When Life Doesn’t Cooperate

The news isn’t good.  My cancer continues to grow (it’s nice to know I can grow something).  I had my CT scan yesterday and got the news from Lovely Liz around 2:20 pm (funny how you remember those things).  Strangely, she was a bit upbeat, like it’s time to get moving now.  We’ve played around long enough.

Now I was sure that my cancer had shrunk.  I would have bet money on it.  I think Pete Rose would have taken that bet.  But life didn’t cooperate.  I don’t feel bad, except for the persistent nausea from the cisplatin.  I’m not even that tired.  It’s strange, but a good strange.  I know God is in control, no matter what comes next.

It’s not that I didn’t cry, I did.  But not because I’m sad, because I’m really not.  Pissed off is more like it.  Pissed that I feel like I’ve wasted 12 weeks of treatment.  Pissed that my kids have to continue to go through this.  Pissed that I’ve got at least 24 more weeks of treatment and that will seriously cut into my planned vacation time.  Pissed that my dad is not personally here to share this experience.  I think my anger is being properly directed rather than being flung at the wall like taking a handful of darts and flinging them, hoping for the best.

Dr. Determined (I like this better than Dr. Downer) immediately went into full fight mode.  Lovely Liz told me he skipped over the next couple of drugs in line.  I imagine these drugs standing in line like tin soldiers waiting for their chance to be called up and Dr. D decides to call in the Navy Seals instead.  And I’ve got to say, I LOVE the name of this new drug.  It makes me smile every time I say it – Topotecan (pronounced toe-poe-tee-can).  Isn’t that just be best name for a killer drug.  Sounds so innocent.

Topotecan is from the Asian Happy Tree and is part of the Hyacinth family.  It has a single minded mission – to destroy the DNA of cancer cells as they replicate.  I imagine the double helix model with its red, blue, yellow and green ends twisting hoping to create more, when this little tiki guy comes in with his mask and rattle (think crazy witch doctor from Scooby-Doo and you’ve got my mental image) untwists the helix and starts pulling the ends of the DNA.  The helix collapses.  The witch doctor does another crazy dance and moves on to the next one.  You can’t help but laugh or smile with this drug.

There are some positives.  While my bone marrow will continue to take a hit and fatigue will be a greater monster, nausea may become a thing of the past.  I am so nauseated today that this sounds like the best trade ever.  It’s also done in 4 week cycles.  I get an infusion every Wednesday for 3 weeks, then I get a week off.  The infusion lasts about 2 hours, so I’ll only be at the hospital for 3 hours or so.  As I’ve asked so many, “What will I do with my Wednesday afternoons?”  Seriously, I’ve always had all day infusions.  This is great! To celebrate, I’m getting a new haircut tomorrow.  Well, actually I’m getting the haircut because my hair has lost its curl and is flat and thin, but it sounds better to say I’m celebrating.

God has promised me healing.  I heard Him say it and He NEVER talks to me audibly so this is a promise I cling to.  My husband and I ask only for shrinking tumors and that they become stable.  We can live with stable.  We can live with smaller.  Maybe this is why I’m just not all that worried.  As I explained to my Ultimate Bengal Fan, Dr. Determined’s job is to find the right drug, mine is to fight and not give up and God’s is to do the rest.  Since God has the biggest job, who am I to stand in His way?

Please don’t feel sorry for us.  We don’t.  Pity doesn’t make anyone feel better.  If anything, we are more determined than ever to fight as a family.  The boys are looking forward to a more nausea free mom and Hubby hopes his cooking days are quickly coming to an end.  I am looking forward to Wednesday afternoons.  And God has all this in His Hands.  Life may not be great, but it’s good.  I feel good.  Other than the nausea, better than I have in weeks.

Bring on the Topotecan and smile.  God has work to do.

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.

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.

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.

Dual Reality

For those of you who have been patiently waiting, the news is in. I have officially passed the 2 year mark in remission. This is HUGE when you’re a survivor. It means I only have to put my feet in the stirrups once every 6 months, instead of once every 3 (I apologize to my male readers for the mental image). I will still get my tumor marker drawn every 3 months since I have to get my port flushed anyway, but it’s still another step in the right direction. The next milestone is at 5 years, so I’ve got a while for that one.

Now, you’d think I’d focus on just carrying on with life and I am. Came home from the doctor, ate some lunch, did some schoolwork with the boys, thawed out some meat, did the laundry, etc. Just another day in the life of a homeschooling mom who freelances from home. Yet my brain is somewhere else. It’s focused on how to maintain what I have in spite of what may be.

So as I’m getting dressed this morning, I realized I had mixed emotions about being a 2 year survivor. If you’d asked me 2 years ago, how I’d feel today, I’d of said, “Ecstatic! Overjoyed! Relieved! Amazing!” And I do feel all those things, but with a twinge of sadness. Please understand that I am so very thankful that God has blessed me with healing to this point. I am able to do most of the things I love. But I grieve so much as well. Two years later and my neuropathy continues to be a royal pain (pun intended). I finally gave in last month and started PT so I could get my hips and back into some type of alignment so I could walk again (talk about pain!). When your gait is a cross between a penguin and a duck, you need some work. Despite the progress I’ve made, I wonder if I’ll EVER be able to walk without pain. I forget things I shouldn’t forget – like my sons’ names.

You’d think a mom could remember her kids names. A couple of weeks ago, I called the Ultimate Bengal Fan “Sierra.” Sierra is our 14-year old cranky, snow white cat who is part Angora with the hair that goes with it. He looked at me and said, “Seriously Mom, do I look like the cat to you?” “No, but you do need a haircut,” was my reply. Still couldn’t remember the kid’s name. I remember it now, but I could tell that through the joke there was pain. “My mom can’t remember my name.” Chemo fog, you’re one cruel master.

On the good days, I barely notice the neuropathy and chemo fog barely raises a blip on my radar. I go through life doing what I do. On the bad days, I need an iPhone so Suri can remind me of all those things that I would otherwise forget. With my luck, I’d probably forget where I put the phone.

I realize that I live two different lives on many days. There’s the one I show the world and there’s the one I live. The one I show the world is the one who is a doting wife and mom, writes articles, schools her kids, attempts to clean the house, and loves to cook. The life I really live is one that wonders who will do this if I’m not here. The life I really live is the one that has the Beast lurking in the shadows. While the Beast is safely off my property for the time being, I know he’s an opportunist and if I give an inch, he’ll take more than a mile. Meanwhile, he’s got his friends Chemo Fog and Neuropathy to remind me that he’s only a cell mutation away.

It’s tough to live in two places at once, but I’m too scared to go all in where I should be and too smart to go all in where I shouldn’t. So I stay where I’m at, trying to balance in both worlds while keeping more of myself in the present and less in the “but what happens if…” place. Actually, I like where I’m at. It keeps me from getting complacent without being a hypochondriac. Maybe a little “what if” every now and then is okay.

As always, God’s got this. And let’s face it, we all have a dual reality where God’s concerned from time to time. There are times when we’re in sync with Him and times we’re not. That’s okay too. The disciples weren’t always in sync with Jesus, but He loved them anyway. I know God loves me just the way I am – a foot in two realities. And I’m okay with both of them.

Metamorphosis?

“Two roads diverged in a wood and I – I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.” – Robert Frost

Today is the first day of Lent. In the days leading up to today, the Ultimate Bengal Fan and the B-Man have been trying to figure out what they wanted to give up for Lent. The Bengal Fan ultimately chose chocolate, which is tough for my chocoholic son, while my youngest one had yet to settle on something. It’s run the gamut from refraining from throwing soccer balls at his brother, to broccoli (which he doesn’t eat anyway) to changing his underwear daily (I really do NOT want to know). He eventually decided on Lego.com. This is HUGE! I am really proud of him. He spends his entire computer time on Lego.com. I chose a different route this year.

The choice came upon me slowly. I have known for nearly two years that something needs to change in my life, but it’s a nebulous idea. There’s nothing solid to grab onto. Yet, I know God is nudging me. I took a huge step when I signed up for a Women’s study at church called “The Life Ready Woman.” The title intrigued me. Seriously, how much more ready for life can you be than to face ovarian cancer head on while homeschooling two young kids, make it to remission and carry on? Apparently not as ready as I’d like to believe.

In the interim, I’ve let myself go. My weight has ballooned to an all time high (and as open as I am with my readers, I’m NOT sharing that number) and I move less than I did before cancer. Now I could play the cancer card and say, “Well, I have neuropathy and my joints hurt, blah, blah, blah.” And it would be true. However, I’ve lost my love for most things. Oh sure, I love my boys beyond measure, I love my husband more than ever, and I’m surrounded by an incredibly supportive group of family and friends. But why do I feel so empty?

I know why. I’ve allowed myself to fall into a sort of complacency about things in my life. After all, I’m in remission from one of the most deadly forms of cancer. Woo Hoo! I have the right to kick back and rest on my laurels. Well, the world would say that, but I think God is calling me to so much more. And as I’ve said before, He generally needs to use a 2×4 or other heavy object to get my attention. This time, however, it was my feet and a scale.

I had lost some weight this summer and I did it mostly by exercise, which was painful. As summer turned to fall, my back and feet would hurt as soon as I got up the street to the corner. Walking wasn’t fun. Nothing was fun. I shut down and opened the bag of M&M’s. Fall turned to winter and I closed in on myself. It was just me and my coffee and chocolate. The treats I had right before a chemo treatment – because in a cruel twist of fate, chocolate gave me heartburn during chemo – were my secret allies. They made me feel good, or at least I thought they did.

Earlier this month, I made the decision to finally find out why my back and feet hurt. I found a great PT office that looks at the whole body, not just what hurts. Not only do my feet hurt less, but my back feels better. I still have an incredibly long way to go, but at least I can go up and down the steps the right way (alternating feet) and not like a two year old. It’s the little things. Walking “funny” because of neuropathy screws up your entire lower body mechanics. I’m working on muscle memory to get a new normal (there’s that phrase again!). My goal – the 5K OCAGC walk in September without pain.

So for Lent, rather than giving up something, I’ve decided to DO something. I am spending less time ruminating on the aftermath of cancer and more time on what the next chapter holds. It’s too easy to focus on where I’ve been. It was hell, plain and simple and I know that the Beast can come knocking at any time. I already hear its footsteps since I have my 3-month check-up and labs early next month. I’m not a betting person, so I try to ignore the odds, even if they are in my favor for the time being. Learning from the past is one thing, dwelling in it is another.

So with the courage I have been given, my Lenten journey is to begin a transformation; a metamorphosis of sorts. My goal is to muster up my courage daily and dive into this new life God is calling me to. Like a tadpole or caterpillar, it takes time. It won’t happen overnight. My goal for each day is to just find a way to not fold in on myself, but to do something that takes courage. For me, eating less takes courage, since food is my comfort. Cleaning my house takes courage (my beloved calls me a pack rat and he’s right). Writing takes courage. Spending time with God and listening takes an incredible amount of courage. Think about it – you ask God what He wants you to do and when He answers you should do it. I think I’m guilty of asking, but not really wanting to know what He thinks. It’s like if I ask, I’m good. So not only will I ask, but I will seek to act after the 2×4 smacks me in the head. I’m hoping after this period of reflection is over, that I may find myself being changed into a woman that God is proud to call daughter.

While cancer may have caused me to take the “road less traveled,” I need to let it make a difference. I’m getting ready for the next adventure. Who’s with me?