Raining inside and out

The potatoes are bursting through the soil.  The tiny popcorn rows are discernible. The onions reaching tall and green while their friends the garlic fattened and branch.  We received about an inch of rain to our dry spring soil.  Very needed for, well, for, just about everything.  I had tried to do some weeding around the raspberries yesterday but the ground was so hard all I did was club the soil to death.

Today it is cloudy, windy and chilly.  A 25 degree temperature drop since yesterday.  And today was round 3 of A/C chemo.  What can I say?  It feels like a long trek.  And I am tired.  My dear friend Kathy stopped for a brief visit during the infusion.  She brought us yummy tuna fish dinner (Thank you Kathy!) and chocolate chocolate chip cookies.  Sure to make the family happy.

I cried crocodile tears after she left. Raining on my inside and leaking out. I so just needed someone to tell me this was going to be OK.  That I will make it through this round....yet again....and...and... I just don't know.  Probably just over tired.

"In peace I will both lie down and sleep; for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety." (Psalm 4:8)

Today's Journey Joys:  thoughtful and competent nurses, an infusion room to myself, friends and their amazing ways to show love and care, plants that are growing.

Broken Hallelujah

Ally and I 

This past weekend my wonderful, giving, loving, honest, and hard working sister came to visit and help me plant, pull weeds, love on my children, and laugh.  I couldn't let her do all the work so of course I was right next to her....ok, maybe a little behind.  But it was absolutely grand sharing spring with her.

Today, I think the adriamycin and cytoxan effects of anemia must be kickin' in.  I am spent.  Tired.  Yet not sleepy.  Easily fatigued.  But rest does not help.  At least I am eating.... it helps take the nasty taste out of my mouth. Perhaps I'll gain some of that 20 pounds I lost with taxol.

Today, this is my song.  (Broken Hallelujah, The Afters)

I can barely stand right now
Everything is crashing down
And I wonder where You are
I try to find the words to pray
I don't always know what to say
But You're the one who can hear my heart

Even though I don't know what your plan is
I know You're making beauty from these ashes

I've seen joy and I've seen pain
On my knees, I call Your name
Here's my broken hallelujah
With nothing left to hold onto
I raise these empty hands to You
Here's my broken hallelujah

You know the things that have brought me here
You know the story of every tear
‘Cause You've been here from the very start

When all is taken away
Don't let my heart be changed
Let me always sing hallelujah
When I feel afraid
Don't let my hope be erased
Let me always sing hallelujah

Hallelujah
I will always sing
Here's my broken hallelujah

Journey Joys: Bluebells blooming radiantly, 22 baby chicks hatching today (ah, make that 23), breakfast with Lynne, sunshine and warmth, ham and potato casserole (thanks Burt!), and yummy chocolate dipped cookies.

Blooming Flowers

Early Spring blue bells after drenching rain.  Often the first flower in bloom.

Three varieties of rocambole and stiff neck garlic.  Yum.

Today was another day of chemo.  I had started writing prior to going, hoping that I would finish when I was there.  But I shared a room with a very pleasant lady who seemed to need to talk.  So I listened, encouraged, and supported.

Now my head is foggy from medicines and my thoughts, which really need careful articulation, are not forthcoming.  Perhaps tomorrow.

Today's Journey Joys:  blooming flowers, friends providing amazing meals on chemo-day, Ben being inducted into the National Honor Society, medications which help the tummy be not so rumbly, garlic bursting through the mulch.

Ah.... not doing so well

On Tuesday, as you probably recall, I had my first round of Adriamycin and Cytoxan. No problems getting it although I did pee pink the first time I voided (the Adriamycin is red).  After about three hours I went home and all was well.

Today is Monday, and although my energies which I put into planting, painting, and re-staining the deck this past weekend probably are part of the problem.... I, ah....well, I don't feel so well today.  My joints and marrow hurt - literally.  The chest is tight; the heart periodically palpitating; the stomach goo-ey; and the mouth metallic and without taste buds.  I am weary I think.  Tears come to my eyes in a moment. Any moment.

I can deal with the nausea and the fatigue.... it's the pain that has me laid low.  I'm such a wimp.

I took an hour nap today which was comforting at the time... yet the discomfort persists and worsens.  How can I do this well?  How can I respond with grace and love?  How can I be "rejoicing always"?

"I want my smiling mommy." Ally announces at the kitchen table this morning.  And I force a smile.  It takes a lot of precious and sparse energy.  But I do it and she smiles back.

Today's Journey Joys:  beautiful rain on just planted potatoes, Ben getting a 35 on his ACT at 15 years old, Ally girl dodging rain drops, soaked feathered chickens, turtle pie, no mouth sores.

For Michelle

My dear Michelle,

It was a lifetime ago, when I was just fourteen or fifteen, with just divorced parents, and living in a new small town.  And you were born.  First daughter to my oldest sister.  A joy and delight.  A curious wonder of exploration and engagement.  And I was privileged to babysit you after school.  I loved being with you.

You would giggle with those massive blue sparkling eyes and toothless grin.  Your belly jiggling and your arms a’ flapping.  Your favorite word?  “Cookie” of course.  I could never give you enough cookies.  (Don’t tell your mom, but I think between you and me we often emptied the cupboards of nilla wafers.)  I would attempt, and I mean attempt, to feed you that nasty tasting vegetable your mom insisted I give you.  And of course it wouldn’t go in that delightful mouth.  As if you were saying, “If you want sweetness coming out of my mouth, then only sweetness can go in.”  So consequently you would burple and spray the orange pasty stuff all over me, yourself, and that high chair. We would laugh and laugh.  Sometimes to the point of happy tears.  Good memories Michelle.  Ones which I took with me when I started my own parenting.  You taught me much in your early days of journeying.

A couple years later you and your mom and dad moved to the country and a neighbor lady cared for you during the day when your parents were away at work or school.  I do not recall her name.  But I remember her as the lady that taught you about Jesus.  About how he loves the “little children” and how he wants to know you and you to know him.  And although your parents did not appreciate the gift of Jesus this lady was offering, I am deeply grateful she was there, early in your life, to at least give you some knowledge (understanding maybe?) of Jesus. 

Why do I reminisce about days more than thirty years ago? 

Michelle, your deep, breathless, stomach-socking, mind-numbing journey you are embarking on has me aching… longing for you to find something, find Someone, to hold on to.  Your precious dear son – diagnosed with Ewing’s sarcoma – an aggressive primary bone cancer.  Two weeks ago your word was filled with laughter, joy, curiosity, and thoughts of motherhood.  Today, you have pain.  A suffering pain to the core of your mother’s soul. 

I know the cancer Road.  At least some of it.  It is scary, unpredictable, life altering, priority changing.  Your little guy will experience the hard road so much earlier than most.  And your mother’s heart may feel tortured and beaten. 

Every fiber of your being wants to protect your children. 

Every fiber.

Michelle, God may not explain the “why?” of these times.  Knowing the why I believe may not even help.  But what I do know is that God says that regardless of where you are, regardless of what you are experiencing, regardless of the pain, deep and penetrating, that He is and will be with you. 

Grab Him.  Hold tight to Him.  Embrace Him like you will never let go. 

Having Jesus with you during this journey does not guarantee that you will see the cancer go away and your son healed.  I wish it were so.  But it does not.  But, my dear Michelle, God is not afraid of your hurt, your fury, your disbelief, your terror.  Tell him.  Share it with Him.  You will find grace with Him.  And I am confident that you will be strengthened deep within.  That elusive peace, so often hard to experience in a cancer journey, is found by holding on to Jesus. Not positive thoughts, not wishful thinking, not linking to the great universal power. But to Jesus.  Grab hard Michelle.  And when you lose strength, when you lose heart, when your tears have saturated your pillow and your head is throbbing from holding your breath, know that even through these times, though you feel like you can hold no longer… know that He is holding you. 

Has been all the time. 

Talk to Him Michelle.  Begin this journey with Him.  

He will never let you go.

Today's Journey Joys:  medicines for cancer, family who loves deeply, prayers for Michelle and her beautiful family, bees flying, grace-giving God.

"Who shall separate us form the love of Christ?"  (Romans 8:35)  Nothing.  (Keep reading Romans 8:35-39...not even cancer or sorrow can.)

The words do not come...

I'm back home.

On Monday I drove four and a half hours to Rochester to have an echocardiogram, an oncology check up, and three consultations with surgeons and radiation folks.  My head is spinning.

My heart is physically fine.  And so I can continue with the therapy.  A most amazing relief.

Surgery is tentatively scheduled for July 1st.  Bilateral mastectomy with reconstruction.  Plastics doc says I don't have enough fat on my body to use "me" to reconstruct so I have to go with implants.  Radiation follows four weeks after surgery.  Radiation and reconstruction are not good bed fellows. My homework?  To find out if the local radiologists can do some technique called "breath hold radiation".  It is supposed to reduce the exposure of radiation to the heart (and lungs) especially for left sided breast cancers.

I missed my family dearly.  My husband, my son, and my daughter. Even the cats.  I am so grateful  to be home.

I have much to consider.  Deeply thoughtful and reflective.  The Journey seems to be taking a turn....

Today's Journey Joys: journey mercies, strawberries growing, chickens cacklin', warm windy day, food prepared in the refrigerator (thanks Burt!).

Reflections

I started writing this little note today with thoughts of communicating my weariness of the weekly side effects of paclitaxol and other chemo agents.  But when I read it, it sounded so much like complaining and carking.  And the last thing I want to do is to be ungrateful, unthankful, or cynical.  This medicine is making me better, right?  So I highlighted and deleted the whole miserable thing.

I slept so well last evening.  Thank you for praying.  It was the best night of sleep I've had in weeks.  Perhaps it was the pitter-patter of our first big spring rain.  Or the distant rumble of deep thunder.  But I slept well.

I have completed what I've termed "round one" or "phase one" of my treatment.  Four cycles of Herceptin and Perjetta accompanied with twelve straight weeks of paclitaxol.  Next Monday I travel to Mayo for some heart tests and consultations with oncology, general surgery and plastics on Tuesday.  It is during this visit when I need to decide between single or bilateral mastectomy, timing and type of reconstruction, and even whether I want to have the mastectomy surgery done there or locally.  These are huge decisions and I am feeling overwhelmed.  How can I know what is best?  I really don't like any of the options (ok, I'm carking again).  I am conflicted between having surgery here and staying close to my family and getting, what I believe to be, exceptional care at Mayo, four hours away.  And I am frightened by being alone for surgery.  But perhaps Farmer Husband and family can take a few days of vacation this summer and visit the Cities while I'm hanging out in Rochester.  I'm catastrophizing over nothing probably.

I'm just trying to do the best thing.

And the Road has so many forks.  And once down one, the others are closed or not clear to traverse until much further down the path.

What I do know is that after I get back from Mayo next week I will have a few days before "round two" starts.  This chemotherapy regimen is comprised of dose dense Adriamycin and Cytoxan.  The folks at the infusion center tell me this cocktail is a little harder.  More nausea, fatigue, and gastrointestinal side effects.  Likely to have some shifts in my blood counts - white blood cells, red blood cells, platelets, protein, and hemoglobin.  Some of these counts are starting to fall already after these first twelve weeks.  But for the most part they have been very close to "normal".  Dr. Ch. says she will also give me a shot of Neulasta to boost my immune system.  This too has some side effects. And in the midst of the first cycle of this new medicine I must travel for work for a few days.

"Fear not for I am with you.  Be not dismayed for I am your God.  I will strengthen you, I will help you.  I will uphold you with my victorious right hand."  (Isaiah 41:10) - a verse which keeps rolling in my heart and mind. And a reminder that, "Never once, did you ever walk alone..."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ocd8mbGNxdI

"Wherever Jesus may lead us, He goes before us.  If we know not where we go, we know with whom we go.  With such a companion, who will dread the perils of the road?  The journey may be long, but His everlasting arms will carry us to the end." ~ Spurgeon

Today's Journey Joys - slow soaking rain on just-planted onions, friends for lunch dates, tomatoes almost ready to plant, new carpeting in the other house - warm on the toes, restorative rest.