Choosing Joy

Waiting makes me philosophical. 

Surgery two weeks ago went well. My total abdominal hysterectomy (or TAH) removed a melon-sized fibroid as well as uterus, cervix, tubes, and ovaries. The surgeon announced that he didn't think it looked like cancer. But a cancer diagnosis is pathology-based. Tomorrow we'll get those results.

Moments of intense peace and joy (almost euphoria) have overwhelmed me these past two weeks, brought on perhaps by medication or Divine intervention or both. Deep, cleansing breaths come more naturally, undoubtedly improved by the space my lungs have to expand now that that nasty fibroid (and other things) are gone. I accept these gifts.

But in the back of my mind, never far away, lurks the question, "Is it cancer?" 

I'm reading the devotional Rose From Brier, notes that Amy Carmichael wrote "from the ill to the ill" in 1933.¹ Amy, a missionary in India, was bedridden for months following a serious accident. Her thoughts and poems are brief but deep, easy to read when I feel like reading, and comforting to mull over while I rest.

She says in her introduction: "All these letters have been written . . . at the time the storm fell upon me, not after the coming of the calm."² This is what I hope my blog will be--comfort not just with good reports, but in the waiting, too.

A precious scripture to me in the uncertainty leading up to my surgery was "He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty."³ In the continued uncertainty since my surgery, I have clung to these additional words: "Because you have been my help, therefore in the shadow of Your wings I will rejoice."⁴

I've imagined a hundred times tomorrow's scene in the surgeon's office. What will he say? If he says "no cancer present" I may weep for joy. If he says "bad news" I may weep with fear. I cannot prepare to rejoice or crumple because I won't know until that moment.

But the truth is, I am under His wings. I keep seeing myself as a little chick, peeking my head out every so often to see if a storm is coming. But no matter what happens, I'm in the safest place. Nothing can touch me here. I can already rejoice.

 

 

¹Amy Carmichael, Rose from Brier, 2015 ed. (Fort Washington, PA: CLC Publications, 2015), 13.

²Carmichael, Rose from Brier, 14.

³Bible, Psalm 91:1 (NKJV)

⁴Bible, Psalm 63:7 (NKJV)

 

 

 

Ten Years

“It s been ten years. And I’m still breathing.”

I mentally composed this opening months ago in preparation for my 10 year anniversary. Ten years ago today, on February 20, 2013, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. You know, ten years after cancer, you’re considered a survivor. And you also know, if you’ve read my past posts, that I haven’t blogged in almost three years. I mean . . . pandemic. And now I'm busy living. I consider myself a survivor.

Perhaps prematurely.

Last month, a serious sinus infection turned into pinkeye which required a round of Augmentin, steroids, and eye drops. When stomach pain flared a week later, I figured it was a reaction to the meds, or maybe the probiotics I was taking to counteract the meds. But the pain persisted, and I felt lumps in my abdomen that concerned me, so I saw my doctor. She sent me for a CT scan. We went looking for diverticulitis, but found a large fibroid instead.  

I’ve known for years I had fibroids. Fibroids are usually benign. But I have variables that put me at risk for uterine cancer, one of them being that in 2021 I walked my mom through uterine cancer, chemo, radiation, and recovery. She’s doing well. Now our doctor is worried about me.

This feels surreal, this worry about cancer again. My total hysterectomy is scheduled for February 27, one day shy of ten years after my breast cancer surgery on February 28, 2013. Back then, they knew the tumor was cancerous. This time, they won’t know ‘til after surgery.

Our emotions come in waves, depending on the day—or the hour. Our daughter Nicola asked, “Is this going to be my life? This fear of impending loss?” Sometimes it feels like that has been life for the past 10 years. For how many biopsies have we awaited the outcome, convinced that death was certain, only to be told that all was well, everything was benign?

We grow weary. We long for open seas, smooth sailing. Bur storm clouds gather, and we wonder if they’ll pass or send us to the depths. Then Jesus comes, just like He did to the disciples caught in a storm on Galilee. Nicola texted: “Was reading in Mark this morning about Jesus calming the storm. The words ‘great calm’ stuck out to me. Praying that over you today.”

God’s Word brings calm. Friends send scriptures that minister. My devotions or a worship song line up, confirming the truth of God’s sovereign care, of His never-ending love.

This is what I know from my times in the valley of the shadow—He is with me. Fear hovers, but I have a choice. My dear husband Greg, who feels each waiting period deeply, put it so well: “Do you find your mind going down into a hole, but you tell yourself, ‘Don’t go there’? And then you come back to a place where you think, 'Everything's ok' . . . but you're not sure that's true, either?”

That’s exactly what I feel. It’s a trick to keep your mind perfectly balanced between fearing the worst and expecting the best. There’s tension as you wait, keeping your mind fixed on what you know is true at this moment.

This afternoon, Greg and I gazed at each other across the table and pondered the fact that it has been ten years since we first heard the words, “It is cancer.” I thought my life was over then, but a decade later we're still here, having watched our kids grow up, having lived so many dreams. I am grateful.

No matter what happens, whether next Monday leads us through the portal marked “benign” or the one marked “cancer,” behind either door is Heaven.

First Person Gospel

Today I finished a six-year project. I finished reading the Gospels in First Person.

I never thought it would take me that long. Nor that I would start it in Canada and finish it after moving back to the States. I didn't even realize that I had launched a life-changing project. I was just desperate for help.

In March 2014 I was overwhelmed. I was five months out from my last cancer treatment, but had just been diagnosed with low thyroid (turned out to be Hashimoto's hypothyroiditis). I was struggling to get back to my "normal" life with homeschooling, housework, and house church. My spirit was dry from giving, giving. I longed to hide myself in a congregation and just worship and be fed.

So one night we did that. We attended the Saturday night service at Harvest Bible Chapel (now Hope Bible Church Markham) where our kids were part of Harvest Youth. And I found a balm for my soul.

My diary entry from March 29 contains no special details: "Tried to prioritize, but the day fell apart in so many ways at the end. Our time at Harvest turned my eyes back to Jesus." Here's what I remember. 

The pastor spoke about Mary and Martha.¹ I've always loved that story,always resonated with Martha, with too much to be done ~ but wished I could be Mary, sitting at Jesus' feet. That night I thought, "I wonder what Jesus was saying to Mary. Was He talking with her alone? Had she asked Him to tell her stories about His life?" 

Suddenly I realized I could do the very same thing. What if I started reading the story of Jesus, but changed the pronouns so He was telling me His story in His own words?

I began in Matthew, and could not believe the window that opened to me. I saw Jesus as a Teacher, saw His compassion as he ministered to hurting people. It was fascinating to look at these too-familiar stories through a new lens. My heart was stirred to be like my Master.

I'm not sure how long it took me, or whether I finished the book before Easter that year. But when I got to the crucifixion story and heard it in my Savior's own words, I saw His death as I'd never seen it before.

As an adult, I've struggled to read about Jesus' death, knowing the agony He went through. Good Friday was a sorrowful day as I pondered His pain and the price He paid for me.

But that year. I saw Him standing outside the story, able to tell me the details of His own death because He had survived it! Of course, I've always known that Jesus came back from the dead. But somehow, whenever I read the story, I pitied Him. Now I saw His death, not as the end of His life, but as an inevitable part of it ~ an eternity-altering break in the breathing half before He picked it up again.

I can't explain what that did for me.

I went on to read all the Gospels the same way. I read in fits and starts, sometimes only a chapter a week, sometimes with months in between. I kept a Gideons New Testament in the drawer of my bedside stand so I could snag a chapter after a nap or before bed. It took me six years to read the story of Jesus, written by Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John . . . told to me in His own words.

This morning, knowing it was Good Friday, I finished the last two chapters. I read them out loud, under my breath, trying to imagine His voice, tears streaming down my cheeks. 

I was Mary Magdalene, recognizing Him when He calls my name. I was Thomas the Doubter, believing when He provides the proof I need. I was Peter, accepting His provision of a catch on the shore of the sea.

His living, breathing presence amazes me. I can, like Martha, welcome Jesus into my home. I don't even have to wait for Him to show up at my door. He is here all the time! When I am distracted, worried, or upset by all the things that swirl around me, I can choose to sit at His feet and ask Him to speak.

So much of what I do is temporary. Laundry, dishes, cooking, lesson plans, organizing, cleaning, decorating . . . they don't last. They will all perish when I do, if not before. But my times with Jesus and what I learn can never be taken away. They will be with me forever!

What a beautiful, life-changing gift!


¹The Bible, Luke 10:38-42 

Full-Circle Gift

Today a dream came true for me. I'm back in the classroom after 26 years away.

Twenty-six years ago this week I gave birth to my firstborn son. And though I had loved teaching, I also longed to be a mom. When God gave me that gift, I knew I wanted to stay home with my baby.

But teaching is in my blood. It wasn't long before the advent of autumn tugged my heart back toward the classroom. What to do? For us, as our family grew, the answer was homeschooling.

There's something about those crisp days, school supplies, new clothes and new books as summer rolls into fall. Whether school takes place in a classroom or a living room, the fresh dive into learning feels exciting.

I loved homeschooling. For over 20 years, I almost always had at least one of our four children studying at home. Then last year we moved back to my hometown and found ourselves on the verge of empty nest. Our youngest daughter did her senior year at the Christian school I had graduated from. And I found myself longing to teach again.

When the question came, "Do you have any interest in teaching first grade?" my heart jumped at the chance. I scheduled an interview with the principal.

Then my oncologist called, and I found myself with another appointment on the very same day--an MRI-guided biopsy of an area that had come back benign eight months before. My new doctors in the States wanted to check the spot again.

Filling out the teaching application kept my mind busy the night before the biopsy, and anticipation of the interview gave me something to focus on while I was in the MRI tube. All I could think was, "God, You wouldn't let me come this close to teaching again and take it away, would You?"

That afternoon, the job offer came, but I asked to delay my answer until after the biopsy results. Thus began a week of trying not to worry. I wrote in my diary: "I'm not so much fearing for my life this time; I'm fearing for my dreams. I want so badly to teach!" For some reason, the stakes felt so much higher. I know where I'm going when my life ends, but I have a lot of things I still want to do while I'm on this earth!

I know God owes me nothing, but I know He gives good gifts, too. I clung to hope--but tried not to clench it too tightly. How hard it is to hold our dreams with open hands!

One week later, in spite of the fact that I'd convinced myself I had cancer again (I mean, how could they take twelve tissue samples from anybody and not find cancer somewhere?) I heard the wonderful words "benign findings." I could hardly believe my ears. 

But it really was true. I accepted the job, spent the summer preparing, and today welcomed 13 first graders to a full day of school. 

The craziest part of this story is that one of my students is the daughter of a girl that I taught . . . in first grade . . . in another city where her dad was our pastor. Don't try to figure that out--it's just God's little way of bringing things full circle. I can see Him winking at me, saying, "It's ok. I've got your timeline all figured out."

Yes, He's a good God. And He gives good gifts.

What has He gifted you with today?

Surviving

How do you calculate survivorship? From the time you first learned you had cancer? Or the date you had surgery to remove it? Or that wonderful day when treatments are finally finished?

And what if you get a second cancer? Does the time clock start over?

These are questions I've pondered with my friends. And I think we've determined that our survivorship began when we had surgery. I know my doctors considered me a survivor after that day.

But when can you consider yourself cancer-free? Or in remission? After 5 years? 10 years? And what constitutes a long-term survivor?

Honestly, is anyone ever truly "cancer-free"?

(I just discovered an amazing article that discusses all these questions: When Can I Say I Am a Breast Cancer Survivor?)

On February 20, 2014, the one-year anniversary of my diagnosis, I celebrated tentatively with a post called One Year In. I was happy, but still nervous. I couldn't wait to get to the five-year mark, at which point I thought I would really feel like a survivor. And then I'd be halfway to the ten-year mark when I figured I'd be home free.

Looking back, reading that post, I'm struck with the realization that I still celebrate my "cancerversary" the same way. I rejoice that I have another year post-cancer under my belt. I ruminate on the ways that my life is different now because of facing cancer. And I wonder how long I still have.

Today, I'm celebrating six years since my first surgery. It feels really good to be over halfway to ten! 

And yet, I know full well that cancer could rear its ugly head again at any time. It already did, almost 3 years ago. And what did that second cancer (NOT a metastasis) do to my survival status? My doctors have said over and over that those tiny tumors (yes, they found yet a third cancer in the cross-section of my lumpectomy) are not even worth worrying about. According to them, my triple-negative cancer 6 years ago was "the big one," and my survivorship keeps counting from that day.

But I can tell you that I also celebrate the years since my second cancer, and will be thrilled when I'm ten years out from that date, too. 

There's nothing like a life-threatening illness to make you feel like you're living on borrowed time. But . . . we're all living on borrowed time. The illness is just a reminder.

I recently told another survivor friend who is awaiting more tests: we know Who holds the future, and we know Who holds our hand¹ . . . but we can't help holding our breath while we wait.

However . . . here's another truth: God even holds our breath! In ancient Babylon, the Jewish official Daniel reminded King Belshazzer of "the God in whose hand is your breath."²

I find that super comforting. I don't have to hold my breath ~ because God does! I will keep breathing, surviving whatever comes my way, "all the days of my appointed time."³

However long my life may be,

He holds the schedule in His hand

And doles my days out graciously.

I trust His perfect plan.

¹"I Know Who Holds the Future," by Alfred B. Smith
²The Bible, Daniel 5:23 (ESV)
³The Bible, Job 14:14 (KJV)

Six Years Later

I've been writing letters today. And every time I wrote the date (2.20.19), my heart went back . . . back six years to the day when I first heard the words, "It's cancer."

I wrote in my journal on that date:

Well, I have breast cancer. There's just no good way to put it. Not the result we were expecting or hoping for. Even the doctors are surprised: a cancerous cyst. So now I face scans, surgery, chemo, radiation, and the pill. Not a pretty picture. Hard to tell the kids; hard to see them and Greg cry. I'm numb, scared, a little angry. But we'll trust God ~ and fight this hard.

I would not know until after the surgery that my cancer was triple-negative, not one of the hormonal ones that can be battled with "the pill" Tamoxifen. It would be even later before I learned that triple-negative cancer can be one of the more aggressive, harder-to-beat forms of breast cancer. 

But by God's grace, I'm still here! He's not finished with me yet!

I've spent today not only writing letters, but also caring for my husband and daughter who are battling the flu. It's been a tough day, trying to juggle "nursing duties" with all the other things that I wanted to get done. But as we reminisced tonight about six years ago, I felt incredibly blessed and thankful that I'm here to care for my family. Somehow, remembering that I might not have been makes the task just a little sweeter. 

Life, even on the hard days, is a gift!

Rejoice!

The sky was brilliant blue yesterday, in spite of the arctic freeze. It reminded me of the February day in 2013 when I first heard the words, "It's cancer." The sky had been blue that day, too ~ so achingly beautiful that I couldn't reconcile it with the terrible news I had just received. 

I couldn't help but wonder if history was about to repeat itself.

The period between undergoing tests and receiving the results is the hardest, as anyone who has awaited a diagnosis can attest. I did pretty well the first few days; but as the week went by, my anxiety grew. 

It was kind of like cranking a jack-in-the-box. Every day I just kept cranking and cranking, knowing that on Thursday something was going to pop out at me.

Like my youngest daughter said, "It's the initial that scares me. I can handle what comes afterwards." She was remembering both times that we had come home from the hospital with grim faces and a cancer diagnosis.

By the time we sat in the doctor's office yesterday, I think Greg and I had both convinced ourselves that it was cancer again. So when the oncologist came in and, after some small talk about how the procedure had gone, said, "Well, it was benign findings," we didn't really know how to respond. I wouldn't say I was flooded with relief ~ more like calm gratefulness. And maybe a bit of disbelief: All that worry . . . for this? Are you sure?

Yes. We've come through another test with good results. I can breathe! Well, until the next test. I wish I could master the trick of waiting. But as my Canadian oncologist once said, "There's no trick. It's just hard!" And God has used this past week to continue teaching me, patiently pressing His promises into my heart again.

Last Sunday in adult Bible fellowship, we discussed this interesting paradox:  
". . . we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us."¹ Our teacher explained it like this: "The more we endure, the more we are able to endure." I think he's right.

So this is what I've learned this week: suffering produces endurance . . . which produces character . . . which produces hope . . . because God loves us. And I'm going to enjoy each day that He gives me in the "breathing half."

¹The Bible, Romans 5:3-5