I practically bounce out of my oncologist's door, Tigger fashion. I hadn't expected anything in the way of good news. I thought I would discover the slow-but-steady destruction of my heart, evidenced by a rise in blood pressure. And I expected an analysis of my bone density test to reveal rapidly spreading osteoporosis. These two things are the common side effects of the tiny pill I take daily to prevent the return of my estrogen fed cancer. A necessary evil.
But my blood pressure is back to its pre-cancer level and the bone density test reveals no change. And my blood analysis reveals normal counts. "Do you continue to see me quarterly?" I ask Dr. Kato, who is notably grayer. He checks my chart and smiles, enjoying any opportunity to dispense good news. "Six months," he says. "It's been two years," he adds. "I'm a two year survivor," I say, mulling this over. Two years since my diagnosis. It seems much longer.
The news of these reports leaves me feeling energized. I leave his office feeling taller and lighter. As we head home though, checking the time, I think of Kate McCrae, the six year old who is, at this moment, climbing onto the Pet scan table to discover whether her malignant brain tumor is gone or growing. I am instantly sobered and pray my own good news will be hers.
Tonight I nervously open an email from Kate's mother. I subscribe to her site through The Caring Bridge. I pray silently, "Please God." Tears spill while I read of this young mother's prayers as she takes the phone call to hear the news. The results of Kate's Pet scan are "Negative!" No new growth! I read the email twice absorbing this great news. I have yet to meet the McCraes and yet, I read this news as if they are family. I rejoice with them as if it is my own family. No new cancer, the ongoing story ending we all crave for someone in our lives.
For now, I feel a deep sense of peace. Looking back on the storm that was cancer in my life is far less frightening. The capital "C" is gone for now and I can see the normal challenges of life in a more balanced perspective. The important things have been put in their proper order. Like a broken bone, my life has been reset, grown stronger than before. For now, it is enough.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
June 7, 2010 Testing testing
I am waiting for another routine test - a bone density test. I had one a year ago. This is to determine how my bones are faring after a year on Arimadex, the magic anti-cancer pill I take everyday. It's a tiny white pill that inhibits my body from producing estrogen which my cancer cells feed off of in their quest to grow, divide and conquer. It's the current wonder drug for estrogen positive breast cancer. But like all good things, there's a down side. Side effects include increased blood pressure and thinning bones. Battle scars, I think to myself knowing that at least my blood pressure is on the rise. It's a bit like Alice in Wonderland, with less than totally predictable outcomes. One pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small - but how small?
It is freezing in the waiting room I share with a half a dozen women in this women's center at Scottsdale Shea Hospital. All of the other women are in gowns awaiting various tests. All are shivering and I am wondering what the point is. My test does not require disrobing. One woman who is down from her hospital room is draped in blankets. Your son is here they tell her - he just arrived from out of town. Her face lights up.
I think about each woman and what they are facing. Some routine tests, some looking for answers to frightening questions. I think of the frightening answers we sometimes get and remember the long journey I have been on. I have been blessed to have been given words of hope - remission. I realize I am smack dab in the center of a season of Hope. And that realization takes me back to the first week following diagnosis and the "Don't Waste Your Cancer" blog I found. I was seeking Hope and found it there in John Piper's words. My Hope IS in the Lord and Oh how Faithful He has been.
It is freezing in the waiting room I share with a half a dozen women in this women's center at Scottsdale Shea Hospital. All of the other women are in gowns awaiting various tests. All are shivering and I am wondering what the point is. My test does not require disrobing. One woman who is down from her hospital room is draped in blankets. Your son is here they tell her - he just arrived from out of town. Her face lights up.
I think about each woman and what they are facing. Some routine tests, some looking for answers to frightening questions. I think of the frightening answers we sometimes get and remember the long journey I have been on. I have been blessed to have been given words of hope - remission. I realize I am smack dab in the center of a season of Hope. And that realization takes me back to the first week following diagnosis and the "Don't Waste Your Cancer" blog I found. I was seeking Hope and found it there in John Piper's words. My Hope IS in the Lord and Oh how Faithful He has been.
May 1, 2010 On Humility
On Saturday I prayed for humility, that God would continue the good work He began in me. It is a prayer I have prayed a few times before. Each time I have found my world turned inside out, my face on the floor before Him. I am afraid of this prayer and tell Him so. "The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom," I am reminded.
Sunday I am able to return to church for the first time in weeks and during worship I find myself suddenly convicted, my ugly sin of judgment and a critical spirit exposed before me. I confess this to my Lord. Oh wretched soul am I.
On Tuesday, after returning from Phoenix appointments, I receive a call to list a home. "You knew my wife Paula," the caller says. "Oh, Paula. I am so sorry. I loved her." Four years ago Paula was in my bible study. There were four cases of cancer represented at our little group of eight. Two of the women and two of the women's husbands. I remember wondering then whether the Lord was preparing me for something. The two women who were both battling recurrent breast cancer and have since passed on, including Paula. "It's been three years," he reminds me. "I've remarried." This is something to thing about. I try to picture my husband remarried. Another woman in my place, holding my grandchildren. It is a sobering call.
On Wednesday I go to a home for another listing. I had visited with this couple last Fall. Now they are ready, she says. Then she proceeds to tell me her breast cancer is back after 11 years. But she's ready to beat it again, she adds.
Later that afternoon, I go to my weekly nail appointment and a subject comes up reminding us all of a mutual friend, Emily. We pause to remember the brave battle she lost last summer to bone cancer that began 15 years earlier as breast cancer.
I arrive home broken and humbled. Time is short, the Lord tells me and I, in my weakness, cry selfish tears. I want more time. But there are no promises and I think of Kate McCrae, the precious little six year old from Phoenix who's been fighting a malignant brain tumor for nearly a year. Jumping up and down on her hospital bed, she asks her parents,"If this treatment doesn't work, does that mean I'm going to die?" Unexpected, they scramble to explain the reasons for the yucky medicine and treatments. The three of them share their tears before Kate adds,"but I will be in heaven with Jesus. That can't be a bad thing." The agree but tell her how much they'd like to keep her around a while. With a smile back on her face, she resumes her jumping. "I'm going to ask him to jump on a trampoline with me. I'm going to call Him Jeez." I see His face smile at that. Remembering Kate has kept my self pity in check for nearly a year now.
I lay in bed last night thinking of the grandchildren I hope to know one day, praying for the time to do so. This morning I return a missed call from my daughter. She tells her father and me on speaker phone she is planning a special 60th birthday present for me. She's pregnant! The baby is due around my birthday in January. I cry out to God with thanksgiving. He has heard me. El Roi. He sees. And I am indeed humbled.
Sunday I am able to return to church for the first time in weeks and during worship I find myself suddenly convicted, my ugly sin of judgment and a critical spirit exposed before me. I confess this to my Lord. Oh wretched soul am I.
On Tuesday, after returning from Phoenix appointments, I receive a call to list a home. "You knew my wife Paula," the caller says. "Oh, Paula. I am so sorry. I loved her." Four years ago Paula was in my bible study. There were four cases of cancer represented at our little group of eight. Two of the women and two of the women's husbands. I remember wondering then whether the Lord was preparing me for something. The two women who were both battling recurrent breast cancer and have since passed on, including Paula. "It's been three years," he reminds me. "I've remarried." This is something to thing about. I try to picture my husband remarried. Another woman in my place, holding my grandchildren. It is a sobering call.
On Wednesday I go to a home for another listing. I had visited with this couple last Fall. Now they are ready, she says. Then she proceeds to tell me her breast cancer is back after 11 years. But she's ready to beat it again, she adds.
Later that afternoon, I go to my weekly nail appointment and a subject comes up reminding us all of a mutual friend, Emily. We pause to remember the brave battle she lost last summer to bone cancer that began 15 years earlier as breast cancer.
I arrive home broken and humbled. Time is short, the Lord tells me and I, in my weakness, cry selfish tears. I want more time. But there are no promises and I think of Kate McCrae, the precious little six year old from Phoenix who's been fighting a malignant brain tumor for nearly a year. Jumping up and down on her hospital bed, she asks her parents,"If this treatment doesn't work, does that mean I'm going to die?" Unexpected, they scramble to explain the reasons for the yucky medicine and treatments. The three of them share their tears before Kate adds,"but I will be in heaven with Jesus. That can't be a bad thing." The agree but tell her how much they'd like to keep her around a while. With a smile back on her face, she resumes her jumping. "I'm going to ask him to jump on a trampoline with me. I'm going to call Him Jeez." I see His face smile at that. Remembering Kate has kept my self pity in check for nearly a year now.
I lay in bed last night thinking of the grandchildren I hope to know one day, praying for the time to do so. This morning I return a missed call from my daughter. She tells her father and me on speaker phone she is planning a special 60th birthday present for me. She's pregnant! The baby is due around my birthday in January. I cry out to God with thanksgiving. He has heard me. El Roi. He sees. And I am indeed humbled.
May 1, 2010 Second Fill
We head down on our weekly trip to my plastic surgeon. I have a couple of questions for Dr. Mosharrafa. Last time he referred to the large accumulation of muscle in my right armpit as "healthy tissue". I've decided this is euphemistic for something - but what? The other les pressing question is to determine his eye color. Somewhere I remember writing about his blue eyes and this time I intend to double check that. It doesn't seem right. "Perhaps they are a light amber color," I mention to a friend. "Why would I think they were blue," I wonder, struggling to picture them. "Reflection from surgical scrubs?" she suggests.
When we arrive I whisper conspiratorily to Veronica, who doubles as the receptionist and the "fill" administrator, "do you have any numbing agent like lidocaine, to soften the pain of the 'stick'?" "No," she smiles sympathetically, "we don't". I describe how the oncology nurses would spray my port to numb the stab of the needle. "I brought my own benzocaine spray," I tell her. She agrees I can try it.
She looks concerned, or at least confused by the bulge under my arm. "Has the expander slipped over here?" she asks, prodding. Obviously, this is not normal. She has the doctor come in to check me. But his story hasn't changed though he elaborates and I learn the meaning of "healthy tissue". It turns out that my muscle is almost double the thickness of normal muscle. "So maybe I come from a line of washer women," I suggest, picturing a great grandmother hunched over a wash board scrubbing madly. "Or rowers," he throws out. I look into his shining eyes, his very dark brown thickly lashed eyes, and see he is unconcerned. My summer affliction will be whittled away with the exchange surgery at the end. It sounds painful. I sigh, resigned. "More drains?" I ask. "Probably," he says. I'm sure glad chemo and radiation was such a breeze for me because nothing about my surgeries has been easy.
Veronica returns and I decide to forgo the benzocaine. She's careful to let the alcohol from the antiseptic dry and this time there is no pain. We agree to a fill on my left side only. It needs to catch up with the flap side. I stand up and look down. It is impossible to imagine anything close to a normal look in my future. And for a brief moment I wonder why on earth I am putting myself through this. One ray of hope I have gleaned from eavesdropping in reconstruction chat rooms is that, in the end, no one has regretted their decision. Hopefully, I tell myself, I will agree.
We head across town to see Dr. Kato. Entering the oncology building I feel a darkness come over me. I once saw this as a place of hope but it feels different on this side of chemo. I would like never to come back here.
I am ushered in to the phlebotomy department and Valerie greets me quietly. Hers is the name on my chart. "No blood draws from Valerie." The last time she drew blood, she left a silver dollar sized bruise. But she is it, there is no one else. "Your going to use your smallest needle, right?" I say. She puts down a half opened needle package and reaches for a smaller model, muttering something about it taking twice as long to draw the blood. But it hurts less, I mutter back.
Dr. Kato pops his head in and instructs Valerie to "room" me when she's finished. She complains that he is grumpy. "Bad day?" I ask. "No, he's grumpy all the time these days. Carla quit," she adds. Carla was his main nurse. "Because he's grumpy?" I ask. She shrugs as we follow her to the examination room. My husband seems grumpy also, but I realize he's been able to hear none of our whispered conversation and I am sympathetic to the deafness that shuts him out.
Dr. Kato enters with a tired smile and attempts to do his exam but my swollen under arm makes it impossible to check my lymph nodes. He seems annoyed and I suddenly see his world, moving from cancer patient to cancer patient hoping not to find any new concerns. He asks how I feel. "Still taking the Arimadex?" Yes, I say. I don't seem to have any side affects like I did with the first drug. He asks if I am taking Calcium and Vitamin D and baby aspirin daily. Yes, yes and yes, I say. He seems surprised my "fills" are not painful. I think I've grown so accustomed to the "too tight bra" feeling since my mastectomy, this doesn't feel much different. My blood work is good and I am told to come back in three months.
The patient ahead of me at the appointment desk is ordering a bone scan. She nervously smiles at me. "He just wants to be sure it's nothing," she tells the scheduler who makes no pretext of concern or interest. I see the woman is attempting to assure herself she is not experiencing a metastasis. How much time, I wonder. You think about those things in a place like this. But today, I feel good. I am not in much pain. My back where the muscle was removed burns and aches when I'm unsupported so I can't stand or walk too long for a while but it hurts less and less each day.
We walk out into the warm sunshine of Spring in Phoenix and I close my eyes and breath in the heady scent of grass and flowers. Nearby a mourning dove coos reminding me of lazy Hawaiian vacation days and I think to myself, it's good to be alive.
When we arrive I whisper conspiratorily to Veronica, who doubles as the receptionist and the "fill" administrator, "do you have any numbing agent like lidocaine, to soften the pain of the 'stick'?" "No," she smiles sympathetically, "we don't". I describe how the oncology nurses would spray my port to numb the stab of the needle. "I brought my own benzocaine spray," I tell her. She agrees I can try it.
She looks concerned, or at least confused by the bulge under my arm. "Has the expander slipped over here?" she asks, prodding. Obviously, this is not normal. She has the doctor come in to check me. But his story hasn't changed though he elaborates and I learn the meaning of "healthy tissue". It turns out that my muscle is almost double the thickness of normal muscle. "So maybe I come from a line of washer women," I suggest, picturing a great grandmother hunched over a wash board scrubbing madly. "Or rowers," he throws out. I look into his shining eyes, his very dark brown thickly lashed eyes, and see he is unconcerned. My summer affliction will be whittled away with the exchange surgery at the end. It sounds painful. I sigh, resigned. "More drains?" I ask. "Probably," he says. I'm sure glad chemo and radiation was such a breeze for me because nothing about my surgeries has been easy.
Veronica returns and I decide to forgo the benzocaine. She's careful to let the alcohol from the antiseptic dry and this time there is no pain. We agree to a fill on my left side only. It needs to catch up with the flap side. I stand up and look down. It is impossible to imagine anything close to a normal look in my future. And for a brief moment I wonder why on earth I am putting myself through this. One ray of hope I have gleaned from eavesdropping in reconstruction chat rooms is that, in the end, no one has regretted their decision. Hopefully, I tell myself, I will agree.
We head across town to see Dr. Kato. Entering the oncology building I feel a darkness come over me. I once saw this as a place of hope but it feels different on this side of chemo. I would like never to come back here.
I am ushered in to the phlebotomy department and Valerie greets me quietly. Hers is the name on my chart. "No blood draws from Valerie." The last time she drew blood, she left a silver dollar sized bruise. But she is it, there is no one else. "Your going to use your smallest needle, right?" I say. She puts down a half opened needle package and reaches for a smaller model, muttering something about it taking twice as long to draw the blood. But it hurts less, I mutter back.
Dr. Kato pops his head in and instructs Valerie to "room" me when she's finished. She complains that he is grumpy. "Bad day?" I ask. "No, he's grumpy all the time these days. Carla quit," she adds. Carla was his main nurse. "Because he's grumpy?" I ask. She shrugs as we follow her to the examination room. My husband seems grumpy also, but I realize he's been able to hear none of our whispered conversation and I am sympathetic to the deafness that shuts him out.
Dr. Kato enters with a tired smile and attempts to do his exam but my swollen under arm makes it impossible to check my lymph nodes. He seems annoyed and I suddenly see his world, moving from cancer patient to cancer patient hoping not to find any new concerns. He asks how I feel. "Still taking the Arimadex?" Yes, I say. I don't seem to have any side affects like I did with the first drug. He asks if I am taking Calcium and Vitamin D and baby aspirin daily. Yes, yes and yes, I say. He seems surprised my "fills" are not painful. I think I've grown so accustomed to the "too tight bra" feeling since my mastectomy, this doesn't feel much different. My blood work is good and I am told to come back in three months.
The patient ahead of me at the appointment desk is ordering a bone scan. She nervously smiles at me. "He just wants to be sure it's nothing," she tells the scheduler who makes no pretext of concern or interest. I see the woman is attempting to assure herself she is not experiencing a metastasis. How much time, I wonder. You think about those things in a place like this. But today, I feel good. I am not in much pain. My back where the muscle was removed burns and aches when I'm unsupported so I can't stand or walk too long for a while but it hurts less and less each day.
We walk out into the warm sunshine of Spring in Phoenix and I close my eyes and breath in the heady scent of grass and flowers. Nearby a mourning dove coos reminding me of lazy Hawaiian vacation days and I think to myself, it's good to be alive.
April 20, 2010 Inflation on the Rise
Today I had my weekly doctor visit. I expected a quick "everything looks good - next week we'll start your fills". Instead Dr. Mosharrafa asks how I feel to which I reply "much better!" "Me too," he says. His allergy eyes have cleared up. "You're ready to start your fills," he says. "Today?" I ask. "Yes, if you're up for it," he says. "Veronica will be in to get you started." "How does she know where to insert the needle?" my husband asks. So Dr. Mosharrafa places a little device on my chest which is a magnetic gizmo reminding me of a well driller witching for water. The magnetic cylinder "points" to the port.
While we wait, Shoyei picks up the sample expander from the shelf and runs the little device over the valve - it works!
Veronica, who doubles as the front desk girl, enters lugging two giant syringes. I try not to look. I probably won't be able to feel them, I tell myself. My chest is still mostly numb. But I am wrong. It's not excruciating, but I definitely feel the needles enter. My husband is squeezing my hands a bit tightly, easing his own apprehension for me. At least afterwards, there is no pain.
I've done a fair amount of research on this and have been expecting something akin to having teeth braces tightened. However, Dr. Mosharrafa says I shouldn't have any pain. Rather than 100 ccs every other week, he does 50 ccs weekly. Time will tell but I leave happy - finally underway. I am looking at 12 to 14 fills before the exchange surgery which will replace the expander with a permanent implant.
Afterwards my husband and I go to lunch and discuss what size I should be. Surprisingly, he is encouraging me to go smaller - in keeping with my advancing years. Fifteen years my senior, he is always pushing me forward on the aging cycle. I find this amusing but totally agree. I'm after a sense of balance, that's all. This is certainly not a conversation I ever imagined having.
As we leave, he helps me into the car humming Don Ho's "Tiny Bubbles" with a smile, muttering his irreverent version - "tiny boobies on her chest, one points east, the other points west". "Hmmph," I say, "too close to the truth right now." At least we're laughing.
While we wait, Shoyei picks up the sample expander from the shelf and runs the little device over the valve - it works!
Veronica, who doubles as the front desk girl, enters lugging two giant syringes. I try not to look. I probably won't be able to feel them, I tell myself. My chest is still mostly numb. But I am wrong. It's not excruciating, but I definitely feel the needles enter. My husband is squeezing my hands a bit tightly, easing his own apprehension for me. At least afterwards, there is no pain.
I've done a fair amount of research on this and have been expecting something akin to having teeth braces tightened. However, Dr. Mosharrafa says I shouldn't have any pain. Rather than 100 ccs every other week, he does 50 ccs weekly. Time will tell but I leave happy - finally underway. I am looking at 12 to 14 fills before the exchange surgery which will replace the expander with a permanent implant.
Afterwards my husband and I go to lunch and discuss what size I should be. Surprisingly, he is encouraging me to go smaller - in keeping with my advancing years. Fifteen years my senior, he is always pushing me forward on the aging cycle. I find this amusing but totally agree. I'm after a sense of balance, that's all. This is certainly not a conversation I ever imagined having.
As we leave, he helps me into the car humming Don Ho's "Tiny Bubbles" with a smile, muttering his irreverent version - "tiny boobies on her chest, one points east, the other points west". "Hmmph," I say, "too close to the truth right now." At least we're laughing.
April 16, Pillow Talk
My back hurts. At least I think it's my back. When I close my eyes and gently touch the new skin on my chest, it is the strangest sensation- I feel it on my back! So I suppose it's possible that what I perceive to be my aching back is the spare muscle temporarily parked under my right arm. It's all pretty confusing. I read on a cancer blog about the odd phenomenon experienced by women who have the latissimus dorsi reconstruction. You can be doing something like picking something up that would normally use that back muscle and instead your new breast suddenly flexes. That should prove entertaining.
I kept my routine teeth cleaning appointment yesterday thinking I'd have no trouble lying on my back but halfway through, my left chest muscle went into a cramp. My sweet dental hygenist recognized the pain on my face and waited for it to pass. She has just nursed her husband through cancer. I was worn out by the time I got home.
I have fallen off my own pedestal. I am not as tough as I thought. Last night I gave in to a dreaded Percocet and fell asleep pain free. I can do a lot to minimize the pain by trying various positions until the right position causes the pain to cease.
My daughter and son-in-law visited last week-end. We went out to eat three times and each place we went, Carrie went to the car to retrieve a pillow and blanket which she then plumped behind my back for me easing the strain. She didn't ask me, just reached for her Dad's keys and took care of business. Now that's nursing! My St. Joe's nurse was like that. She wasn't satisfied until she'd made sure every angle of me was supported with a pillow. The morning nurse commented about how many pillows I had so I know I had special treatment. They throw their pillows away after each patient or let the patient take them home! I brought home five! So I will remain the pillow lady a while longer, dragging my little entourage of fluffy support with me from bed to chair to car.
My nurse is suffering from shut-in-itis. You wouldn't think a born-and-raised island boy would suffer island fever but he always has. He started young, leaving home at nine to travel with his piano teacher living in different big cities and attending different schools year after year, Los Angelos, Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, San Francisco. Then becoming a pilot and flying internationally, he was just never trained to stay put. He would love a quick trip to somewhere - San Diego? But I am not up to it. There aren't enough pillows for such a trip right now. I don't think I could go that many hours in the car yet. He understands but he paces the house like a caged animal.
I have been able to work from home which helps me feel like I am rejoining the world. I had expected to be back in my broker chair full time by now. I am so blessed to have an amazing team filling in the gap but I sure am anxious to join them. Five more days? That's my plan.
I kept my routine teeth cleaning appointment yesterday thinking I'd have no trouble lying on my back but halfway through, my left chest muscle went into a cramp. My sweet dental hygenist recognized the pain on my face and waited for it to pass. She has just nursed her husband through cancer. I was worn out by the time I got home.
I have fallen off my own pedestal. I am not as tough as I thought. Last night I gave in to a dreaded Percocet and fell asleep pain free. I can do a lot to minimize the pain by trying various positions until the right position causes the pain to cease.
My daughter and son-in-law visited last week-end. We went out to eat three times and each place we went, Carrie went to the car to retrieve a pillow and blanket which she then plumped behind my back for me easing the strain. She didn't ask me, just reached for her Dad's keys and took care of business. Now that's nursing! My St. Joe's nurse was like that. She wasn't satisfied until she'd made sure every angle of me was supported with a pillow. The morning nurse commented about how many pillows I had so I know I had special treatment. They throw their pillows away after each patient or let the patient take them home! I brought home five! So I will remain the pillow lady a while longer, dragging my little entourage of fluffy support with me from bed to chair to car.
My nurse is suffering from shut-in-itis. You wouldn't think a born-and-raised island boy would suffer island fever but he always has. He started young, leaving home at nine to travel with his piano teacher living in different big cities and attending different schools year after year, Los Angelos, Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, San Francisco. Then becoming a pilot and flying internationally, he was just never trained to stay put. He would love a quick trip to somewhere - San Diego? But I am not up to it. There aren't enough pillows for such a trip right now. I don't think I could go that many hours in the car yet. He understands but he paces the house like a caged animal.
I have been able to work from home which helps me feel like I am rejoining the world. I had expected to be back in my broker chair full time by now. I am so blessed to have an amazing team filling in the gap but I sure am anxious to join them. Five more days? That's my plan.
April 13, 2010 Cruising Along
We are heading down to Phoenix to have my tube/drain removed. I am trying not to think too hard about it, the memory of the sensation of having a sword pulled out of my side. I remember it was about a count of ten and then it was over so that's what I'm planning on. However, I was "under the influence" of two Percocets back then. This time we've brought one along in case I need it afterwards. It's not that I'm trying to play the martyr, not at all. I simply despise the hangover feeling of Percocet.
I will be anxious to know if I can drive yet because that will spell freedom. And what kind of exercise I can do to get my strength back up. I tried to sleep on my side last night well supported by 8 pillows. But I awoke with deep pain in my left chest. I am clearly trying to push the envelope. So I will stay on my back a while longer.
****************************
We've left the doctor's. The tube removal was a very brief pain and I am so happy to be unplugged! I'm also glad I didn't take any Percocet to get through it. Dr. Mosharrafa, through his red allergy eyes said I "looked good". He seems pleased with his work.
However, I have been admonished to lay low for another week including no driving. No driving, freedom. One more week. I intend to be a model patient so I don't risk rejection again or any extra procedure to deal with fluid caused by too much activity. So.......it means more chair time, doing a lot of reading and online Scrabble and working on my writing. I have a feeling this will be a tough week on me and my husband.
I asked Dr. Mosharrafa about exercises but he said too soon. So I will wait and it will be hard.
One more week aboard Ship Shoyei. My husband calls out through the days his version of a bosun's whistle with a "Now hear this, now hear this, the ship's mess is now open for breakfast" or "closed until twelve hundred hours ". He's also found a way to make our tea kettle blow like a train whistle approaching a crossing. So I will close my eyes and imagine myself on a cruise or a trek to some exotic port, grateful for his never-dull companionship. Next stop...
I will be anxious to know if I can drive yet because that will spell freedom. And what kind of exercise I can do to get my strength back up. I tried to sleep on my side last night well supported by 8 pillows. But I awoke with deep pain in my left chest. I am clearly trying to push the envelope. So I will stay on my back a while longer.
****************************
We've left the doctor's. The tube removal was a very brief pain and I am so happy to be unplugged! I'm also glad I didn't take any Percocet to get through it. Dr. Mosharrafa, through his red allergy eyes said I "looked good". He seems pleased with his work.
However, I have been admonished to lay low for another week including no driving. No driving, freedom. One more week. I intend to be a model patient so I don't risk rejection again or any extra procedure to deal with fluid caused by too much activity. So.......it means more chair time, doing a lot of reading and online Scrabble and working on my writing. I have a feeling this will be a tough week on me and my husband.
I asked Dr. Mosharrafa about exercises but he said too soon. So I will wait and it will be hard.
One more week aboard Ship Shoyei. My husband calls out through the days his version of a bosun's whistle with a "Now hear this, now hear this, the ship's mess is now open for breakfast" or "closed until twelve hundred hours ". He's also found a way to make our tea kettle blow like a train whistle approaching a crossing. So I will close my eyes and imagine myself on a cruise or a trek to some exotic port, grateful for his never-dull companionship. Next stop...
April 8, 2010 Classical Kahuna
Patience. Patience. I'm taking a deep breath. I guess the Lord knows I still need work in this department. I am anxious to be up and about which is sign that I am healing.
After two weeks of being cooped up together, even the best nurse and most compliant patient are bound to get on each other's nerves. I am invading my husband's territory. Normally I am away at my office and he works from the home office.
I suppose it was rude of me to turn his music down but it was blasting throughout the house. Okay, so who could tire of Beethoven? Me. So I'm a boor. I tire of the high drama of his "5th" shaking the artificial rafters of the living room. And so I arose, despite the discomfort of doing so, and slid the speaker controls down halfway in the hall and great room. My hard-of-hearing husband was in his office with his speakers happily blaring away.
An hour later when he had prepared lunch for us and sat down with me in the den, he asked "what happened to my music?" I told him, "I just turned it down a notch." At that, he stormed out with his plate, closing the door and turning the speakers back up.
Fine! I put on my earphones and plugged into my own music. I had to turn my volume. Higher than I like in order to drown out Rachmaninoff leaking in through the door.
Hours pass during which I receive no nursing. Not that I need anything but I've grown quite accustomed to the pampering. I open the door and realize not only is he not listening to Mozart presently playing through the rest of the house but he's turned his office speakers off and is listening to his homeboy Hawaiian music on his computer speakers. There are two different genres competing in the hallway! Da da da da and one paddle two paddle. "Is this intentional?" I mutter under my breath.
I storm back to my chair where somehow in the process of pausing and restarting Pandora(my online music), I have two different songs playing in my ear buds! I give up!
Time to deal with the problem, I shut my own music down completely and send an email two rooms away.
"Dear Nurse Ratchet:
I miss my husband and can't understand what you have done with him. Because I turned his music down? Right now I am sitting here subjected to a classical piece and a Hawaiian piece at the same time. If this is calculated torture, it is working.
Please return my sweet husband immediately.
I surrender!
Shut-in"
His hearty laughter was my response as he came in smiling and turned off the house speakers. Ah, blessed peace and quiet. It is so underrated.
After two weeks of being cooped up together, even the best nurse and most compliant patient are bound to get on each other's nerves. I am invading my husband's territory. Normally I am away at my office and he works from the home office.
I suppose it was rude of me to turn his music down but it was blasting throughout the house. Okay, so who could tire of Beethoven? Me. So I'm a boor. I tire of the high drama of his "5th" shaking the artificial rafters of the living room. And so I arose, despite the discomfort of doing so, and slid the speaker controls down halfway in the hall and great room. My hard-of-hearing husband was in his office with his speakers happily blaring away.
An hour later when he had prepared lunch for us and sat down with me in the den, he asked "what happened to my music?" I told him, "I just turned it down a notch." At that, he stormed out with his plate, closing the door and turning the speakers back up.
Fine! I put on my earphones and plugged into my own music. I had to turn my volume. Higher than I like in order to drown out Rachmaninoff leaking in through the door.
Hours pass during which I receive no nursing. Not that I need anything but I've grown quite accustomed to the pampering. I open the door and realize not only is he not listening to Mozart presently playing through the rest of the house but he's turned his office speakers off and is listening to his homeboy Hawaiian music on his computer speakers. There are two different genres competing in the hallway! Da da da da and one paddle two paddle. "Is this intentional?" I mutter under my breath.
I storm back to my chair where somehow in the process of pausing and restarting Pandora(my online music), I have two different songs playing in my ear buds! I give up!
Time to deal with the problem, I shut my own music down completely and send an email two rooms away.
"Dear Nurse Ratchet:
I miss my husband and can't understand what you have done with him. Because I turned his music down? Right now I am sitting here subjected to a classical piece and a Hawaiian piece at the same time. If this is calculated torture, it is working.
Please return my sweet husband immediately.
I surrender!
Shut-in"
His hearty laughter was my response as he came in smiling and turned off the house speakers. Ah, blessed peace and quiet. It is so underrated.
April 2, 2010 The Rough Part
Five days post-op, I had a particularly difficult night caused by meds on an empty stomach which then couldn't accommodate the meds. I will admit, I am not a good nausea person. I didn't experience it with child bearing and I didn't have it with chemo, so I was not prepared to be up all night wretching like a drunken sailor with nothing in my tummy to lose. My husband refers to this humbling act as bowing to the porcelain Buddha.
At dawn I crawled from my bed to my chair, there to spend the day fighting to regain some strength. I sat gingerly sipping and nibbling enough to accommodate one huge foul tasting green antibiotic capsule, one giant chalky white pain killer and a tiny anti-nausea tablet, remnants of nightmares surfacing and their accompanying confusion. I faced the day without expectation, one foot in front of the other, or in this case, one pill. I feel a little like Alice in Wonderland. Just what did Lewis Carroll experience that led him to write the great Alice stories? I met many hookah-smoking kaftaned characters on the streets of Morocco. 1971. Off topic.
My weakened state meant postponing my doctor visit as I could not face a 4 hour round trip drive. I had quite forgotten my husband's nursing style, he is a Hoverer. Not wanting to omit any possibilities, he recited a litany of lunch and beverage options. Choices require some energy. I had none. Just thinking about some of his offers triggered a gag reaction. Having been at his complete mercy before, from the dressing of my wounds, to the exposed state of feeling bald and naked, this time I've felt myself less willing to give up my independence.
Somehow, I ate sufficiently to grow strong enough to make the trip to Phoenix. Yesterday we saw the doctor, anxious for an assessment of the strange assortment of body lumps. Dr. Mosharrafa was very pleased and explained there is still some swelling and that the "extra tissue" under my arm is from my very healthy back tissue. He took a little bit extra to assure a good blood supply and it will be sculpted out on the final surgery. I don't quite understand it but "sculpting" sounds painful. He is extremely satisfied that the tissue has grafted well onto my chest wall. So we leave satisfied, too. There is no substitute for hearing your doctor is happy with your progress.
At dawn I crawled from my bed to my chair, there to spend the day fighting to regain some strength. I sat gingerly sipping and nibbling enough to accommodate one huge foul tasting green antibiotic capsule, one giant chalky white pain killer and a tiny anti-nausea tablet, remnants of nightmares surfacing and their accompanying confusion. I faced the day without expectation, one foot in front of the other, or in this case, one pill. I feel a little like Alice in Wonderland. Just what did Lewis Carroll experience that led him to write the great Alice stories? I met many hookah-smoking kaftaned characters on the streets of Morocco. 1971. Off topic.
My weakened state meant postponing my doctor visit as I could not face a 4 hour round trip drive. I had quite forgotten my husband's nursing style, he is a Hoverer. Not wanting to omit any possibilities, he recited a litany of lunch and beverage options. Choices require some energy. I had none. Just thinking about some of his offers triggered a gag reaction. Having been at his complete mercy before, from the dressing of my wounds, to the exposed state of feeling bald and naked, this time I've felt myself less willing to give up my independence.
Somehow, I ate sufficiently to grow strong enough to make the trip to Phoenix. Yesterday we saw the doctor, anxious for an assessment of the strange assortment of body lumps. Dr. Mosharrafa was very pleased and explained there is still some swelling and that the "extra tissue" under my arm is from my very healthy back tissue. He took a little bit extra to assure a good blood supply and it will be sculpted out on the final surgery. I don't quite understand it but "sculpting" sounds painful. He is extremely satisfied that the tissue has grafted well onto my chest wall. So we leave satisfied, too. There is no substitute for hearing your doctor is happy with your progress.
April 2, 2010 The Shampoo
One week post op, I am strong enough to stand at the sink and let my husband wash my hair. I still have a drainage tube which prevents me from bathing conventionally. My husband has never washed my hair for me. The last ministration he performed on my head was a manly mid-chemo buzz cut. I can still see the tears in his eyes.
This time, he is all business, my thick mane of hair has returned and needs washing.
He begins by asking me if both bottles I've assembled are really necessary. Yes, I say, please. He uses the pull-out faucet to wet the back of my hair, paying particular attention to the backs of my ears as if he may find a wad of gum parked there. He stops the water and begins applying shampoo from the hairline to my ears using the palms of his hands only. I await the fingers to massage into the scalp but it never happens. It feels awkward and ineffective but I am committed not to direct the process. After a very brief "rub", he appears through, I speak up,"you missed the front and top". It occurs to me, this is how he washes his own hair. He is bald on the front and top. I turn my head to look at him, smiling. "What?" he asks. "It's sweet, what you are doing." I am rewarded with a kiss before he rinses me off. He repeats the process with the conditioner and he is done.
The application of the towel is done carefully and according to wrap-wrap-twist-flick instructions I'd mistakenly assumed were common knowledge. I feel like a new woman with new respect for my hairdresser - the new one that is.
This time, he is all business, my thick mane of hair has returned and needs washing.
He begins by asking me if both bottles I've assembled are really necessary. Yes, I say, please. He uses the pull-out faucet to wet the back of my hair, paying particular attention to the backs of my ears as if he may find a wad of gum parked there. He stops the water and begins applying shampoo from the hairline to my ears using the palms of his hands only. I await the fingers to massage into the scalp but it never happens. It feels awkward and ineffective but I am committed not to direct the process. After a very brief "rub", he appears through, I speak up,"you missed the front and top". It occurs to me, this is how he washes his own hair. He is bald on the front and top. I turn my head to look at him, smiling. "What?" he asks. "It's sweet, what you are doing." I am rewarded with a kiss before he rinses me off. He repeats the process with the conditioner and he is done.
The application of the towel is done carefully and according to wrap-wrap-twist-flick instructions I'd mistakenly assumed were common knowledge. I feel like a new woman with new respect for my hairdresser - the new one that is.
March 20, 2010 Three's a Crowd
It has been five days since my surgery. I have been surprised by how well it has gone. I am hoping to cut back on the Percoset today. With all this down time I would love to use it to do something creative.
It must have been cloudy the last time I had to take this drug. The brightness of these sunny days really bothers my eyes and my focus is off enough to make reading difficult. I didn't realize how wonderful it would be to have God's Word hidden in my heart until it became painful to read. I recently memorized most of John 15, a meaty passage worthy of hours of reflection.
Tomorrow we make a trip to Phoenix for my first post-op appointment. I have no bandages, just clear steri-strips over the four long incisions. Not to be indelicate, but I have a nice soft mound which might be my future breast except for its unusual location - smack dab under my right arm. Now, I have a sense of humor like the next person, and if I were not writing this about myself, I'd be sniggering away. BUT....well, I will be anxious for answers tomorrow.
Dr. Mosharrafa seemed a bit "off" when he released me last Thursday. I thought he was distracted by other problems. The nurse agreed he seemed quiet but took it personally thinking he was unhappy seeing the blood spattered pillow and gown which we'd agreed was not worth the discomfort of changing at the time. But now I am wondering if he was wondering how he would have to tell me that I will need another surgery to correct the results of the misplaced foob.
On a happier note, the hyper sensitivity I have felt in my breast bone is practically gone. The great thing about this, is that it no long hurts to hug! And the concave cavities of my chest are now filled with expanders, already creating a more normal appearance.
If I could just get my questions answered, I might feel I am on the road to recovery. No sense borrowing trouble.
It must have been cloudy the last time I had to take this drug. The brightness of these sunny days really bothers my eyes and my focus is off enough to make reading difficult. I didn't realize how wonderful it would be to have God's Word hidden in my heart until it became painful to read. I recently memorized most of John 15, a meaty passage worthy of hours of reflection.
Tomorrow we make a trip to Phoenix for my first post-op appointment. I have no bandages, just clear steri-strips over the four long incisions. Not to be indelicate, but I have a nice soft mound which might be my future breast except for its unusual location - smack dab under my right arm. Now, I have a sense of humor like the next person, and if I were not writing this about myself, I'd be sniggering away. BUT....well, I will be anxious for answers tomorrow.
Dr. Mosharrafa seemed a bit "off" when he released me last Thursday. I thought he was distracted by other problems. The nurse agreed he seemed quiet but took it personally thinking he was unhappy seeing the blood spattered pillow and gown which we'd agreed was not worth the discomfort of changing at the time. But now I am wondering if he was wondering how he would have to tell me that I will need another surgery to correct the results of the misplaced foob.
On a happier note, the hyper sensitivity I have felt in my breast bone is practically gone. The great thing about this, is that it no long hurts to hug! And the concave cavities of my chest are now filled with expanders, already creating a more normal appearance.
If I could just get my questions answered, I might feel I am on the road to recovery. No sense borrowing trouble.
March 26th, The Angels of St. Joe's
I just woke up after a great night's sleep in my own bed. The pain is pretty bad, but Percoset makes it manageable. I was even able to get up on my own to go to the bathroom. I couldn't do that after my mastectomy surgery. A well-meaning friend warned me this surgery would be much worse than the mastectomy. So far that is not my experience. Actually, so far the worst part is that my back itches and I'm unable to manage the contortions required to reach - too much chest muscle. I'm thinking of a kitchen tool - a Tupperware pasta server with delightful little prongs that might do the trick.
My husband had a better idea - he uses his shower back brush and gives my back a thorough "scratching", avoiding my big scar. Then he rubs Gold Bond, a miracle cream my Mom introduced me to, all over. Ahhhh!
When we arrived at the hospital on Wednesday, the waiting room was packed. Half the people there were talking in Spanish. It was noisy and chaotic. But once they called my name and I passed through the doors from that room, peace prevailed. Sweet smiling nurses spoke softly. The lighting was suffused. I was run through the usual barrage of questions until my doctor arrived. Dr. Mosharaffa used a sharp marker to draw out his plans for me. He draws a vertical line, as I stand before him, from breast bone to belly button, measuring to my armpits for the symmetry he wants. He has me turn around to mark the part of my back muscle he will be using on my radiated side. With a plan I can't quite picture, he will cut the latissimus dorsi muscle w/tissue and skin , leaving the muscle connected to its blood supply and he will rotate this mass under my arm in place of the damaged skin he will cut away from my right chest. I ask him if he's brought his "A" game. Without hesitation he assures me he has. The left side simply involves the placement of an expander.
I have a "pick line" deftly inserted into a vein on my left hand. Not the pain of earlier digging expeditions. Another nurse acknowledges the special skill of this technician. The anesthesiologist explains his plan. I love the part where I fall into a deep sleep.
The memory of reawakening is foggy but I am acutely aware that the horrible tightness I felt before is not there. Wondrous relief. I feel my husband's warm hand holding my cold one and I hold on as I fight to climb out of my stupor. "Don't fight it. Rest." The voices say.
I have a roommate so my husband can't stay with me this time. They kick him out at 8PM. My roomie, Trudy, has had her thyroid removed. She hasn't heard yet whether it is cancerous or not. We bond despite the curtain she wants to remain between us. She is a tiny 70 year-old. Her 50 something boyfriend visits a couple of times.
It must be said, the nurses at Saint Joe's are the best. My one night stay was a bit like a slumber party. Stephanie and Rosemary seemed to hover over me.Rosemary is my age and had been through breast cancer herself. When she had a few minutes, she sat on the edge of my bed and we swapped war stories. She prides herself on the importance of pillow placement. I don't think she was kidding when she said she was writing a book on the subject. Another nurse commented on how I had lucked out in the pillow department with five of the smooth fluffy little white things cocooning me in comfort. Rosemary, in her conspiratorial manner,brought me cherry popsicles. It set me on the path of remembering sneaking into my college dormitory kitchen to snatch the giant cardboard cylinder of strawberry ice cream with some friends. Those cherry popsicles have left an impossibly sweet taste in my mouth for St Joe's and its angels of mercy.
Susan took over daytime duty. My husband and she took up where they'd left off the before only this time she has heard my story of his transformation, the wonderful husband he has become through our cancer journey. Her smile never waivers as she watches him with new eyes. I love these women. Too bad it's a one night stand. But I look forward now to the tender loving care of the best nurse ever.
My husband had a better idea - he uses his shower back brush and gives my back a thorough "scratching", avoiding my big scar. Then he rubs Gold Bond, a miracle cream my Mom introduced me to, all over. Ahhhh!
When we arrived at the hospital on Wednesday, the waiting room was packed. Half the people there were talking in Spanish. It was noisy and chaotic. But once they called my name and I passed through the doors from that room, peace prevailed. Sweet smiling nurses spoke softly. The lighting was suffused. I was run through the usual barrage of questions until my doctor arrived. Dr. Mosharaffa used a sharp marker to draw out his plans for me. He draws a vertical line, as I stand before him, from breast bone to belly button, measuring to my armpits for the symmetry he wants. He has me turn around to mark the part of my back muscle he will be using on my radiated side. With a plan I can't quite picture, he will cut the latissimus dorsi muscle w/tissue and skin , leaving the muscle connected to its blood supply and he will rotate this mass under my arm in place of the damaged skin he will cut away from my right chest. I ask him if he's brought his "A" game. Without hesitation he assures me he has. The left side simply involves the placement of an expander.
I have a "pick line" deftly inserted into a vein on my left hand. Not the pain of earlier digging expeditions. Another nurse acknowledges the special skill of this technician. The anesthesiologist explains his plan. I love the part where I fall into a deep sleep.
The memory of reawakening is foggy but I am acutely aware that the horrible tightness I felt before is not there. Wondrous relief. I feel my husband's warm hand holding my cold one and I hold on as I fight to climb out of my stupor. "Don't fight it. Rest." The voices say.
I have a roommate so my husband can't stay with me this time. They kick him out at 8PM. My roomie, Trudy, has had her thyroid removed. She hasn't heard yet whether it is cancerous or not. We bond despite the curtain she wants to remain between us. She is a tiny 70 year-old. Her 50 something boyfriend visits a couple of times.
It must be said, the nurses at Saint Joe's are the best. My one night stay was a bit like a slumber party. Stephanie and Rosemary seemed to hover over me.Rosemary is my age and had been through breast cancer herself. When she had a few minutes, she sat on the edge of my bed and we swapped war stories. She prides herself on the importance of pillow placement. I don't think she was kidding when she said she was writing a book on the subject. Another nurse commented on how I had lucked out in the pillow department with five of the smooth fluffy little white things cocooning me in comfort. Rosemary, in her conspiratorial manner,brought me cherry popsicles. It set me on the path of remembering sneaking into my college dormitory kitchen to snatch the giant cardboard cylinder of strawberry ice cream with some friends. Those cherry popsicles have left an impossibly sweet taste in my mouth for St Joe's and its angels of mercy.
Susan took over daytime duty. My husband and she took up where they'd left off the before only this time she has heard my story of his transformation, the wonderful husband he has become through our cancer journey. Her smile never waivers as she watches him with new eyes. I love these women. Too bad it's a one night stand. But I look forward now to the tender loving care of the best nurse ever.
March 24, 2010 A New Beginning
Driving to Phoenix for a new me. Reconstruction starts today. What a different mindset I have compared to earlier surgeries. A part of me feels guilty that I am doing this selfish thing but the other part of me says "go girl". I am listening to the latter.
I am going to St. Joseph's Hospital - my favorite based on my recent experiences. And I will be in the care of my favorite doctor who has racked up additional experience in this procedure since we first discussed it 20 months ago. He will be taking my latissimus dorsi(back) muscle to create a new breast on my radiated side. Then both sides will get expanders. The surgery should take about three hours, the whole process about six months.
I am looking through those months now, to putting this whole thing behind me, as much as possible. Focusing on the other side of this.
Last night my husband took me to dinner. When we returned there was a message from my anasthesiologist tell me I could eat up until six hours before and drink water up to three hours. That's a big change from my experience and it's already made the day easier.
And I confess, I am looking forward to being cared for by my wonderful husband.
I am going to St. Joseph's Hospital - my favorite based on my recent experiences. And I will be in the care of my favorite doctor who has racked up additional experience in this procedure since we first discussed it 20 months ago. He will be taking my latissimus dorsi(back) muscle to create a new breast on my radiated side. Then both sides will get expanders. The surgery should take about three hours, the whole process about six months.
I am looking through those months now, to putting this whole thing behind me, as much as possible. Focusing on the other side of this.
Last night my husband took me to dinner. When we returned there was a message from my anasthesiologist tell me I could eat up until six hours before and drink water up to three hours. That's a big change from my experience and it's already made the day easier.
And I confess, I am looking forward to being cared for by my wonderful husband.
January 25, 2010 Persevering in Prayer
My daughter asked me and a few of her friends to share what significant thing I had seen God do in 2009. This is what I sent her:
What God did in 2009 required a bit of background, so please bear with me.
It was Spring 2008. My son was about to graduate from college and asked if he could live with us for the summer to save money for Law School which he would start in the Fall. I was excited at the prospect. It had been six years since he'd lived with us. I nervously approached my husband.
"NO!" He yelled. "He can NOT stay with us. We can't afford it right now! I'm not going to work my tail off, feeding him while he lounges around!" I tried to explain that he hoped to find work. I knew it wasn't the real reason our son wasn't welcome in our home. Hadn't I prayed for 27 years for his father to love him and treat him as the only precious son he was?
My husband is 15 years older than me. He's been married twice before, fathering six daughters by the first wife. He wasn't much of a father to those sweet little girls. He didn't really know how and an acrimonious divorce pretty much shut him out of their lives. So despite his reluctance to father more children, I expected the arrival of his son to make a difference. It didn't. He was alternately kind, loving and fun and then indifferent and harsh. I worried about the confusion this behavior would cause my young son and the daughter that followed.
"Fathers, do not exasperate your children, so that they will not lose heart." These word from Colossians 3:21, jumped off the page at me when I first read them. But I prayed. Oh how prayed! Over and over again through the years, I prayed that our Heavenly Father would protect my children from their father's conflicting signals.
I had considered leaving him more than once, to protect them. Finally the day came when he'd gone too far, humiliating my eighteen-year-old son in front of a friend and then storming off. My son walked quietly out of the house. He called me from a friend's and said "Mom, I'm not coming home." "I understand," I said. "No, Mom" he said, "I'm not ever coming home again." My heart cried out, feeling his pain, roiling with my own. He was eighteen but he was still in high school. It was still my responsibility to give him a home. I was a successful business woman, I would buy another house and make a real home for my children.
"Then I'm going, too," I told him, my mind scrambling at the logistics of moving out. I'd seen a home that day that would work. So I packed up and we left.
My husband was full of grief and pleas and promises but I'd had it. Within days, however, the Lord's voice was getting too loud to ignore. Divorce was not an option. I told my husband, this separation was for a season. He wrote beautiful letters to each of us, asking forgiveness and pledging his love.
My daughter began rebelling, talking back to me, hanging out with a bad crowd. One night she walked out the door without a word. I called my husband and the police. Both came right over and she showed up around midnight. I was clearly losing control. "Why don't we just go back home," she shouted at me on Mother's Day. So we did.
My son packed his car and headed off to college and my daughter and I moved back home. I told my husband, we were coming back, under one condition. That Jesus was coming with us and that I could read my bible without insults from him. He heartily agreed.
For a while, it was wonderful. He even came to church with us. But slowly he slipped back into old ways and I cried out to God, "Why? Why did you make me come back?"
But I knew the answer. My husband needed us, even if he treated us badly. So I promised God I would show my husband more of Christ.
I began to study more and grow deeper in the Word. My daughter continued to cause us grief and worry which finally helped unite us as parents but even as she came around, returning wholeheartedly to the Lord, my husband gave and withdrew love from her unpredictably. My heart's cry continued its plea to change my husband's heart - to give me the loving home life I yearned for.
Throughout the years I took the kids on trips to visit friends and family. My husband had no desire to join us. He tolerated limited interaction with the children. The vacations he planned seldom included them. I went to school events and extracurricular events alone.
I felt like a single parent. As my children left home I feared they would never want to return. But I continued to pray for a miracle to change my husband's heart.
That day my husband refused to allow our son to stay with us, something snapped in me. I felt rage and fury as I had never felt before. A home that would not welcome my children, was no home. I had no home, I told myself. It hit me that I would never have that home this side of heaven. I cried out to God. And suddenly there He was before me. Jesus was holding out a hand to me asking me to hand over my hopes and dreams. Give up my ideas of happy family holidays and grandchildren running around the house. And I did. I let go of every hopeful dream. Peace flooded me as I accepted Jesus as my all. Jesus as sufficient. The hatred I felt for my husband moments before dissolved into forgiving love. Jesus was my comfort and I could rely on Him to comfort my children.
Soon after this release, He comforted me with the promise, "I will restore to you the years the locust has eaten away."(Joel 2:25) And I knew He would give me something better than the little white picket fence dream I'd clung to for so many years. I knew He loved me that much.
The next month I was diagnosed with breast cancer. How would God use this, I wondered. My husband was shaken at the fear of losing me. He hovered over me with love and concern and showed me a man I had not seen before. For the first time in our married life, I saw the depth of his love for me. The year that followed I fell in love with him again and we held tightly onto each other through surgeries, chemo, radiation and an uncertain future together. Our children became an unexpected comfort as they demonstrated the grace of God to him.
We got through that difficult year and I like to tell people I got cancer and a new husband out of it. But loving as he was to me, he held to his atheistic beliefs and I wondered if that could ever change.
During time spent with our wonderful son-in-law I found new hope as I saw my husband form a deep affection for him. Yet I felt jealous for our son with whom there still seemed to be a disconnect. So as Christmas '09 approached, I employed legions of prayer warriors at the wonderful church I attend to pray for a special, peaceful and even Joyous time with our son who would be home for the holidays from school. And please God for a connection between father and son.
It happened so subtly beginning with our daughter's email to her Dad suggesting he attend Christmas Eve services with us. She attached an article entitled "Atheism, Rituals and Holidays" encouraging the non-believer to participate in celebrations to promote family unity. He agreed. Then, rather than retiring to his office immediately after meals, he stayed to enjoy the company of our children. I was very busy with work during the holidays, much to my frustration, but I quickly saw these times as divine appointments between father and son. My husband was spending every available minute with him, offering "helpful" advice and concern. The holidays passed without a harsh word, a miracle in our family.
Then it happened. The day we watched our son pack up to begin the long drive cross country, my husband and I stood together seeing him off with hugs and travel blessings, I saw it! The answer to 28 years of prayer! My husband's eyes shone with tears at seeing him go! He even moped around a few days, complaining of the emptiness of the bedroom, admitting he missed Danny and I rejoiced in the faithfulness of God as I saw him begin to "restore the years..."
What did I learn in 2009? When God's people pray, He is faithful. When I humbled myself and asked for prayer support of faithful warriors, the battle was won there. Even the unanswered portions for my husband's salvation and for him to express his love to his son were answered "yes" although I have yet to "see" it. God's timing is perfect and I am so glad I've persevered in my marriage of 31 years.
May this bless you and encourage you to never give up but know He hears your prayers. And when "two or more are gathered," those prayers are empowered by Christ Himself.
A Humble Servant
Kathleen
What God did in 2009 required a bit of background, so please bear with me.
It was Spring 2008. My son was about to graduate from college and asked if he could live with us for the summer to save money for Law School which he would start in the Fall. I was excited at the prospect. It had been six years since he'd lived with us. I nervously approached my husband.
"NO!" He yelled. "He can NOT stay with us. We can't afford it right now! I'm not going to work my tail off, feeding him while he lounges around!" I tried to explain that he hoped to find work. I knew it wasn't the real reason our son wasn't welcome in our home. Hadn't I prayed for 27 years for his father to love him and treat him as the only precious son he was?
My husband is 15 years older than me. He's been married twice before, fathering six daughters by the first wife. He wasn't much of a father to those sweet little girls. He didn't really know how and an acrimonious divorce pretty much shut him out of their lives. So despite his reluctance to father more children, I expected the arrival of his son to make a difference. It didn't. He was alternately kind, loving and fun and then indifferent and harsh. I worried about the confusion this behavior would cause my young son and the daughter that followed.
"Fathers, do not exasperate your children, so that they will not lose heart." These word from Colossians 3:21, jumped off the page at me when I first read them. But I prayed. Oh how prayed! Over and over again through the years, I prayed that our Heavenly Father would protect my children from their father's conflicting signals.
I had considered leaving him more than once, to protect them. Finally the day came when he'd gone too far, humiliating my eighteen-year-old son in front of a friend and then storming off. My son walked quietly out of the house. He called me from a friend's and said "Mom, I'm not coming home." "I understand," I said. "No, Mom" he said, "I'm not ever coming home again." My heart cried out, feeling his pain, roiling with my own. He was eighteen but he was still in high school. It was still my responsibility to give him a home. I was a successful business woman, I would buy another house and make a real home for my children.
"Then I'm going, too," I told him, my mind scrambling at the logistics of moving out. I'd seen a home that day that would work. So I packed up and we left.
My husband was full of grief and pleas and promises but I'd had it. Within days, however, the Lord's voice was getting too loud to ignore. Divorce was not an option. I told my husband, this separation was for a season. He wrote beautiful letters to each of us, asking forgiveness and pledging his love.
My daughter began rebelling, talking back to me, hanging out with a bad crowd. One night she walked out the door without a word. I called my husband and the police. Both came right over and she showed up around midnight. I was clearly losing control. "Why don't we just go back home," she shouted at me on Mother's Day. So we did.
My son packed his car and headed off to college and my daughter and I moved back home. I told my husband, we were coming back, under one condition. That Jesus was coming with us and that I could read my bible without insults from him. He heartily agreed.
For a while, it was wonderful. He even came to church with us. But slowly he slipped back into old ways and I cried out to God, "Why? Why did you make me come back?"
But I knew the answer. My husband needed us, even if he treated us badly. So I promised God I would show my husband more of Christ.
I began to study more and grow deeper in the Word. My daughter continued to cause us grief and worry which finally helped unite us as parents but even as she came around, returning wholeheartedly to the Lord, my husband gave and withdrew love from her unpredictably. My heart's cry continued its plea to change my husband's heart - to give me the loving home life I yearned for.
Throughout the years I took the kids on trips to visit friends and family. My husband had no desire to join us. He tolerated limited interaction with the children. The vacations he planned seldom included them. I went to school events and extracurricular events alone.
I felt like a single parent. As my children left home I feared they would never want to return. But I continued to pray for a miracle to change my husband's heart.
That day my husband refused to allow our son to stay with us, something snapped in me. I felt rage and fury as I had never felt before. A home that would not welcome my children, was no home. I had no home, I told myself. It hit me that I would never have that home this side of heaven. I cried out to God. And suddenly there He was before me. Jesus was holding out a hand to me asking me to hand over my hopes and dreams. Give up my ideas of happy family holidays and grandchildren running around the house. And I did. I let go of every hopeful dream. Peace flooded me as I accepted Jesus as my all. Jesus as sufficient. The hatred I felt for my husband moments before dissolved into forgiving love. Jesus was my comfort and I could rely on Him to comfort my children.
Soon after this release, He comforted me with the promise, "I will restore to you the years the locust has eaten away."(Joel 2:25) And I knew He would give me something better than the little white picket fence dream I'd clung to for so many years. I knew He loved me that much.
The next month I was diagnosed with breast cancer. How would God use this, I wondered. My husband was shaken at the fear of losing me. He hovered over me with love and concern and showed me a man I had not seen before. For the first time in our married life, I saw the depth of his love for me. The year that followed I fell in love with him again and we held tightly onto each other through surgeries, chemo, radiation and an uncertain future together. Our children became an unexpected comfort as they demonstrated the grace of God to him.
We got through that difficult year and I like to tell people I got cancer and a new husband out of it. But loving as he was to me, he held to his atheistic beliefs and I wondered if that could ever change.
During time spent with our wonderful son-in-law I found new hope as I saw my husband form a deep affection for him. Yet I felt jealous for our son with whom there still seemed to be a disconnect. So as Christmas '09 approached, I employed legions of prayer warriors at the wonderful church I attend to pray for a special, peaceful and even Joyous time with our son who would be home for the holidays from school. And please God for a connection between father and son.
It happened so subtly beginning with our daughter's email to her Dad suggesting he attend Christmas Eve services with us. She attached an article entitled "Atheism, Rituals and Holidays" encouraging the non-believer to participate in celebrations to promote family unity. He agreed. Then, rather than retiring to his office immediately after meals, he stayed to enjoy the company of our children. I was very busy with work during the holidays, much to my frustration, but I quickly saw these times as divine appointments between father and son. My husband was spending every available minute with him, offering "helpful" advice and concern. The holidays passed without a harsh word, a miracle in our family.
Then it happened. The day we watched our son pack up to begin the long drive cross country, my husband and I stood together seeing him off with hugs and travel blessings, I saw it! The answer to 28 years of prayer! My husband's eyes shone with tears at seeing him go! He even moped around a few days, complaining of the emptiness of the bedroom, admitting he missed Danny and I rejoiced in the faithfulness of God as I saw him begin to "restore the years..."
What did I learn in 2009? When God's people pray, He is faithful. When I humbled myself and asked for prayer support of faithful warriors, the battle was won there. Even the unanswered portions for my husband's salvation and for him to express his love to his son were answered "yes" although I have yet to "see" it. God's timing is perfect and I am so glad I've persevered in my marriage of 31 years.
May this bless you and encourage you to never give up but know He hears your prayers. And when "two or more are gathered," those prayers are empowered by Christ Himself.
A Humble Servant
Kathleen
January 11, 2010 For One Who's Gone
She was the graceful, tenderhearted woman I met near the end of my radiation. We only crossed paths twice but we bonded at the first meeting, we are sisters-in-Christ. Her breast cancer had returned and she was facing a second round of treatment. We sat side-by-side, starched gowns covering our nakedness, exposing our vulnerability. Silver curls haloed a thoughtful face as she confessed an earnest desire to live to watch her grandchildren's lives unfold.
She called me a while back and shared her frustration with our doctors - we shared Dr. Kato and Kuske. And she told me how tired she felt. The battle was taking its toll. Last night I received an email from her daughter letting me know Gerri had passed on October 26th.
It hit us hard, my husband and I. He'd met her and her husband in the waiting room. He'd noticed the stricken face, the lost gaze of a husband facing the fear recurrence brings. She is the first of our acquaintances on this road of cancer to have succombed. It is sobering.
I fell asleep last night at peace, grateful for each day and especially for the new man my husband has become. He, I am sorry to say, could not sleep. He was feeling "emotional" he told me. I know it is hard for him not to worry. We have seen my brother's cancer recur five times. It is a fearful thing. Yet he, Jim, is still going strong.
I remember meeting Gerri the first time, how we rejoiced in seeing Christ in each other. A great Hope in a hard time. We briefly poured comfort into each other and went on our ways, the stronger for it. I remember, at the time, feeling grateful for her soft eyes and sweet face. She gave me a bit of herself to take on my journey and I am grateful to have met her, more grateful that we shall meet again.
She called me a while back and shared her frustration with our doctors - we shared Dr. Kato and Kuske. And she told me how tired she felt. The battle was taking its toll. Last night I received an email from her daughter letting me know Gerri had passed on October 26th.
It hit us hard, my husband and I. He'd met her and her husband in the waiting room. He'd noticed the stricken face, the lost gaze of a husband facing the fear recurrence brings. She is the first of our acquaintances on this road of cancer to have succombed. It is sobering.
I fell asleep last night at peace, grateful for each day and especially for the new man my husband has become. He, I am sorry to say, could not sleep. He was feeling "emotional" he told me. I know it is hard for him not to worry. We have seen my brother's cancer recur five times. It is a fearful thing. Yet he, Jim, is still going strong.
I remember meeting Gerri the first time, how we rejoiced in seeing Christ in each other. A great Hope in a hard time. We briefly poured comfort into each other and went on our ways, the stronger for it. I remember, at the time, feeling grateful for her soft eyes and sweet face. She gave me a bit of herself to take on my journey and I am grateful to have met her, more grateful that we shall meet again.
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