Revealing Grace

Dating while in cancer treatment is weird.  When you have recently had breast cancer it gets even weirder, considering one of the first things you discuss is your boobs.  See?  It just got weird.  My point exactly.  So when my friends asked if I would be open to being set up with their favorite cousin, I was only cautiously optimistic. With our busy adult schedules, we planned a date at our friend’s home in San Antonio for a month and a half in the future. A month and a half to worry about all the normal things like, will I even have eyebrows when we meet? Like I said, dating while in cancer treatment is weird. So last weekend, just days prior to my final chemo, I put on my cute high-waisted jeans and a funky t-shirt to make me feel cute and wa-la. I was ready. Except I don’t think I was ready. I don’t think I was ready for him to find me beautiful, even though I didn’t feel that at all myself. I don’t think I was ready for him to accept the

I wanted it not to have an effect on anything. I wanted to believe that even though I was in cancer treatment, it didn’t have to touch the rest of my life. I pushed to never miss a day of work or do a job halfway. I traveled and hiked and drove halfway across the country. I started to date and pretend that everything was normal and the cancer was just a little thing. But the pressure of treatment was quietly doing a number on my resolve. The fact was, cancer treatment did have an effect on everything . With only the expectations that I put upon myself, I pushed myself to the breaking point. Constantly confused about why my white blood cell count never rose above the absolute minimum of acceptability since chemo #2, I pushed away rest and tried to continue on with my pre-cancer life. I put undue pressure on myself to perform when no one was asking me to. I took a trip to California and spent half of the weekend sprawled out on my friend’s couch.   I spent weeks communicat

I cannot believe that on Monday I go in for my final chemo. I can scarcely wrap my brain around the fact that slowly, slowly, I will become "me" again.  Those pieces that have been dormant will wake up. In time, my energy will return, my eyebrows will grow back, my hair will try to find its rhythm again. Slowly, the steroid puff will leave my face and the constant fear of having to endure another treatment will subside.  When I began treatment in August, I couldn't imagine making it here.  Yet, my anxieties have not subsided with the end of chemo in my sights. I worry more about a recurrence, about what it means to be past the active part of treatment. I stay up at night fretting about my next reconstruction surgery and the permanent changes in my body, my mind, my will.  In treatment everything seems temporary. Post-treatment you have to come to terms with the fact that some things are now with you forever.  What a freaking mind-game cancer treat

Do you know that feeling when a page is beginning to turn? It is that feeling of the darkness shifting, the winds beginning to whisper again, and the tides of peace returning to settle in your soul. It is a feeling that the energy of the world around you is moving and perhaps (perhaps) things are about to get better. In one week I will have finished my fifth chemo. In one month I will have finished my last chemo. I never thought I would make it through this challenge. After my first session I was convinced that I would never survive the mind mess of chemo. But here we stand in November. And I am beginning to feel hope. The journey is long from over (I will have 12 more infusions in the chemo room after chemo is done, but it will just be one targeted therapy drug, no cold cap, and none of this nasty fatigue) but the hardest parts will be done. Slowly, I will regain my strength, my resolve, my connection to my body and my mind. Life will not return to normal, but wha

Here is what it feels like to be on chemo treatments: Your once lovely and thick hair is now thin and balding like a middle-aged man. Your body is doing the opposite. Once thin and trim it is now getting thicker and bulkier from the steroids and lack of exercise due to these treatments being hard on your heart and hello, the lack of energy to do anything more than go to work and play with your dog. If that isn't enough for you, your eye is consistently twitching, your back hurts from "bone pain," you are simultaneously exhausted and wired, and your brain took a vacation and left you behind. And just for good measure, add in slowly disappearing eyebrows. It isn't fun. And it sucks because I want to date and not look like I'm slowly transitioning to a less appealing me. I want to make new friends in my city and not have to feel self-conscious about my new fashion statement, the headwrap+braid. And it sucks because I feel bad for feeling mad about this

Last night my friend made me a pie. An apple pie. I literally did a little dance of joy when it came out of the oven. It wasn't what we thought we would be doing this weekend- eating pie and going to the State Fair. We thought we would be managing my naps and feeding me toast after another chemo, but my body decided it wasn't quite ready for that. Cancer treatment is certainly full of ups and downs.  You finally get your mind wrapped around how to balance work, chemo treatment, side effects, a dog, and remembering to shower and eat real food, and then a curve ball gets thrown in and everything seems to fly into chaos and confusion. This happened on Thursday when they told me that my white blood cell count was too low to do chemo on schedule this week.  Talk about a build up to a big let down.  I went from the appointment (in tears) to the airport to pick up my friend who had left 4 of her 6 kids to take care of me and I was flustered to say the least. I felt ba

This is a post I wrote and never published over a year ago, just a month or so before my husband left. I would say the message is still fitting for my current season. Enjoy this flashback! ___________________ March 2017 The other day I walked into work just like any other day. Nothing extraordinary or great had happened that morning. I had just woken up, gotten ready, and headed into work. As I said hello to my friend and coworker she exclaimed, "you look happy!" I look happy? I thought. I look happy! It had been so long since my natural countenance had been happy and I was thrilled at her observation. A few weeks later the same coworker walked over to my office (or cubicle) and said, "Hey, I just wanted you to know that you seem like your old self again and I'm really happy to have you back." Again, I was amazed that she noticed the outward healing that I was feeling inside. This friend has known me since I arrived in Arizona and has had a front row se

I'm tired of talking about cancer. I'm tired of fighting cancer. I'm tired of this being a part of my story. But the fact is, this will always be a part of my life. There are many stages in treatment and in recovery, many milestones. But the rest of my life will forever be different than before this. I will always have to be wise about what I eat, stay in shape, always have to go to check-ups to make sure the cancer stays away. I will always be looking to markers of one year, five years, ten years cancer free. I will be looking forward to chemo being done, then my next surgery being over. I will then move to celebrate the end of year-long Herceptin infusions, then the removal of my port. Follow that with five years of hormone treatment before all of this is "over." Ooof. But. But. I will also be looking forward to celebrating one year at the job that I love. I will look forward to vacations with friends and trips around the world. I will celebrate t

I am currently sitting on my couch drinking a cup of love. What is a cup of love, you ask? It is first comprised of Costa Rican coffee, fresh from the source. The coffee was brought to me by a volunteer at the Incarnation House youth center. I met her a few weeks ago when she dropped off some snacks. She is a flight attendant and recently had a layover in Costa Rica, so she came to the center last week with a gift. She had picked me up a bag of the most delicious coffee, knowing that chemo makes me extra tired and fatigued and I often need an extra boost.  Then you mix that coffee with some milk. But not just any milk. This is homogenized milk that you don't have to strain. Because I, in my infinite lack-of-wisdom, bought non-homogenized milk that I've had to strain for the past week. Today, I also noticed it was expired, realizing that perhaps I was drinking curdled milk. Feeling worn out, I really didn't want to drive across the street to the store. So my friend i

I'm going to get real here, and it is probably going to make my mom sad (hi mom), but that's ok. We are going to talk about it. We are going to talk about babies. I am a 29-year-old woman who is almost one year divorced (officially) and 3 months into cancer treatment. This is not where I thought I would be at 29. As you can imagine, a majority of friends my age have babies, are pregnant with babies, or are working on their plan for when babies enter the picture. I, on the other hand, have a really high chance of never being able to have babies. Chemo itself can destroy my chances, or the five years of hormone therapy I will have to have (my cancer was hormone positive) might. And if by some incredible miracle I come out of this and my chances haven't been shot, I may not find a partner for life and get married again. (I know, this is getting depressing. Sorry 'bout that). While my friends are in hospitals getting ultrasounds of their baby's heartbeat, I&#

It is almost strange how quickly I go from joyful to angry, when the steroids hit my body and I sit beneath that freezing cold, incredibly tight cap. It is unnerving how the anxiety and fear sway in and out of my heart like a pendulum. Fine one moment, heart beating too quickly the next. It is beautiful, the connection you make with other patients in the chemotherapy room. As we sit, suffering similar ailments, helping one another to feel calm on the first time, giving advice about how to keep our hair and exchanging phone numbers so we don't feel quite so alone. People always comment on how young I am. You don't have any idea what I've been through, I usually say. And I let them know I am 29, not 19. I guess I don't mind looking younger than I am. I guess I don't mind the extra compassion they extend. I get back home and I feel like I am waiting- waiting for the stomach aches to hit, for my brain to turn to a sieve, for everything to get awful again. And

Long before I knew I would have to do chemo (or even major surgery), I planned to go visit my brother in Colorado. When the oncologist told me about chemo, she said she wouldn't recommend the trip. My friends told me not to go. But the truth was, I needed it. Everything about my life in Texas is related to cancer (since this is where that journey started) and I knew I needed a break. So I packed up my hand sanitizer and my hiking boots and I hopped on a plane. I wasn't sure, in the time leading up to the trip, that I would be able to hike at all. Fatigue is crazy with chemo and I was just cleared for exercise 2 days before the trip. But over the course of the weekend, my brother and I hiked 13 miles. We stayed in the mountains at almost 13,000 feet and we conquered mountains like it was our job. I was amazed at the power still present in my legs. I was surprised by the stamina of my lungs.  Being in the mountains felt like I was alive again. There were moments on

This morning I woke up and it was if a dark fog had lifted. My spirits were high, I had energy (not my normal amount but a LOT more than this past week), and I felt. . . dare I say it? I felt joy.  For 7 days, I was struggling to find myself in the haze of steroids and chemotherapy drugs. For 7 days,  I was feeling just absolutely awful. I couldn't clean my house, walk my dog, or do much more than show up at work. For 7 days, I have eaten toast and eggs and suffered terrible stomach aches if I tried anything else. For 7 days, I have been miserable. And then today. . . I woke up with joy. I walked my dog all the way around the apartment complex. I ran more than one errand and didn't get tired My cashier at Trader Joes turned out to have just finished chemo with my same oncologist. She used the cold cap and everything and looked great. She handed me her number along with my frozen potatoes and told me I would be just fine. I went to grab a book at Barnes and Nobl

This is a post about the cracks- the cracks in my positivity, my resolve, my sanity. This is a post about the fact that even despite my best efforts, I'm really not ok. I have endured a lot of pain over the past five years. Divorce was awful and all that went with it was enough to make any person give up on love and joy. But I also watched students that I loved go through pain for years on the reservation, and it hurt. For a long time I was in darkness and I didn't know how to get out. And now here I am with another wave of shitty sad things hitting me smack in the face. And I've tried so hard not to feel sad about it because I've been so afraid of sinking into the darkness again. Cancer is the worst, but I've barely cried about it. I've been grateful that I caught it early, that surgery was successful, that my diagnosis is considered "good." But I couldn't figure out how to couple that with true anger and frustration, sadness and pain. And

Hi. I am tired. But I want to write while it is all still fresh. Today, I conquered my first chemo session. Granted, the effects of it won't hit for a few days, but to get through today was a serious accomplishment. I don't like to talk about this being hard because I know a lot of other people with cancer have it a lot harder than me, but for today, I am going to go ahead and be proud that I survived the day. The day really wasn't too bad. I was there from 10am-5pm. I was in the cold cap for 5 hours and that is honestly the worst part. It is so tight and it feels like someone laid a bunch of popsicles straight onto your head. It hurts your jaw and made me dizzy. But I know it will be worth it. The oncologist told me to be optimistic about my hair and that is a big deal. They don't encourage your optimism very often. There were moments of pain, moments where I was so cold, moments where I really had to pee but needed the nurse to unhook my IV so I wouldn'

On the day after tomorrow I start chemotherapy. I feel fine about it on some level, but I think the underlying stress of the unknown is also getting to me a little bit. Today it has been hard to concentrate at work. I feel quietly morose. I really badly want a nap. It is as if my mind and body are prepping for what might be without actually having a reason to feel that way. Food tastes funny because I am anticipating that food will taste funny. I am tired because I am anticipating feeling fatigued. And I just want to eat all of the chocolate and pie in all of the world while also wanting to only eat kale and carrots and meat and fruit. Needless to say, two days to chemo is a confusing place to be. My mind knows the truth- that all of this will be temporary, no matter how hard it gets. But my body is antsy. It reminds me of my dog when she anticipates that I am about to leave the house and gets into her ready stance so that I won't be able to catch her. My body

When I read a book, I never skip the “Acknowledgements” section at the end.  I read it word for word as the author pours out their gratitude to a bunch of people that I don’t know and to names that I do not recognize. I imagine, as I read, each person seeing their name on that page and swelling with pride that the author put them in the back of the book. I picture them smiling at their name in print, amazed that the author would take the time to thank them for their contribution to the art that is in their hands. I don’t read this section because I feel obliged to (like I feel obliged to stay to the end of the credits at the movies. Those people worked hard and I feel bad leaving before their names cross the screen!). I read this section because I genuinely love it .  I love the effort that the author takes to recognize that the journey of writing was not done alone. I love the feeling of support and care and community that the “Acknowledgements” page gives. It is as if I am

On Tuesday I woke up feeling amazing. I had slept well, the weather was beautiful, my energy level was up. It was also the day that I went in for "chemo teaching." As I took a shower and got ready to a happy playlist, I repeated a mantra in my head. I am happy, I am well, I feel great.  It sounds silly, but I have to remind myself of good things so as to defeat the negativity that loves to try and take over. It really sucks how easily negative thoughts can slip in. It was the happiest morning I had had in a while, but it just took one look in the mirror to suddenly feel disgusted by my healing scars or frustrated by the weight I have gained.  As I took the dog for a longer walk than we have been on in ages, fear started to creep in that my chest pain would begin at any second. My brain would shift to the potential sadness I might have at the oncology center later that day. At every turn, negativity and fear tried to creep in and rob me of the progress I was feeli

This is hard. Each day I battle fear and I hate it. I want to be confident in my healing, but instead I wrestle with anxiety. I fear that I am not healing correctly, that those bruises aren't supposed to be there, that maybe that scar looks funny. I worry that my breathing should be better, that the little pain I feel is something more. I try to distract myself with work, television, and chores, but I still have to remind myself to breathe, to pray, to trust. At one point during recovery I ended up in the ER. I think that shook me. It made me realize that things can go wrong. Thankfully everything ended up fine, but it was a scary few hours. Googling things also does not help. Trust me, if you have cancer or surgery or even a cough, do not google it. The stories out there are awful and definitely not helpful. I hate that I am still so tired. I walk outside with the dog and my chest begins to hurt (probably anxiety) and my breath shortens the farther we stroll. Granted

The worst part about all my cancer stuff is getting my blood drawn. I know, that sounds silly when I've had major surgery and am headed into chemo. But I absolutely cringe and sweat when my blood gets drawn (which is often). I was trying to act nonchalant at the oncology office when they took my preliminary labs last Friday, but I was definitely nervous on the inside. Since I had a mastectomy and lymph nodes removed on my left side, I am not allowed to have blood drawn or my blood pressure taken on that arm, so I let the technician know. "Oh you had the surgery?" she asked. "Yea," I replied, "Two weeks ago today. I had a mastectomy." Her eyes widened. "Girl! You look good!" "Oh man! Thanks for saying that." I replied. She gave me a look that told me she was impressed. As she walked away she said matter-of-factly, "Girl, you don't look like whatchu been through."  This was perhaps the greatest compl

When I worked for Apache Youth Ministries I used to spend the summer leading visiting groups on hikes with our students. Always, as we climbed my favorite mountain, one of the participants would ask me, "Are we almost there?" "Yea!" I would reply, "We are getting really close to the top now." Twenty minutes later, as we were still climbing, I would hear, "What the heck! You said we were almost there!" "We are!" I would exclaim. "Every step forward is one step closer!"  Today, that is where I am at with my breast cancer journey. One step closer, but not quite to the top. As many of you know, I had surgery two weeks ago to remove a cancerous tumor. The surgery went well and had great results. The cancer was Stage 1, the tumor small, margins clear, and my lymph nodes benign. I am healing, regaining movement in my arms, and working on building up my activity. Unfortunately, when I went to my post-op appointments this

I've been trying to decide what to write. For a second I thought I might just never write again. It can be overwhelming when you share stuff. I had surgery on July 6th, but it feels like yesterday. I'm doing well, but its not that simple. I wish this was all simple. Surgery takes a toll on your body, your emotions, your mind. I guess cancer does too. We got good news- Stage 1, clear margins, benign lymph node- so I am excited about that. Many people aren't as lucky as I am to have caught it early. But recovery sucks. Having to need help sucks. Bumps in the road suck. It all just kind of sucks. I try not to complain though. Actually, post-op when I was on tons of morphine in the hospital I repeated three phrases: "I love my life." "God is so good." "I really appreciate you. Thank you for being so good at your job." Apparently even on heavy drugs I want everyone to know that they are great. I have trouble not trying to care

Tomorrow I go in for surgery. It isn't something I can really wrap my mind around. I know how I will wear my hair, what I will pack to come home in, and what time I am supposed to report. But all of my hospital knowledge comes from tv. I've never broken a bone, never had a surgery, never even been very sick. Tomorrow I go in for surgery and I will come out different. The prayer is that I come out cancer free, requiring no further treatment. The prayer is that my body heals in miraculous ways because I am young and otherwise healthy. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous. Yet it seems fitting to combine a physical scar with the less visible scars from the difficulties of the last few years. To be honest, the diagnosis didn't surprise me. Extreme and prolonged stress/trauma messes with you, no matter what the surgeon says. I'll be honest. Cancer is a cake walk compared to what I went through last summer. And though I am scared of the hospital, th

I've started baking again. On the surface that statement seems meaningless, but to me it holds weight and resolve. It is symbolic of restoration. Who knew a pie could be so existential?  I've always loved baking, since I was young. When I moved to Arizona I started really cooking too- homemade sauces and meals- and I learned to love that as well. But baking has always bought me joy. After my husband left I stopped baking. I didn't see the point. I didn't have anyone to bake for and I had lost a lot of my joy. The effort seemed pointless. I could barely lift myself out of bed, why would I bake a pie? I can remember the first time I made a meal in that year of sadness. It seemed like a great feat, an accomplishment, a marker of my resolve to not just exist but live. I remember it being difficult. Not in a physical way, but as if I was climbing some wall in my mind and the task exhausted me. Making a pot of chili was equal to running a marathon. Yet, I could not

Moving to a new city is tough, ya'll. I feel like I should be a pro at it by now, on the third go-round, but I still have days where I can't quite figure out how to conquer the challenges of a new place with gumption and bravado. Even the roads in a new city can be stressful. The roads in Dallas are crazy and trying to juggle directions, the pup, and the seemingly endless construction can be enough to make me a hermit. Moving to a new city can be lonely.  My first foray into a new city (Pasadena, California) took a lot of adjustment, but I was in graduate school so the ways to make friends were built in. I was in classes and an apartment where there were people my age, similar interests, and others looking to make friends in a new city. When you are 29 and working its much harder to meet new people. I suppose every person in the store or at my apartment complex could be a potential friend, but I end up just making awkward eye contact or mumbling to my dog. Sometimes I

I was just standing on my back porch, looking out at the trees, at the sweet family teaching their daughter how to swim. "I can do this on my own." I thought as I surveyed the world around me. "I'm ok on my own, for now. I'm happy. I'm happy with my life, with where I am. I am good doing life on my own for a bit."  It was a bit of a declaration to my sometimes lonely heart. Perhaps I believed it, perhaps I was trying to convince myself. Perhaps I honestly don't know what it is that I want at this moment in time. Whatever the truth of the statement was, I left it sitting in the humid Texas air as I walked back inside to take the dog out. When I opened my door, distracted by the excited pup, I was surprised to find a large box sitting on my doorstep. I picked it up and looked to see who it was from. Immediately tears began to fill my eyes. Two of my high school best friends, who I have not seen in eleven years, had sent me a care package. 

This morning I stood on my porch laughing like a mad woman. Why? Because it was raining.  I know, I know, for all of you people who live in places with monsoon season or places where the rain never quits, I sound crazy. But in Texas, at least so far, it hasn't rained much. And I love rain. Like I really, really love rain. It struck me as so amazing that it decided to rain this morning because just last night I had been talking to a friend who is on vacation in Colorado, lamenting that they were sitting in a mountain house listening to the rain, while I was sitting in an apartment listening to my skin crackle and die in the overwhelming heat. I began to question, as we often do when we are left alone for too long, why I had made the decision to move here. "Why didn't I move to Colorado?" I thought,  "Why did I come to Texas where I have no friends except the mosquitos that think I'm the greatest snack ever invented?" Just because it hadn'

"Why are you so happy all of the time?" This is a question that lately I get asked more often than you would think. At doctor's appointments (of which I have been to a lot recently) they look at my quizzically as I smile, laugh, make light of serious things, and talk about my hope for God's supernatural healing. At my new job the kids make fun of my unwavering positivity, relating me to the weirdest (and most unattractive!) cartoon characters. I told my Arizona kids about this and they replied, "Yea, you were too happy for us too. But we got used to it."  Haha- there are worse things to be I suppose. What people don't realize when they comment on my "eternal optimism" is how great of a victory that is for me. I was always ridiculously optimistic growing up, but seeing my students on the reservation go through so much pain, and living in an unkind marriage, made me lose that joy for a while. For a couple of years I became an extremely a

The other day I was out with a stranger (you know, as I do) and we were talking about our lives, our passions, etc. As this person talked I noticed that they described their life in terms of dates. When I mentioned this to him, he paused, and then replied, "I do talk in terms of dates. You talk in terms of blessings. " _______________________ If you are just joining the story, the last year of my life has been a doozy. Here is the run-down: A year ago my husband started the process of leaving our marriage 11 months ago he left me and I moved from Arizona to Georgia. 10 months ago I unjustly lost my job. 9-7 months ago I struggled with the divorce, the job loss, etc. and also worked at a pizza restaurant. The pizza was delicious. Oh and I lived in my parents' basement. It was glamorous. 6 months ago I started a new job. 5 months ago divorce papers were finalized. 3 months ago I randomly applied to a job in Dallas, Texas. 1 month ago I quit my job