Posts Tagged ‘cancer recurrence’

26
Sep
2013

Our Plan, His Will

These past few days have been entirely orchestrated by God, of that I am sure.

Tuesday night, our church had it’s monthly women’s event, and I was asked to be a small group leader for the evening. One of my dear friends shared her testimony with all of us, and her message was enriched with His faithfulness. In fact, God’s faithfulness was the theme of the night. I am convinced that both the theme and it’s timing were orchestrated with enormous purpose.

Most of us say that He is faithful. We worship Him with that word. We pray for that characteristic to shine in our lives. But how many of us really know that it is true? God’s faithfulness is not measured by how many prayers are answered. He remains faithful even when our plans aren’t in alignment with His.

As I led my group into discussion, I was given questions to pose to the ladies. Here are a few that stood out to me, and have meaning especially now:

  • “Has there been a time where God has made something beautiful out of your hurt or pain?”
  • “How is our story part of God’s bigger story? Share a time when it was hard for you to see at first, but in the end you realized that God was doing something for a reason that you couldn’t see at the time.”
  • “Why is it sometimes hard to surrender to God’s plan in our lives?”

Notice that not one of these questions mentions an ease to or fulfillment of our plans. Many times God sees our plans and wants something bigger for us. I’m sure He looks at our life goals, plans, and desires and thinks, “That’s it? That’s all you want? My will is far greater that that.”

My follow-up CT scan was on Monday. Our women’s event was Tuesday. And I received the scan results on Wednesday. In the moment, I wanted the results immediately. Why couldn’t I receive them within seven hours like I did last time? I didn’t understand why. But now I do. Tuesday was God’s time to speak to me. To remind me of His faithfulness, regardless of the circumstance. It was His moment to encourage and empower me, and to remind me of His steadfast love. His timing was perfect.

I received the call yesterday morning at 7:03 am. Upon answering the phone, I heard my doctor’s voice. I immediately knew. A tumor had grown near my remaining ovary on the right side of my abdomen. It’s a little smaller than two inches. The cancer has returned for a third time. After listening to the medical details and ensuing plan of action, the conversation ended. My husband slid to the ground with his face in his hands, and began to cry. Tears began to fall from my eyes, as well. Instead of asking “Why?” I uttered, “I don’t understand. What plans do You have for me Lord?” I refuse to question His intentions, but can’t help questioning His plan. The tears of disappointment quickly turned into tears of sadness that I would, yet again, lose my hair. I ran my hands through my thick curls, and continued to express grief over the future loss of my locks. I hate losing my hair. It continues to be the most difficult part of this journey.

From the moment I processed this news, a calm confidence has filled my spirit. Where fear, doubt, and worry could hide, confidence has held residence instead. Large Cell Neuroendocrine cancer is extremely aggressive and, more often than not, fatal. However, this cancer is behaving unusual in my body. Unusually good. Sounds oxymoronic considering it’s return, however, it’s seemingly losing it’s power inside of me. Typically, this disease grows out of control and spreads quickly. Because both my hormonal and nervous system (Neuroendocrine) are under attack, this cancer has no bounds to where it can travel. In fact, in many cases, it heads to the lungs and brain rapidly. Yet, for some reason, it is remaining very localized in my pelvic region. It’s attaching itself to surgically removable organs. It is nowhere else in my body, and is no longer growing out of control. The tumor this time is significantly smaller than the second softball-sized tumor that developed within three months. I have been out of treatment for nearly six months, and was nearing the one year mark for being cancer free. All of these facts are good. They give me great confidence that once we remove this last ovary, the cancer will see nowhere else to grow and will cease residency in my body. I’m not dying from cancer. God has bigger things in store.

On October 6th, Matt and I will be running our very first 5k. We have been training for nearly eight weeks, and have put a lot of sweaty effort into our goal. This race immediately flashed in front of my eyes upon hearing the news that I would need surgery and chemotherapy all over again. “I WILL run this race. We’ll postpone surgery if we have to, but we ARE running this race.” Matt was adamant that I was delusional, but agreed to speak with my doctor. Explaining that this accomplishment would mean so much, I was insistent that cancer not take it away from me. Thankfully my doctor agreed, and smiling, she told us to run the 5k. Thank you, Jesus! Postponing surgery a few more days than expected should not have an impact on my health. If at any time between now and surgery, we feel the need to move forward with the procedure earlier, we can and will. However, my hope and prayer is that my pain will remain at a minimum and that the tumor will neither grow nor spread in this time. Our race is in ten days. Surgery is scheduled in eleven days, on October the 7th.

Through all of this, God remains faithful. Our plans and His are not in alignment, yet I know that His will for my life is far greater than I can imagine. For that reason, I continue to trust in His healing power, and know that He’s got this all figured out.

Psalm 138:8 (MSG)

“When I walk into the thick of trouble, keep me alive in the angry turmoil. With one hand strike my foes, with your other hand save me. Finish what you started in me, God. Your love is eternal—don’t quit on me now.”

 

 

24
Sep
2013

Being Still Amidst Scanxiety

Yesterday I made the familiar walk into my second home. The hospital. I hadn’t been through those doors in over three months, and the typically all familiar halls were strangely foreign this time. For nearly two years, the hospital environment had been a weekly sight, yet since my latest cancer-free results, I haven’t needed to visit until my most recent follow-up CT scan. I strolled confidently to the floor of high-tech machines and qualified nurses and technicians, checked in, and began the wait with my most favorite oral iodinated “tropical fruit” flavored beverage in hand… Side note: Whoever markets these oral contrast drinks lies. Perhaps they have lost their taste buds due to the amount of taste tests they’ve had to endure. Perhaps they’ve never experienced the true flavor of fresh tropical fruits. Or, perhaps they slap that description on the bottle in hopes that patients will believe them, knowing full well we won’t. Have you smelled antifreeze? Have you smelled something and immediately been able to imagine it’s taste? “Tropical fruit” flavored oral iodinated contrast tastes like what antifreeze smells like. Now imagine drinking 16 ounces of that. Makes your mouth water similar to the way it does right before you vomit, right? I digress…

Scanxiety will forever exist in my life. No matter how far I get away from treatment and the closer I get to remission, scanxiety, to some degree, will persist. It’s the anxiety experienced before an impending scan. The feeling encountered when the “what if’s” begin. When the unknown has the potential to excite, relieve, and overwhelm, as much as it has the potential to disappoint, stress, and underwhelm. In the beginning of my battle against this beast called cancer (I don’t capitalize it for a reason), scanxiety was at an utmost high. The unknown was so unchartered that my weak physical and mental body could barely defend itself against the “what if” bandits. As I have grown and gathered more armor for this battle, I have been better able to fight off these fearful thoughts. Yet, no matter how strong and confident I am in my Healer, the bandits lurk in the shadows, continuously peeking around corners to make sure I know they have not left. The degree of persistence is varied, and as I get closer to fully annihilating this disease, the scanxiety wanes.

Yesterday, I couldn’t identify what I was feeling. The “what if” bandits were as quiet as a whisper, yet I didn’t feel entirely confident. To clarify, I was neither diffident nor afraid. But there was such an internal battle waging inside my spirit that I couldn’t focus on my feelings. Was I fearful that the monster had taken residency in my body again? No. Was I sure that the results would show no evidence of disease? No. My senses were clouded, as I could not differentiate if I was feeling good or bad about the possible results. Yet, no matter how thick the fog on my prediction was, my spirit was focused on the One bigger than any result.

There are many in-between moments in life. Times when we must wait between our dreams and fruition. I’ve spoken about the gap before. In these moments, our patience is tested. Our faith is tested. During the in-betweens, our character is revealed. Do we make the choice to be impatient and allow the floodgates of worry to envelop us? Or, do we stand firmly, confident that He who has been beside us through it all, will be faithful to carry us to victory? Being still isn’t easy. Being still doesn’t mean not moving. Being still means allowing yourself to fall into the arms of the One who saves. For in His arms, we cannot be influenced. We are safe, un-touched, and protected.

Between the scan and the results, I have choices. I can allow the “what if” bandits to turn up their volume and spread fear, doubt, and worry. I can turn off the volume of negativity, and replace it with a confidence in my ability to beat cancer; confident, sure, and self-reliant that I did it. Or, I can turn off all of the noise around me and be still, awaiting His voice, for my God, my Sovereign Healer, already knows the results. These three choices all have differing outcomes. If I choose to listen to the lurking fear and doubt, I will be catapulted into a pit of despair and worry, completely losing sight on He who holds me in His hands. If I choose to quiet the fear, and inflate my own abilities, I will become self-reliant, independently destructive, and will see no need for God. If I choose to be still, press into Him, and allow Jesus to comfort me in the waiting period, I will find peace, assurance, and rest.

Sometimes these three choices are difficult to decide upon, for we don’t see the outcomes of each. But if we are aware of the outcome, the choice should be simple. Peace, assurance, and rest are what I seek, so I must quiet the noise around me and focus on Him, and Him alone. The “what if” bandits and self-reliance will soon become muddled. Resting in God’s hands blocks all noise.

And so I wait. Being still. Patient. Until I receive the news, I will focus my eyes on He who is greater than any scan result.

Psalm 91:1 (ESV)

“He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.”

CT Scan (September 2013)

CT Scan (September 2013)

08
Jul
2013

Hello, My Name Is…

Stephanie. 26 years old. Christian. Woman. Wife. Daughter. Sister. Friend. This is who I was before my diagnosis. And, as I’m learning, this is who I still am.

(February 2012)

(February 2012)

Cancer does a lot to a person. Physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. Any degree of trauma, battle, life experience… these events change and mold us. I’ve said it before, and I’m sure I’ll say it many times over, fighting against this disease is tough. Cancer has forever changed me. And I’m now on a path to rediscovering myself.

Today, as I was going through my typical routine and getting ready for the day, I looked in the mirror. As a woman, that’s not an unusual act. Whether I’m fixing my hair and makeup or making sure I have nothing in my teeth, mirrors are a part of my life. (Come on, don’t act like you don’t check yourself out everyday, too.) But today was different. Today I looked at the woman staring back at me. I asked her, “Who are you now?” and she responded, “Hello, my name is Stephanie.”

Pre-cancer, I was adventurous, organized, fun, and care-free. I enjoyed being a wife and loved married life. I loved to cook, bake, and host get-togethers. I exercised. I ate healthy. I was excited for the future. I dreamt of being a mother, and longed for the day when Matt and I would start trying to conceive. Cancer was the furthest thing from my mind.

In my battle against this disease, I began to identify as a cancer patient. Frankly, I was a cancer patient. I identified as a soldier in the throes of a civil war, fighting, quite literally, for my life. And in the midst of combat, I lost sight of who I was before the war began. I don’t suspect that’s uncommon. As someone fighting for their life, we tend not to focus on minuscule brainstorms such as what’s on the menu for dinner, or what movie we’ll see next, let alone complex questions of self identity. I was in the trenches, eye-to-eye with my enemy, attempting every maneuver to defeat the intruder. Warrior. Soldier. Fighter. Survivor. That’s who I was. And again, I’m learning, that’s who I still am.

Now that I’m climbing the hill to recovery and remission, I find myself pondering my identity. Am I the same woman before cancer as I am now? Do I still enjoy the same things? When I look into the mirror 18 months since diagnosis, I notice someone different. Not only am I physically different, but I, Stephanie, am different. I am not who I once was. I have been molded by the fire. I have been broken, reshaped, and sculpted, and have the scars to prove it. Coming to terms with this thought scared me at first. For, if I am different, who then am I now? My name is the same. My face shows some semblance of similarity from before, with the added wrinkles and tired appearance. But do I really know me?

As of this moment, I cannot confidently say I know all of who I am. But I’m beginning to understand that’s alright. Life events change us. And if we don’t change with the seasons, we might get buried in the past. Evolving, changing, and progressing into the future is healthy. As I am rediscovering myself, I know for certain that my foundation remains. My soul is untouched. I am still Stephanie: Christian. Woman. Wife. Daughter. Sister. Friend. But because of this season of torrential downpours, I am now more than that. I am more sensitive, aware, and compassionate. I am more brave and stronger than I ever thought I could be. A new passion for sharing my story and helping others has been birthed inside of me. Now that I’m coming out of the fog and haze of the battlefield, I find that I still love to cook. I am still adventurous, fun, and organized. I still enjoy spending time with friends.

If it weren’t for this diagnosis and subsequent fight for life, I would not live the way I am living today. I am living boldly and victoriously. I am soaking up every moment, no matter how big or small. I value and appreciate my husband more than I ever had before, for he is still faithfully standing beside me, when he could have easily jumped the next train to Georgia (or wherever!). My gratitude for my One, True God is greater and far more vast than it was many months ago. I woke up today with breath in my lungs, and for that I am immensely thankful.

Though I’m sure there will be moments where I have to recheck myself and shake my own hand in introduction, I can undoubtedly count on the identity I have in Christ. He has filled me with a spirit of love, power, and wisdom. I am His daughter and He is my friend. Through Him, I can do all things. Through Him, I have hope and a future. If my identity lies in the Lord my God, I will never be lost. So during these times of rediscovery, I cling to the knowledge that I am His creation and that my identity can always be found in Him.

John 15:5-7 (ESV)

“I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing. If anyone does not abide in me he is thrown away like a branch and withers; and the branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned.  If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you.”

 

19
Jun
2013

Faithful Friends and The First Season

Alongside us on this crazy roller coaster through cancer, two of our dearest friends have been planted. They have joined us at appointments, surgeries, chemo cocktails, and numerous cry sessions. They have held our hands as we have ventured into the unknown, and have triumphed with us in the victories. We have worshiped together, prayed for one another, and celebrated several occasions. God brought this passionate, genuine, selfless couple into our lives at the very beginning of this battle, and we can’t imagine having forged our way through it without them standing firm and rallying beside us.

He is a photographer and life-journalist by hobby. He resembles Jesus not only in his physical appearance, but also in his character. Selfless, compassionate, humble, generous, loving, and prayerful. His laugh is contagious and you’d be lucky to catch it. He is a gentleman. A leader. A father. A Christ-like friend. A true blessing.

She is a dancer. Hip-hop, ballet, contemporary, and jazz. A real-life ballerina. She has a heart of pure gold. She is a friend to hold dear for a lifetime. She speaks encouragement, life, and wisdom. Her gentleness, selflessness, and caring demeanor uplifts and offers strength. She is a mother. A hospitable host. A faithful friend. A prayer warrior. A true blessing.

These two have offered shoulders to cry on, words of encouragement, and a multitude of cries to Jesus upon my behalf for healing. They have documented our journey and brought life to a sometimes dark situation. Through photographs, videos, and sound recordings, they tell our story. They have blessed us more than they could possibly know. Today, we share a taste of what they have captured since diagnosis.

Get your tissues ready. If this video doesn’t move you in some way, you might want to check your pulse. This montage captures a glimpse into this battle. It begins at diagnosis in January of 2012, and ends in August of 2012 on the last day of my first season through treatment. At that time, we thought I beat it entirely. Little did we know, we had another year in the trenches. Through hair loss, weight gain, and several firsts… enjoy.

Stephanie Madsen | Cancer Survivor from Mark Nava on Vimeo.

Proverbs 18:24 (MSG)

“Friends come and friends go, but a true friend sticks by you like family.”

12
Jun
2013

Unexpected Early Results

Yesterday morning, I woke up early and drove to the hospital for my three-month follow-up CT scan. Generally I have a fair share of “scanxiety,” yet that morning was different. Maybe my nerves were suppressed due to the overwhelming congestion in my chest, head, and sinuses, or possibly from the after-effect of two amazing vacations. Regardless, I felt confident, ready, and at peace with whatever the results would show. There still was an undercurrent of suspense as I journeyed my way to the life-changing scan, yet I suppose there always will be with every test I receive. That’s what you get with a diagnosis like mine.

After choking down every last drip of the repugnant “fruit cocktail” that would light up my insides, I waited. And waited. And waited some more… Story of my life.

My name was called and I was then directed to the room where the monstrous machine sat eagerly anticipating my body in its grasp. Before I laid down and surrendered to the process, I uncharacteristically asked the radiation tech to take a picture of me flexing my not-so-strong biceps beside it. Odd, yes. But, for whatever reason, I felt the urge to display my strength to the beast that has been trying to kill me. The tech laughed, the camera clicked, and I positioned myself on the scanning table, ready to be sucked into the machine. All the while, praying fervently that nothing would light up.

The nurses, radiation techs, and I chat frequently throughout the process of these scans. We become friends. I give them the run-down of my diagnosis, the long list of treatment, and the hope for healing that I cling to. Many share well wishes and good vibes, while several others say they will be praying with me for complete healing. After the CT machine was done spinning around my body, I was free to go. And as I said my goodbye’s and thank you’s, I caught a glimpse of my tech behind the computer that displayed the vast pictures of my internal organs. I could’ve sworn she was smiling.

No matter how hard I try not to read the faces of the techs as they instantaneously see the resulting photographs from my scan, I still succumb to curiosity. This time was no different. But did I really see a smile form on her face as she examined the results? Maybe I was fooling myself.

Typically, I wait about a week to receive the phone call from my doctor with results from my scans. However, barely seven hours after I had left the hospital, the number of my doctor’s office appeared on my phone screen. SHUT UP. Why are they calling me so soon? I bet all of my insides lit up, the cancer has spread, and they want to notify me that we must proceed with emergency treatment. Dammit. As I nervously answered the call, my ears began to hear unbelievable news.

“Stephanie, we just received the results from your CT, and I couldn’t wait to call you. The results show that there is no evidence of disease in your body. All of your internal organs look normal and healthy. Your liver is normal. Your kidneys are normal. Your ovary is normal. Your lymph nodes are not swollen and are normal. You are currently cancer-free!”

Even as I relive what happened less than 24 hours ago, I find myself speechless. I am in awe of God’s healing power. I am in awe of His faithfulness. I am in awe of His sovereignty. I am, yet again, cancer-free. And yet again, I am a survivor.

This is the longest I have gone without cancer in my body since diagnosis 18 months ago. I received a clear scan in August of last year, but within days, the beast was growing inside once more, and by November I was starting treatment all over again. In March, I was almost done with my second season of treatment and received my first clear scan. Yet, still actively undergoing chemotherapy treatments, I figured, of course the scan would be clear. After all, the poison was still coursing through my veins. But, my scan yesterday was different. This cancer-free proclamation is more meaningful, because it’s the first scan post-treatment that I have received good news. The way my doctors and I view it is, I have been cancer-free for the past seven months. It breaks down to look something like this:

  • November 2012 (post mass-removal surgery): Cancer-free CT and PET scan
  • March 2013 (before completion of chemotherapy): Cancer-free CT scan
  • June 2013 (post all treatment): Cancer-free CT scan

That’s seven whole months that cancer has not invaded my body, and I am overjoyed! I remain cautiously optimistic, but nevertheless we are celebrating this victory. With every ounce of good news, there are heaping amounts of hope. I have yet to see what my future holds, but I am standing firm and believing that through The Lord’s healing power, I am ultimately healed. I celebrate this victory, and I am humbled by the hands of my Savior. He is GOOD! Continue to pray with me that cancer will no longer take residence in my body, and that the glory of God will reign.

Strength before a scan! (June 2013)

Strength before a scan! (June 2013)

Psalm 107: 19-22 (MSG Version)

“Then you called out to God in your desperate condition; He got you out in the nick of time. He spoke the word that healed you, that pulled you back from the brink of death. So thank God for His marvelous love, for His miracle mercy to the children he loves; Offer thanksgiving sacrifices, tell the world what He’s done—sing it out!”

29
May
2013

In Tears, There is Strength

Grief: (n) “Keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret.”
Loss: (n) “The state or feeling of grief when deprived of someone or something of value.”

These last two weeks have been particularly full of overwhelming emotions. I’m learning that grief is similar to waves in the ocean. It ebbs and flows. One moment I’m fine, and the next I find myself weeping, unsure of the exact reason for tears to fall so easily from my eyes. My own emotions surprise me. They can quickly appear out of nowhere. Take today, for example. All morning I’ve been productive around the house and even got a good workout in. Yet tonight, I find myself feeling somber, sad, and choked up. I struggle to write.

I’m continuing to grieve the loss of the life I once had.

Grief is a process, I’m discovering. It doesn’t happen all at once. Certain moments can trigger tears as effortlessly as they can laughter. Throughout this past year and a half, I’ve cried more times than I can count. I’ve dropped to my knees in heaving, wailing bursts. Tears have been shed in grocery stores, parks, restaurants, and church. Grief does not have a timeline nor a schedule. It doesn’t require a specific location. It can disappear for days, weeks, and months, and reappear at the drop of a hat.

I don’t enjoy crying. Like many others, I was taught to suck it up and be strong. Yet, no matter how hard I try to remain “strong,” I can’t push away the weak feeling that envelops me. I hate to admit it, but right now I’m sad. Having cancer sucks. Fighting cancer sucks, too. It’s exhausting. It’s tiring. It’s stressful. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’ve never felt so weak in my life as I have throughout this battle. This is emotionally and physically draining. While I know that there is purpose in my suffering, I can’t help but grieve the immense loss we’ve experienced. I can’t help but grieve the dreams we had imagined for our future.

Through this, I’m understanding that crying and grieving are essential to my healing. And, that in my tears, there is strength.

In moments like these I focus on something someone bigger than this. I cling to the promise that God is sovereign and faithful. He is here grieving the loss alongside me. He allowed this diagnosis so that my story would be bigger than I ever dreamt it could be. Through these tears, I look forward to the future that God has orchestrated, and the blessings He will pour down over my life. Three things remain… My God, my marriage, and my life. Aren’t those the most important after all? Everything that comes next will be a bonus!

Tonight, I cry. Tomorrow I may not. Grief comes and goes. In these tears, there is strength.

Matthew 5:4 (MSG)

“You’re blessed when you feel you’ve lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.”

16
May
2013

No Hair, Don’t Care

Sometimes, as a cancer patient, you want to blend in with the crowd. Blend in with those around you who have hair. Because, after all, being bald attracts attention and unwanted stares. Being bald equates sickness. And no matter how sick I feel, I don’t always want to look it. Sometimes, it’s hard to feel like a woman when the features that amplify your femininity fade away.

No makeup. Little hair.

No makeup. Little hair. (May 2013)

After being diagnosed with cancer in January of 2012 and learning I would lose all of my hair, I was devastated. I had just reached the point where I was obsessed with my locks, so facing the reality that they would be gone in a matter of weeks was calamitous. That was 14 months ago, and since then, I have lost my hair a few more times. But, never once had I grieved my eyebrows or eyelashes. In my second season of treatment, my hair loss became more of an inconvenience rather than devastation. I had gotten pretty used to it. However, this time around, chemo decided to take a little more hair with it. This time, I lost all of my locks… as usual, the new curls on my head and the hair on my legs and arms. But, this season, even my eyebrows and eyelashes disappeared. Everything. The only hairs I hadn’t been used to saying goodbye to were my brows and lashes, and boy did I realize what an adjustment that would be. I had never understood how much I had taken those short little hairs for granted.

What a difference brows and lashes make! (May 2013)

What a difference brows and lashes make! (May 2013)

As a woman, I like to feel beautiful. I like being confident in the way I appear to the world. I had always thought if I were to lose my lashes and brows that I would look like an alien. Or even a hairless rat. Or maybe a hairless rat-like alien. Regardless, I had thought that if my brows and lashes were to fade away, my beauty would soon then follow. After all, I had never had to draw my brows on, and only wore false lashes on few occasions. What was I to do?

I have an aversion to having all eyes on me. I don’t like all the attention. And, I don’t like being the sick girl. The cancer patient. Because of this, I’ve become somewhat of a chameleon. Not many people have been able to see me without my “mask” on. And frankly, because I appear to be healthy, it’s hard for others to see the face of sickness. When I’m made-up, cancer doesn’t shine through. And while that’s the point, it’s necessary to see what the “before” looks like.

Many women share that they don’t feel femininely beautiful after hair loss. I get that. I feel that way, too. But there is hope. And thank the Lord for makeup! Gifted with cosmetic creativity, I have been able to gather my tools and tricks and go to work on the canvas of my face. I am here to testify that as a woman diagnosed with cancer or for those suffering hair loss for other reasons, you can still be beautiful! Losing your hair does not mean you have to look vastly different from your prior furry self. It’ll take effort and creativity, but it is possible.

Makeup complete and hair on! (May 2013)

Makeup complete and hair on! (May 2013)

Cancer tried to take away a lot. And even though it has tried to strip me of my appearance, I will not let it. No hair, don’t care. I’m beautiful, regardless.

And so are you.

Isaiah 40:8 (ESV)

“The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever.”

 

13
May
2013

Disease VS Diagnosis

Trusting in God's path. (May 2013)

Trusting in something bigger. (May 2013)

I have come to the realization that for the last 16 months I have only faced my disease (cancer), rather than coming head on with my diagnosis. This is not necessarily a bad thing, and for me, it has been beneficial to my fight.

Until two weeks ago, I did not want to know the details of my diagnosis. I knew that I had been diagnosed with a gnarly type of cancer called Large Cell Neuroendocrine Carcinoma of the Cervix, but the statistics did not matter to me. I felt that if I knew the ins and outs of my diagnosis, I would be brought to my knees in debilitating fear. After all, what I had been told already frightened me. “Rare. Poor prognosis. Less than 100 women worldwide have ever been diagnosed. Aggressive. Resistant to treatment. Recurrence is probable.” In fact, this diagnosis is so rare, there is only one doctor with any knowledge about it. And admittedly, he doesn’t know much. Those words gave me a sense of what I was up against, and I wasn’t ready to find out what this beast really was. I knew it’s identity, but didn’t care for it’s traits. Some may call this naive, but I assure you, this was my version of coping. I was protecting myself in the midst of the most weakest moments in my life. Had I learned the cold, hard facts about my diagnosis, I might have been crippled in times that I needed to pick up my shield and stand firm.

Recently, I had an overwhelming sense that I was supposed to know more than just this beast’s name. I felt ready. Thus began my search. Previously, I had been told by several doctors that there really is not much research nor information about the specifics of my diagnosis, and that if I was interested, I could look at studies of lung cancers. Apparently they behaved similarly. However, instead of investigating cancers similar to mine, I wanted to know more about LCCC (Large Cell Carcinoma of the Cervix) specifically. I came across a helpful website created by my fellow “sisters” in this fight and the doctor studying it. Upon entering, I felt nervous, apprehensive, anxious… and ready. As I clicked on the “Education and Information” section, I knew I was turning the key to the door of reality. I began reading. What is it? Who gets it? What are the symptoms? How is it diagnosed and treated? And lastly… what is the prognosis? I paused for a moment and told myself, “Stop reading. You don’t need to know.” Yet as I was repeating these cautionary words, I could not stop my eyes from continuing on through the statistics. By the end of the section, I was relieved it was over. Relieved that I finally knew why my doctor cried after giving me this LCCC diagnosis. Everything that I had been told had been confirmed. This cancer is a jerk. Don’t get me wrong, all cancers are, but this one is the bully in the classroom that won’t give up.

My heart still races as I share this experience. My human flesh is fearful and doubting. I’m not ready to die. I have an overwhelming number of things I still have yet to do here on this Earth. I have dreams, desires, and goals.

Yet, with these feelings of fear, my hope is in something much bigger than my diagnosis. Someone exponentially larger than this mere irritant called, cancer. 

From the beginning of this journey, I have stood firmly in the statement that statistics are just numbers. They don’t matter. My life and death will not rely on numbers that people have put together, no matter how much or how little their research shows. My life and death are reliant on my Lord. He has the end say. He directs my paths. He declares when the fight is over. Not the doctors. Not a website. Not a percentage. Not a number. I cling to my God’s statistics, and through Him I can be healed, no matter the prognosis. Statistics didn’t matter 16 months ago, so why should they matter now?

Often we get trapped in what the world is telling us. Labels, titles, and diagnoses. We forget who has the first, middle, and last say of our lives. No matter how vast my doctor’s knowledge is, my God’s knowledge is incomparable. Our hope gets caged in the confines of a statistical box. We think that if a doctor tells us something, it must be true. While my intentions are not to undermine the immense research and knowledge that our incredible doctors possess, I’m simply saying there is someone higher than this. Often, in our flesh, we cling to the circumstance. Instead, we should be clinging to the promise. Clinging to The Creator, The Sovereign Director of our lives. Clinging to the hope for something greater than this. And that is what I’m choosing to do. Since diagnosis, I have committed to standing in faith, having hope, and embracing joy. That doesn’t change now that I have read the statistics. If anything, it has concreted my faith, hope, and joy.

Numbers vs God. Guess who wins that battle?

Standing firm in God's statistics. (May 2013)

Standing firm in God’s statistics. (May 2013)

Jeremiah 15:5-8 (MSG Version)

“Cursed is the strong one who depends on mere humans, who thinks he can make it on muscle alone and sets God aside as dead weight. He’s like a tumbleweed on the prairie, out of touch with the good earth. He lives rootless and aimless in a land where nothing grows. But blessed is the man who trusts me, God, the woman who sticks with God. They’re like trees replanted in Eden, putting down roots near the rivers— Never a worry through the hottest of summers, never dropping a leaf, serene and calm through droughts, bearing fresh fruit every season.”

23
Apr
2013

Cancer Etiquette

Is there really such a thing as “cancer etiquette?” The answer is a booming “Yes!”

I have been asked frequently about what not to say to someone going through a cancer battle, and have decided to finally take the plunge and address the issue publicly. Fact is, although cancer is becoming more and more prevalent in our world, most people still don’t understand how to properly talk with someone facing this diagnosis. Do you say “You’ll be fine,” “That sucks,” or “How much longer do you have?” No. Yet, while there are many things you should avoid talking about with a cancer patient, there are also phrases that can be beneficial. Everyone handles a cancer diagnosis differently. Family, friends, acquaintances, strangers, and the patient themselves will have emotions greatly differing from one another. Though you may feel right in your feelings, always be mindful, respectful, and considerate for the one on the front lines in the fight for survival.

Disclaimer: While reading these, you might think, “Oh crap! I’ve said that!” but please don’t feel bad. We are all humans and make mistakes. I know that it’s not your intention to offend or hurt me (or fellow cancer warriors) when you say certain things. And personally, I don’t keep a tally when I hear something that rubs me the wrong way. Frankly, my brain is pretty liquified from all the chemo I’ve ingested, and I might not even remember your name, let alone something you might have said months ago! In addition, please hear my sarcasm in some of these tips. I’m not intending to be mean, but only trying to add a little twist of humor. And last but not least, please note that not all of the below “do’s and dont’s” may properly apply to everyone with a cancer diagnosis. When in doubt, use your sense. Before word-vomiting on the person, stop and think first. And, when all else fails, treat them as you would like to be treated…Unless you like pity. Ain’t nobody got time for that. 

  1. Don’t offer to help unless you really mean it. Sometimes when you see someone close to you get the news that they have cancer, you think that by offering help, we (the patient) will automatically feel better. Think first. Do you really intend to step out on a limb, interrupt your own schedule, and put yourself aside to lend us a hand? If you are willing to help, by all means, tell us. If not, don’t even bring it up. We won’t be offended. If you would like to help in certain areas (providing meals, running errands, financial support) let us know. Being more specific will benefit everyone involved. And don’t expect us to let you know when we need something. Being sick and asking for help is tiring.
  2. Is that a bad kind? Believe it or not, many people unknowingly ask this question. Unless you don’t know what cancer is, you can assume that all kinds of this disease are bad. Yes, there are diagnoses that have greater survival rates, while others have lower success, but the truth remains: cancer sucks no matter what the diagnosis or prognosis.
  3.  You’ll be fine. Do you know this for certain? If not, please don’t throw this into this mix. It will only leave us feeling guilty for being sad. Truth is, no one knows how our story will end…except God. And last time I checked, that wasn’t your name.
  4. Don’t ignore us because we now have cancer. I promise, it’s not contagious. Ignoring us will make us feel diseased and isolated from all you healthy folks.
  5. Know-It-All. Yes, there are numerous sources for information in our world today. But just because you have spent hours on the internet researching cancer does not mean you can now put an “MD” in front of your name. Unless you have gone through the same process as us, you don’t know what it’s like. When you uninvitingly share your vast knowledge, there’s a high likelihood we will feel more scared and alone.
  6. Death Sentence. “Oh wow! My grandmother/uncle/sister died from cancer.” This is not helpful in any way, shape, or form.
  7. I can imagine. Really? You must have a very creative imagination. Fact is, no, you can’t imagine what this is like. Have you ingested poison day after day in hopes that it won’t only kill the good cells but also the bad? Have you laid under laser beams that shoot fire into your body? Didn’t think so. Also, pneumonia/pregnancy/migraines are not even slightly comparable to cancer.
  8. Don’t put pressure on us to change doctors or therapy. You may have good-intentions and you may actually be right, but suggesting that we switch doctors or treatment may cause us anxiety. Be mindful of how you offer input, and try not to push it on us. It’s our body and our decision. What worked for your friend may not work for us.
  9. That sucks. Yes, we know it sucks. Please spare us the reminder.
  10. How much longer do you have? Although you may be very curious about our life expectancy, we may not have the answer. And unless we offer this information willingly, assume that it’s a private subject. After all, how much longer do YOU have?
  11. I don’t know how you do it! This statement is laughable. Sometimes, we don’t know how we do it, either. But when it comes down to it and you have to choose between life and death, I bet you would put your shit-kicker boots on and choose life as well.

Now that you know what NOT to say to us cancer patients… are you worried you have nothing left in your arsenal? While there are the obvious no-no’s, you still have options when conversing with us. Believe it or not, there are things you can say and do that are highly beneficial. And sometimes, it’s not always about offering your words, but rather, offering listening ears.

  1. Reach out. While you’ve learned that ignoring us can be harmful, reaching out can do just the opposite. Sometimes we feel forgotten after a few months and years into our journey. Most people forget and move on with their own lives, leaving us feeling stuck and alone. Simply sending a text message, email, or phone call can change our day drastically.
  2. Give us a pat on the back. It may sound weird, but most of us appreciate physical touch. A hug, handshake, or pat on the back shows us that you are concerned. No, ass-grabbing will not be received well.
  3. Listening ears and strong shoulders. When asking us how we are doing, expect a long answer. Sometimes we might just respond with “I’m fine.” But other times, our responses may be long-winded. There are moments where words of wisdom are not necessary. Sometimes we just want to vent or cry or both. Offer to sit patiently and listen.
  4. Encouragement! You like encouragement don’t you? We are no different, besides being bald, weak, and sick. Most likely we are feeling the worst we ever have in our lives. We could be sad, depressed, anxious, and upset. Though you may not see the emotions from the outside, an inner turmoil might be brewing. Simply sharing that you are excited for us to be a cancer survivor, that we still look so beautiful/handsome, and that you know we are strong enough to get through this will lift our spirits. Our physical bodies may be weak, so offering strength and encouragement can inspire us tremendously.
  5. Ask  about treatment with no agenda. Be prepared for scientific terms that you may not be aware of, extensive explanations, and confusing answers. Remember, you don’t have to respond. Sometimes we want to share what we are going through, because more than likely, treatment is at the forefront of our lives.
  6. If you don’t know what to say, tell us. We understand, sometimes we don’t even know what to say about our current circumstance. Coming up with a counterfeit response will be noticed. Be authentic, sometimes words aren’t necessary.
  7. Ask if you can pray for us. While some people may politely say “No thank you,” some of us appreciate and value a prayer…or two, or five, or one hundred.
  8. Admiration. We are trying our hardest to hold on and keep fighting. It’s hard. Reminding us that we are brave, strong, and/or courageous (even though we may feel like none of the above) can help.
  9. I’m sorry. This has potential to be slightly controversial. Sure we can say, “What are you sorry for? It’s not your fault.” But equally, I believe we all know that offering this statement is a generic condolence. Most of us will appreciate your concern.
  10. You’re an inspiration. If we have inspired you or someone you know, please share that with us over and over again. Sometimes we feel like our battle means nothing, and simply knowing that our sufferings are helping others in similar circumstances fills our spirit with gratitude. To know that we are making a difference through our journey to help others through theirs is a blessing.
  11. Sharing is caring. This compliments the previous point. If we have done something that has impacted your life for the better, tell us. If you have shared our story and offered hope to a fellow cancer patient, let us know. Not only will it inspire our fellow peers, but it inspires and motivates us to keep up the fight.
  12. Boring and mundane topics are valuable, too. While, there are many times we do appreciate sharing about treatment, struggles, and the journey, we would also like you to remember that we are living life just like you. In most cases, we still go to the grocery store, travel, cook, and clean our homes. Asking us about daily life outside of our diagnosis helps us all remember we are more than a walking science experiment. Ask us what what our favorite foods are… unless we’re sick from chemo. But you get the idea.

1 Thessalonians 5:13-18 (MSG Version)

“Get along among yourselves, each of you doing your part. Our counsel is that you warn the freeloaders to get a move on. Gently encourage the stragglers, and reach out for the exhausted, pulling them to their feet. Be patient with each person, attentive to individual needs. And be careful that when you get on each other’s nerves you don’t snap at each other. Look for the best in each other, and always do your best to bring it out. Be cheerful no matter what; pray all the time; thank God no matter what happens. This is the way God wants you who belong to Christ Jesus to live.”

12
Apr
2013

Defeated. Triumphant. Confused.

One month before diagnosis. Completely unaware of what was to come. (December 2011)

One month before diagnosis. Completely unaware of what was to come. (December 2011)

It’s been about a week since my very last chemotherapy treatment, and I’m feeling different than I expected. Physically, I’ve rebounded a lot quicker this round, and in fact, was at church only three days after chemo (that’s unheard of for me). I’ve continued to get better and better faster than I ever have before. I’m not sure why that is, but I’ll take it. Emotionally, it’s a whole different story.

I expected to be jumping for joy on the last day of sippin’ chemo cocktails. But, boy was I wrong. I cried that night. I was both happy and sad that this chapter was ending. Sad, unsure, nervous, drained, and exhausted. Happy, anxious, excited, and overwhelmed. My emotions poured out through tears staining my cheeks. I felt both defeated and triumphant. Alongside my husband, I was utterly confused… and still am.

Shouldn’t I be over the moon, swimming in glitter, and running through fields proclaiming that I’m cancer-free? Shouldn’t I be thrilled? Shouldn’t I be proud when I receive congratulatory wishes? I don’t know, but this isn’t streamers and confetti like I expected.

I find myself feeling lost. I feel as though I was dropped down in a land I know very little about. I’m unsure of what path to take and where to find the roads leading to the dreams Matt and I have harbored. I can barely put my right foot in front of my left. I’m lost. My job for over a year has been fighting an epic battle against this potentially fatal enemy called cancer. I am a professional cancer warrior. I know the ins, outs, ups, downs, sides, and in-betweens of this journey. I have more medical knowledge than I ever knew I could possess. Although my identity is not in this diagnosis, it has been a huge part of my life for a long time. It’s been my job, my responsibility, my purpose. And now that it is potentially over, I don’t know where to go or what to do next.

The truth remains- I am thankful. I don’t wish to be in this battle any longer. If I have to, I will, but I am desperately praying and exhaustedly believing that this monster will no longer see my body as it’s residence. I want to live. I want to see our dreams come to fruition. I want to move on. As I think on and analyze my feelings, I can’t help but understand that I must accept this as a part of my life’s story. Of course, I continue to know that this has forever changed our future as we saw it, but I suppose, somewhere deep inside of me, I believed that we could pick up and move on. As if all of this was just a chapter, and we could turn the page. As much as I would like to forget about this diagnosis and continue on my merry way like nothing ever happened, I simply cannot. And I will forever bare the scars as a reminder of what will no longer be.

We ushered in 2012 joyfully and expectant. We were taking action and beginning to see our dreams playing out. Our metaphorical bags were packed and we were ready to move forward with plans for the new year. Then only a few short weeks later, our luggage of life was removed from our hands and spilled all over the floor. Dreams, wishes, and hopes were scattered and put on hold. More than a year later, I find myself looking at all the pieces and wondering which dream to pick up first. Which piece of the puzzle will be our next step? Where do we even begin to put this back together again? What is our life going to look like now?

Change is necessary. Without change, growth would not exist. And I want to grow, learn, and thrive. While I sit here viewing the pieces of our life’s puzzle unsure of how to put it all back together, I also know that the responsibility of starting over is not completely on our shoulders. We have someone much bigger and far more powerful to direct our steps. Although our life has been changed forever, our desires, hopes, and wishes still remain. And we will continue to stand firm on the dreams God has placed in our hearts. He put them there for a reason. God places those dreams into our hearts, and we follow stride, developing goals of how to see them become a reality. Sometimes God allows change so that our dreams birth bigger fruit.

Changing the circumstance can often change the size of the dream… and I have a feeling that through this diagnosis our dreams have become exponentially bigger. We dreamed of children, but only expected to have them the “traditional” way. Now, our future story of children is much bigger and far better than we could have ever imagined. We dreamed of making a difference in other people’s lives, but had no clue of how that could happen. God saw that dream, and drastically enlarged the outcome. I knew I dreamed of having a purpose, and because God knew that, He surprised me in making my purpose something so much greater than I ever knew possible.

Although I am still confused and can’t begin to see the picture of our future, I know our dreams will enter the journey at some point. I don’t know when or how, but my God is faithful, and if I can learn to sit in this gap between dreams and fruition, I know rewards are coming.

Looking drained and tired, but equally as excited on the last day of chemotherapy! (March 2013)

Looking drained and tired, but equally as excited on the last day of chemotherapy! (April 2013)

Lamentations 3:25-27 (MSG Version)

“God proves to be good to the man who passionately waits, to the woman who diligently seeks. It’s a good thing to quietly hope, quietly hope for help from God. It’s a good thing when you’re young to stick it out through the hard times.”

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