Dealing with the Unexpected

Cancer is all about dealing with the unexpected. Let’s face it. No one expects to get cancer, yet it happens. And if you’re in the wrong end of the line, you’ll deal with it multiple times. I could write volumes on why cancer is an awful Beast that God needs to eradicate with a sweep of His mighty sword, but that’s been done. Sometimes it’s the unexpected that arises during cancer that makes you step back and think about why God is asking me to walk this particular path (and trust me, I ask A LOT). I try not to whine the whole “poor me” scenario since Coach Cathy has a strict limit on the number of pity parties I’m allowed to have, so I try to find those little nuggets of gold among the silt of the river. Sometimes you really have to look. Other times they come right up and smack you along side the head.

Christmas always brings unexpected blessings. This year, we were all nearly asleep around 10:15 when our doorbell rang. Hubby went to the door and found a large gift bag with a huge jar in it. The jar was a Christmas Jar and filled with money. Coins and paper up to the top. We were floored. An anonymous note accompanied the jar along with the book Christmas Jars. I’ve started the book and cried through the first 4 chapters. I also find myself crying at the thought of so many people wanting to bless my family this season. I can’t imagine who pulled this together and why everyone who donated felt led to give to us. I wonder if Mary felt a bit like this that first Christmas. Imagine all these strangers coming up to a cave bringing gifts for your baby. You know who your baby is, but still, he is a baby. I’m not sure she looked as serene as the nativity scenes and paintings make her out to be. After all, she had just given birth! She and Joseph had to be blown away by the sheer volume of blessings their baby boy was receiving.

We went to church Christmas Eve. I decided to go, despite feeling nauseated. I love the candlelight service and singing “Silent Night”. While that was moving enough, I was blown away by the sheer number of people who approached me and asked how I was and that they were praying for me. Some I know, most I didn’t. By the time I got to Pastor Brian, I was crying. As I hugged him, I was trying desperately not to use the shoulder of his shirt as a tissue. I didn’t want him to make a bad impression on those who only come to church on Christmas. When another person brought a plate of cookies just for my sons because she thought I wouldn’t feel up to making cookies for them, that was my breaking point. I cried through the whole service. It’s probably a good thing Momma Renie and Papa Dan weren’t there. I would have found Dan and cried like a baby since he reminds me of my own dad. Since he’s the head usher, that would have made collecting the offering a bit interesting with him walking down an aisle and me clinging to him like some sort of weird snake.

On Christmas, I opened my gifts from Sista Sue. She gave me an Angel of Hope. I think this is for both of us. She is reminding me to always have hope, while she remains hopeful that this cancer will be eradicated from my body. The Dammit Doll is much more practical. When you get mad or stressed, you’re supposed to slam it against the wall saying, “Dammit, Dammit, Dammit.” It’s going to chemo with me. I can’t think of any place more appropriate. I may even share it with a couple of the other regulars I know. Chemo patients are a strange lot, but we always stick together.

Last night, I reflected on my blessings. Yes, I have an incredible family, an amazing posse and friends who support all of us. But it’s more than that. I think God brought these particular blessings to me at this particular time to show me that while chemo sucks, it can be conquered. I have a choice to make this week, continue with my present course of treatment for one more cycle or switch to a new drug. Hubby and I believe that doing one more cycle of this cocktail will finally show significant results. My body is slow to respond to most drugs and the trauma of the DVT’s and liver biopsy, along with stress, make it more difficult. We’ve prayed about it and God hasn’t said not to, so we feel we should give these meds one more shot. A CT is tentatively scheduled for the end of January.

These are never easy decisions. My platelets and hemoglobin are at an all time low meaning I’m tired and cold all the time. El Nino is giving us a very mild winter, but, unlike our neighbors, we use heat because I’m always cold. My kids run around in shorts and T-shirts and I’m wrapped up in fleece blankets. But platelets can be transfused and eventually, I do get warm. Staying the course is the mantra of the day and I try to stick with it.

Embrace the unexpected and celebrate your blessings. Life has no guarantees, that’s why today is called the present. May 2016 bring you health, happiness, peace and a cure for cancer.

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Every Girl Needs a Posse

With Thanksgiving being so close, I did what most people do. I began to count my blessings. Of course, I count my wonderful husband, amazing sons and devoted Mom among my greatest blessings, but I also began to think about that core group that keeps me going. These are the people who link arms to keep Satan away and provide me with the strength to keep putting one foot in front on the other. It occurs to me that every girl (and guy for that matter) needs a posse.

Back in the old West, the sheriff rounded up the most trusted citizens to help him catch cattle rustlers, bank thieves and other nefarious neer-do-wells to maintain law and order. These men were duly deputized to hold up the law and do everything they could to ensure that justice and order were kept. In the same way, my posse does everything it can to ensure my life has some semblance of order and they support me just like the posse supported the sheriff.

At this time of giving thanks, I’d like to give a shout out to my own posse and publicly acknowledge their ongoing love and support no matter the season.

Despite being at Learning Tree together for eight years, it wasn’t until three years ago that Coach Cathy and I truly became acquainted. Shortly before my hysterectomy, she introduced herself and explained she’d had one a few years before and was a breast cancer survivor. After my surgery, she checked in with me and once it was determined that I did have cancer, I asked her to be my “Coach.” She agreed and became the person I called when my scalp itched before my hair fell out. I cried on her shoulder when I felt like I’d been scraped off the bottom of a boot. I rejoiced with her every time my tumor marker went down. She was my cheerleader and never let me feel too sorry for myself.

As I face my second battle with cancer, Cathy has moved from “Coach” to Chief Cheerleader. During the long weeks of continual testing following my diagnosis, she let me cry on her shoulder with astounding regularity. However, one Monday at co-op, she quickly announced that we were done crying. It was time to laugh. And I’ve followed her advice ever since, even to the point of dressing up my IV pole as “IVan Polesky,” complete with a dapper hat. We have eaten vanilla pudding out of a mayonnaise jar and made jokes about cancer. She is the first to stop a pity party since a party only truly exists if there are margaritas involved. I love Cathy and am eternally grateful that God placed her in my life. It’s so much fun to have a friend who can look at you and say, “Cancer sucks,” and knows it’s true.

If Cathy is my cheerleader, Mamma Renie is my “second mom.” She is the first to tell me on Sunday morning if I look too tired or if I’m looking fabulous. She and her husband Dan are surrogate grandparents to the Ultimate Bengal Fan and the B-Man. I never worry about them with Momma Renie. They spoil them more than their own grandmothers. Renie is often at our home at 6:30 on a Wednesday morning to send hubby and I off with hugs and greet the boys with a smile on chemo days. Renie is another cancer survivor and when I look at her and say, “I don’t feel good,” (imagine this with a 4-year old whine in my voice), she gives me a hug and lets me cry knowing that I really don’t feel good and there’s not much that can be done about it. I value her wisdom in my battle. When I complained about having metal mouth (a metallic taste that some chemotherapy drugs cause), she immediately recommended Skyline Chili. It works. I tried it today. Two chili cheese sandwiches and a sweet tea cured metal mouth for a couple of hours. It’s true kids. Your elders really do know what they’re talking about. I’m thankful for my second Mom who knows what I need to feel better.

While the boys love hanging with Renie and Dan, the also love being with their second family, the Finke’s, which are led by my good friend “Second Mom Kelley.” Kelley truly is their second mom. They walk in and and make themselves right at home, which gives me peace of mind. Not only does Kelley create a nurturing environment for them, she also gets them to do their schoolwork. She’s been at this homeschool thing so much longer than I have, she even has B-man’s evasive tactics figured out (I doubt there’s anything she hasn’t seen). The other day at co-op, we were talking about arranging rides to a basketball tournament and I began crying. I feel like I am asking too much of my friends. She explained that this is what friends do. They figure out a need and respond to it. She is a true friend, sister in Christ and another mom to my boys. I am constantly amazed that God brought her as a friend, not only to me, but as someone my children could feel safe with and love.

If you’re lucky, you have at least one friend you’ve been connected to at the hip – literally. While we’re not connected physically any longer, my “Sister Sue” is as much as part of my life as a real sister. When I was in college, we were together all the time. If we weren’t, people asked why. I can’t tell you how much Wendy’s we ate. Fortunately, our tastes have improved and we prefer places like “The Cheesecake Factory,” for sharing meals.

Like a true sister, she cries with me, loves me, shares my deepest fears and never judges me. She loves my kids as if they were her own nephews (and I am honored to be Aunt Shelli to Matt, Sarah and Kate, whom I love like my own children). No one understands my frustration, fears or puts up with my foolishness like my sister. And when I go to the dark places, she tells me she doesn’t have time for my crap and to knock it off. Only a sister can do that and I love her for it.

The person pictured above is as important as any of these other women. She is my “Angel in Blue” and I can honestly say that she is truly a gift from God. God knew I’d need someone a bit crazy, but loaded with love and compassion to poison me on a regular basis. Sharon Sanker is that person. I remember when I met her. She told me we were in this together. When I recurred, she told me we were beating this together; period, end of discussion. While all the nurses at the Cancer Institute are incredible, Sharon is special. She loves IVan and liked my idea of giving him a twin sister IVy (complete with my old wig). My hubby bought me a laughing Snoopy for chemo (shake him and he laughs). Sharon and I shake him throughout my infusions, not only to “Laugh in the face of chemo,” but just to lighten the mood. Let’s face it, chemo is serious. I can’t handle too much serious when I’m being poisoned. Sharon lets me be silly, as silly as I need to be. And when it’s time to cry, she hugs me and tells me it’s all going to be okay. Then she tells me to wipe my eyes and start kicking butt.

These amazing women all play an incredible role in my life. While they let me blubber a bit, they mostly kick me in the pants and tell me to kick cancer’s ass and show it who’s boss (well, not Kelley in those words, but she does say something more gentle that makes the same statement).

There’s a “saying” that goes God doesn’t give you more than you can carry. He doesn’t. When it seems like to much, He gives you a really great posse to help carry the load. So when I give thanks on Thursday, I will be thanking God for Cathy, Renie, Kelley, Sue and Sharon. The load is so much easier to carry when your posse has your back.

Climbing out of the Pit

Hitting bottom is not fun. It hurts – badly. I don’t recommend body slamming unless you have the body of a superhero. When you hit bottom, you generally don’t flutter down softly like a feather, you hit it full force and there’s nothing to break the fall. If you’re like me, you land face down and get a mouthful of mud on top of the indignity of laying spread eagle at the bottom of a huge hole. It’s the end of a long line of bad things.

Sometimes, it’s easy to get out of the pit. The ground is spongy and you can get a decent jump to catapult yourself to a limb or other hold to pull yourself you. Or, if you’re like me, you just lie there. After all, there’s no place left to go. You’re all ready as low as you can go. Why tempt fate? Better to wallow in the pit with the worms and slime then to run the risk of sliding back despite your best attempts not to. And why not stay in the pit. Blood clots, liver biopsies, brain MRI’s, failed chemotherapy, all pushed me down further and further into a dark place that I felt like no one could reach. Not my children, my mom, my husband or even God. NO ONE. And I preferred it that way. At least, I wasn’t going to have any more issues.

I will admit, wallowing in the pit, while it can be strangely comforting, isn’t a good place to stay. Well, unless you like worms, slime and other creepy crawlies. Personally, I find them a bit, well, creepy. And while mud is supposed to be good for the complexion, I’ve never read any studies on the dental benefits of mud. So what’s a girl who’s been through the wringer to do?

Well, this girl didn’t do anything – at least at first. I stayed in that pit. It was safe, relatively speaking. Yes, it was slimy, and dank and definitely gloomy. But I knew I wasn’t going anywhere else. I was at rock bottom. Rock bottom isn’t a bad place to be. Hard, yes, but not necessarily bad.

I’d like to say I had an epiphany that got me moving out of the pit, but that would be a lie. It was more like my vivid imagination working overtime. I could see myself in the pit with these creatures dancing around the top of it. Think the Habersham Brothers from Horton Hears a Who. They were the evil monkeys who were going to roast Horton is Beezelnut oil (which I’m sure is loaded with trans fats). They reminded me of evil minions out to do Satan’s bidding. Unfortunately, I just can’t imagine Kevin, Stuart or Dave (the minions from Despicable Me being that evil, despite being actual minions.

So as the Habersham Brothers are doing their dance around the pit, who should appear but the Archangel Michael in all his glory. I will vouch for the fact that he is glorious. I can’t begin to imagine what the glory around the throne of the Almighty must be like. When Michael comes with this blazing sword and his angel army, you don’t lie in the pit and tell him you’re too tired, scared, or overwhelmed to move, you move. And if you don’t, he moves you. I was swept up on the wings of angels to the edge of the pit, with the Habersham Brothers standing their with their mouths open catching the flies coming up from the pit. Michael made it abundantly clear that I was now “off limits as a child of the Most High.” Suddenly, everyone was gone and I was alone, standing in the grass, and at peace.

If you’ve been reading my blog for long, you know that God has to hit me with a 2×4 to get my attention. An archangel with blazing swords qualifies. However, I never felt chastised by God for not being strong enough, or brave enough or faithful enough. Jesus sympathized with my plight. He reminded me that he was alone in the Garden, sweating blood, praying that he could avoid death. Then he was beaten, scorned and forced to carry his cross, only to be nailed to it as a common criminal. He was alone. Yes, his mom was there as was John, the beloved. They were there, but were unable to hold his hand or offer any comfort. In his last hours, even God left. My savior was ALONE, tired, scared and dying. He was separated from the Father, whom he’d been with forever. I cannot begin to fathom the depth of Jesus’ pit. I can’t even imagine being that alone.
Talk about dark, scary places.

This is why I am out of my pit. Not because Michael flew in and saved me, although I am eternally grateful to God’s angel army. No, it’s because Christ said, “I know what it’s like to be alone; to be scared and not know what’s going to happen next. I know the worst. It’s being separated from God. I promise you will never be separated. I know it feels like it, but you won’t. I am always here, even when you don’t think I am. I’m ALWAYS here.”

This doesn’t make facing cancer a walk in the park or have me thinking that life is all sunshine, lollipops and rainbows. It isn’t. It’s full of nausea, fatigue and too many trips to the Cancer Institute to count. It’s still looking at my kids and hoping I’ll see them graduate. It’s still striving to be the best wife, mom and daughter I can be despite feeling like crap. It’s deciding to have a positive attitude even when you feel like crap. I’m still convinced it’s for times like these that Ativan was invented. It gets rid of the nausea and if you don’t fall asleep, you don’t care. I think God’s okay with that for brief periods.

I am better able to focus on what’s important for today. Actually, I live my life in two week increments, starting on Wednesday. I get chemo on Wednesday, take a bunch of steroids and nausea meds on Thursday, go for fluids on Friday (and more meds for nausea) to get through the weekend of spending time with my family and attending worship, go to co-op on Monday and then get more fluids and nausea meds, rest of Tuesday (and attempt to catch up on school since I’ve been at the hospital), then get labs and MORE fluids and meds on Wednesday. Then I spend the next 7 glorious days at home, trying to drink enough fluid and having fun with my kids. I let the little things slide. They just don’t bug me. They aren’t important. On Wednesday it starts all over again. Life is slowly getting a rhythm. Not the one we want, but it’s still a rhythm.

It’s good to be alive, cancer or no cancer. I’d take life without cancer, but that’s in the cards right now. What is in the cards? A life that’s speaks to others. May my life speak as a blessing.

Note: I tolerated the new chemotherapy well. Cisplatin works best with Gemzar as was considered the gold standard for treatment 5 years ago and still is, but has horrible side effects. I would appreciate prayers that I don’t react to the cisplatin. I have high hopes of remission with this cocktail – shaken not stirred of course.

Time for Plan B

Yesterday I went to get my second infusion of my new cocktail (shaken, not stirred). Labs were good, premeds good and Gemzar (the first part of my cocktail) good. Then came the fun, I started on my desensitizing doses of carboplatin. Carboplatin, while extremely toxic to ovarian cancer, is also toxic to the body. So they give it to you in small, incremental doses to avoid an allergic reaction. For some people this works, but for others not so much.

Unfortunately, I ended up in the “not so much” group yesterday. Despite all the precautions, I ended up with a severe allergic reaction yesterday. Now, I’ve had allergies my whole life, with asthma to boot if I get around too much mold, so an allergic reaction for me isn’t a huge deal. But when I start with an asthma attack, intense itching and a body that suddenly is the shade of a just picked vine ripened roma tomato, there’s a problem Houston. Fortunately, my Angel in Blue was right there and started pumping me full of Benadryl, Prednasolone and a whole host of other drugs to offset the reaction. The Lovely Liz even had to call Dr. Downer in surgery to be sure they’d thought of everything. In the end, I was finally able to go home. Exhausted from the Benadryl and Atarax, but racing from all the steroids. Life can be grand at times.

Just a side note, if you get too much Benadryl, your legs will twitch – BAD. It lasts about two hours and it’s not fun – at least for you. My hubby and the nurses enjoyed the show.

So today I’m in flux. It’s a bad place to be. The Lovely Liz called to check on me this morning and assured me that she will be working with Dr. Downer to get a Plan B in place. She’s hoping to be able to call my Angel in Blue next week to give her the plan so she can review it with me. I tend to take things better from my Angel than anyone else. Maybe because I trust her more than anyone else. She NEVER lets me down even when down is the only place I have to go.

I’m worried about the next drug. What will it do to me? Truth be told, I think I can handle anything except losing my hair. How vain is that? I like the way my hair looks now. I don’t like the way I look bald. One of the drugs on the agenda is called Doxil. While I would get to keep my hair, I would get other lovely side effects like mouth sores (we’re talking liquid diet here), rashes and peeling skin. Sounds lovely, huh. Wondering if this is a valid trade for killing ovarian cancer, my life for the cancer’s.

I’ve come to realize that cancer doesn’t kill people. It’s the chemo, or rather it’s side effects. Nerves are damaged, kidneys fail, hearts become less effective, asthma gets worse, blood becomes anemic. It sucks! While I really want to believe that the chemo will put this cancer back into remission and I will be happy dancing with NED again. However, what’s the collateral damage to my body and my family? I dream of watching my boys grow into strong young men and become parents themselves. I want to walk with my husband well into our 80’s. I used to take that for granted. Now I can’t.

So while I wait for Dr. Downer to create his new cocktail (again, shaken not stirred), I will spend time with my family. I will play with my kids as much as my body will allow (Gemzar makes you very tired), I will date my hubby, I will enjoy co-op, I will visit with friends, I will be creative, and I will try to find something that I find hilarious every single day. Mostly, I will do my very best to trust that God has me tight in His hands. Early today, I posted on Facebook that I felt like I was dangling from His fingertips, just barely able to hold on. I will trust that He has all ready put the Plan B in front of Dr. Downer. I will trust that what little Gemzar I’ve had is killing cancer cells, even if it’s just a few of them.

Plan B wasn’t on my radar. Now I have to rearrange my life to accommodate something I don’t know yet. Until then I will do what I have to do; put one foot in front of the other and just go with the flow. And while I’m at it, I’ll make the most of the moments. And maybe just start that book.

What’s Your Color?

I promised myself I wouldn’t go there this year, yet here I am. I told myself I have to immerse myself in my own battle and not try to fight any others. Yet, here I am. I know I’m too tired to really fight effectively, but I will try. Someone has to.

In case you haven’t noticed, it’s Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Despite the brilliant reds, oranges, yellows and tans of the leaves and the gorgeous sunsets, all I see is pink. Bubble gum, Pepto-Bismol pink. The Ultimate Bengal Fan commented the other day that orange and pink should not be worn together, and this is the kid who would wear stripes and plaids.

It seems that cancer has been boiled down to a color. What color is your cancer? Are you pink, blue, teal, yellow, purple, green, white or some combination thereof. Are you saving the ta-tas or some other body part? A fellow teal sister on a Facebook group I’m a part of commented on the tasteless “Go Braless” campaign to promote breast cancer awareness. She thought we should go commando to bring awareness to gynecologic cancers. Actually, guys could join in with this as well. Prostate and testicular cancer are below the belt as well.

I think the people who come up with these “campaigns” mean well, but they don’t think things through. When you’re fighting for your life, you aren’t thinking pink, teal, purple or any other color. You’re trying to figure out when you can take your next anti-nausea pill. You’re trying to decide how you can hide the overwhelming fatigue from your family so they don’t worry. Some days you wonder how you’re going to haul your butt out of bed to go to the bathroom, then you hear some perky AM news host talk about how they’re painting the town pink with bras. Hey, I would gladly go braless, but as a former boss of mine used to say “You’ll take your eye out ” (I’m rather well endowed).

I’m tired of hearing about moms who have breast cancer and take care of their families. Lots of people with cancer go through therapy and take care of their families and never receive one bit of recognition. I certainly don’t blog about my journey for the recognition. Truth is that the vast majority of cancer patients deal with their families and some have to work to keep their insurance or a roof over their head. Those are the real heroes. The ones that go through treatment and keep life going. They should get a gold crown. They deserve the recognition. Not that the mom with breast cancer doesn’t – she does. She’s doing the toughest job imaginable while fighting cancer. She just shouldn’t be singled out when there are so many others who do the exact same thing.

Cancer isn’t a color. It’s a wretched disease that destroys your body, mind and spirit and leaves families shattered. If you’re lucky, like I am, you have an incredible support system that holds you close when you can’t do it on your own. I have a God who is immensely powerful to save and holds me close. I have friends who will gladly stay with my children so I can get my infusions. Yesterday I discovered that I am in need of fluids on the weeks I don’t get chemo. This means a 90 minute infusion of saline, along with some extra steroid and anti-nausea meds. My quick 45 minute trip has turned into a “3 hour tour.” Fortunately, the 3 hours I spend affords me a few days of actually feeling good before I descend back into the depths of feeling lousy.

It just seems wrong to try to limit cancer to a color. It’s as if tying a deadly disease to a color makes it less threatening. How can something pink or blue or yellow take lives every day? I guess it’s like a tiger in the wild. They are majestic to look at, but I certainly don’t want to meet one up close.

Fortunately, we’re about halfway through the “pink month.” Then we can get on with life again. Until then, I will politely decline when asked if I want to give to a another “pink ribbon” charity. I will explain that pink doesn’t represent all women’s cancers. And I will laugh at the lack of color coordination on the part of the NFL. Pink shoes with football uniforms just doesn’t do it for me. And don’t even get me started on how much of what’s raised actually goes to patients. That’s for another rant on another day.

The color of cancer is reflected in the eyes of every patient, male or female. It’s reflected in the color of their skin since cancer is an equal opportunity destroyer of lives. Cancer is the plague of the 21st century. The only color I want associated with it is whatever color the cure is. Then, I will proudly wear the color of cancer. The color that caused it’s demise.

Life Happens

It’s been a while since I posted, I know.  Life has this way of intruding on my plans.  Who knew that my mom would break a vertebrae and the B-man would need another scope.  So I’ve been doing the sandwich thing of caring for my momma and taking care of my bambinos, who constantly remind me they aren’t babies any longer.

As I’ve said, life is a journey and that journey is not a straight shot from point A to point B.  There are detours, dead ends, short cuts and rest stops along the way.  Sometimes we sail.  Others we fly.  Then there are the times we sit in traffic, stuck for hours because someone was texting and driving and thought they could avoid an accident, but didn’t.  Some are good, some are awful, but all are educational IF (and I know it’s a BIG if) you take the time to experience them.

Losing my dad was a huge detour; more like a derailment. My hubby and I always say 2006 had the potential to be the worst year ever.  We lost my dad, we bought a house right before the housing bubble burst (and it’s still under water), his dad became ill, we discovered the joys of an anxious child and our downward financial spiral took hold.  Now, we could have wallowed in the pit, but there was one light that outshone the darkness of it all.  In September, 2006 after all the awfulness of that year, our beloved B-Man joined our family.  Family additions are always joyous, but his was especially sweet after all the bitterness we’d experienced.  At that time, I felt so overwhelmed by the enormity of my life.  But I hung in there.  I learned that I’m a heck of a lot stronger than I thought.  I learned that God gave me a husband who is EXACTLY who I need based on my weaknesses and my strengths.  I learned that God is good and so much bigger than the box I’d put Him in.  I also learned that God does, indeed, have a sense of humor.  If you’ve met the B-man you know that’s true.

So if losing your dad is a derailment, having cancer like being on the Titanic.  You know you’re going down, and there may or may not be a life boat for you.  If you do make it to the life boat, your life is never the same.  People tell me they don’t know how I kept my sense of humor in tact during cancer.  Truth is, I didn’t.  There were many days I called Coach Cathy in tears saying I was ready to quit.  I wanted no part of the chemo and was done.  She reminded me that I had two boys and a husband who loved me, needed me and depended on me.  I didn’t care.  I was so miserable I wanted to die.  Yes, I truly would have embraced death.  Then, I pulled myself up out of the pit and decided that if I could just make it for the next hour or until my husband came home, or until my next Ativan, I would be fine.  And I was.  So I drew on my eyebrows, straightened my scarf and made another chicken casserole (we lived on those when I was in chemo.  Do you know how many chicken casseroles are on All Recipes? Tons!)

It was only by God’s grace and having walked through a dark valley before that I was able to keep my sanity and my sense of humor.  I realized that chemo was a detour, albeit a long one, on my journey.  Chances were good that I wouldn’t be hanging out there forever and that, while life would be different, it would still be my life.  God knew that I wouldn’t be able to stand alone, that I would need a posse to keep me in check.  Coach Cathy, Second Mom Kelley, Momma Renie, Sista Sue and my Angel in Blue were standing in the gap propping me up as the hands and feet of God when I couldn’t do it alone.  Everybody needs a posse.  They help keep the bad guys in life in check. Thank your posse today.

Life (and that other thing) happens.  It happens whether you want it to or not.  How you handle what happens is what’s important.  As for me, I’m taking the next road God put on my GPS (I finally have a smart phone so I’m embracing the tech).  I’m ready to ride.

Making Memories

10487173_781151851948158_5764858939129974259_nTwo years ago, I found myself desperately wanting to make memories for B-man and the Ultimate Bengals Fan.  It was the day before my surgery and I had this nagging thought that if anything happened to me, I wanted them to have one last fantastic final memory of how cool their mom was.  To take it a step further, earlier in the week I’d asked Other Mom Kelley to take over my homeschooling duties in the event of the unthinkable (in her typical style she told me that we were not going there).  I had a fabulous day of skipping school and shopping for Halloween, buying pumpkins and playing in the park.  I secretly hoped that I would see those costumes on my babies.  I think there was some guilt in the mix because I knew I’d be gone for 3 nights and my hubby would be spending time at the hospital.

Eight days, a pulmonary embolism and a cancer diagnosis later, I was back home.  The future held a port insertion, 7 rounds of chemo, a Thanksgiving that ended up with a bald mom and a Christmas I don’t remember anything about except being horribly sick and tired (unlike my normal sick and tired which occurs when the boys decide to play basketball or soccer in the living room).  There weren’t too many memories made except those that the B-man talks about.  They all involve my bald head.  Apparently, no child appreciates a mom with no hair.

In the past couple of weeks, I’ve had to rely on memories.  A dear friend passed away as a result of her battle with breast cancer.  Ironically, it wasn’t the cancer that killed her, it was the chemotherapy which had damaged her heart beyond repair.  It’s always scary to think that the thing that supposed to cure you tends to end up killing you in the long run.  Anytime another survivor dies, it chips away at my resolve for a bit.  Fortunately, it comes back, but like a scar, the resolve is never quite the same as what it was before.

I find that memories are strange things.  They warp with time.  My memories of my paternal grandma come in flashes now and they are always positive.  Initially, I remembered some negative things, but mostly I just remember being loved.  I have more vivid memories of my maternal grandpa, but even those are more of a reflection from pictures or other events. Time has a strange way of changing things so you only remember what you want.

My Ultimate Bengal Fan recently mentioned that his memories of his beloved Papaw (my dad) were mostly gone.  When I asked him what he did remember, he told me that he remembers being loved.  Nothing else; just loved.  I can’t imagine a better memory of someone than being immersed in an unconditional love.  That’s what Papaw had for his Bengals Fan.  It was a love that transcended this world and has a connection to the next.  Despite the disappointment that B-man feels for not knowing his Papaw, I know there’s a connection there.  Some memories are made by God, others by us and some are a combination of both.

Tomorrow, I get the chance to make more memories.  Cancer wasn’t able to steal that from me.  Chemo might have taken my recall, but not my memories – at least not yet.

As an ovarian cancer survivor, I know that the Beast is lurking; looking for a chance to reassert itself into my physical being.  It’s a constant presence in my mind, so I know it’s just dying (excuse the pun) to get another shot at me.  I can only do so much to keep it away.  The rest is in God’s hands, exactly where it belongs.

So tomorrow, I put the Beast back in the box and spend time with the Ultimate Bengals Fan, the B-man and the Best Husband Ever making memories.  While they may fade with time, I hope my “men” remember the love and joy and that it transcends time.