Then she talked about a 45-year-old sister who had very advanced cancer and how much she admired this woman because all she wanted to do was enjoy whatever time she had left with her sisters and her God. Geez. I felt like such a whiny baby. I know that particular message was meant for me, and I tried so hard to soak it in, but it just kind of bounced off my heart. So then when I got the news today from Mr. Magoo I was just so incredibly mad, and not in a good productive way, but in a "I'm going to punch the nearest person and then drink too much" way. Finally the question of which of my many sins brought this particular punishment upon me crossed my mind. Yes, I know that all indications are that God doesn't work that way, but if you have met a sick person who hasn't wondered it nonetheless, I'd like to meet them. (Okay, so that nun probably never wondered that, but she doesn't count). And that's when I really began mourning my three-weeks-ago life.
Three weeks ago I could go to the grocery store without wondering what food I needed for the freezer meals I would make to get my family through. I could go to work without spending the whole day wondering what my new boss would think of me when I'm gone for a month. I could get dressed without staring at myself- trying to take in what it looks like so I can remember next month when it's gone. I could brush my hair without thinking about how much I have taken it for granted and how much I'm going to miss it. I could exercise without wondering what it will feel like after they cut through my muscles. I could look at my husband and not wonder what he will think of me when I'm bald and scarred. I could cuddle with the girls without thinking about how I won't be able to hold them close to my chest for months. I could yell at them without thinking about whether they would have good memories of me if I die on the operating table. And as much as I want to be positive and uplifting, I can't help but wonder what will be next. What if, in a few months, something else happens and THIS becomes my three-weeks ago life? While most days I can be thankful that we caught it early and I am lucky, these are the other kinds of days. The days when I remember that being "lucky" today does not, in fact, exempt me from further unluckiness in the future. And that's just kind of a crapper.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Miles to go
Man, I love control. I crave it- demand it even. Sometimes I don't even know I'm doing it. I think most Mothers have some level of desire or need to control- just so we don't wake up with one of those pretty white coats on. But there may be some of us who go a smidge too far. I'm one of them. Hi, my name's Angela and I'm a control addict.
Yes, to some degree, when Daddy was sick I learned that control is an illusion. At least as it pertains to our eternal fate. And even now, with my cancer, I find myself wondering what it's all for. The exercise, the healthy diet, the not-smoking. None of it made a damn bit of difference because I couldn't control my destiny when it came to developing cancer anymore than Daddy could. So you'd think that would lighten the grip that this perpetual need to control has on me. It wasn't enough, though. I still found myself panicking over what the girls are going to eat, who is going to drive them around, what if their hair and clothes make them look like rag-a-muffins because I can't dress them, who is going to scrub my toilets, what if the lack of mobility in my arms means I can't wipe my own butt?
Oh dear Lord.
But over the last week, so many people have shown up. I don't mean just verbally. They've brought me lunch (and alcohol), they've cut my hair, they've picked my girls up, done my laundry, forced me to go have a massage and traveled two hours to come to my doctor's visits. Suddenly today, I realized that I was breathing. And not the "into a paper bag" type of breathing. The calm kind. I have no control over my disease, and life or death decisions are being made for me, but I'm (kinda sorta) okay. That's the gift that people have given me- and it's the same one you can give someone when they get sick. You can do something- just one thing- the way they would want it if they were still in control. What an amazing feeling it is to be on the other end of that love. I just hope I don't get too used to it because I'm guessing ya'll are gonna expect me to do my own laundry and drive my own kids around by the time this is all over, right?
Yesterday we got some "good" news. My cancer is Estrogen-receptor positive or ER+/PR+. This is, technically, a good thing. It means that Estrogen causes my cancer to grow, so if I take an estrogen blocker for the next 5-10 years then I have a lower chance of reoccurance. The medicine you take is called Tamoxifen and is difficult for some people to tolerate- it also forces you into menopause. We also learned that my cancer is growing at a rate that causes it to increase in stage every 2-3 months. Wow! Do you know what that would have meant if I would have waited 6 more months to go to the doctor? Do the math. Then make a doctor's appointment.
As I digested that news, my thoughts went to a healthy 29-year-old mother living with stage 4 metastatic breast cancer, which is essentially incurable. She, like me, went for a regular check-up when her two tumors were discovered- and by that point it had spread to her back and several other locations. No rhyme or reason- no family history. My geneticist said that two things have to happen in your life for cancer to occur. You will probably never know what two things they were. One happens earlier in life, and if the second one occurs, BOOM- hello, tumor. So I sat there thanking God that the odds are so generously in my favor- unlike so many other women. Then the thought occured to me, "is this IT??" Am I going to spend the rest of my life just accepting whatever crappy thing rolls along and begging God just to not make it any worse? Is that how it's supposed to work? I know God is not in the bargaining business, so I realize that any kind of begging is probably a waste of time. So how, then, does God make his decisions? I know it's kind of like asking "where did God come from?" I'll never be able to answer it. But yesterday I was really miffed that I can no longer be naive and just pray for things like a raise at work or good weather for my yard sale. Those seem like such a waste now that I'm busy praying that my cancer doesn't spread while I wait for surgery.
I experienced some of this during Daddy's illness, though, and while it may sound pessimistic, it's actually been helpful. I don't "hope" for things anymore. When he was first sick, I hoped and hoped and hoped that something would change. It didn't. So I quit hoping and just resigned myself to learning to accept the inevitable. I thought this was "unchristian" of me until I read a life-changing article about how the idea of "having hope" often contributes to cancer patients stress. So now, frankly, "hope" doesn't really cross my mind. Part of me even fears that the more I "hope" it won't happen- the more likely it is that it WILL happen. So I've started asking God to help me deal with whatever He throws my way. And I usually squeeze in, "but if you could stop throwing sucky things at me, that would be AWESOME." Is that wrong? When the bible talks about "faith, hope and love" being the three most important things, am I exhibiting a lack of faith if I don't "hope" for something better? Also, is it wrong to use the word "sucky" when I'm speaking to my Heavenly Father? Just asking.
Yes, to some degree, when Daddy was sick I learned that control is an illusion. At least as it pertains to our eternal fate. And even now, with my cancer, I find myself wondering what it's all for. The exercise, the healthy diet, the not-smoking. None of it made a damn bit of difference because I couldn't control my destiny when it came to developing cancer anymore than Daddy could. So you'd think that would lighten the grip that this perpetual need to control has on me. It wasn't enough, though. I still found myself panicking over what the girls are going to eat, who is going to drive them around, what if their hair and clothes make them look like rag-a-muffins because I can't dress them, who is going to scrub my toilets, what if the lack of mobility in my arms means I can't wipe my own butt?
Oh dear Lord.
But over the last week, so many people have shown up. I don't mean just verbally. They've brought me lunch (and alcohol), they've cut my hair, they've picked my girls up, done my laundry, forced me to go have a massage and traveled two hours to come to my doctor's visits. Suddenly today, I realized that I was breathing. And not the "into a paper bag" type of breathing. The calm kind. I have no control over my disease, and life or death decisions are being made for me, but I'm (kinda sorta) okay. That's the gift that people have given me- and it's the same one you can give someone when they get sick. You can do something- just one thing- the way they would want it if they were still in control. What an amazing feeling it is to be on the other end of that love. I just hope I don't get too used to it because I'm guessing ya'll are gonna expect me to do my own laundry and drive my own kids around by the time this is all over, right?
Yesterday we got some "good" news. My cancer is Estrogen-receptor positive or ER+/PR+. This is, technically, a good thing. It means that Estrogen causes my cancer to grow, so if I take an estrogen blocker for the next 5-10 years then I have a lower chance of reoccurance. The medicine you take is called Tamoxifen and is difficult for some people to tolerate- it also forces you into menopause. We also learned that my cancer is growing at a rate that causes it to increase in stage every 2-3 months. Wow! Do you know what that would have meant if I would have waited 6 more months to go to the doctor? Do the math. Then make a doctor's appointment.
As I digested that news, my thoughts went to a healthy 29-year-old mother living with stage 4 metastatic breast cancer, which is essentially incurable. She, like me, went for a regular check-up when her two tumors were discovered- and by that point it had spread to her back and several other locations. No rhyme or reason- no family history. My geneticist said that two things have to happen in your life for cancer to occur. You will probably never know what two things they were. One happens earlier in life, and if the second one occurs, BOOM- hello, tumor. So I sat there thanking God that the odds are so generously in my favor- unlike so many other women. Then the thought occured to me, "is this IT??" Am I going to spend the rest of my life just accepting whatever crappy thing rolls along and begging God just to not make it any worse? Is that how it's supposed to work? I know God is not in the bargaining business, so I realize that any kind of begging is probably a waste of time. So how, then, does God make his decisions? I know it's kind of like asking "where did God come from?" I'll never be able to answer it. But yesterday I was really miffed that I can no longer be naive and just pray for things like a raise at work or good weather for my yard sale. Those seem like such a waste now that I'm busy praying that my cancer doesn't spread while I wait for surgery.
I experienced some of this during Daddy's illness, though, and while it may sound pessimistic, it's actually been helpful. I don't "hope" for things anymore. When he was first sick, I hoped and hoped and hoped that something would change. It didn't. So I quit hoping and just resigned myself to learning to accept the inevitable. I thought this was "unchristian" of me until I read a life-changing article about how the idea of "having hope" often contributes to cancer patients stress. So now, frankly, "hope" doesn't really cross my mind. Part of me even fears that the more I "hope" it won't happen- the more likely it is that it WILL happen. So I've started asking God to help me deal with whatever He throws my way. And I usually squeeze in, "but if you could stop throwing sucky things at me, that would be AWESOME." Is that wrong? When the bible talks about "faith, hope and love" being the three most important things, am I exhibiting a lack of faith if I don't "hope" for something better? Also, is it wrong to use the word "sucky" when I'm speaking to my Heavenly Father? Just asking.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)