Posts Tagged ‘grief’

Guilt of Life By Reality of Death

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My heart sinks like a heavy weight in the bottom of my chest. My anxiety pushes through my body, stealing air from my lungs. My pulse quickens and my mind wanders. I don’t want to face this. I don’t want to talk about it. I’d rather lock it inside behind the smile on my face. Yet no matter how much I try to avoid the topic, it bubbles up in my throat like flaming lava searching for an exit. Though I don’t want to address it, I know I must.

The weight of survival is heavier than I was prepared for. Especially when not everyone has the opportunity to live. The guilt of life caused by the reality of death is piercing and painful and unexpected.

Grief has shown itself in different forms throughout my life. Sadness was expressed in anger when my parents divorced in my childhood. Fear was cloaked in avoidance when I was first diagnosed with cancer. And, most recently, guilt hid behind overwhelming and undefinable anxiety. I was anxious, yet unsure why. I felt lost though I knew where I stood. I was burdened by a sadness that haunted the hidden places of my heart. But I was alive and well, surviving, though confused about my sorrow.

Survivor’s guilt is something I knew nothing about prior to entering the gates of Cancerland. It’s a form of grief that I didn’t know existed until years after surviving an often fatal disease. Whenever I had heard the term “survivor’s guilt,” it was always in regards to soldiers returning from war or survivors returning from some form of disaster. I saw news highlights about people overcome with guilt that their fellow passengers did not survive the same accident that they had. Those who were buried in sorrow because they lived when others did not. Those angry, questioning “Why me?!” And here I am now, having survived a diagnosis that continues to claim the lives of thousands around me, sitting in the thick of survivor’s guilt for the very first time.

When I was first diagnosed with a very rare and aggressive, stage 3, metastatic, neuroendocrine cancer in 2012, I never asked why. I didn’t lie awake in bed at night wondering what I had done to deserve the sickness bestowed upon me. I didn’t question my life. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t depressed. I was simply ready to live and willing to do whatever it took. My eyes were set forward, my posture strong.

During my fight against the third recurrence of my disease, my grandfather was diagnosed with a similarly aggressive type of cancer and ultimately succumbed to the diagnosis. And though I heavily grieved the loss of my dear Papa, survivor’s guilt never showed itself. When one of my close friends entered a surgery that I too had received, only to develop a blood clot and suddenly passed away on the recovery table, guilt never surfaced. I was terribly grief-stricken, but not guilty. With each day, month, and year that goes by, people around me, several of whom I was close with, have died from cancer. Though it wasn’t until the most recent loss of an incredible woman in our cancer community, I never experienced survivor’s guilt.

Melissa was a warrior. She was full of faith and proclaimed her powerful testimony each and every day. She spread hope like wildfire, offering a positive perspective to those of us who knew and loved her. She valiantly fought metastatic breast cancer even when it spread to her spine and brain. She continued to post encouraging messages on social media and consistently clung to Jesus. She was a light to us all. And then, days before Christmas, she took her last breath and left for Heaven.

I was paralyzed in grief. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t be angry. I couldn’t put words to my feelings. While several friends around me posted thoughtful and heartfelt messages of remembrance of a life well lived and taken too soon, I retreated. In fact, when Melissa stopped posting as frequently on social media, so did I. It wasn’t fair. She beat cancer, it was never supposed to return. It wasn’t fair. I couldn’t find words to say. I felt guilty for being alive, for smiling, for laughing, for loving, for living. It wasn’t fair. I was guilty for surviving because she did not.

I am coming to understand that survivor’s guilt is purely an expression of grief. Guilt is birthed in our grief when we lose a loved one to something that we survived. Survivor’s guilt is the “Why me?” when we are cancer-free and they are not. Survivor’s guilt is the “If only…” when reflecting on our relationship with the one who has passed. If only I had talked to her more. If only I had prayed for her more. If only. Survivor’s guilt is feeling like you are wasting the chance you’ve been given. Survivor’s guilt is the burden of life amidst the reality of death. Survivor’s guilt is a comparison of their circumstance and your own. Survivor’s guilt is the “Should have” and “Could not.”

It’s easy to become enveloped in self-punishing thoughts and feelings of guilt. It’s difficult to face these emotions. But until we do, we dishonor the lives cut short. When I made the conscious effort to be still and listen to my feelings, I realized that being trapped in guilt does nothing but punish myself and diminish my own life. I had to step outside of my grief and understand that those we have lost would not want us to live a life buried by guilt and sorrow.

We are alive and we must live. For those who are not, cannot.

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.”

PC: Kim Mitiska Photography

Stepping Back to Move Forward

I try my hardest to look forward. I encourage others to do the same when exiting the gates of Cancerland and transitioning into life after. Don’t look back. Push forward. Look ahead. Yes, it’s true. Vital to let go of the past in order to embrace what lies ahead. But sometimes healing requires us to step back in order to equip us to move forward.

I always told myself that one day I would visit the hospital in Denver where I received all of my treatment and surgeries. I thought fondly of the moment I would visit my doctors. I imagined that we would rejoice and celebrate at the hard work we all put in for me to be able to sit here today and be cancer free. Hugs and tears flowing as we would reflect over the difficult road that led us to this very moment. The numerous surgeries and chemotherapies. The middle of the night calls of desperation to my oncologist. Each needle poke in my chest to access my port. Every encouraging word and prayer that pushed me over the finish line. I dreamt of the day I would walk back into my doctor’s office with long, flowing hair and without trace of disease.

As time continued to go on, I thought less of the wonder of walking back through the doors of the hospital and more about the dread and anxiety it would cause if I were to do so. Thinking about the sterile smell of the infusion center would trigger instant nausea. I cried fearful tears as irrational thoughts flooded my mind. Would stepping back into the place I fought cancer cause my cancer to recur? Irrational, I know, yet it felt so real and valid and true. Why would I subject myself to the very place that housed my darkest and most painful memories? My life has moved forward, there’s no need to step back there. We live in Austin now, and though we’d be back to Denver to visit family and friends, there was no reason to go out of our way to get to that hospital.

I recited to myself what I’ve encouraged others to do… Keep your eyes forward. The past is the past, let it go. Yet no matter how determined I was to walk the talk, everything in me was pulling me back. I was tethered to that hospital. Tethered to the nurses, technicians, and doctors that saved me. Not only did my medical team save my life, but they invested years into it. Never once giving up. Always willing to try again upon each recurrence. They had become family, and the reason I found myself longing to go back was to reunite with my DNA. They had become a part of who I am, and denying it would be rejecting my very self. I had to see them. The longer I avoided this, the longer my complete healing would be suspended — trapped in some version of recovery purgatory.

We flew to Denver last month to celebrate my brother and new sister-in-law’s wedding. We extended our trip for the entire week and made plans to visit family and friends. We even made sure to leave a couple days open to ensure that we weren’t booked solid. In the back of my mind, I knew this was it. The time had come when I would walk through the hospital doors for the first time in nearly two years. I called my doctor’s office and let them know that I would be in town and would love to swing by and say hello. The receptionist gave me a day and time that was most optimal for my doctor and nurse. Once I hung up the phone, I was flooded with anxiety. Technically, I didn’t schedule an actual appointment, so if I decided to miss, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal. I noticed myself already backing out. I wasn’t so sure I could do it.

The day arrived and I could barely contain my racing thoughts and unbridled emotions. My husband was calm and quiet, providing stability and reassurance. As we drove down the familiar roads that led us to the hospital, I was becoming increasingly nervous. How would I feel when we arrived? Could I actually do this? Was I ready? The closer we got, the more of a wreck I became. Past memories washed over me and, without success, I tried to sort through them. Before I could fully wrap my mind around what we were doing, the hospital was in view. There was no turning around now.

I was instantly transported to the past. I saw myself bald and weak, barely alive, making my way to chemotherapy. I reached up to touch my head, in order to remind myself that I did in fact have hair, was cancer-free and beyond treatment. My body was physically urging itself to stop. White knuckled, sweat forming, I became antsy. “I don’t think I can do this,” I whispered. “It’ll be alright,” my husband encouraged in response. We drove through the parking garage to the roof, where only one parking spot remained. As Matt unbuckled his seatbelt, I stopped him from opening the door. I needed to sit in the moment. I needed to breathe. I needed to overcome the crippling fear and anxiety that glued me to my seat. I cried.

Soon, I gave the okay, and we walked toward the wing of the hospital where I had been over one hundred times previously. All so familiar, the smells and sights ushered floods of memories. Under my breath I tried to convince myself, “I can do this,” and while shocked I also repeated, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” In a few minutes, we were standing in front of the entrance to my doctor’s office. Before pulling the handle on the door and entering my home away from home, I took a moment to center myself — remembering how important this was for my complete recovery — and without thought, we were standing in the middle of the waiting area, a beaming smile plastered to my face.

It all happened so fast. A smile reciprocated from the receptionist who I had spent hours with on the phone over the course of five years, scheduling appointments, leaving messages for my doctor, and paying bills. Everything had changed, yet nothing had. We hugged, and my eyes quickly shifted as my nurse walked in to grab a patient. Without shame, I interrupted and hugged her. No words needed to be shared just yet, smiles would do. She jubilantly told me that she would let my doctor know that I was here. Matt and I picked the two seats in the waiting room that we sat in countless times prior. I breathed it all in, and pouring over me came a loud, crashing, undeniable wave of gratitude.

My doctor peeked around the corner, smiled, and motioned that we follow her. I practically ran and found myself in a tight embrace with my dear friend, my oncologist. Neither of us let go. No words needed to be said. We cried into each other’s shoulders, and laughed at the precious miracle that was and still is. I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive. We pulled apart and looked at one another, taking it all in. We caught up on the goings on in each of our lives. With joy abundant, we reflected over the past five and a half years. Seeing the woman who fought for me, cried with me, and encouraged me countless times through my battle against this disease was more beautiful and fulfilling than I ever dreamed it would be.

Had I not stepped back, I could have never moved forward.

After making a surprise trip to the infusion center to visit my chemo nurses, I walked out of the hospital with my head held high. Healed. Death did not win. The enemy did not succeed. What was meant for harm was made beautiful. Restored. For the first time since I was diagnosed with cancer, I saw the whole picture. Not just a peek, or a glance, or a flash of its beauty, but a deep knowing that there was purpose in my pain. God’s redemption over my life overwhelmed me. He saved my life. He formed a team of doctors and nurses to come alongside me, and he knitted them into my story with deliberate intention.

It would have been easy to go the rest of my life without stepping foot into that hospital once more. Easy to avoid the pain, post traumatic stress, and anxiety. Easy to shove the feelings down deep into my soul. But it would have dishonored and dejected the journey that led me here. Sometimes we think healing involves forgetting or avoiding. That in moving forward, we shouldn’t dare look back. But there is power in addressing the place of our deepest pain. There is redemption in stepping back to reflect over how far we have come. There is honor in gratitude. There is healing in acknowledgement.

Sometimes we must step back into the depths of our grief in order to walk in confidence towards the future.

MJ and Steph

Lamentations 3:21-23 (The Message)

“I’ll never forget the trouble, the utter lostness, the taste of ashes, the poison I’ve swallowed. I remember it all — oh, how well I remember — the feeling of hitting the bottom. But there’s one other thing I remember, and remembering, I keep a grip on hope: God’s loyal love couldn’t have run out, his merciful love couldn’t have dried up. They’re created new every morning. How great your faithfulness! I’m sticking with God (I say it over and over). He’s all I’ve got left.”

Suffering Has Refined Us, Not Defined Us

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Seven years.

Today marks seven years of marriage for my husband and I, and I find myself reflecting over the gravity of our journey in learning what love and commitment really are and what vows really mean. For those of us who are married, many could say that we never fully comprehended the reality of the vows we shared with our spouse on the day we wed. Excitement and naivety clouded the promises we spoke to one another. Many are simply looking forward to the party to follow or the evening ahead. For Matt and I, we were just so happy to finally live in the same house. No more driving hundreds of miles to visit one another in our long distance relationship. We could fall asleep and wake up to each other forever. It was us against the world.

Marriage then is not what marriage is now.

In sharing our story with married friends recently, Matt and I have realized just how grateful we are to have endured suffering early on in our relationship. At first it seemed unfair, cruel, and isolating. We were the only young couple we knew walking through such a treacherous journey. Most of our mentors hadn’t even experienced the depth of tragedy and trauma in their own decades-long marriages. We were treading through waters that hadn’t yet been discovered.

Matt and I had only been married for a little over one year when his mother suddenly and unexpectedly passed away at the age of 54. We were 24 and 25 years old, left to navigate such a burdensome loss. Alongside his sister, we were responsible for making the tough decisions following their mother’s passing. The hours and days we spent in the funeral home speaking with the coroner and funeral director will forever be etched into my memory. We made the decisions on cremation, burial, funeral plans, and were even in charge of cleaning out her home. Everything was up to us.

It’s something many don’t face until much later in life, yet there we were, newlyweds in our twenties. Closing my eyes, I can picture myself sitting in the front row of the auditorium during her memorial service, watching my gentle husband deliver the eulogy with words full of encouragement, love, and faith, just days after his mother died. He was a pillar of strength when our world was crumbling.

Only five months after my mother-in-law passed away, Matt and I sat in a cold and sterile examination room receiving the news that I had cancer. Still in a fog from our recent loss, we were facing yet another season of suffering. Initially, I had been diagnosed with stage 1 cervical cancer, but soon discovered that I was actually stage 3, high-grade, metastatic large-cell neuroendocrine cancer with a less than 20% chance of surviving the first year. Our marriage was on the line. My life was on the line. We had a decision to make. We thought back to a quiet moment in the funeral home months earlier when the coroner looked at both of us and boldly said, “I have seen tragedy like this break marriages. But it doesn’t have to. You either choose to let it separate you, or you choose to let it unite you.” Upon hearing my diagnosis, we made our decision.

Life sped by quickly as we met with several doctors and began forging a treatment plan. With my husband by my side, I was diagnosed by my gynecologist on a Wednesday, met with my oncologist that Thursday, and was sitting in the office of our fertility doctor that Friday. Because of the aggressiveness of my diagnosis, we had to make life-changing decisions quite rapidly. We were given one hour to decide whether we would pursue harvesting my eggs to preserve my fertility, or move forward with the necessary radical hysterectomy. We were in our home, drenched in tears, full of fear, sorrow and grief clinging to each other, and we began to pray. We asked for clarity, direction, and peace. Soon our tears dried and our prayer stopped, and Matt, with strength and tenderness said, “I didn’t marry you for the children you could give me. I married you for who you are. And I need you here. Our future kids, no matter if biological or adopted, need a healthy mom.” The following week, I underwent a radical hysterectomy. 25 and 26 years old.

In the last seven years, we have faced suffering we could have never prepared for. Death, grief, infertility, pain, trauma, cancer. Though Matt’s mother died, we were both stripped of a mother. Though I was diagnosed, we were both diagnosed with the disease. That’s what marriage is. Not only sharing the “us against the world” moments when together you feel undefeatable, but also when your world and everything in it crumbles away and you feel weak, vulnerable, and afraid. 

Too often, marriages fail because of seasons of suffering. And while I can’t speak into individual circumstances and won’t chide those whose marriages haven’t lasted, I will say that marriage takes more than just love to succeed. We often get asked how our marriage survived all that it has. Seven years ago we thought commitment meant fidelity and loyalty, yet now we understand commitment as a decision to choose each other above all else no matter what. For Matt and I, there can’t be anything that comes between us. And not that plenty hasn’t tried, believe me. Years of chemotherapy and radiation treatments, multiple surgeries and hospital stays, sudden infertility, early onset menopause, and the death of a mother all attempted to separate us. It’s only by the grace of God and our willingness to unite through it all that our marriage is beautiful and flourishing.

Our marriage then is not what is now. Marriage isn’t simply being together forever. Marriage is commitment through circumstance. It is love above fear. It is unity over division. After the majority of seven years full of suffering, our gratitude for one another is overflowing and much deeper than it has ever been. We have faced tragedy and chose to overcome together. We continue to choose each other above all else, letting nothing stand between us. We have a common goal, with eyes always focused on God. We’ve gained greater perspective through our suffering and are much better individuals and a much better couple for it. Suffering has refined us, not defined us.

Today, rather than letting these last seven years separate us, we celebrate our continued decision to let it unite us. Happy anniversary, my love. May we have seventy more, not without suffering, but with commitment, faith, perseverance, and unity.

Mark 10:9 (ESV)

“What therefore God has joined together, let nothing separate.”

5 Ways To Cope With A Recurrence

This week I had the pleasure of being a guest on The Nalie Show where Nalie and I spoke about one of the toughest topics in Cancerland… Recurrences. When I think back to when I was first diagnosed, recurrences were so far from my mind. I rarely heard anyone speak of them. Not doctors, not friends, not even co-survivors. Recurrences are taboo, merely a whisper in the cancer community. After all, we never want to consider our cancer returning after we’ve already beat it.

As someone diagnosed, a recurrence is, quite literally, the worst nightmare. It’s a subject that is hidden away in the deep and dark corners, rarely to be addressed. And because of that, those of us who suffer recurrent or metastatic cancer more often than not feel isolated in our grief, circumstance, and emotions. By shedding light on this difficult topic, my hope is that you will be empowered and full of strength, grace, and wisdom moving forward. Your feelings are valid and what you are going through is real and raw and vulnerable… and devastating. But, take it from me, you can (and will) get through this. I did, four times!

Below are five practical, applicable, and tangible ways to cope with a recurrence. I encourage you to let these penetrate your soul and transform your perspective. After having overcome three recurrences since my original diagnosis, these are tools that equipped me in the lowest points of my fight(s).

  1. Allow yourself to grieve. Feel the feelings! Often, our fears become scarier when we don’t face them. Allow yourself to face the “what ifs” and the deep, dark, nightmarish places that you try to bury. Avoiding fearful thoughts or depressing feelings will not help you nor anyone around you. This is not the time to put on a brave face. The way that you build your strength for your fight is by getting to that deep, dark place, knowing what the end of the road could be, but then stepping back, and preparing yourself for what lies ahead. Bring a picnic, don’t pack a tent! Sit in your grief and devastation for a little while, but don’t allow yourself to stay there. Don’t camp out in your grief!
  2. Breathe and make a plan. Once you’ve packed up your “grief picnic,” take a breath. Feeling the feelings is exhausting. Take a breath and get to work formulating your plan for the days and weeks ahead. Remind yourself that this isn’t the first time you’ve been through this and thus you’re already a chemo (and/or surgery, radiation, even grieving) pro! You have cancer fighting skills already on your resume. You know what you’re doing. Take this time to reflect on your previous fight against cancer. Not from a place of wondering if you did anything wrong, but rather reflecting on what you would do differently this time. Maybe you want to try different modalities of treatment or include integrative therapy such as acupuncture. Your new plan could involve juicing, reducing sugar and processed food intake, or supplements. You have the unique (though unwanted) opportunity to build a stronger plan for this time through.
  3. Remain hopeful. Numbers and statistics can get in our heads and rob us of our hope. Don’t let the numbers define your fight. Just because x number of people didn’t survive this doesn’t mean you won’t. Just because your doctor gives you an expected survival time, doesn’t mean you can’t live longer than that. I had to completely block out the statistics in order to remain hopeful. I didn’t want nor need to know what happened to everyone else. So what if your statistics aren’t encouraging? There always has to be someone who survives. You can beat the statistics. Think back in time to when cancer was fairly new. There was a first person to survive metastatic breast cancer. There was a first person to survive glioblastoma. And if there wasn’t a first, you can be the first! No one but God knows your last day on earth and until you take your last breath, don’t you dare give up hope.
  4. Set goals and look forward. Recurrences are harder to cope with than an original diagnosis because it’s a fight you thought you had already won. Recurrences can be paralyzing because you know exactly what you’re facing. Instead of being crippled in your fear, continue to set goals. Both short-term and long-term goals will keep your eyes focused ahead. Short-term goals can be scheduling a dinner date with your spouse this weekend, or vacuuming your house on Wednesday, or meal prep for your upcoming week. Long-term goals can be scheduling a vacation to celebrate your upcoming finale of treatment or planning your dream wedding (like Nalie!). Setting goals gives us eyes for the future and propels us forward. Recurrences often cause us to look back and wonder why treatment didn’t work the first time, or what we did wrong, or why me. Looking back steals your strength, but looking forward with excitement and anticipation gives us motivation to push through.
  5. Choose joy. Above anything else, choose joy! But first, you must understand the difference between joy and happiness. Happiness is an outward expression that is dependent on what is going on around you. Happiness occurs when something or someone makes you feel a certain way. Whereas joy is an inward decision that only you can make for yourself, completely independent of the circumstance around you. We live in a society that constantly tells us to be happy. However when facing a recurrence, happiness is the last thing you’re probably feeling. When you strive to be happy and come up short, you feel like a failure. But by choosing joy, no matter what your diagnosis or doctors tell you, you can overcome. Joy is not a decision that is made once, but rather one that is repeatedly made even moment by moment. By choosing joy, you are saying that you won’t let your suffering dictate the condition of your spirit.

Romans 5:2-5 (ESV)

“Through Him we have also obtained access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in hope of the glory of God. Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.”

NED, Now What?

The transition between cancer and life-after isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. As I shared in my last post, celebrating my five-year cancerversary and two years NED (no evidence of disease) wasn’t as exciting and celebratory as I expected it to be. Now that the confetti from my two-year NED scan has settled on the ground, I find myself questioning what my goals are since being cancer-free can be checked off the list.

As you’ve probably noticed, my writing on this blog has diminished in frequency. I went from posting weekly, to now monthly. And to be honest, I struggle with being okay with that. I feel pulled between regularly writing on this blog and focusing on a much bigger and more pressing goal. I’m still trying to work out the kinks and pave a new path for what lies ahead, and it’s proving to be quite the task. Not only do I find myself juggling the grief and emotional triggers of surviving cancer, but I’m also juggling what most everyone does when one chapter closes and a new one opens. I’m navigating new waters, and it’s, well… new! (And scary, and overwhelming, and joyous, and wonderful, and all the feeeeeels!)

Many of you have asked about my future endeavors. From questions like, “What will you do now that you’ve gotten a second lease on life?” and “Are you still traveling and speaking?” to more pointed and direct questions, “Are you writing a book?” and “What happened to the adoption process?” I thank each of you for being so invested in my life. For following along this arduous and quite emotional journey of mine. For rallying beside me to support, encourage, and pray me through the most difficult years of my life. In all honesty, I couldn’t have done it without you… My team. And because you’re on my team, you deserve to know what’s next!

While I can’t share many details because I’m still trying to wrap my mind around and navigate the road ahead, I will answer both yes and no. Bear with me. I’m learning so many valuable lessons during this new season of life after cancer, but they aren’t all easy. I’m learning that release is as important as focus. I’m learning that I don’t give myself hardly enough grace, forgiveness, and mercy. I’m much too hard on myself and I place exorbitant amounts of pressure and expectation on my shoulders. I set myself up for failure more than I do success because my goals are vast and innumerable. This last lesson learned has been eye-opening and revelatory for this next chapter of my life. I’m learning that redirection, regrouping, and refocusing is necessary. And as cliche as it may sound, I’m learning that we are meant to live life, not life to live us.

Yesterday I found myself having one of “those” days. As usual, I woke up early to work out, then sat and had my coffee and quiet time, and began getting ready for my day. As the sun was shining and birds chirped outside my window, a dark and looming cloud settled over my spirit. I tried to push through my day and continue on with my list of to-dos, but I simply couldn’t get out of my funk. The worst part was that I had no discernible reason to even be in a funk at all. Life has been grand and wonderful and so much fun recently. So why was I on the verge of tears for an entire day? That night on a drive to the grocery store, Matt and I began to talk. Let’s be honest, it was more of me talking and him graciously and patiently listening. But in our conversation, I realized something. Some of the pressure I have put on myself has stemmed from a season that I have just stepped out of. And frankly, it doesn’t deserve a seat at the table anymore.

My fight(s) against cancer has brought tremendous blessing and opportunity. Through my chaos came my calling: to write and share about the deep dark pits of despair and use my platform as a way to encourage my readers to focus not on what we are facing, but instead through faith to find joy and hope amidst it all. To inspire you to look beyond your circumstance and see the beauty in the journey. I’ve been privileged to walk through cancer with such an abundant amount of support and am incredibly honored that you’ve celebrated each feat with me. But I’m realizing that cancer can’t have a seat at the table anymore and I must move on.

Am I causing more confusion than clarity?!

Derailing My Diagnosis was birthed with the mission of living life beyond cancer. It’s in the name… I am more than my diagnosis. There is much more life to be lived beyond the constrictions of a circumstance. And now that cancer is in the rearview, I need to continue with the mission. Because cancer isn’t the focus in my life anymore, it can’t be the focus in my life anymore. Are you with me? Frankly, I need to build healthy boundaries and cancer can’t steal my energy, focus, time, and emotional well-being any longer. I need to begin the process of compartmentalization. And cancer needs to be redirected.

All of this to be said, cancer will always be a part of my story. And as much as I wish I could put it in a box to be hidden away in a dark corner, it still affects me everyday. I will carry it with me forever. But my focus is shifting and if you haven’t noticed it already, you will. I will continue writing on this blog because it’s important to speak life into darkness and  simply because I love it. However, from here on out, not every post will fit in the cancer category. I’ll be sharing life lessons and the truth that Jesus is speaking to me in the hopes that through my words He will speak to you, too.

Though cancer no longer will be the focus on my blog, it will be shining bright in another area of my life. This brings me to the answer of one of the most popular questions I receive. YES, I am writing a book, and NO, I can’t give details! It’s crazy and I still can’t believe it’s actually happening, but I’m thrilled for it and believe that God is preparing beauty through its pages. This book will encompass my journey to survival; The highs and lows, the grief and loss, the celebrations and, ultimately, the victory. It’s authentic, raw, and beautiful. And I’m believing that it holds treasure waiting to be revealed. I ask that you pray for me during this process.

So yes, life is changing and I’m entering a whole new season. My blog is shifting, my book is being birthed, and I’m still pinching myself that I’m actually alive to experience all of this. God is good. All the time.

Stay tuned. The best is yet to come!

Philippians 3:12-14 (MSG)

“I’m not saying that I have this all together, that I have it made. But I am well on my way, reaching out for Christ, who has so wondrously reached out for me. Friends, don’t get me wrong: By no means do I count myself an expert in all of this, but I’ve got my eye on the goal, where God is beckoning us onward—to Jesus. I’m off and running, and I’m not turning back.”

Photo: K Mitiska Photography 

The Struggle is Real (Really)

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Sometimes hope is hard to find. Smiles aren’t always easy to come by. Happiness is fleeting. Sometimes even the best intentions are squashed. Days envelop in worry, fear, and regret. Nights end in tears. Thoughts can trick you, emotions can be your worst enemy. Optimism can be an elusive ghost. Sometimes dark clouds roll in, bringing thunderous roars and floods that rain on your parade. Choosing joy can be an exhausting and tumultuous battle. Sometimes the “whys” and “what ifs” outweigh understanding. Sometimes purpose eludes us.

A few weeks ago, I found myself crumpled on the floor heaving burdened sobs into the quietness of our closet. This particular Saturday started as many weekends often do, full of possibilities, adventure… and laundry. The sun was out (per usual for a Texas summer) and the birds might as well have been chirping if they weren’t so dang hot. My husband and I had regained the glorious sleep that our work weeks stole from us and we faced no agenda, no errands, and no stress. I knew it was going to be a great day. I just knew it.

Yet somehow, no matter my intentions of enjoying this beautiful Saturday, something overcame me. My tone became rude, my words short, and I could feel a temper flaring up. Like a dragon from within, I snapped at Matt. Snipping and snapping at… nothing. My meaningless and unjustifiable frustrations bellowed. I can only imagine what he thought as I continued on my whining streak. Soon, I even began wondering what the big fuss was about. Why was I upset? What’s going on? Not long thereafter, as it always does, the real reason burst forth.

“CANCER HURT ME! IT TORE MY LIFE APART. I HATE WHAT IT HAS DONE TO ME. TO MY BODY. TO MY THOUGHTS. TO MY FUTURE. TO OUR LIFE.”

Each word sharp, searing truth. I meant them, and I still do. I hate what has happened because of cancer. This isn’t the life that I wanted. This isn’t my fairytale. I’d be lying to say that joy and hope and faith and happiness is boundless and everlasting.

You often don’t see my journey to hope and joy. You read only the wisdom that I glean from the trenches of my grief. You hear the thoughts after they’ve been processed, the pain after it’s started to heal, and the loss that has already found hope. I must let you in on a little secret, though. Sometimes finding hope is downright miserable, and sometimes impossible. My life isn’t as triumphant and victorious as some may think. I struggle. Often, quietly, I wrestle with the realities of what I now face on the other side of cancer. Not yet 30 and menopausal. A body that no longer feels like my own. Barren, infertile, and childless. Broken and scarred. Deeply wounded and downright sad.

I hate pity parties, but sometimes we just need to be the “hostest with the mostest.” I try my hardest to trudge through, to find hope and hold onto it. I try to reach for gratitude for I know it has the ability to overcome anguish, but sometimes I fail. And it’s not fair for me to only show you the finish line. Understanding what it takes to get there is where community, empathy, and growth happens. I can’t let you think that where you’re at is uncommon. If you’re depressed and forlorn, you’re not alone.

The truth is, I miss my life before cancer. The wounds are so fresh that I still cry at the thought of what once was. A blissful, yet naive marriage. Grandiose dreams that really felt attainable. The world, our life — a fresh palette of the most vibrant colors ready to be whimsically painted onto a clean canvas.

I wish cancer didn’t pick me, though I’m grateful for the gifts that came with it. I wish God didn’t choose me, yet I know my calling was found in this chaos. I was supposed to live with the security and assumption that my life would be long. We were supposed to live out our dreams. After marriage, I was supposed to get pregnant. We were supposed to land those dream jobs and have the ability to buy our dream home. Our savings account would grow to thousands, not diminish to pennies. I’m mad that it didn’t go that way. I’m hurt, and angry, and disappointed.

I don’t want cancer. I never wanted cancer. I wish it was different, somehow. To be honest, there are moments when I wonder if any of this was worth fighting so hard for. The scars, the infertility, the remnants of emotional and physical pain, the grief. But would I really change it? No. I’d fight for it all again, because life is worth living, no matter how painful it may be. It’s only with eyes towards Heaven that I can grasp a minuscule understanding of my life here on earth.

You see, God often deposits resounding truths in my trenches. He allows me to feel the depths of despair with tear-stained cheeks and profound sorrow in order to see with greater understanding and empathy. Into the dark places, I feel the weight of it all. The gut-wrenching pain of tremendous loss. The burden of shattered dreams. It’s in the trenches where I find hope. Hope is not found when life is beautiful and grand, but when there is nothing left to hold onto. We must sit in the dark, quiet, muck of the trenches in order to discover the light.

Psalm 34:18 (ESV)

The Lord is near to the brokenhearted
and saves the crushed in spirit.

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 2)

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Written by Matt, Stephanie’s oldest younger brother who was 23 at the time she was diagnosed with stage three, aggressive cancer.

Even though it’s been nearly five years since Stephanie was diagnosed, there are certain moments and emotions etched in my memory forever. For as long as I can remember, Stephanie has been one of my closest friends. I call her nearly every day and have for as long as I can remember. I cherish the bond I have with her. When she called me with the earth-shattering news that she may not live much longer, I didn’t know what to do.

I am going to be brutally honest. Writing this post has been incredibly difficult.  I actually love to write, in fact it’s one of my favorite ways to process and reflect. I journal nearly every day, and blog on my own quite often. When Stephanie asked me to contribute to this family series, I secretly didn’t want to. It is still painful and hard to reflect on.

In January 2012, I moved to Dallas, TX to start a consulting job. At this point, I was 23 and ready to make a name for myself in the business world. Coincidentally (or providentially… you decide), this is the same month when my dear sister called me and broke the news that she had been diagnosed with late-stage cancer. Typing this, I feel those painful emotions surfacing again.

“No. There is no way.”
“It can’t really be that bad.”
“No… what?”

How was I supposed to process that? I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to feel. I could literally not comprehend what my sister was saying.

After I hung up the phone with Stephanie that chilly, January day, I called my mom. I needed her to clear it all up for me. I needed her to tell me that everything would be okay… that somehow Stephanie was exaggerating, or that she’d misheard the doctor. You know that feeling when you get bad news, where you kind of just go numb? You don’t really have any thoughts, and you can’t really feel anything. Do you know that feeling? That is exactly what happened as I talked to my mom.

In a surprisingly peaceful and collected voice, my mom proceeded to tell me about this wicked cancer called large-cell neuroendocrine cancer of the cervix, which she described as exceedingly rare and aggressive. She told me of the very low chance of survival among its victims, and that Stephanie was an unusually rare case. In fact, this cancer was actually so rare that there was no consensus on how to treat it.

On that phone call, something inside of me shut off. Whether consciously (or subconsciously), I decided I could not deal with the reality that my sister might die soon.

The next four years, my sister battled an endless amount of surgeries, and chemotherapy and radiation treatments. It’s difficult to think about (and impossible to perfectly empathize with) the things she went through. As much as I want to say I got through those following four years with faith that everything was going to work out, it just wouldn’t be the truth. Sure, yes, I did have some amount of peace that things would work out, although not once did I try to define what “work out” would mean. I did trust the Lord in this to some degree, but to be completely honest, more than my faith that God DID have this under control, the way I coped with this pain was by avoiding it. Anytime I would call my mom or sister and they would want to give me details about a recent treatment or current struggles, I would tell them I didn’t want to talk about it. I can’t paint this pretty picture of how I coped because the truth is, I never wanted to face the reality of what was happening.

My way of coping was to shield myself from facing what could have been the loss of my sister. In some way, in order to cope, I almost chose not to cope. I never allowed myself to face the real possibility that Stephanie would die, because that would have been too much for me to handle. Living so far away and working long hours at a new job was helpful in some way – I was able to block out all of the pain with the classic “out of sight, out of mind” coping mechanism. I think the psychological term is “coping by avoidance.”

As I’ve opened up with others in the middle of trauma or reflecting on past trauma, I’ve realized that I’m not the only one who has ever had a tough time addressing something hard like this. It’s ok to feel how you’re feeling. It doesn’t mean you don’t love them any less, or that you don’t pray for them, or that you don’t care for them with all of your heart. It doesn’t mean any of that. Grieving is difficult, and no way is the right way. I’m still not even ready to go all the way into that pain, but I’m grateful to God that I still have my sister.

My sister’s experience has taught me so much. I learned about what true HOPE means when Stephanie stayed positive through nauseating treatments and exhausting tests and transfusions and surgeries. I learned about STRENGTH when she kept diligently going to treatment and sharing her story with the world, carrying the weight of everyone’s concern on her shoulders as she set off to put the devil to rest with her faith. I learned about GRACE as my sister took all the bad news and made tough decisions with class and peace. Finally, I learned a little more about LIFE and how to live it.

Stephanie is brave and courageous and determined and strong and driven, and she is living a life worth being proud of. Life is hard. Who we are in life is determined by how we respond in times of adversity, and I am so thankful to have her in my life to show me what a life worth living looks like.

Matt Shaw and Steph

John 16:33 (ESV)

I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.”

Cancer: A Family Affair (Part 1)

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When I was diagnosed, we were all diagnosed. My husband. My family. My friends. Though I carried the weight of the disease, those who surrounded me were burdened by the gravity of the situation as well. Cancer doesn’t only affect the afflicted, it tears through the core of everyone around you.

I’ll never forget each phone call I made to those closest to me on January 25, 2012. I spent nearly six hours sharing the news with my brothers, step sisters, parents, grandparents, extended family, and friends. I’ll never forget how I felt with each person. Because of different personalities, everyone heard the news in a different way. With some, I was direct and to the point. Emotionless. Others heard my tears and sorrow. With some, I was careful and delicate. I even offered comfort to those who simply couldn’t believe what I was telling them. I heard anger. I heard sadness. I heard guilt. I heard shock. I heard prayers. I heard support. I heard it all.

My diagnosis didn’t just affect me. It affected everyone who loved me. And everyone who loved those who loved me. And everyone who loved those who loved those who loved me. Cancer isn’t an isolated circumstance. Its tendrils reach far and wide, touching the world. We’ve all been affected by cancer in some way, haven’t we?

Though I fought this disease four times, through years and years of a desperate battle, my husband was there for every single moment. Though I was the one who was sick and aching and dying, my husband was being wounded by the disease as well. What he witnessed still leaves gaping wounds in his soul and deep scars in his spirit. I cannot even begin to fathom how he felt when his bride was facing death. We only had six months of wedded bliss before malignancy marred our marriage. He’s carried my weak body out of bed. He’s clothed me. He’s bathed me. He’s fed me. My husband is my guardian. He’s stood at the gates between Heaven and Earth in protection of me.

Miles often separated my brothers and I, but I know that my diagnosis also deeply affected each of them in ways I may never know. You see, my brothers are my best friends. We share a bond that I’ve never witnessed between other siblings. I thank God for choosing them to be forever mine. My comrades. My cheerleaders. My protectors. My younger, but much bigger, brothers. We’ve been through life together. We share everything with one another. We speak multiple times a week (often every day), and have for the majority of our lives. So, when I got cancer, I know they probably felt like a part of them got cancer as well. They are caring, attentive, and the most incredible brothers I could have ever dreamed or wished to have.

Because I’m not yet a parent, to begin to describe what mine have endured would never grasp the scope of what their realities have looked like since my diagnosis. My mom always dreamt of throwing me an elaborate baby shower. Of sympathizing with me as my belly expanded and morning sickness ailed me. Many of her dreams were lost the day cancer barged into her daughter’s life. In typical Momma Bear fashion, she roared in anger and desperation in my affliction. She felt helpless, as her adult child — her firstborn and only daughter — was growing weaker and weaker.

My father. This wasn’t the first time cancer threatened to steal someone close to him. His mother passed away from the disease years ago. His mother, and potentially his only daughter. I can’t imagine. I’m a true daddy’s girl. He has always been strong and bold and able to quiet emotion. He is the umbrella on a rainy day, and the warm blanket in the cold. Yet, my cancer tore through him. He cried devastated tears. How does this make a father feel? I will never know.

When cancer affected me, it affected them. And I’m sure my diagnosis has even affected some of you as well. I shudder at how devastating this disease is. It’s a plague. A monster. A beast that swallows everyone in its path. Cancer touches us all in some way. Yet, I honestly can only know how my diagnosis has hurt me personally. I can’t see within my husband’s heart, and though I often wish I could, I surely cannot read his mind. No matter how close my brothers and I are, to try and understand how my diagnosis has impacted them would end in failure. Though I’ve known my mother and my father longer than I’ve known anyone else, I’ll never be able to grasp what they’ve endured when their only daughter got cancer.

Because I cannot imagine, understand, or fathom how my family has personally been affected since I was diagnosed, I’ve been inspired to invite them to share their stories with you and me. This month, I’m beginning a series that focuses on the family behind the patient. Each week, a family member of mine will open their hearts and share with us. They’ll explain how they felt, what they feared, and how their lives have forever been altered since my diagnosis. Please know, this requires much of them. Though I have the gift of sharing my life in words, not all of them do. My journey has been painful for them, and I’m honored at their willingness to open their wounds in this way. They may share everything, they may only share the surface, and some may not share at all. In fact, my father desperately wishes he could, yet his wounds are still too raw to be opened. Someday he may, but the time isn’t just yet.

I encourage you to follow along as you and I both get an inside look at how cancer affects more than just me, the patient. Maybe you’re the mother, or the brother, or the spouse of someone fighting cancer. My hope is that this would bring healing to us all.

1 Corinthians 13:7 (ESV)

“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

Grief is…

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It follows no timeline, has no standards, and does not discriminate. No amount of preparation, readiness, or allowance can ease the process. It comes and goes and rarely gives you a heads up of its impending arrival. It’s sneaky. It’s complex. It’s never simple. Grief is oh so good, yet oh so bad. It is equally painful as it is soothing. Grief is confusing. And though it is healthy and necessary, the majority of us avoid grieving because we simply cannot understand it.

Last week was a doozy. I found myself stuck in bed for the majority of Tuesday and I couldn’t figure out why. As usual, I went to the gym first thing in the morning. Typically that gets my endorphins running and sets the tone for my day and, while it worked for the moment, I still found myself slowly colliding with an invisible force. No amount of caffeine riddled pre-workout supplements nor the natural rush of dopamine and serotonin could combat the stealthy reflexes of grief.

I came home and went through my checklist of to-do’s as Matt left for work. Soon, I was crying. Soft, quiet tears rolled down my cheeks as I tried to search for a reason why. I looked in the mirror weeping with brows furrowed in confusion, as if searching for the answer in my own eyes. My tears were exhausted, reflective, and sad. But why? After all, I’m cancer free! I’m healthy and active. My energy has returned and I’m able to accomplish things I wasn’t able to for years. My business is building and beginning to thrive. My relationships are fulfilling. I’m happy. I’m joyful. None of these attributes should evoke tears… at least not despondent ones.

So, I continued about my day. Instead of seeking a new coffee shop, or even settling into my home office, I grabbed my laptop, notebooks, pens, and a soft blanket and retreated to the comforts of our bed. I began to work. I answered emails, brainstormed business ideas, and read a few pages of a newly purchased book. Yet no matter what I did to try and distract myself, I couldn’t shake the heavy burden. Instead of fighting it, soon I gave in. I surrendered and allowed myself to walk through the emotions, regardless of if I could understand them or not.

Grief is invisible, yet so tangibly present. It’s not an opponent that can be defeated because it’s not an opponent at all. Throughout my years of grieving, brought on suddenly by my diagnosis of cancer, I’ve learned that grief isn’t my enemy. Grief is a hand held out, bringing me through the darkness and offering light at the end of the tunnel. Grief is good. It’s a sign of healing and recovery. Of movement and growth.

I get trapped into thinking that because I’ve overcome and have reached the light at the end of the tunnel, there is no longer room for grief. However, it doesn’t always work that way. Grief follows it’s own patterns and rules, remember? After a few days of allowing grief to guide me, I began to understand. I was able to identify my emotions, thoughts, and feelings. The time I spent fighting cancer was undefinably difficult. Yet, the time after cancer is difficult, too, in it’s own ways. I’m still not quite sure who I am after all of this. I know my purpose, but I fear not fulfilling it. The exhale of life after is much longer than I expected. What I’ve learned is that grief can’t always be pinpointed to a single moment or tragedy. I can say with generalization that cancer is the cause of my grief, but it’s much more complex than that. For instance, if you were to ask me why I was sad, I wouldn’t have an answer. Grief cannot always be defined, and that’s okay.

The truth is, life after [fill in the blank] is hard for all of us. We expect things to be nice, full of happiness and ease, at a certain point after tragedy. We put parameters on our grief and set deadlines for when it should end. If only. Many who have walked through tragedy find that grief can be triggered years later in the most unassuming ways. Some deny grief, trying to suffocate it, in hopes that it’ll go away. Unfortunately, that never works. Grief is meant to be experienced. If we attempt to avoid, ignore, or deny it, it often shows up with exaggerated force. But the opposite isn’t helpful either. If we hold onto grief for longer than necessary, it can turn into an impossibly heavy burden that we aren’t meant to carry.

Grief is… good. In the end, it really is. It’s worth it. It’s hard and uncomfortable and untimely. Yet, when we allow ourselves to view grief as a hand held out, guiding us to complete healing, our lives can be changed. Grief offers perspective, and as long as we walk through it for the amount of time we are meant to, it can lead to restoration. Grief is painful because it reminds us of our loss, but it is soothing because it transforms our tragic memories, thoughts, and emotions into those of honor, reverence, and even celebration. When we grieve, we allow the pain to be soothed by joy, by hope, and by faith. Grief is the final step to reaching the light at the end of the tunnel and without it, we’re simply trapped in our tragedy. Press forward. There is light at the end of it.

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.”

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