Posts Tagged ‘cancer recurrence’

Cancer: A Family Affair (Part 4)

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Written by Todd, Stephanie’s youngest brother who was 21 at the time she was diagnosed.

Occasionally after receiving a bill in the mail, I set it down on the counter, tell myself I’ll take care of it in a few hours, and forget about it for weeks, sometimes even months. When the sight of the bill on the counter triggers my thinking about paying it, I’ll sometimes push the thought further back into my mind, only for it to reappear when the next bill arrives. This bad habit of mine – described in psychological lingo as avoidance coping – was the strategy I first used to cope with Stephanie’s cancer diagnosis and treatment. For months, I refused to seriously think about her battle, because doing so led to painful thoughts.

I remember well the day in January, 2012, when Stephanie called me and told me that she had just received a cancer diagnosis. Sitting in the passenger seat of my wife’s car, I thought to myself that the diagnosis couldn’t be too bad. Sure, cancer is serious, I told my wife, Amy. And a hysterectomy is also serious business. But I was sure that 25-year-olds couldn’t die from it. And so when Amy and I flew out for my sister’s surgery a week or two later, I was saddened by the invasive surgery Stephanie had to undergo, but also comforted by the thought that it would act as a magic bullet. That thought was enough for me to look down on my sister in her hospital bed post-surgery and think that, while this was a massive bump in the road in her and her husband’s life, it wasn’t a tragedy. Life for them would return to normal in a matter of months, I remember thinking.

That all changed when Stephanie’s prognosis came back shortly after her surgery. The gravity of that prognosis hit me when I realized that I would have a better statistical chance of more than quadrupling my measly college savings at a roulette table than my sister would of living another year. So what did I do with that tragic information? Stuck my head shoulder-deep into the sand. For someone who had taken that approach for years, it wasn’t too hard to do. I was in college, nearing graduation, and working hard to prepare myself for law school. And so instead of continuing to talk to her on the phone almost everyday as I had done for the previous few years, over the next few months I only called a few times. A “hey, how is chemo going,” here and there. To me, this was the best way of dealing with the situation – pretending it didn’t exist. Coping with her prognosis was like my approach to the bills in the mail I periodically receive: if I pretend they don’t exist, they don’t, at least for a while.

That approach didn’t hold up when I first saw my sister bald in person. She was in Oklahoma for my college graduation, and seeing her was like being hit with a ton of bricks. I couldn’t evade the issue any longer, and so I directly confronted her prognosis for the first time. Before walking out on stage at my college graduation ceremony to receive my diploma, I shaved my head to honor her fight with cancer. Walking across that stage and removing my cap was, and will likely continue to be, my proudest achievement.

After a recurrence of my avoidance strategy came back when I moved to Washington, DC a few months later – I refused to read her website to avoid the fear of her dying – I finally put that strategy to rest. I realized that, were Stephanie to die, I would regret not spending as much time talking with her as I possibly could. That basic thought was profound, and it influenced not only my relationship with Stephanie but with my other family members as well. I began to talk with her, my brother, and my parents much more, coming to realize the benefit of confronting her prognosis head on.

Stephanie’s fight with, and now defeat of, cancer has been defined by her courage, bravery, and wisdom much beyond her years. I am incredibly proud that she has influenced so many. Her battle, though incredibly tough over the years, has provided me with an opportunity to learn what life is all about.

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Psalm 90:12 (ESV)

“So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.”

Cancer: A Family Affair (Part 3)

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Written by Denise, Stephanie’s mother.

Some moments are caught in your heart and mind for the rest of your life. Most of them bring you great joy, and you recall them from time to time, like the day you gave birth to your very special first child or the evening that child married the love of her life. I remember both of those occasions with a clarity nearly as exact as a video recording. Even now, I smile at the memories!

Other moments, though, remain with you for far different reasons. I remember waiting for a phone call from Stephanie, that very special first child, with news about the doctor appointment we had been anticipating. After nearly a year of struggling with troubling symptoms that multiple doctors had been unable to diagnose, she had finally received some answers. My stomach sunk when she told me that she and Matt, my extraordinary son-in-law, would meet me at home to talk. This can’t be good, I thought, or she would have just bubbled over with joy and relief on the phone.

“It’s cancer, Mom.” Seared in my memory. These three words were the start of an arduous journey for all of us that would be characterized at different times by fear, uncertainty, and hope. Stephanie was diagnosed with cancer and would have to undergo a radical hysterectomy. At age 25. I spent part of that first night challenging God. I cried and pummeled my pillow, reminding Him that I had already carried three children and wondering why he would take this blessing away from my daughter. It didn’t seem fair. I begged Him to transfer the cancer to me, so that I could somehow rescue her from the grueling radiation and chemotherapy that were in her future. But that was not God’s plan. A few days later, we realized just how deadly her diagnosis was.

“This is really bad, Mom,” the oncologist said with tears in her eyes. She hugged me and said it again. “This is just really, really bad.” Another moment seared in my memory. Pathology from the hysterectomy indicated a different diagnosis than the original. Stephanie was battling an extremely rare and aggressive carcinoma for which there was some hope, but not very much. “Start getting things in order. She probably has only nine months.” Was this really happening? It was, and the grief was almost unbearable.

If you’ve read Stephanie’s blog, you know that she courageously underwent 28 radiation treatments and four different six-month chemo regimens because the cancer returned three times after the original tumor was removed. To say that the journey was difficult or challenging would be the biggest understatement of all time. I could go on and on about what it’s like to be the mother of an adult daughter battling a serious illness. It changes your relationship, that’s for sure, because you want to fix the booboo, just like you did when she was a toddler. Except now she’s a married woman. And you can’t fix things. And it’s awful.

Everyone says that struggles can teach you profound lessons, if you let them, and it’s absolutely true. Here are some important things I have learned through the journey:

  • There is no handbook for how to be a good mom when tragedy strikes, so it’s important to create an effective support system. I needed someone I could cry with, someone who wouldn’t be threatened by my anger or fears, someone who could push me to stay present when I just wanted to disappear and make it all go away. My daughter surely didn’t need to take care of me emotionally because she was already in the fight of her life. And her brothers needed their mom to be strong. Having a very small and dependable group of friends who gave me the strength I needed to make it through the grueling days, weeks, months, and years of the journey was crucial for my mental, emotional, and physical health.
  • Everyone’s coping methods are different, and that’s okay. I’m a teacher and I love information. The more, the better. After the initial shock of it all, the very first thing I did after Stephanie’s diagnosis was spend hours reading everything I could get my hands on. Even though there was nothing positive about large cell neuroendocrine carcinoma of the cervix to be found, at least I knew what I was dealing with. In some strange way, that gave me a sense of control. But information doesn’t meet everyone’s needs. I learned to let the rest of my family cope in whatever way they chose, even if it wasn’t the same as mine and even if it meant I needed to keep details to myself.
  • Your adult child is much stronger than you ever knew. Stephanie was a headstrong and independent girl from the beginning, a lot like me, funny enough. However, the way she battled cancer revealed her true grit and character. She made the decision, early on, that she was going to handle her journey with as much grace and courage as she could possibly muster. And that’s exactly what she did. I remember the day Stephanie asked me if she was going to die. Through our tears, we talked through the possibility. That raw, authentic sort of conversation only happens when the one on the front lines is strong and courageous. My daughter is the strongest and most courageous woman I know.
  • Struggles of any kind can refine everyone involved. Stephanie is not the same person today as she was the day before diagnosis. Neither is the rest of the family, including me, and I am so incredibly thankful because we are much better. We have learned how to love and celebrate each other more completely, how to make every moment count, how to give each other healthy space, and how to fully honor each other’s differences.

Stephanie is more than my daughter. She’s my true friend and my courageous hero. Our relationship is stronger and richer today, and we are on the road of life together, through thick and thin, as two adult women. I am so grateful for the memories we’ve made and those yet to come. Truly, all things work together for the good of those who love Him and are called according to His purpose!

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Romans 8:26-28 (MSG)

“Meanwhile, the moment we get tired in the waiting, God’s Spirit is right alongside helping us along. If we don’t know how or what to pray, it doesn’t matter. He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans. He knows us far better than we know ourselves, knows our pregnant condition, and keeps us present before God. That’s why we can be so sure that every detail in our lives of love for God is worked into something good.”

Fighting The Fear Of Recurrence

(As seen in Cancer Knowledge Network’s #YARally)

Treatment ends. Your hair begins to sprout anew. Your skin slowly smooths. Your energy levels rise. You can look in the mirror and see remnants of the person you once were. You’ve trudged through the hardest journey of your life and bear the scars that tell the story. Your doctors share the latest results from your scans and there is no evidence of disease. You’re cancer-free.

It’s time to move on with your life and dream again. You’ve gained perspective and see life in a new way. You’re ready to forge new relationships and deepen the bonds you already have. You’re excited to travel and see the world in a new light. You’re ready to pursue the dreams you were reluctant to before. You’re not afraid to fail, because you’d rather try than not try at all. Your character has flourished and you are stronger and braver than ever before. Because you’ve faced your own mortality, you are now fearless.

Right?

While many survivors experience a sense of relief and celebratory whimsy upon receiving cancer-free results, those feelings don’t always last as long as we expect them to.

At diagnosis, my number one goal was to be cancer-free. I wanted to defeat this disease and move forward in my life. I accepted the fact that I would lose my fertility through a radical hysterectomy. I knew it was the only way to reach survival. I faithfully attended every chemotherapy and radiation session. I grieved the loss of my hair, the changes in my skin, weight gain, and even my nails peeling off. I could no longer recognize the woman staring back at me in the mirror, but I reminded myself that this would only be temporary. Cancer would be only but a chapter in my novel of life.

I received my first clear scan seven months after diagnosis. My doctor was elated as she shared the news. No matter that I was given a less than 20% chance to survive the first year, I beat the odds. I was cancer-free! I danced around the house, smiling genuinely for the first time in months. My husband and I celebrated. The burden of cancer began to slough off our shoulders and we were able to see the future we so desperately hoped we could share together.

But that’s not how the story ended.

Because of the type of cancer I had, I would need routine scans every three months to ensure that the disease did not return. It was time for my first follow-up scan and I felt anxious. Only three months prior, a scan showed no evidence of disease (NED), but I was aware that cancer is hardly predictable. We followed protocol and I received the most potent and effective cocktails of chemo and radiation and it had worked. But just as our celebration began, the party was over. A softball-sized malignant tumor had grown within ninety days, and I was facing my first recurrence.

That moment changed everything. The knowledge that cancer had returned with a vengeance sent chills racing through me. To the depths of my soul, I was shaken. My fear of cancer rose exponentially from the trepidation I had experienced at diagnosis. I was facing my own mortality through realistic lenses as I knew my already small statistics would shrink even more. More surgery. More chemo. More pain, grief, fear, exhaustion, and nausea.

Diagnosis pales in comparison to recurrence. At diagnosis, the majority of people feel strong and able to defeat the giant. Bright eyes and bushy tails, we are ready for the fight. Determination and perseverance with a sprinkling of naivety propelled my first battle against cancer. Recurrence comes at a bigger price. The price that we know exactly what we are facing. There are fewer unknowns because we’ve traveled the road before, and can foresee the afflictions that are to come.

It’s been four years since diagnosis, and I’ve had three recurrences after first hearing the words, “You have cancer.” Some came swiftly like the first, only three months later. Other recurrences arrived further down the road. No matter the time that we are able to live without cancer invading our bodies, it never really goes away. Though it may not be a physical presence, cancer often lingers in our emotional well-being. A ghost that haunts us, never wanting to leave. We are constantly reminded that cancer can return at any moment. It’s normal for survivors to feel anxious, depressed, and fearful once treatment ends and NED is achieved.

Some survivors feel more scared after fighting cancer than they did in the throes of the disease. Once treatment ends, we are simply left to pray and hope with every remaining healthy cell within us that cancer will no longer choose our bodies as its residency. Life after cancer isn’t always what we dream it will be, therefore we should be prepared for what may come after this chapter has closed.

In order to look forward, we must avoid looking back. Not denying the journey we trekked or ignoring the fight, but by deciding that cancer can no longer have a vice grip on our lives, we can begin to truly live free of cancer. Fear of recurrence gives power to the disease. Our anxieties can fuel cancer, giving it control over us. When fear creeps in, we must stand against it, knowing who we have become in spite of the struggles we have faced. We are much stronger than we think we are.

We have looked straight into the eyes of death, and have come out on the other side. We have been beaten down, knocked around, and yet we have survived. Our faith has been put to the ultimate test and has grown in the fire. Hope has emerged from the ashes. Though we have lost much, we’ve gained more. We are different. We have changed, developed, and flourished. We must acknowledge that though cancer affected every area of our life, we have come out on top. Living every day is a choice. Choosing joy is vital to the continued success of a healthy and happy existence.

Matthew 6:34 (MSG)

“Give your entire attention to what God is doing right now, and don’t get worked up about what may or may not happen tomorrow. God will help you deal with whatever hard things come up when the time comes.”

Living an Intentional Life

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I decided not to make resolutions this year. Instead, I chose one word that I wanted to represent 2015. Intentional. I desired to be more intentional with my time, my relationships, and my work. I didn’t want life to pass me by. I wanted to be present in everything I did and with everyone I was with. Yet somehow, I wasn’t as intentional as I intended to be. Sure, there were times when I was focused and diligent in certain areas of my life, but many things fell between the cracks. Decisions that were made and not made, relationships that were poured into and those that were put aside, and work that succeeded and some that failed, has taught me something. We must continually strive to be intentional. We must live a life that demands effort, otherwise our entire life will soon be witnessed through our rear view mirror.

My sole focus has been fighting cancer for many years. I have been diligent with appointments, medicines, and treatments. My intentions were always to beat this disease, and by the grace of God, my intentions were fulfilled. I’ve spent hours, days, weeks, months, and years in assiduous pursuit of my goal. I never let recurrences blur my finish line. I was persistent and determined. Fighting cancer requires devout commitment, after all. It demands every ounce of attention and every fiber of strength. I’ve been so committed to defeating this disease that the rest of my intentions got lost in the fog of cancer. Now I’ve succeeded (in Jesus name and with fingers crossed) and am ready to pursue other items as intentionally, but it’s not as easy as I assumed it would be.

It’s amazing how unprepared you can feel for life after cancer. You spend years trying to overcome your diagnosis, and most other goals lower on your priority list. But then… You’re cancer free… So, now what? You’ve attained your goal, and though it’s something you’ve passionately hoped and prayed for, once it’s gone, a void remains. Where all of your time and efforts were focused on cancer, there now sits an empty spot. What do I do on Mondays from 9am until 1pm? What do I do with this energy that has slowly returned? How do I plan my week now that appointments aren’t filling my calendar? I find myself stuck in the loss of a pursuit. I’ve lost what I’ve been so intentional about, and while I’ll never take for granted a fifth chance at living a long life, I’m sorting through what it should look like now.

I’ve heard that adjusting to life after cancer is similar to the adjustment that soldiers go through upon returning from war. And while I find the two vastly different, I can understand the analogy. I’m re-entering a world I’m not familiar with. Sadly, I’m often more comfortable in hospitals than I am at dinner parties. It’s an unsettling feeling. I’m beyond grateful that I’m on this side of the disease, but I often feel alone in my emotions and unsure of how to proceed with this new life. Now that cancer has passed, I’ve realized that I’ve gotten pretty good at being busy doing nothing. Now is the time to recommit to living intentionally. I’m relearning how to be busy doing something. I fought hard to survive, and now that I’m here, I dare not waste another moment.

It’s easy to become paralyzed in grief, fear, and uncertainty. But as the fog clears, I’m reminding myself that I beat cancer. I beat cancer. Not once, twice, or even three times. I beat a terminal disease four times. And I did it by being committed and intentional. Every day, I must wake up and say, “Stephanie, you did THAT. Now go do THIS!”

Cancer doesn’t have to be your interruption. It can be the loss of a loved one, a traumatic accident, a divorce, a miscarriage, or even bankruptcy. We all experience seasons that require devoted attention and commitment, and therefore we all find ourselves walking out of the fog with blurred vision. It’s time to re-harness our intent. You’ve come this far. Look at what you just walked through. Don’t let what’s ahead paralyze you. Let’s step forward with powerful intention and not let life pass us by.

Psalm 16:11 (MSG)

“Now you’ve got my feet on the life path, all radiant from the shining of your face. Ever since you took my hand, I’m on the right way.”

Putting a Bandaid Where It Doesn’t Belong

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Life is not meant to be lived passively, but proactively. I need to remember that. We all do. Instead of allowing life to pass by and just happen to me, I need to stake my claim and walk forward refocused in my purpose.

Recently, my journey has been harder than usual. I often feel like I’m only capable of handling a certain level of difficulty. That level has been reached, and I’ve come to the end of my capabilities. Facing an impossible level, I’ve been given a choice and, unfortunately, I chose wrong.

I have been knee-deep in a murky swamp. Mud, muck, and dark waters have enveloped me. I’ve felt slithering snakes swimming past my legs, taunting me and begging for my attention. The mud between my toes has encased my feet, urging me to stay put. Instead of trudging forward, I chose to sit down. Instead of forging a way to get out of the swamp, I stopped in my tracks. I convinced myself that I was taking a break to gather my strength and to rest. But at some point, breaks end. Eventually, you must get up and keep going.

This wasn’t a break. This was me sitting down, giving up, and not wanting to deal with what I was facing. Like a child not wanting to do something, I metaphorically went limp on the ground.

These past two months have sucked me dry — physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Chemotherapy has been increasingly difficult, and good days have become few and far between. I receive the poisonous toxins once a week, therefore plenty of my days are spent on the couch, pretty useless. My nausea is often overpowering and unbearable, sitting at the base of my throat like a volcano waiting to erupt. I’m tired. There are days when I can’t imagine anything better than the comfort of our bed. Exhaustion is exhausting. Not having energy to live life on my terms is an invitation for sadness to overwhelm. Some days, the harder fight is not against cancer, but against the subsequent emotions.

Beyond the daily battle against this disease, I have faced other obstacles. Difficult hurdles and layers of grief to top off this already bumpy journey. My grandfather, whom I lovingly called, “Papa,” passed away. We were very close throughout my life, especially so in these later years as we fought the same fight alongside each other. Never would I have thought I would be fighting cancer with my Papa, but it deepened our relationship in special ways. We understood each other through each surgery, treatment, and side effect. We lifted each other up on rough days. He fought a good battle, and ultimately won the victory. Boy, do I look forward to seeing him again.

Not only did I lose my grandfather, but only a few weeks later, a close friend of mine went to be with Jesus as well. This time, it was unexpected and sudden. The type of tragedy you can never prepare for. It still doesn’t seem real. A dislodged blood clot after surgery… A mere few hours prior, I was giving her a hug, kissing her on the forehead, and wishing her well as she was to head into the operating room. We joked, laughed, and prepared for how life would look like after the procedure. I lent my words of wisdom (having gone through several surgeries before), and let her know she would be fine. The shock still comes in waves. I just can’t believe she’s gone. How I miss her so.

The combination of grief, stress, frustration, exhaustion, and sickness has weighed me down, and I simply crumbled underneath it. I sat down in the mucky swamp and, instead of resting, I merely existed. I went through the motions each day. Chemo every Wednesday. Nausea pills every six hours. Church on Sunday. Grief, like my nausea, at the surface ready to explode. Yet, I couldn’t deal with any of it.

I covered my grief and uncomfortable circumstances with bandaids. I’ve watched too much TV. I’ve eaten horribly. I’ve been snappy with my husband. I’ve introverted. And, as many of you have recognized, I stopped writing. I just couldn’t bear pouring my reflections out to the world, when my thoughts were jumbled, messy, and self-pitying. Writing is cathartic for me. It helps me process, and in turn, heals my soul. Equally as my words encourage you, they often encourage me. There are more times than I can count when I read back through an entry and know God Himself was speaking through me to me. Yet, for several weeks, I avoided it. I sat down in the swamp and went limp.

It wasn’t until I was removed from my circumstances, and was stuck in a car for thirteen hours with my husband, that I pulled the bandaids off… finally facing the wounds that were hidden underneath. We talked and I cried. Releasing what had been burdening me for weeks. And, in true character, my husband gently led me back to The Lord. I am so grateful for an encouraging husband who holds my hand, understanding and grieving with me, and guides my eyes upwards.

The problem with placing a bandaid on a wound that doesn’t need one, is it doesn’t heal. Some wounds need air for a scab to form and the healing process to take place. My wounds needed air… The refreshing air of Jesus. And instead of reaching for Him, I put a bandaid on, covering myself from healing, and went limp. The bandaids paralyzed me and put me in a passive position.

While the grief, sickness, and emotion has been painful, I have learned from it. When life gets hard and uncomfortable, our human reaction is to give up. But have you thought how your circumstances might change if you were proactive in the midst of trudging through your own swamp? We have all faced difficult seasons in our lives. Many can say that, though our circumstances may not have changed, once we became proactive, our perspectives sure did. Instead of convincing ourselves we need a break and sitting down in our muck, stand strong, be proactive, and pull the bandaid off. Allowing God to touch our wounds and heal them is a powerful act. It’s painful, but so worth it.

What swamp are you sitting in? I challenge you to pull your bandaids off, stand up, and allow God to guide you in healing.

Psalm 119:50 (ESV)

“This is my comfort in my affliction, that your promise gives me life.”

 

Raising The White Flag

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There are moments when we reach the end of our rope. When no matter how hard we try to hold the pieces in place, everything continues to slip out of our grasp. When we desperately wish for things to go according to plan, just this one time. When we are this close to throwing in the towel.

We don’t realize that in those moments, all we need to do is surrender. Place our pieces on the table, push them over to God, and raise our white flag.

Surrendering is typically the hardest obstacle we face in life. Why is that? Why do we find it so hard to let go of control? Surrendering is not giving up. Surrendering is not admitting defeat. Surrendering is the strongest act of humility and trust. Surrendering is an acknowledgement that we can no longer do it on our own. To surrender is to gain.

Life with cancer has taught me to raise my white flag more often.

I’ve been MIA these past few weeks, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t going through something. I was reaching the end of my rope. I was desperately grasping for straws. I was tired, unsure, stressed out, and frustrated. Sometimes I feel like my life is a bulbous onion. Layers and layers piled on top of one another. Each layer a new level made up of the stuff that makes your eyes water. Often too, I feel like a circus performer, trying to balance an innumerable amount of barrels on my head while walking across a tight rope.

We all have periods in our lives when we’re juggling too much already, only to have a few more balls get thrown into the mix, causing all of them to come tumbling down.

My car needed a repair. A repair that would cost us more than the value of the car itself. The only wise decision my husband and I could make was to purchase a new (used) vehicle. Our current lease was up soon, and we had been looking for a rental home for months. Each day we sat in front of the computer, scanning every place we could think of for used cars and rental homes. Nothing. Nothing in our price range. Nothing in our location. Too much mileage. Too expensive. Too much. Too little. Too far. Nothing. I felt defeated. I felt like we would never find what we needed. And amidst the stress of determining our next steps, my dear grandfather passed away. He fought a courageous battle against this disease, and ultimately won. Oh, and my weekly chemotherapy treatments… the cherry on top.

Stress, frustration, exhaustion, and grief all wrapped up into a tear-filled, multilayered onion.

I found myself in the shower one day — naked, alone, and vulnerable. I began to weep. Tears cascaded down my cheeks and spiraled down the drain alongside the water. My pent-up emotions heaved from my heart as I lamented my anguish. Soon, a song began to rise within my spirit. Bubbling up, forcing it’s way through my emotions, and cleansing them upon release.

“I surrender all. I surrender all. All to thee my loving Savior, I surrender all…”

The words flowed out and my arms raised up. In my weakness and vulnerability, I began to worship. God Himself gently placed this hymn that I had not sung for years in my spirit. He was urging me to let go. To give Him my checklist, my worries, and my grief. And in that moment, I did. Before I knew it, the burden was lifted off and I was in complete peace over what my husband and I were facing. The feeling you get when someone you love gives you a great big hug… that’s what happened. Tears of stress transformed into tears of joy and hope.

As if God was saying, “You can’t do this, but I can. Give these tasks to me. I’ll take care of you.” Within one week, we found a car and a home. Upon my surrender, He was faithful.

Have you experienced something similar? I have, many times. Yet in those dark moments, it’s easy to forget His faithfulness. It’s easy to doubt His ability. In our humanness, we believe that we are in control. We think that if we don’t do enough nothing with happen, or if we do, we’ll reap favor. Too often, we lose sight of The One who is ultimately sovereign over our lives. No amount of us “doing” can achieve what He can. We cannot achieve our impossibles. Only God can. And, in order for this to happen, we must surrender our pieces to Him.

Surrendering is scary. Full surrender is handing both your worries and fears as well as your dreams and desires completely over to Jesus. It’s entrusting Him to handle it. It’s relinquishing control over your life. Surrendering is hard, but necessary. After all, His abilities far outweigh our own. Surrendering comes down to trust. Do we trust God?

What do you need to surrender today? I challenge you to raise your white flag.

Mark 14:35-36 (ESV)

“And going a little farther, he fell on the ground and prayed that, if it were possible, the hour might pass from him. And he said, ‘Abba, Father, all things are possible for you. Remove this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will.'”

Photo: Flickr/lundgrenphotography 

Don’t Worry, I’m a Professional

Being a professional is a good thing, right?

I’m no longer a novice, and am far beyond proficient. I’m now an expert at chemotherapy. This upcoming season of treatment will be my fourth go around, after all. In fact, pretty soon I’ll be over the hill with above 50 chemo treatments under my belt. I’m choosing to see this as a positive. I’ve got this chemo happy hour pretty well figured out. Not much can be put past me. Nausea, hair loss, exhaustion, pain, soreness, and aching? No biggie. I’m a pro.

Truth be told, I’m not nervous for my next round of treatment. It could be that I’ve done this for nearly three years and it’s become somewhat of a new “normal” to me or that I have complete peace in my journey knowing that God is sovereign over every detail. Upon learning that I would have to endure more chemotherapy as a result of my latest recurrence, many have asked if I am scared or nervous for this next season. I’m neither. At least, not yet.

I better not be. Happy hour starts next week.

Over these last few days, I’ve had several preparatory conversations with my doctors and nurses in both Houston and Denver. We’re all on the same page, and that in itself is comforting. Our plan goes into effect soon—I will be choosing a recliner in the infusion center next week, and will be ingesting my chemo cocktails in no time.

Each season of treatment is unlike the last, therefore, I’ll be receiving a different type of chemotherapy this time around. Though a self-proclaimed expert in all things chemo, I am still unaware of how this specific prescription will affect me. As a patient, we are given the rundown of possible side effects. Everything from low white blood cells and platelets to extreme tiredness. These are things I should expect with this type of chemo. I may or may not lose my hair… We’re praying for the latter, but won’t be too distraught with the former, however, I do love my curls! Though I won’t know how I’ll react until I receive treatment, I will generally feel as I have felt on chemo these past few years. Gross, tired, and sore.

Side effects may be similar, but the actual regimen called for this time is different than my past experiences. I will be receiving chemo once a week for three weeks in a row, with one week off. I will be doing this six times. Essentially, I will only have one week a month for the next six months where I won’t be getting treatment. It sure does seem like a lot. That equals 18 more sessions, but who’s counting? Yikes.

I’m ready for it. Ready to drive to the hospital every week. Ready to flood my body with copious amounts of poisonous toxins. Ready to feel like crap on a daily basis. Ready to fight. Ready. It’s amazing what you’ll do to try and stay alive.

As always, we will need abundant prayer, support, and encouragement. Remember 10 Ways to Help Someone With Cancer? The tips I provided last year are still very applicable to this journey ahead. We will be needing meals for when I’m feeling too tired, weak, or sick…Though Matt can cook a nice grilled cheese sandwich, his expertise does not reside in the kitchen. He does, however, drive to get take-out far better than anyone I’ve seen before. Gift cards to restaurants help as well. We will need endless support and encouragement, and please keep in mind I am not the only one going through this. My husband is the rock behind the scenes; my guardian standing firmly by my side. He needs as much encouragement as I do. We will also need understanding and grace, as our schedules will firmly revolve around how I am feeling each day. With what you’ve shown us in these last few years, we know you will rally beside us just as strong this time. Thank you for that.

Chemotherapy isn’t fun. It’s not something that I would choose to do had it not been crucial to my recovery. Going through yet another season of treatment doesn’t produce butterflies and rainbows. Instead, it’s brutal and exhausting. Chemo sucks. I love it and I hate it. No matter though, I’m a professional. I’ve got the port to prove it.

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Isaiah 41:10 (ESV)

“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 righteous right hand.”

Photo: Kimberly Mitiska Photography

Treasures in Texas

MD Anderson Cancer Center

MD Anderson Cancer Center

You know that feeling you get when you’re on your way back home from a trip out of town? The one where, though sad to leave, you are excited to get home and sleep in your own bed? This time I didn’t have it. My trip to Texas was so incredible, I wished I could have stayed longer.

MD Anderson Cancer Center is spectacular. As weird as it may sound, it felt like Disneyland to me. While some may view it as a place where people are dying, I saw it as a place where people are living. The spirit on the campus was breathtaking, and I often had to hold in tears. Walking through the doors of the nation’s greatest center for cancer care was awe-inducing. As if the angels were singing above me, I felt immediately ushered into the community. From the valet attendants and staff, to the doctors and survivors around me, everyone was so kind.

Never did I feel a sense of sadness. Through the view of wheelchairs, bald shiny heads, white coats, and the ever-present ports, I instead felt power, strength, faith, and unwavering hope. We had all shown up that day; a team fighting the same opponent. Arm in arm, mustering up everything within us to defeat cancer. Walking through the halls, I wanted to give everyone passing by a high-five… For all that they have done, and all that they will continue to do.

Among the hope inside it’s walls, MD Anderson is a congregation of camaraderie. A house built to support the strength and determination of people from all over the world. A home to doctors who pour their lives out to help rid our bodies of this disease. A tool for residents and fellows in the shadows of their mentors committed to learning all there is to know about this wretched plague. Survivors. Fighters. Cancer warriors on the front lines. Old and young alike. We were all in it together. Every moment I spent within the campus, I was surrounded by my teammates. My partners in crime. My brothers and sisters facing the same fight I have faced for nearly three years.

There’s something about being aware that everyone around you intimately knows what you are going through. The fears, doubts, and worries are shared. The experiences, surgeries, and treatments are all similar. The prayers, desperation, and pleading is unified. The camaraderie is evident, and though few of us exchanged stories, with a simple meeting of the eyes, we knew. We were walking in similar shoes.

I met with the lead doctor researching my diagnosis, and though I have spoken with him several times over the phone and email, meeting him in person was unlike any encounter I had had before. Upon his entrance into the exam room where I was waiting, I immediately stood up and asked if I could give him a hug. Though a small gesture, It was the least I could do for the one man representing women like me facing such a rare diagnosis. His knowledge astounded me. His passion overflowed. His mission was apparent. He is doing all he can to find a solution to defeat Large (and Small) Cell Neuroendocrine cancer.

After my exam, we sat in an office and went over my case, from diagnosis to the direction of treatment. He told me that he was able to talk for as long or as little as I wanted. This in itself amazed me. He truly is committed to me and my success, and was pouring in whatever I needed while I was there. We spoke about different types of chemotherapy, statistical numbers, the rarity of my specific diagnosis of Large Cell compared to the rare (but more common) Small Cell, the possibility of molecular testing, and maybe even a stem cell transplant.  After our long conversation, we developed a great plan for this fourth adventure. My doctor set up an appointment for a PET scan and contacted the stem cell department to fit me in before I left Houston. I exited his office standing tall and confident in my next steps.

While we are still awaiting results from a few remaining tests, we have chosen a new type of chemotherapy for me to try. After meeting with the stem cell team, we were given a resounding “no” on the idea of a stem cell transplant. There is not enough information to prove that it would be beneficial to my case. Frankly, this is alright by me, as I was simply exploring all of my options and wanted an open door or a closed one, but no in-between. As we expected, my PET scan results came back completely clear and cancer-free. However, though there is no known malignant activity in my body, we must do everything we can to kick it while it’s down. Considering this is my fourth season fighting this stubborn disease, monitoring it is not wise. Therefore, I will be starting a new chemotherapy regimen within the next couple of weeks, and will be back to baldalicious before we know it.

The rest of our trip in Texas was beautiful. The humidity and resounding heat didn’t even bother me! I was too focused on the blessings in my life…The treasures that Texas had to offer. The opportunity to go to MD Anderson. How God worked everything together in His perfect timing. The generosity of those who donated, and the realization that I wouldn’t have been there if it weren’t for my supporters. No matter how hard the trial, blessings continue to come. It’s up to us to see them. Light always overcomes the darkness. Our visit to Houston put a spark in my step and lit a new fire underneath me. I have been refreshed and renewed, ready for this next fight ahead of me.

Whoever said, “Third time’s a charm,” was wrong. I believe four will soon become my lucky number.

Awaiting my PET scan and cancer-free results!

Awaiting a PET scan and cancer-free results!

 2 Corinthians 9:8 (MSG)

“God can pour on the blessings in astonishing ways so that you’re ready for anything and everything, more than just ready to do what needs to be done.”

 

We’re Going to Houston!

We asked and you answered. I am in absolute awe, deeply humbled, and practically speechless at the depth of generosity we have received this past week. As most of you know, we set up a GoFundMe online donation account and were surprised when the financial gifts began pouring in. Each gift, no matter how big or small, has touched us. Every donation sent me into tears of joy and gratitude. For a while, I didn’t know why I even bothered to put on makeup. The tears streamed down my face with each encouraging email, heartfelt prayer, and generous gift.

Within four days, we raised far above our set goal of $10,000. As of today, we have received over $12,000 in donations. This means that we are 100% covered to go to Houston. Our airfare, hotel accommodations, rental car, and deductible is taken care of. All we need to focus on is packing our bags, and I think we can handle that.

I have a confession. In the beginning of last week, I was doubtful. I had no idea how we would get to Houston, let alone how we would be able to pay for any of it. Resting beside my doubt was peace. Is that even possible? Typically, I’d say no. However, this time was different. My flesh doubted that we would have the financial ability to travel and stay in Houston for a week. I was doubtful that all of the moving pieces would come together. A lot of pieces needed to fit cohesively, after all. Yet, my spirit was sure, steady, fearless, and at peace with the impending trip. Like a pendulum, I swayed between doubt and confidence.  In the end, my spirit was telling my flesh, “I told you so.” This friends, is yet another reason to trust your gut. Your spirit is always wiser than your flesh.

There were many times this week after reading your words and seeing the donations pour in, that all I could do was praise God. Often, the only words that escaped my lips were those of thanksgiving. Songs of praise and worship to the One who has been faithful through it all. As I’ve shared, God has shown up every single moment I needed Him. He has never left me high and dry. In moments of desperation, He has arrived with abundant blessings. This moment was no different. When I had no idea how a trip to Houston would be possible, God was there to defeat the impossible. He used you to bless me. And because of your obedience, those blessings completely overflowed my cup. Above and beyond… isn’t that how God usually works?

As if I haven’t cried enough this week. I know I won’t be able to make it through this next part without a tear shed… Thank you doesn’t seem like a sufficient enough way to express our gratitude, but I’ll say it anyway for lack of another expression. Thank you. Thank you for listening to the urging in your spirit. Thank you for obeying the call to give. Thank you for standing firmly beside us and lifting us up when we needed you. Thank you for sharing your encouragement and stories of camaraderie. Thank you for stepping out and making a difference. You truly have made a difference in our lives and have allowed us to see a dream come to reality. Thank you for your selfless donations. Thank you for your sincere prayers and well wishes. Thank you.

Because of you, we are now able to travel the miles to see the doctor who will help us navigate our next step in this fourth battle. Because of you, we are officially going to Houston! In fact, I leave this coming Monday for my Tuesday (7/29) appointment. I could not be more excited. I am thrilled at the reality that I will be meeting the doctor who has helped so many other women with my diagnosis. I can’t wait for this once in a lifetime trip. While in Houston, I’ll be visiting MD Anderson Cancer Center for my appointments. There, I will receive a slew of tests, including a PET scan. In addition, samples of my latest tumor are being sent to Houston where they will undergo molecular testing. This specific test involves the dissection of the tumor to determine its actual makeup, allowing my medical team to create the most beneficial recipe for treatment. In Houston, I will be receiving answers that I’ve long prayed for, and a clear direction of what’s to come.

Matt and I ask that you continue to pray for us as we venture to Houston this coming week. Please pray for safe travels, wisdom, and direction. You may also want to pray for our safety as we try to cope with the horrendous Houston traffic! We are expecting God to do big things while we are in Texas, and ask that you stand beside us in expectancy. God has brought us this far and we have faith that He will bring us through to victory.

Thank you for blessing us.

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Luke 18:27 (ESV)

“What is impossible with man is possible with God.”

For further contributions, DONATE HERE!

Photo Credit: Kimberly Mitiska Photography

We Need Your Help

There are times in all of our lives when we get to the end of our ropes and need to reach out to others. Personally, it usually takes me reaching the last thread of said rope before I ask for help. I have a tendency of being self-conscious of burdening others around me. Cancer burdens everyone, and I cringe at the thought of it weighing on those who love and support me. Today, that last thread slipped through my grasp and here I am with no other choice but to ask for help.

Let me get you up to date. As you know, this last tumor that we prayed would be benign was in fact malignant. This is my fourth recurrence, and I will be jumping back into treatment soon. My diagnosis is rare. So rare in fact, there is not much knowledge or even funding for research to learn more about it. Large Cell Neuroendocrine Cervical cancer is aggressive and stealthy and won’t take no for an answer. There is, however, one man who has taken on the job of finding out more about my diagnosis and is researching ways to defeat this type of cancer. He is a doctor located at MD Anderson in Houston, and we have spoken regularly about my case. He is always kind and optimistic, and would love to help me navigate the next steps in my fourth journey through treatment. I, too, am itching at the opportunity to meet him.

Fast forward to this week. I have recovered well from surgery, and wear my new scars proudly. I have settled into the swing of daily life and realize I still hate laundry. Why do I think that will ever change? … I digress. We have recently learned that insurance will cover an appointment with the doctor in Houston. Hallelujah. God has intricately worked together nearly every puzzle piece, both big and small. The timing is perfect — absolutely perfect. I have an appointment set at MD Anderson for Tuesday, July 29th. That’s two weeks from yesterday. I am beyond thrilled to have the chance to meet with the only doctor actively teaming alongside me, trying his best to learn more about this disease. My appointments in Houston will consist of several tests, scans, and further research of my case. Everything will be put on the table, and based on his findings, he will recommend what step we should take next. Until I see this doctor, we are shooting in the dark. This appointment is vital to this fourth journey in my fight against cancer.

Without further ado, I’ll get to the point… I need help. Matt and I need your assistance in a larger way than we have before. We are in need of financial provision in order for us to get to my appointment in Houston.

Cancer is expensive. You know that. We know that. Though we recently received a financial gift from Ellen DeGeneres and CoverGirl, it has all been put towards our never-ending bills. The well has run dry again. It’s amazing how quickly that can happen after a few hundred trips to the hospital and thousands of dollars in life-saving treatments. Our insurance recently changed at the first of this month, and we are now required to pay everything out of pocket until we reach our new deductible.

Our deductible is $4,000, which is due up front at the time of the appointment. The great news is that once we reach that deductible, my treatment and testing (including scans) for the rest of the year will be 100% covered by insurance. The bad news is that we don’t have $4,000 nor the rest of the money required for flights, hotels, a rental car, and food for my week-long stay in Texas.

Here’s where you come in. Many of you ask regularly what you can do to help us. Typically meal gift cards are a great way to help during my recovery from surgeries and treatments. However, this time we are needing extra assistance. If you are not in a position to help financially, we completely understand and ask you to pray. Pray for wisdom, direction, protection, and ultimately, provision. If you are able to help financially, below is what we currently need.

  1. $4,000 to cover our deductible and the appointment and tests at MD Anderson
  2. Frequent flyer miles or airline buddy passes to help us book our flights to and from Houston
  3. Hotel points to help us book a room for our stay
  4. Cash to help with any aforementioned area that is not met and unknown expenses that may arise through our travels.

Thank you for allowing me to be open with you. Thank you for allowing me to be vulnerable about our needs. Though asking for help is hard, especially for me, I know that there are so many of our supporters who are just waiting for us to ask.

We have faith that God will provide. He doesn’t lead us to the finish line and expect us to cross it ourselves. He provides from beginning to end. The amount of puzzle pieces that He has already put together has me humbled and in awe at His faithfulness. I know He will figure the rest out.

If you are feeling called or compelled to help us, please let me know. You can reach me directly through email at derailingmydiagnosis@gmail.com. Also, if you have ideas up your sleeve, please share them. We need a team to conquer this hurdle, and are thankful for all of you who surround and support us.

Thank you.

Philippians 4:19 (MSG)

“You can be sure that God will take care of everything you need, His generosity exceeding even yours in the glory that pours from Jesus.”

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