Wasn’t Expecting That…

A few weeks ago, I found myself in my family doctor’s office, tears streaming uncontrollably down my cheeks, passing it off as trying to deal with the pain from my sore throat. Both the doctor and I knew that was a lie but he went along with it, nodding kindly with a compassionate half-smile. His sense of urgency at my physical state triggered something in me that I didn’t even know was there.

The similarities were too much. It was mid- October and it was rainy. I was going to the doctor expecting some antibiotics and an annoying wait at the pharmacy to follow, only for it to be implied that it was something more. Something more. He suggested I see my ENT immediately and even called and scheduled the appointment for me so that they would see me as soon as I got there. “I don’t see anything abnormal in your throat. With your level of pain in your neck and transplant site, I think you need a CAT scan.”

Mid-October. Rainy day. Thinking I’m going on for an inconsequential “tis-the-season” type of illness. Furrowed brows. Concerned whispers. An ENT visit. And now recommending a CAT scan.

“I can’t rule out some type of malignancy, given your history.”

There is was. The thing that broke the seal. That made the dam burst. That made for an awkward rest of the appointment, to be honest.

The tears began to flow immediately, rushing down my cheeks and soaking my sweatshirt. They wouldn’t stop.

Kim. Pull yourself together! Seriously, how many times have family doctors said something just like this to you and it’s been nothing! Why are you crying?! Get a grip! This poor guy is seriously worried about your mental state right now…

The doctor looked uncomfortable and like he felt really bad. Like he had just accidentally ran over my dog or something.

“I’m fine, it’s just a lot of pain.” He nods and smiles. It’s not a complete lie, but we both know what started the crap-show he was witnessing now.

A kind nurse comes in and offers me the whole box of tissues and pats me on the back. He walks out into the hallway with her and I hear them whispering. I hear him on the phone in the hallway.

“Yes…Yes…History of stage 4 melanoma. Yup, that’s her.”

Yup, that’s her.

The tears flow without breaks to the point that they are no longer individual drops but instead a steady stream.

He pops his head in, “can you head over now?” I tell him I can. He pauses and quietly asks, as though he’s embarrassed for me, “are you ok to drive?”

Yes, it was that bad.

I assure him I am and again remind him it’s just the physical pain and that I’ll be fine.

I got in my car and began sobbing. To the point of dry-heaving and physically shaking. Kim, what is WRONG with you?? This is literally the thousandth time this has happened to you. Get a grip!!

But it was all too much. The similarities between this appointment and the one that set everything in motion 6 years prior was just. too. much. 6 years after being diagnosed with terminal cancer, here I was again.

Mid-October, just after Brit’s birthday. Rainy. Going in expecting antibiotics and a wait at the pharmacy in my near future only be met with legitimate concern. An ENT appointment. A CAT scan.

The doctor’s sense of urgency triggered something in me that I didn’t even know was there.

And it hit me like a ton of bricks.

Fear.

It was pure, unadulterated fear seeping from my body, causing me to shake and dry-heave. It was as if he had ripped off a bandaid and I was expecting to see an all-but-healed scar but instead I was pulled under by the rush that came from underneath. But this was coming from within.

I drove home and laid in a ball on my kitchen floor and sobbed. Full-on ugly cry. As I wept, I began to rebuke myself.

You never even did this the first time you were diagnosed! And this guy didn’t even diagnose you with anything! What are you afraid of??

It was then that I realized just how far I had let myself slip into a safe and comfortable faith. Into a faith that means well, does good, is sincere in all forms, but had grown complacent somehow. I was doing the right things and avoiding the wrong things but without realizing it, my faith had become so small.

People see me as having a strong faith. And I do, don’t get me wrong. There was never a point where I turned from God, not at all. But I think I had hidden behind the image that everyone has of the Kim who had cancer. Brave. Strong. Fearless.

Fearless.

As I lay on my kitchen floor, I cried out to God in a way that I hadn’t in a long time. I felt small and weak. Helpless and not just fearful, but truly overflowing with fear. I felt God speak into my spirit “But what are you afraid of?”

In that moment, I felt a sense of calm. There’s no other way to describe it besides God had heard my cry and like a parent rushing to a hurting child, picked me up and held me. The mess I was. Small and full of fear. Fear of facing it all over again. Fear at what my family would have to endure yet again because of me. Fear of no longer identifying with that confident fighter that I once must have been.

But He was there. Just like He had always been. He had never left.

My tears turned to those of gratitude and repentance. God, I’m so sorry! Forgive me for my small faith! Place in me, once again, a faith that is fearless! I don’t know how I still had tears to cry and they didn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon.

But I felt amazing. Any believer knows the bitterness of the brokenness but how the tears that come afterwards can be so very sweet. I felt renewed, like a burden had lifted and a fog had cleared.

And I felt ready to face the ENT. A visit there, a CAT scan, a whole mess of antibiotics and steroids showed it was just some “tis the season” type of illness.

And better yet, the next week my PET scan and brain MRI came back clear once again.

So why do I share this? Well, for a few reasons actually. I never intended, through sharing my journey, to ever come across like I was handling things perfectly. With any diagnosis comes a lot of complex emotions and that’s ok. I don’t want anyone to think of me as like a gold-standard for how to deal, because, well, did you just read the above account? Yeah….

I’m just sharing this in the hopes that maybe it can encourage someone who is feeling that paralyzing fear. I never told anyone but my husband because I was so ashamed, but God is bigger than my shame and for sure bigger than our fears. I realized I could stand in church and sing “no guilt in life or fear in death” and maybe not mean it in that moment. I’ve been spending my nights when all is calm and quiet in the Psalms and it’s been so refreshing for my soul.

“When I said, ‘My foot is slipping,’ Your unfailing love, Lord, supported me. When anxiety was great within me, Your consolation brought me joy.” -Psalm 94:18-19

I hope you all are well and if you made it this far, you truly deserve a medal! In all seriousness, I know many of you have been along on this ride with us for these past 6 years and we are so grateful for your prayers, encouragement, and support.

Closure.

I’m writing this for several reasons. For one, I know that a few of you have been along for the ride but don’t actually know me. You’ve prayed for me and supported us through this so you definitely deserve an update! But I’m doing this for me as well. Although I don’t go back and read my old blogs, if I ever decided to I would for sure want this chronicled.

Yesterday, I got my port out.

Yes, it’s an awkward pic but I don’t care! Because I’m excited and I’m happy! Let me tell ya, the procedure is done in a very professional way in the OR and all that, but I was also fully awake for it. So all of the tugging and pulling against my scar tissue while I was still awake and aware was gag-worthy. For real. But…good has come from it.

For a while this port was like a security blanket for me. It felt like relief and it felt like comfort. I didn’t want it at first but once I had it, I truly came to rely on it as a source of calming, as weird as that may sound.

But over the years, I’ve needed it less and less. Treatments were stopped over 2 years ago and it became a hassle. Something that was uncomfortable and that needed attending to (in the form of getting flushed) even though it was inconvenient. As my days were spent more at home than at Penn, these visits to have my port flushed felt increasingly intrusive. And so we decided to get it out.

I need to include something here for my own records because I felt that I never had closure on this cancer stuff. As much as I could physically feel healthy and mentally detach from the trauma, there was always the reminder in the form of that uncomfortable port in my chest. Treatments didn’t stop with some triumphant “last chemo” where I ring a bell and get applause. No, I simply didn’t want to do them anymore and my oncologist understood and supported that decision.

Appointments and specialists and scans sort of petered out. There wasn’t an end. But this? This felt like an end to the chapter. This felt like the turning of a page. This port that had ingested so much chemo and has seen me through some of the hardest times of my life was about to go. And symbolically, it was impossible to ignore.

You see, God has been opening my eyes to so much recently.

I wanted to go by myself to Philly to get my port out and as I drove home, I thought I’d listen to my chemo playlist on my phone. This was literally the playlist I would listen to during infusions. I haven’t been able to bring myself to listen to it for over 2 years, but I also haven’t been able to bring myself to delete it. It’s special.

So as the songs played, I felt myself get real honest with God. You see, over the last year and a half, we have been a part of starting a church. This is good! But on the same coin, it’s been the hardest time of my life. I’ll explain.

When God called us to this church plant, it ripped me from the only church home I’ve ever known. It tore me from the comfort of the church family that was truly my family, the people who had loved and supported us through my cancer and the people that I wanted to love and support. It took us away from the teens who loved and trusted us and who we loved so very much. Being a part of this church plant meant willingly giving up a huge piece of my heart. And unbeknownst to us at the time, it meant enduring some cruel and unjust criticisms as well. And I was just not ready for that.

On the drive home from having my port removed and thinking through all of the happenings of the last few years that I had shut off from myself, I came to see a few things.

For one: difficult emotions can coexist. I’ll say it again, difficult emotions can coexist! My grief over the loss of my church family in New Holland did not mean I love my new church any less! I’ve tried to hide my grief because I felt like if I looked sad to leave my other church that it would look like I wasn’t ready or excited to tackle what God had in store for us at the new church. And that’s just not true! I spent almost a year in a deep depression over losing our old church, especially the youth. So much so God had to hit me over the head with the new opportunities we had to spread the gospel this past week as 20 teens came to our house for youth group. Praise God for His goodness!! I will always miss our old church. Always. Especially the teens. But I feel more free to experience that grief alongside the excitement and joy of creating new relationships.

And two: God showed me that I have closed myself off from Him. Ok, actually I already knew this, but I guess He showed me why.

Over the last few years, God has called me to some things that were hard. Things I didn’t want or ask for. Things I didn’t want to do and things I didn’t want to face. I’ve meditated on the verse that says, “draw near to God and He will draw near to you” a LOT over the last few weeks, and there was just a hesitation on my part to draw near to Him but I couldn’t figure out why. I love Him and I want to serve Him only, so why couldn’t I connect?

Then, in the drive home from having my port removed while I was listening to the worship music on my chemo playlist it hit me like a ton of bricks.

I’m terrified of what He’ll ask of me next.

The last few years have been so hard, such a struggle, with so little clarity that I was scared that what He’d ask next would be even more so difficult. I’m a little ashamed to even admit this, but I know I need to as some of you look at me as a Christian who just has it all together and has it all figured out. That’s just not the case.

So why even write this? For one, an update to you amazing folks who have followed this journey with me. And for two, so I can look back someday and see what God was up to in this season. I feel closure on the part of my life that was ruled by cancer and that feels so good! And while I still grieve the loss of the most amazing church family anyone could ask for, I’m thanking God for putting us where He has put us.

If you read this to the end, I’m so sorry for making you endure all that and may God bless you for it!! There’s no way I can thank you guys enough for your love, encouragement, and prayers over the years. It’s really mind-boggling to think of all of the support we’ve received and we are beyond thankful! So, thank you!!

And in case you want to know, Eric and the kids are doing great and I found a hobby and passion in cookies!

Love to all of you!! 💕

It’s MY cancer, not hers.

It’s my cancer, not hers.

I wish she could understand that, but I know deep down that this story is not just mine but that it belongs to my children, too. That this is theirs just as much as it is mine.

We ran head-first into an unexpected trial of a “cancer parent” tonight. I’m not much of a cryer and wasn’t expecting to cry tonight but I write this as tears flow steadily down my cheeks.

Brit just had a complete breakdown because she’s going back to school tomorrow after Thanksgiving break and she’s going to miss me. Well, that’s where it started.

If you know me well, you know that I have severe separation anxiety from the kids. Absolutely and without a doubt in my mind a side effect of my trying to reconcile having to leave them – in the form of death – just a few short years ago. I’m still plagued by nightmares of them calling for me but I can’t get to them. And my anxiety grips me each and every time they’re away from me. Regardless of the circumstance. I joke “yes please take them! They’re driving me crazy!” (Which, to be fair, they are) But the jokes are simply a cover for the fact that I’m miserable and worry-stricken every single moment we are apart. They don’t know I struggle with this EVERY DAY and I’m not planning on making it an issue for them ever! But while Evan can, for the most part, go off and enjoy his independence and then come back and let me know he missed me and tell me all about his adventures, Brit is just not quite like that and it kills me to see her broken down at the thought of us being apart tomorrow. This is may just be your classic “nature vs. nurture” psychology sort of issue (is this her natural personality to be anxious and worried or did she develop that because most of her life has been marred with the threat of losing her mom? Or hey, let’s be honest, did she just learn these habits from me?). All possibilities seem plausible when you dwell in them long enough.

Today, I had to go to the doctor for a flu shot and when he looked in my right ear and asked me why it looked the way it did, Brit chimed in that it’s “because Mommy has cancer”. She was matter-of-fact and unemotional, it didn’t seem to phase her, it was just a fact. But I cringed so hard because as much as you try to protect your kids from these realities, they still know and understand. And it’s really hard to watch how MY cancer has affected them. It wasn’t supposed to. It was supposed to me mine! But here we are. Just since I’ve sat down to write this, she has come out 3 separate times just to make sure I was ok and that I am still here.

And, update, now I sit on the edge of her bed writing this as she drifts off because she wanted to be able to see me. She had to know I was there.

This wasn’t supposed to be her burden, but as they grow I am beginning to see how all of this is shaping their story too.

And I feel so guilty.

Snapchat was the only thing that calmed her down a few minutes ago. I’m thanking God for His provision, for health, for my still being here with my children, and for His steady hand holding me in the moments where I can’t actually take any more.

It’s MY cancer, not hers.

It’s my cancer, not hers.

I wish she could understand that, but I know deep down that this story is not just mine but that it belongs to my children, too. That this is theirs just as much as it is mine.

We ran head-first into an unexpected trial of a “cancer parent” tonight. I’m not much of a cryer and wasn’t expecting to cry tonight but I write this as tears flow steadily down my cheeks.

Brit just had a complete breakdown because she’s going back to school tomorrow after Thanksgiving break and she’s going to miss me. Well, that’s where it started.

If you know me well, you know that I have severe separation anxiety from the kids. Absolutely and without a doubt in my mind a side effect of my trying to reconcile having to leave them – in the form of death – just a few short years ago. I’m still plagued by nightmares of them calling for me but I can’t get to them. And my anxiety grips me each and every time they’re away from me. Regardless of the circumstance. I joke “yes please take them! They’re driving me crazy!” (Which, to be fair, they are) But the jokes are simply a cover for the fact that I’m miserable and worry-stricken every single moment we are apart. They don’t know I struggle with this EVERY DAY and I’m not planning on making it an issue for them ever! But while Evan can, for the most part, go off and enjoy his independence and then come back and let me know he missed me and tell me all about his adventures, Brit is just not quite like that and it kills me to see her broken down at the thought of us being apart tomorrow. This is may just be your classic “nature vs. nurture” psychology sort of issue (is this her natural personality to be anxious and worried or did she develop that because most of her life has been marred with the threat of losing her mom? Or hey, let’s be honest, did she just learn these habits from me?). All possibilities seem plausible when you dwell in them long enough.

Today, I had to go to the doctor for a flu shot and when he looked in my right ear and asked me why it looked the way it did, Brit chimed in that it’s “because Mommy has cancer”. She was matter-of-fact and unemotional, it didn’t seem to phase her, it was just a fact. But I cringed so hard because as much as you try to protect your kids from these realities, they still know and understand. And it’s really hard to watch how MY cancer has affected them. It wasn’t supposed to. It was supposed to be mine! But here we are. Just since I’ve sat down to write this, she has come out 3 separate times just to make sure I was ok and that I am still here.

And, update, now I sit on the edge of her bed writing this as she drifts off because she wanted to be able to see me. She had to know I was there.

This wasn’t supposed to be her burden, but as they grow I am beginning to see how all of this is shaping their story too.

And I feel so guilty.

Snapchat was the only thing that calmed her down a few minutes ago. I’m thanking God for His provision, for health, for my still being here with my children, and for His steady hand holding me in the moments where I can’t actually take any more.

Cancer, a Birthday, and a Secret Prayer

I was dying.  And I knew it.  I was under no delusions that healing was on the table for me and I had accepted my lot in life.  Or death, I suppose, as it were.  Cancer was “exploding” all over my body, in the words of my oncologist, and I had a few good months left – at best.  My brain tumor was wreaking havoc in the way of grand mal seizures that left me for minutes on end without oxygen, leaving me to try to regain my body functions and memory after each one.  And after each one it got increasingly harder and had more long term effects that didn’t dissipate.  I had tumors in my lungs that were so inflamed that any exertion left me in a coughing fit and I found myself night after night sleeping upright on the couch because laying down in bed next to my husband, where I longed to be, would result in painful coughing fits.  My hip and back ached constantly, crying out in pain, and reminding me that the cancer was eating my bones.  Little by little.

Each day I had to relinquish more and more control of my life and the life of my family over to family and friends.  I thank God endlessly for the selfless love we received, but there is no 30 year old mother on earth who wants this for her family.  And so I struggled mentally with my lack of involvement with my kids at the level I had wanted for myself.

My body and my mind were both betraying me more and more each day.  And there was no hope in healing.  And so we faced each day as we had to.

I watched my kids, then 2 and 4, living a seemingly normal life.  At least, as normal as we could provide in the midst of all my treatments, scans, and appointments.  We tried to build a sense of normalcy around the fact that Mommy was dying and we treated it as a fact of life rather than a scary and sad event.  I bought them a book called “A Kid’s Travel Guide to Heaven” and we read it every day.  And while it’s certainly not scripture based, it did help open the discussion and help the kids to see that that was where Mommy would be.  Waiting for them to come.

I needed them to know that if they understood the gospel of Jesus Christ and that if they accepted the gift of salvation that we would be together again.  And I needed them to know that although Mommy was happy to go to heaven, that it would never be my choice to leave them.  Never.  I was desperate for them to understand this.  And the tears would fall.  Rolling down my cheeks in silent protest.  Just as they are right now as I write this.

A sibling squabble was a reminder that I wouldn’t be there to help them bond as they grew up.   Setting the kids in front of a Veggietales so I could get a break because I was in too much pain was a reminder that I wouldn’t be a spiritual influence for them for very much longer.  A sweet hug goodnight and even the frustration of trying to put young kids to bed were all too painful reminders of all I would be missing out on.  And selfishly, this tore me up inside.  Everything in me longed to be there for them as they grew up, and so the tears fell.

People often ask me how I did it.  How could I face this?  How could I cope?  There is truly no good answer to that.  I know we did what we had to do but looking back it seems so impossible.  It really was too much.  How did we do it?

There was a profound acceptance on my part that this was the end.  Mind you, acceptance certainly did not mean gladness.  I was tired and I was sad.  But I was ready.

I remember one sleepless night very clearly.  I had propped myself up on lots of pillows so that I could stay in bed with Eric, and as was so often the case when I could manage to stay in bed, I would listen to him rhythmically breathing as he slept and I would be soothed by the fact that he, at least for a few hours each day, had calmness and rest.  On this particular night, just like I had on so many others, I would pray.

But tonight would be a little bit different.

I lay there with my eyes closed tight, silent tears falling faster each second, cascading down my cheeks only to puddle up onto the sheets.  And in my desperation I reached my hand up to heaven.  And I begged God with all I had in me, to give me until I was 34.

34 years old.

Please God!  It would be about 3.5 years at that point and I felt like I was asking for the moon.  I felt like I was asking God to turn me into a unicorn or something equally as impossible.  I felt like I knew I was asking for too much, that it wasn’t possible, that it was absolutely ridiculous.  But that for some reason in my head that was the perfect amount of time.  That if He just allowed me that window of time that the kids would be old enough to have some good, solid memories of me.  At that time, this was the number one tug on my heart.  Selfishly, I wanted nothing more than for the kids to remember me.  That’s just the way it was.  Eric and I would have been married 10 years when I was 34, and that was just an astonishing feat to me.  It sounded so glorious.  Perfect.  The perfect amount of time!  I kept apologizing to God because I knew my request was so silly and so selfish.  But as I continued to pray, my desperation simply grew as I begged and begged God to please just give me until I was 34!

I write this today.  On my 34th birthday.  I can honestly say I never thought this day would come.  I know God isn’t a genie up in heaven granting wishes, but I believe He heard my heart on that night.  I’m not sure I’ll ever know for sure how all of this has worked or why it has worked out this way, surviving this long isn’t something I believe I deserve or have earned.  It just simply is.  And as I sit here now with clean scans as of last week, I’ll accept it as the beautiful gift it is.

I didn’t want to tell this story.  In fact, I could count on one hand the number of people I ever told this prayer to.  Why?  Because it felt like a childish prayer.  Like a lack of faith on my part, and maybe it was.

But I wanted to tell it now because God is good and deserves all praise.  Always.  He has given me more than I could ever ask or imagine.  Think about those words, more than I could ask or imagine.  All glory to God!  And I give Him glory for this urgency He has placed in my heart for spreading the gospel.  It can feel like a burden sometimes because it was so much easier to live a lukewarm life, but I pray He never lets this passion for praising Him and spreading the Good News fade.  Christ has reconciled this sinner with a Holy God through His righteousness alone.  I’ll always be grateful and I want to only praise him forever.  Thank you, Jesus!

“Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us, to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever!  Amen.”  ~Ephesians 3:20-21

But What If

“But what if you are sick?!” She questioned, bottom lip quivering, with all of the composure a 4 year old can muster.  My mind raced with all the intricacies of cancer and how best to soften that blow for a child.  Teary-eyed, I explained to her that if that was the case, that God would take care of us.

But she didn’t want to hear that.  She wanted to hear that Mommy was ok and that Mommy wasn’t sick.  My little girl, who is usually an eager sleeper, refused to go to bed because she knew when she went to sleep that when she woke up I wouldn’t be there.  

So much for routine scans!  “Routine scans” are a mysterious blessing not afforded to all cancer patients and not guaranteed to us at any point.  There was a time in my cancer journey that those words, “routine scans”, sounded like a pipe dream.  Literally something that just wasn’t for me because my time had come and gone.  I always feel great until the night before scans.  And even then, the bad feelings are usually reserved for just me.  But tonight, my daughter caught wind of something that she never really fully understood before.  Yes, Mommy was sick through most of her life but from what she can remember, Mommy has always been there.  Tonight as I laid her down for bed, she wrestled with the fact that I wouldn’t be there when she woke up.

“Mommy just needs to go to the doctor for the day so they can tell me I’m not sick!”  I told her.  She seemed relieved at first, until she thought about it more.  But what if…

Our son is almost 7 and he has always just sort of understood all of this.  Not that it hasn’t been hard on him, but he always took it in stride and seemed to understand.  He didn’t like when I wasn’t there but he got it.  This is the first time Brit has asked so many questions and she just is not ok with the answers.  And I don’t blame her, I just wasn’t ready for this tonight.

Tonight as I was laying with her while she fell asleep (something she begged me for tonight, and never does this) she kept trying to figure out ways, through tear-soaked cheeks that she would get through tomorrow.  She finally said, “Ok Mommy, I will sleep as late as I can then pretend you are at the store and will be home at dinner.  Mommy, promise me you will be home by dinner!”

Of course I can’t promise any such thing, but I see my broken-hearted child before me.  Faced, for the first time in her life, with the understanding that Mommy may not always be there.  And so I try to assure her, with as much confidence as I can muster, that I will do my absolute best to be home for dinner tomorrow.  

My son comes out of his room, curious as to why his sister is crying.  And I have to tell him that he needs to be there for her tomorrow and things will be different but that he can make sure she’s ok.  On the surface, I’m only talking about tomorrow.  But in my heart, I know I’m talking much longer term.

What if?  Well, if something shows up, then I will try my best to be here.  And if I can’t, I need him to step in and help her when I can’t.  It’s symbolic and it’s heavy and it’s real.  I have scans tomorrow and they may be just fine.  But what if…

.

My Family Has Cancer

When I was diagnosed with cancer, my focus in life changed drastically.  It was no longer a “take life day by day, just get through” kind of mentality, but a setting of my sights on the bigger picture. Always the bigger picture now. Especially as far as parenting.  My kids, now 3 and 5, were barely 1 and almost 3 at the time of my diagnosis.  This is all they know.  And the parts of parenting that had seemed to me before merely mundane suddenly seemed weighty and important.  The ever-stressful bedtimes of before were now a time to cuddle, read, laugh, tell jokes, talk.  Make memories.  Suddenly I had this overwhelming need to show my kids who I really am.  Let them see Jesus in me.  And give them something to remember me by.

I just need them to remember me.  God? Do you hear me?

Sometimes the loneliness of cancer is overwhelming.  It seems like no one understands and it’s easy to feel alone in the crowd.  But what’s even worse is the sickening realization that I’m not the only one who has it.  I’m not the only one whose story has changed.  I’m not the only one affected.  My friends have it.  My family has is.  My church has it.  My husband has it.  And my kids, they have it too.

I try to create this fake bubble where this only affects me and if I just slap on a smile everything will be fine.  Everyone will be fine. But it’s just an illusion.  I can’t shelter everyone from this.  This thing eating away at me is affecting others too. 

Even if they don’t quite realize it yet. 

There is a special kind of guilt that comes with watching your kids deal with your cancer.  I’m not sure guilt is the perfect word, but it’s the best I’ve got at this moment.  I would think they are too young to deal with this, but I didn’t get to decide that, did I?  They have no choice.  So while I can soften the blows as they come, each is absorbed into their little minds, forever changing them.

When I’m laid up in bed, our 3 year old daughter will constantly come in and check on me, bringing me kisses on the forehead, “this won’t make you better” she will say knowingly, far too wise for her age.  She will give me her treasured stuffed animals to keep me company and before she’s ushered out she’ll ask, “Are you going to the special doctor now?”

And our 5 year old son, well he just understands so much.  Too much.  He puts too many of the pieces together for his own good.  I walked into the bathroom the other day to find him crying, tears streaming down his face, sobbing into his little hands.  I try to assure him it was just an accident and that I will clean it up.  I promise him that he’s not in trouble.  “No! It’s not that!” he wails, “I think I have cancer!”

My heart stops for a moment and the tears cannot be held back.  As I try to find the breath that has escaped me, all I can do is scoop his little body up and rock him back and forth, assuring him that he doesn’t have cancer.  I kiss his head as he cries.  He asks me if he ever will.  And I tell him no.  Secretly I hate myself for lying to him, but I know how he worries so I have to tell him that.  I mean he’s 5, I have to tell him that, right??

Just a couple days later, a few of his little friends come over to play.  “My mom has cancer.” He says matter-of-factly to the little girl in front of him.  My first instinct is to diffuse the situation and pull him aside and tell him gently that he doesn’t need to be talking about that.  But I don’t.  Because this is his story too.  This is his life and my cancer, whether I like it or not, will have some influence on him.  On my daughter.  On my husband.  On everyone who we love and loves us.

It’s a sad truth that my kids don’t remember a time when mommy wasn’t sick.  It’s normal for them, but they know it’s not normal.  Evan asks so many questions, as you would expect from a 5 year old.  Some of them are funny, “who is going to live longer, you or Bucky?” Umm, I better live longer than the dang dog!  But when he speaks of heaven, he speaks with such certainty, and wonder, and hope that I always am reminded why I want to end up there.  “Will you wait for me at the gate until I get there?”  Yes, of course, but don’t rush. That’s always my answer.

It may sound odd that my kids have even pondered my death, but this is a part of our story.  They need to know that death doesn’t have to be scary and my passing won’t be the end of their wonderful adventures in this life.  I would have never chosen the cancer life, but it obviously chose me, so we just try to make the best of it. 

And in a way, parenting with the thought in the back of my head that I’m wanting to make memories has made me a better parent.  I wish I would have done this before, but of course I didn’t know.  My family has cancer but we will get through this together, stronger and better – and hopefully with some special memories between us.

My loves ❤

Cherishing the “Small” Moments

We are currently on a family vacation at the beach and I just have such a sense of love and joy and peace in my heart right now.  I try not to think about things like this too much because it can be quite draining, but in the quietness of sweet sleep around me right now I’m brought to tears by how grateful I am to God for continuing to allow me to be here for things like this.  These small quiet moments that could easily go unnoticed but when taken in are so beautiful and profound have become my most cherished.  My favorite memory of our vacation so far?  This post-beach nap.

All tuckered out from the beach!

Yes, I got hubby's permission before posting this haha

It’s easy for things to feel very “heavy” emotionally when you are given the impression that you are in your final days here on earth.  Last year I said my goodbyes to this place (the beach where we vacation every year with Eric’s side of the family) knowing that I wouldn’t be here this year.  Knowing. 

And yet here I am.  I am overflowing with gratitude, although confusion and sadness sometimes poke their heads through for the simple fact that now I’m swimming in the deep waters of uncertainty with my health.  Things are good for now, but mets are always on my brain (and hopefully not in it).  I don’t want to get ahead of myself and count on many more years of this, but I also refuse to count it out.

So before they wake up and start driving me crazy again, I will soak up every second of this sweetness.  God has blessed me with the task of being a mommy to these two sweet ones and I get to be married to an amazing selfless, Godly man.  Gladly giving praise to the one from whom all blessings flow.  He is so good.

Christmas Giving for Kids

I was given a great idea and some great suggestions for a fun thing to do for the kids this month, in honor of of the “Christmas Spirit”, of course. I had heard about “Kindness Elves”, a fun alternative to the creepy Elf on a Shelf, so my mom gave me these penguins and I used some ideas I had and some awesome suggestions from you guys, to make this Christmas season a time of giving for my kids, and not at all about what they’ll be getting.

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Our four year old son told me at 7pm, after he opened the present from the penguins, that he wanted to go to bed right now because he wanted to wake up and find the penguins! Too cute. This could get really fun and, because I’m who I am, really meaningful. I mean, who doesn’t want their kids to realize that giving is ultimately where fulfillment and purpose are? James tells us that “faith without deeds is dead”. That’s a very strong statement, but I believe is true. We are known by our fruit, by how we’ve shown love, and I want my kids to realize as soon as possible that they are not the only people in the world; that they are usable instruments of God; that they, at any age, can make a difference.

I love being a mom. I figure as long as my kids accept Jesus Christ as their savior and are potty trained that there is literally nothing that they cannot face. Maybe these silly penguins will help bring them there ❤

My Friend Has Cancer: What Can I Do For Them?

I have actually been asked this question semi-frequently because people want to know what we appreciated – or maybe didn’t so much appreciate – people doing for us over the past year. Here are some ideas that I think people would appreciate based on the really nice things that people have done for us recently. This list is by no means comprehensive and of course you know your loved one/friend/family member/coworker/etc the best and what they may or may not appreciate, but here are some suggestions in case you don’ t know where to start:

1. Meals
This is a huge help. Just be mindful of if the patient has any specific diet limitations or if they are receiving chemo, they may have some food aversions, so just be sure to check. Even if the patient themselves can’t eat much, the family will really appreciate the meals. We were on the receiving end of some pretty amazing meals from some really amazing people! I’m no cook, so I know my hubby LOVED it. Our friends and church family used takethemameal.com, it’s easy to set up and very user-friendly. Definitely a great option if you know they could use it.

This may sound weird, but how you word your offer to bring a meal is sometimes important too. If you really want to do it for someone and there’s no schedule set up, say something like, “I’d like to provide a meal for you, when could I drop it off?” We often feel bad putting people out, so if you just ask if we need them, we may feel guilty and just say we are ok and don’t need it, when it actually would be appreciated.

2. Books & Articles
One of the cool, yet sometimes overwhelming, parts of this are how generous people are with their resources such as books or articles on cancer, God, nutrition, etc. If you aren’t sure whether or not to give it to them, I say go for it! But just don’t follow up (unless you need the book back). When you are receiving all of these resources, it can be a little overwhelming. So just allow the patient to sort through it as they want to. If they read it, great. If they don’t, it’s really no big deal, but trust me, they appreciate you caring enough to go through the trouble.

3. Fun Stuff
When you have cancer, life can just sometimes seem very heavy. Your main reality is dealing with appointments, tests, scans, treatments, surgeries while also dealing with all of the emotional baggage that comes along with it. It can be very overwhelming and we always appreciated when people would give us something fun. As big as a vacation to Florida (thank you, For Pete’s Sake!!) or as small as a movie or crossword puzzle book. Of course, be mindful of how your friend or family member may be feeling physically and what their limitations are.

4. Visit
Make sure these are pre-planned. Part of this journey is just wanting to be alone while at the same time desperately wanting to be with people. Weird, I know. Just be prepared to listen, to cry with them, to laugh (yes, laugh!), and to just let the person vent and be normal. And please don’t take personal offense if the person is a little “off” or not talkative or whatever, just be a supportive, listening ear. Also, don’t be offended if they don’t feel up to a visit, it’s nothing personal, sometimes it’s just easier not to be around people and feel like you have to be “fake” (like happier and more upbeat than you really feel), so if they say no, just shake it off and try again another time. It’s not personal, trust me.

5. Text/Use Social Media
I know personally, I always appreciated when people would just send me a quick text maybe with an encouraging Bible verse or just letting me know they were praying for us or thinking of us. Just don’t get too caught up expecting a reply. I had some sweet friends who started a Facebook group where people could post encouraging pictures or verses or whatever. It was really nice and meant a lot, especially when things were looking particularly bleak.

6. Cards
This may seem like a small thing, or at least that’s what a lot of people wrote in cards to us, but trust me, it’s not. Everyone loves getting mail, right? And a card letting you know that you’re loved and being prayed for and thought of means a lot during these times. One suggestion I would have if you know the person maybe doesn’t have a huge support circle, would be to write an encouraging card to the person weekly. Truly, don’t overthink what to say, what you’re doing will be taken as a sweet and thoughtful gesture.

7. Fundraisers/Donations
Fundraisers take a lot of planning and effort, so if it’s something you want to do, just be ready in that regard. We were on the receiving end of some very cool, thoughtful fundraisers that have helped us immensely with medical bills. Medical bills are just always an issue, so if you have a loved one facing this, they will always appreciate any donation you can give, even if it seems small to you.

8. Cleaning, grocery shopping, rides to and from appointments, laundry…
These are things that need done, but isn’t always practical, comfortable, or even possible for the patient to do themselves.

We have some very wonderful people in our lives who set up a cleaning schedule for us so Tuesday mornings we know someone’s coming to help with the cleaning. It’s helpful to be specific and consistent. If your friend or family member lives close, just call and let them know you’re going to the store and ask if they need anything. People often said to me that they feel like they aren’t doing enough or want to help more, but trust me, this is enough!

Make sure when you call that you are clear that you don’t need to stay and chat, sometimes that is just the last thing the patient or caregivers want. Be clear that you just want to provide this service to them and don’t expect a visit, unless they want that. As odd as this sounds, this is sometimes a very relieving offer, and don’t be hurt if they take you up on it.

9. Keep Your Friendship Going
Of course this one takes some discretion on your part as it’s completely dependent on how up for this your friend or loved one may feel. I just know that I appreciated keeping my friendships that were two way. It was so nice to be able to talk to friends and hear about their lives. I personally felt sick of myself a lot so it was a relief to get to talk to friends and hear about what’s going on in their lives too.

10. Gift Basket
I heard this idea from a friend and thought it was really cute: if you know that your loved one faces long infusions for chemo (some people’s infusions take hours!) maybe put together a little basket or bag of goodies for them to take along on infusion days! You know your loved one best, so just add whatever you know will make them smile. Books, magazines, snacks, whatever!

And this one is super important, in my opinion:
11. Check in on the support people/caregivers/spouses/kids and make sure they are ok. Based on the blogs I’ve read from caregivers and from what the people I’ve met that are traveling through this have told me, being a caregiver can be exhausting, both physically and mentally. They give and give and give, often under-appreciated and overwhelmed. Just check in on them, ask how they are, not just how the patient is doing, and how they could be helped. Maybe something as simple as getting them out of the house or hospital room for a bit could be enough to refresh them a little.

If the patient has kids, it’s a good idea to make sure they feel special/loved/supported too. Even very young children are sensitive to the changes going on around them and might feel scared or uneasy, it’s great to remember them too at these tough times. I know personally, our kids get very excited about the “anonymous” 😉 gifts that are often left in their car seats for them to get after church. (Eric and I are always pretty psyched about our gifts too, although we don’t have car seats haha)

I guess in all of this, I would say, if you’re on the fence about whether to do something or say something, just do it. A lot of people told me they were scared to reach out because they were scared to say the “wrong” thing. Unless you are an overtly rude or oblivious person, you won’t say anything wrong. We are just glad to hear from you, we aren’t picking apart what you say! I will just say, depending where the person is in their journey, maybe don’t tell them about all the loved ones you’ve lost to cancer (or whatever illness your friend may have). We know people mean well, but I just remember that being one of the things that rubbed me the wrong way. Not that your loved ones cannot be talked about if parts of their story apply, just use good judgement there.

There is nothing you can say or do to fix this, there isn’t anything that’s going to make it all better, and we don’t expect that from you, I promise.

I realize this list is definitely not all-inclusive, I was just trying to give some ideas or suggestions if you are stuck. Feel free to leave a comment and let us know what you’ve done for someone that they appreciated, or if you were the one receiving people’s kindness, let us know what you appreciated.

(And before anyone calls me out on the fact that the title is grammatically incorrect, I know. It just sounded better!)