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Coming to Terms

 “How are you doing with that aspect of things?” my friends ask cautiously and kindly. I’m quiet for a minute as my mind flashes back to that small, tiny, windowless room where I sat on the paper stretched across a chair, perched above everyone else. “I heard that you were about to start trying for a second baby.” The doctor says matter-of-factly. “Yes.” I reply quietly. “We were supposed to start trying this week.” “That’s probably not a good idea now.” “Yes,” my voice breaks. “I know that. We’ve come to terms with that.” “It wouldn’t be wise to go off medication again, not with a recurrence this soon since your initial diagnosis.” I nod. Unable to form the words. They come out between tears. “Yes, I know we won’t be having any more children.” Sure, we have “come to terms with it” in a sense, yes, but how can one ever prepare for this reality? For the news of cancer but also the news that you will never again carry a baby in your womb? That just as you had prepared you
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The Potency of Kindness

 Is kindness as potent as medicine? I'm starting to think so.  Last week I really wanted to give up. It all felt so hard and so disheartening. It was a perfect storm of a difficult chemo cycle (including Emma growing molars!) and I really didn't know how to put one foot in front of the other anymore.  And then my people showed up. On Instagram and Facebook you all told me to stay strong and keep going. In my texts and on written prayers dropped off at my house, you all told me that God was with me and that I could do this. You all believed in me. You believed that I was indeed mighty, and you prayed for me.  As I read each and every word of encouragement, I felt my body shore up a bit. My strength reserves started to feel a little more full, and resolve crept back into my bones.  Simple words were my medicine. (Along with a bunch of actual medicine, of course.) With these simple words, like being told I was prayed for by someone who doesn't even believe in prayer, I started
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How I Cope: The Cancer Series

Well, it has been a whirlwind. I came back from a wonderful trip to Denmark, had a biopsy two days later, was diagnosed three days later, and had surgery just three short weeks after that. Honestly, I am so comfortable in my body since surgery. Sure, I look different, but we all look different and I'm not 25 anymore, so I look different anyways.  We have had many days of sorrow in our house. Sorrow that we cannot have any more children. Sorrow that I have to go through chemotherapy again. Sorrow for the time I will miss with friends and for the days when I haven't been able to care for Emma.  But we have also had many moments of joy. Joy for good surgery results. Joy for the ways our community is taking care of us here in Tennessee and beyond. Joy for every day that we have together. Joy for kitchen dance parties with Emma, extra cookies at snack time, and for every good and beautiful person and comment we have encountered.  People often exclaim that they are amazed by how posi
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Cancer 2.0

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Today it rained. If you have been following my story for the past 6+ years, you know that this means something to me. Often, I feel the love and presence of God in the rain. I don’t know why. I think it started almost 6 years ago to the day when I wrote a post about the rain. Today, I am writing a similar post. 6 years ago, I was diagnosed with breast cancer and on July 6 th , 2018, it was removed with a mastectomy, followed by chemotherapy, immunotherapy, and medication. Instead of celebrating my 6-year cancer free anniversary this week, I am scheduling appointments with a new team of doctors in Tennessee because, yet again, I have cancer. I know. We are all mad about it. Here are the practical details: It is on the same side, even though I had a mastectomy. It is teensy-tiny. It is just .4 cm, with my last tumor being 1.6 cm.  Here are the emotional details: We are sad. This puts a wrench in our plans to grow our family. This puts a wrench in our plans to go to less
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Faith Within Suffering

 I didn't talk about God for a while.  When I was younger, I never stopped. My oldest friend and I laughed last weekend about how I would pray for her to attend church when we were kids and tell her about my prayers. When I was in college, it was my purpose. On the reservation it was my profession.  When the waves of suffering hit, I still professed God's goodness for a while, but eventually it became too much. The waves kept knocking me down every time I tried to get up. I was sick in a cancer ward. My relationship with church completely upended. My marriage destroyed.  I stopped talking about my God because I couldn't make sense of my suffering or anyone else's pain. I didn't have any of my youthful certainty. I just had a whole bunch of questions and a whole lot of anger.  Until life got better. Until I got perspective. Until I stood in the snow among the Tetons and said to the wind, "Ok, God, I'm ready. Let's do this again. I'm with you." 
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Endings and Beginnings

 I've had a lot of endings that are also beginnings.  In fact, I've lived in Jeff's house for 3.5 years and that's the longest I've lived in a single home since I left Virginia at the age of 16. For over half of my life I have been without roots. I've lived in 9 homes in the last 12 years. That is absurd.  And the truth is, I don't want to be rootless anymore. I want to settle in, build something I am proud of, and never have to pack another moving box in my life. This restless, wandering soul wants to plant my feet on the same ground for more years than I can count and raise my daughter like I was raised in Virginia- with lasting friends and mother-daughter book clubs and people you grow up with. I haven't had a single place I've felt was truly my home since I left Richmond as a teenager, and I am ready to change that.  So in one week, we move to Tennessee. It is a place where a lot of our dreams lie. It is where Jeff will continue a career that he
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The Hard and the Constant

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People always say that raising a baby is "hard" and I never could quite figure out what that meant. To me, raising a baby is not hard. Washing bottles, changing diapers, and all of the other day-to-day tasks are not hard compared to say, running after-school programs for wild teenagers or trying to drive after your first big dose of chemotherapy.  "Hard" is not how I would describe raising a baby.  "Constant" is more the word I would use. It never ends and each day is an often monotonous struggle to get through the boring tasks and the thrown food and the toys all over the ground, while also giving big snuggles and too many kisses and being licked in the face without warning. It is a struggle, but of a different kind than that for which I would normally use the word. It is constant and a little overwhelming and sometimes maddening. Honestly, sometimes life itself feels both hard and constant. There are days when I feel the constant pressure of trying to ge
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