Walking the Ridge

It has been eleven months since I was diagnosed with high-grade, invasive breast cancer (stage 2a). Those words still chill me. And last week I thought I’d found another lump.

The more I examined it, the more confused I became. Sometimes I thought for sure it was a lump, and other times I could hardly feel it. I tried to convince myself that it was a muscle tear from a new workout routine at the gym, or something related to my partial mastectomy; but then I would tell myself that it had to be a lump ~ what else could it be?

I was already scheduled to see my oncologist on Monday. This routine appointment had been scheduled back in October after my last follow-up with her. I was so thankful that it was already on the books . . . and scared to death to go. And yet, waiting for four days was agony.

I was plunged back into the uncertainty of a year ago. Life seemed so short . . . every day seemed precious. But I had difficulty focusing on the most basic tasks. I clawed after a future that seemed to be slipping away. How could I have once again taken everything for granted?

The night before my discovery, I had been part of a Bible study led by my husband. We ended with Mark 4:35-41. Jesus was taking His disciples in a boat to the other side of the lake. But then, He fell asleep, and a life-threatening storm came up.  The disciples panicked and accused their Teacher of not caring. Jesus, of course, woke up and stilled the storm, but then challenged His disciples with their fear and lack of faith.

We discussed this. I suggested that the disciples still didn’t know that He was God. But a friend had another idea: “The disciples had already seen Jesus perform lots of miracles. But sometimes when the problems become personal, we have difficulty believing that God will act. We believe that He has power to help others, but not us.” 

That story became very dear to my heart over the weekend. And once again, as in my other trials, my mind grasped for simple phrases that I could repeat to calm my trembling heart:

* "Oh, God, preserve my life from the dread enemy.” ~ Psalm 64:1

* "Be with me, and keep me from harm.” ~ I Chronicles 4:9,10

* “When I am afraid, I will trust in You.  I will trust and not be afraid.” ~ Psalm 56:3,4

* "You are behind me; You are before me; You are with me.” ~ Psalm 139:5

* “I will not be afraid of sudden fear.” ~ Proverbs 3:25

* “Tomorrow will take care of itself.  Today’s trouble is enough for today.”  ~ Matthew 6:27

* “Do not worry about anything.” ~ Philippians 4:6

And then some heart-stopping questions from Jesus Himself:

* “Can worry add a single hour to your life?” ~ Matthew 6:27

* “Why are you afraid?  Do you still have no faith?” ~ Mark 4:40

Somehow I survived the weekend. Sometimes I felt totally detached from what was going on around me. Other times I was flooded with unexplainable peace and even exhilaration ~ and then, I figured, someone was praying for me. Or maybe I had just accepted the inevitable.

On Monday morning, Greg went with me to my doctor’s appointment, to be my support ~ and an extra pair of eyes and ears. As we sat in the waiting room, I scanned the e-mails that friends had sent to encourage me that morning. One friend’s concluding words stopped me in my tracks:  “...if we can't sleep with HIM in the storm....WE WILL REST IN HIM….” I couldn’t believe my eyes. These words seemed straight from the Lord, because Julianne had NO CLUE what we had studied the week before!

After a cliff-hanging wait, we were called into the office. My oncologist is wonderful ~ a compassionate listener and a calm explainer-of-facts. We discussed many concerns that I had on my list, and she gave me encouragement and helpful suggestions.

I saved “the lump” for the very last. And after a thorough examination, my doctor said, “I can feel scar tissue, but no breast lumps.” Really? Is that it? She felt certain that everything I was feeling ~ aches and pains, all we had talked about ~ were a normal result of chemotherapy and radiation and this early menopause that the chemo has thrown me into.

Physiotherapy and exercise will probably help. That said, she reminded me to let her know if the pains get worse. We can always do a bone scan if we feel the need. I have a mammogram and ultrasound scheduled for April. And she’ll keep a little closer eye on me; I’ll see her again in five weeks.

I walked out of her office wanting to be excited, but not sure if I should let myself. I almost feel guilty for anticipating a long future, but then I feel guilty for worrying that the cancer will come back. I seem to have discovered a precarious ridge, this fine line that we all must walk if we are to be honest with ourselves: trying to plan for the future and yet live in the moment, while holding our dreams loosely.  But as a friend reminded me today, "We should all live like that. We will then be surprised and exhilarated at where God will guide us . . . beyond our wildest dreams." And I'd rather be surprised than disappointed!

Over the weekend, when I kept feeling that spot and had come to the conclusion, “I don’t know; I just don’t know,” I remembered Who DID know, and a song that my Dad used to sing when I was a little girl started running through my head:

“I know Who holds the future, and I know Who holds my hand.

“With God, things don’t ‘just happen;’ everything by Him is planned.

“So as I face tomorrow, with its problems large or small,

“I’ll trust the God of miracles ~ give to Him my all.”

I don’t even know who wrote it ~ but to their words I say, Amen!

Something new

Last Friday, I was lying on the ultrasound table again. It felt like déjà vu . . . x3? 4? 5? How many times have I been there?

Let me fill in the gaps. Back in the spring, after my second chemo treatment, my right forearm began to ache. Not sure if it was a side-effect of all the cross-word puzzles I was doing while resting in bed, I decided to give it a few days. When it didn’t improve, I called the chemo clinic and spoke with the head nurse.

He asked a few questions over the phone. Since my arm wasn’t red, swollen, or warm to the touch, he didn’t think I had anything to worry about. It didn’t sound like deep vein thrombosis.

But a night or two later, when I rubbed the crook of my arm, I felt something hard ~ like the tendon you can feel at the back of your knee. That didn’t seem right . . . especially since my left arm didn’t feel like that at all. Then I took a closer look at my right arm, and could see a faint pink line travelling down toward my hand. That scared me.

The next morning, I called the chemo clinic and said, “I want someone to take a look at this. When can I come in?” They said I could come right then.  

After seeing several nurses and my oncologist, I was scheduled for an ultrasound on my arm that very day. (This was another startling reminder of God’s gracious control ~ but that’s an even more complex story.)

The ultrasound revealed, much to everyone’s surprise, that I did indeed have a blood clot ~ a long one, extending from mid-forearm past the bend in my elbow. “That means you’ll have to be on blood thinners until the end of chemo,” my oncologist said. And the nurse asked, “How do you feel about needles?” What she meant was, “You’ll have to give yourself a shot in the stomach every day. Can you handle that?”

Well, I wasn’t crazy about it. But one thing I’ve learned is this: you do what you have to do. After a couple of training sessions, I was able to do it on my own. I figured, there are other people who do this all the time. It just became part of my day (the yuckiest five minutes of my day, admittedly, but part of my routine nonetheless).

I survived giving myself nearly 100 injections. Coming to the end of them was almost as exciting as the end of chemo itself! And my oncologist was convinced that the clot was gone.

But throughout my radiation treatments this fall I found that my arms would fall asleep when I was holding a book or tablet while lying in bed. Then, in November, my hand fell asleep while I was knitting. This got worse as Christmas approached. 

Once the holiday rush was past and we were settling in at home, I called my doctor’s office for advice. I was beginning to think I was dealing with carpal tunnel syndrome, but I couldn’t shake the fear that that nasty old blood clot was still hanging around and cutting off circulation. 

So last week I saw both the nurse practitioner and my family doctor, and had another ultrasound on my arm. Praise the Lord, the ultrasound revealed no trace of the blood clot! This brought me peace of mind. But now my doctor was leaning toward the idea of carpal tunnel syndrome, and her first recommendation was for me to stop knitting. 

My heart sank. For two years now I’ve been working on making afghans for my kids; I’m almost finished with the third, and have just one more to go. I queried, “How long?” and told her about my projects. Then, unable to hold back the tears, I said, “I know it sounds silly, but from an emotional standpoint, it’s really important for me to finish them.”

With kindness, she assured me that she thought it was a beautiful thing ~ not silly ~ but we just need to see if we can get my arm healed.

So on the way home, I had another wrestling match with God. Am I back to “my hopes, my dreams, my plans”? If He wants me to take longer on this project, am I okay with that? What if He wants me to give it up altogether? Can I trust that He has it all under control ~ that He may even have a bigger plan in mind? Yes. Okay, Lord. I surrender.

I’m waiting now for the hospital to call and set up an EMG test to confirm the diagnosis (and severity) of carpal tunnel syndrome. I’ve tried wearing a wrist splint and giving myself bio-feedback, and I’ll meet with my doctor again on Monday

This is going to be a never-ending journey, I can see. Just when I think I have one lesson learned, I find out that I need to learn it all over again in a different context. But the joy is that God keeps working on me!

[If anyone has experience with carpal tunnel syndrome, I’d love to read your story or suggestions below.]

Another Year

Christmas is over. Another year has come and gone. This season is such a startling reminder of the passage of time. It always has been for me, but this year I seemed to notice it even more. I often caught myself thinking, Last year at this time . . . Next year at this time . . . ?

Our tree this year seemed the most beautiful one yet. We cut it ourselves, as usual, and found one that reached to the ceiling. We finished decorating it after dark; the tiny white lights were dazzling. “The tree seems more sparkly this year,” I commented as I gave it a drink of water before bed. Then, jokingly, “Maybe that’s because I’m more sparkly.” Pause. “I mean, maybe I’m more aware.”

“I think we all are,” Greg replied.

Startled, I asked what he meant. “I think we’ve all realized that we need to cherish the moments,” he said. He mentioned the way that our kids had all embraced the decorating this year ~ more than normal. Come to think of it, I had noticed it, too. 

For me, the awareness began last year. After my mammogram, I was called back for a follow-up sonogram as the technician had warned. Greg offered to go with me that night, December 20, but I assured him I’d be fine. “It’s just a sonogram,” I said. “I’ve been through this before.” 

But as the technician began the test, I knew instantly that she had seen something. She was very quiet throughout most of the procedure; when she did ask me questions, they seemed to be either leading or deceptively unrelated. There was much clicking and measuring on her part, even up into the lymph nodes under my arm. I couldn’t see the sonogram screen, and I grew more and more unnerved. After what seemed like an eternity, she told me she was going to go ask the radiologist if he wanted to come in and take a look.

She left me lying on the table in the dim cubicle, separated by a dingy curtain from the other exam areas. I could overhear other conversations, and I began to shake. Trembling uncontrollably, I tried to read the magazine I’d brought along. I could barely hold my hands (or my mind) still enough to focus on the words. 

My cell phone began to ring. Dare I get up to answer it? No. The ringing stopped. Then a few minutes later, it began again. It must be my family trying to reach me.  After the ringing had stopped a second time, I scooted to get my phone from my purse and dialed home. The answering machine picked up. I tried to keep my voice light as I left a message that I wasn’t quite finished, that it would still be a while before they could come and get me.

I don’t know how much time passed ~ 10 minutes? 15? ~ before the technician came back and said that everything was all set and I was free to go. I fumbled a question or two to try to gain control:  “Who would be calling me with the results?” How difficult to walk out without any answers, to sit trying to knit while I waited for my ride, to get into the car with my husband and pre-teen daughter and try to calmly voice my concerns over the procedure I had just been through. “I’m sure everything will be fine,” my daughter comforted me. I desperately wanted to believe her words!

Our son returned from college that night ~ our first time to welcome a child back home for Christmas break. It was wonderful ~ and awful.  How cold I felt, how detached from my family as I pondered the big “what if . . . ?”

The next day I tried to carry on with Christmas preparations as usual . . . baking . . . wrapping gifts . . . all the while waiting for my doctor to call. She didn’t ~ not that day nor the next ~ and I was plunged into the reality of dealing with illness during the holidays. What do people do when faced with tragedy in the days just before Christmas, especially when a weekend shortens office hours? Do the hospitals carry on as usual? I had never pondered this before, but suddenly I knew ~ death and disease do not take a break just because our calendars register a holiday.

The worst part of waiting was that now I could feel a lump. I hadn’t been able to before ~ not even right after my mammogram. But now there was clearly something there.  My fear burrowed deeper and threatened to paralyze me.

Then Sunday came. Friends gathered for house-church, and my teenage daughter and a friend sang “One Small Child” by David Meece. It was a spontaneous move ~ we’d barely even practiced ~ but I love that song, and I reveled in the fact that we were doing it this year, not waiting for next.

We went out for Chinese after church. While we were finishing our lunch together, my husband’s cell phone rang. He answered it, then in surprise handed it to me.  It was my doctor. 

Heart pounding, I took the call outside. My doctor explained that what they had found was a complex cyst. It looked like there was some blood inside; had I injured myself recently?  Not that I could remember, though I racked my brain. My family was watching me through the restaurant window. I didn’t realize the suspense they were in ‘til they came through the door, takeout containers in hand, looking to me for answers.

On the way home, I explained with relief that it was just a complex cyst. My doctor said we’d wait six weeks and do another sonogram to see if anything had changed. I went home and surfed the web for more info, then called my parents and my sister with the results.  My sister’s question caught me off guard:  “How do you feel?”  I . . . wasn’t sure. 

The next day was Christmas Eve . . . then Christmas. I moved in a daze, and yet with heightened senses. I felt like I was standing outside myself, watching events take place.  Did I feel relieved? Nervous? New traditions seemed to materialize on their own ~ my husband and daughter watching a Christmas movie together before the other kids woke up . . . Christmas crackers (which my Canadian and British friends will understand) on the breakfast plates. I adored the coordinated color scheme of the table that just came together with paper plates and napkins.  I began to be thankful for every little thing.

I guess that’s it ~ seeing God’s handiwork in everything.  There’s beauty right here, right now.  And even though my cyst turned out to be not just a cyst, I have no doubt that God is continuing to work in His own special way. And I’m still here to see it! I will always be thankful for that gift.