By Grace, I Carry On

The scene in the exam room is always the same the day of my scan results. Phil sits quietly and holds my hand, although at times he makes a “clever” joke or comment to break the deafening silence of the room. I sit and anxiously shake my legs and take deep breaths; I do not speak at all, unless it is to say that I am scared.  We are probably only in the room for a total of 15 minutes, but it feels like a lifetime. The fear lies in what the doctor will say, because as we know too well, my test results have the power to change our lives forever.  One would think that over three years later the fear would subside, but it seems to only grow. The further I get from my diagnosis, the wearier I seem to become on this journey.  I know all too well the wild cards cancer can throw at any moment, and that thought terrifies me. This past office visit validated my emotions. 

            I distinctly remember my first oncologist telling me that if my three year CT scan came back clear, I would be at a 99% chance of survival. While I know that I am not a person who plays well with odds (as I had less than a 1% chance of developing this cancer so young in the first place), this scan felt like it would be a turning point in my journey.  A chance to finally breathe a sigh of relief, it at least for just a short time. Unfortunately, the moment my doctor walked in a little late, with the CT scan in his hand, I knew something was not right.  There would be no sigh of relief for me at this visit. The doctor sat down, and as kindly as he possibly could, explained to me that there was a tiny spot on my liver.  As much as we were reassured that this was probably nothing, they still wanted to do an MRI to further clarify this spot.  Phil grasped my hand tightly as we were dealt this blow, I could hardly breathe, and the lights went out again on our future together.

            The rest of the visit was a complete blur, the doctor left the room, and we then scrambled to try to get the test done that day. The first three hospitals had no availability and I began to panic at the idea of having to wait all weekend before we knew anything.  Luckily, St. Luke’s had a spot open for us later that day.  Phil and I went home, I went to lie in bed, close my eyes, and try to not let fear get the best of me.  I felt defeated, and I sobbed at the thought of a changed future and the limitations it may have.  What were we going to do if this test came back as positive for metastatic cancer? I began to pray, and as I did I started to give my fear over to God.  I realized that through this entire journey I have been relying on God’s Grace, and I was not going to stop now. I again gave my life over to God, and prayed that He stay with me no matter the outcome.

            After arriving at the wrong building, and then waiting for orders to be faxed, I was finally able to go in for my MRI.  The test itself takes about 30 minutes, and it involves being smooshed into a large machine that makes loud noises.  I never realized I was slightly claustrophobic until they started to put me in the machine, and for a brief moment, I really did not know if I could go through with it.  I somehow made it through, and we then drove home in silence, as we both knew the reality of the situation. Phil and I debated putting something on Facebook for everyone to see, but in the end we decided to because we needed prayers, and we needed them right then.  We were home for less than an hour when we got the call, there was nothing seen on the MRI, my liver was completely clear.  Prayers were answered yet again. 

            It took a while for me to process the news, we went from being told I may have metastatic cancer to everything is fine in one day. It felt like it was all just a bad nightmare and I wanted to pretend like the day never happened.  Unfortunately, part of my journey is to struggle with cancer.  I do not always understand why this hand was dealt to our family, but I know that faith has gotten us this far, and it will continue to see us through. It is by God’s Grace that I am here today, and He will continue to light my path, no matter where it may take me.  

 

                                            For we walk by Faith, not by sight. 2 Corinthians 5:7

 

 

 

 

 

 

How do you measure a year?

 

 

            The time had come had finally come, and I had prepared myself as best I could for that day. Yet there I stood, with tears in my eyes, letting go of Jackson’s hand as he walked into his Kindergarten room for the very first time.  To say that time had snuck up on me would be an understatement. Yet there he was, beginning a new adventure in his life.  As I fought back the sadness, I stood in the hallway, and just experienced the moment.  Every good and bad emotion, I let myself experience all of it.  It was very emotional for me, not only for the obvious reasons, but also because I was so overwhelmingly happy to be standing there, healthy.  A little over a year ago, I did not know if I would be around to witness that moment in his life

After that day was over, I had to force myself to think about something that I had been putting in the back of my mind for quite some time. In less than two weeks, I would have to go in for my one year follow up scan.  I had not prepared myself for the topic of cancer to re-enter my life. All summer, I had enjoyed living in a state of sweet denial.  After all, I had much better things to do than deal with being a cancer survivor.  It seemed so much easier to sweep the topic under the rug, than to dwell in the pain it had caused.  However, like it or not, I had to face that dreaded scan yet again. I would love to be able to say that it was as easy as just leaving my worry up to God, and letting the rest take care of itself. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

 How had a year gone by so quickly? It seemed like I had just been able to breathe a sigh of relief after my last scan. Nothing could have prepared me for when I finally came to terms with having to deal with the potential of my cancer returning.  The very thought of it took the wind out of me. I felt paralyzed, and the fear began to set in yet again.  My mind kept wondering to the worst case scenario of the cancer not only returning, but having spread. I had already been dealt the blow once, and I did not think that I could handle it a second time.  Again, I will state the obvious, I Hate Cancer. 

I honestly thought that I had made it to the other side of my diagnosis.  The side where I no longer worry, am not fearful, and can enjoy just having survived.  I was so very wrong. After realizing that I could no longer push this to the back of my mind, I was left with a feeling of despair. Would I ever be free from this awful fear?  As much as I wanted to hide from cancer, I was beginning to realize that the scars it has left behind will always be a part of my life. I will need scans yearly for at least the next four years, and I don’t want to even count how many colonoscopies I have to look forward to. And with each one, there will be fear.  However, it is through fear, that I have gained strength.

Many prayers were answered when I was given a clean bill of health one year post treatment.  I could feel the relief spread throughout my entire body, and I could breathe once again.  I went home, looked around at all of my blessings, and felt at peace. I had survived to see another year, and I was just so very thankful to have been alive to experience every good and bad memory that was made along the way. It turns out, my cancer diagnoses will always be a part of my life, and I can either run from it, or embrace it.  While I am not glad to have been diagnosed with cancer, I am blessed by how it has changed my life for the better in so many ways.  God is good, so is life…  Here’s to another year.

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight."  Proverbs 3:5-6

 

 

 

Making Me New

              

 

              The night of my “No Mo Chemo” party was a night of many wonderful memories.  By far the best moment of the night was when I pulled up to the house.  The scene of so many of my friends/family standing on the lawn for my support was completely overwhelming.  After how horrendous the previous months had been, I was ready to celebrate, and I could not have hand-picked better people to celebrate with.  The party was wonderful, and I had an amazing time.  It felt so good to feel well again, and it finally seemed like the worst of the darkness had lifted.  Since February I have been consumed with surviving this awful cancer, and I did not think about what survival would entail.  I have since discovered that it is much more difficult than I could have ever imagined.

                Life keeps moving forward, and things have returned to normal.  There seems to be just one small issue, I am not the same person.  This is true for many reasons. One major adjustment is that my life will now consist of labs, CT scans, and colonoscopies…each served with a side of stress and worry that my cancer will make a grand reappearance. I have several scars on my abdomen, and one on my chest, that serve as a constant reminder of the pain I have been through.  My future plans have been erased, and our plans for our family have to be redrawn. My dreams of having at least one more child may not come true, as we will have to wait at least three years before even thinking of having more children.  Even then, it may no longer be an option.  My children and grandchildren will have to undergo colonoscopies at a very young age, because of me.  I will now always be that girl who got colon cancer.   This is my new reality.

                I was diagnosed with cancer. Sometimes Phil and I still sit in shock that this has happened to us, and for small moments, we feel sorry for ourselves. While these feelings may be inevitable, we do not dwell on them. As hard as you may try, you cannot hide from pain or hurt, it will always find you in some way or another. Eventually you just have to understand that it is what it is, or as we tell Jackson “You get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit.” We each have to face our own battles in life, some much worse than others.  What I have learned is that these battles strengthen and define us.  While my scars remind me of the pain I endured, they also are a sign strength and endurance.   I can now look at my life in a new way, and be so thankful for each small moment and blessing.  I now fully understand what means to not take things for granted. I may not be the same person that I was before I got cancer, but I like to think that I am a better person because of it. 

                Recently, I went with my best friend Melissa to get my first tattoo.  This was my ‘made it through chemotherapy’ gift to myself.  I had Psalm 119;105 inked onto my right foot. Yes, I meant to put a semi colon between the verses. This was Melissa’s idea to represent colon cancer, and the “semi-colon” that I have left.  This tattoo serves as a constant reminder that while I have to navigate my path on my own, it is much easier if it is lit by God.  My faith has grown stronger and my path has become much brighter over the past several months, but the shadow of cancer will always remain.  As much as I want to pretend like none of this ever happened, I am learning that I will carry this with me for the rest of my life in some way or another.  My life may never be the same, but for now, I am so grateful to be around to see what life will be like on my new path. 

 

"He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end." Ecclesiastes 3:11

 

 

 

Learning to Walk Again

                August 15^th 2012 will now be another one of those days that I will never forget. It was the day of my scan results.  About one week prior to my scan was when it all began to hit me. I was done with chemotherapy, but I could not celebrate. I needed to see the scan results first.  Everything pointed to the scan being okay, my labs were good, I finished all twelve rounds of chemo, and my first scan was all clear.  However, I could not help my mind from going to that dark place again. What if everything was not okay? I did not think I could bear being hit by that dang bus again. The fear swelled in my stomach, and I tried as hard as I could to put my faith in God and trust Him. This was not an easy task. Every day that went by I would constantly think that I was coming closer to possibly having to re-live this nightmare all over again. What if the news meant that I would not survive this evil called Cancer?

                The day I got the scan was the worst.  Time seemed to stand still at work, and I was beginning to rethink my decision to even get my CT. After all, I was the one who pushed my doctor to do the scan now instead of next year.  I tried to reason with myself that if I waited, I would have that much more time without worry.  Deep down I knew I had to go through with it. I had to make sure everything would be okay, or if something was wrong, it would be better to find out early.  I dreaded the night before knowing the results. I literally came home from work and just sat in bed. I could not handle all of the emotions I was feeling, and the fear became almost overwhelming.  How was I going to get through the night? Wine and friends was how.  Our dearest friends, Melissa and Steve, came over with wine in hand, and we proceeded to eat and drink my worries away. After about three glasses of wine I was feeling pretty good, and at one point forgot about the task at hand. This did not last long, as when they left, all of my fears came rushing back in.  The tears came, and I succumbed to my scattered emotions.

                Before I went to bed that night, Phil played the song “Rest Easy” by Andrew Peterson for me.  These lyrics brought such me such peace and comfort…”You’re smiling like you’re scared to death; you’re out of faith and all out of breath. You’re so afraid you have nowhere left to go. Well, you are not alone; I will always be with you.”  These words reminded me that this was out of my hands, and in God’s.  No matter what the results, we would press on and be thankful.  I then took my beloved Ativan, and slept through the entire night.  The next morning we arrived at the doctor’s office, and within seconds of the doctor entering the room, he spoke the best words I could have asked to hear. “Well, everything looks fine.” I do not really know what we talked about after that. It felt like a bus had hit me again, but this time it was a good bus. You know, the kind made of pillows and rainbows. 

                I cannot really explain my emotions that day. I was happy, sad, afraid, angry, and everything in between. When I should have been celebrating and smiling, I was really taken aback and unsure.  I would keep apologizing to Phil about how I was acting, and then I finally just broke down.  I broke down, like I hadn’t broken down in a long time.  My feelings were all over the place, and I could not let myself believe that I would at least get a break from all of this for a while. I cried because of what I’d been through, I wept for the time I had lost with my family and friends, and I sobbed for those who do not get to receive the news I had gotten.  I was scared that it wasn’t really over, and still unsure about the idea of celebrating.  Then, I calmed down, prayed, and remembered that I cannot predict the future.  We were going to celebrate this achievement, just be thankful for the time being, and let the rest work itself out. I realized that I needed to learn how to “Walk Again” on my own, rid of this terrible disease, at least for the time being.

"But I will sing of your strength, in the morning I will sing of your love; for you are my fortress, my refuge in times of trouble" Psalm 59:16

 

Pick Your Poison

Chemotherapy = Poison.    It is just that simple.  Not only does it (hopefully) kill cancer cells, but it also attacks every dividing cell in your body.  When I first found out my diagnosis of Stage II colon cancer, it was really unclear if I would need chemotherapy.  I was hopeful that they could just take out the cancer, and that would be all there was to it.  Unfortunately, as a Stage II, I fall into a large grey area of what is the “best” thing to do.  All of the research to date is completely unclear if chemo would be beneficial to a Stage II Colon Cancer.  I was faced with the decision of going through six months of chemotherapy, and improving my chance of long-term survival by a measly 1-2%, or just having follow-up care.  Being 28, the decision was already made…I would do whatever it took to improve my chances any way I possibly could.  I would get chemotherapy…the Chemo Nurse would now become the Chemo patient. 

The day I got my port placed (the device in my chest through which the chemotherapy is instilled) was an incredibly long, surreal day.   I was like a deer in the headlights, and it all felt like a dream. Maybe not a dream, but more like a nightmare. The situation became overwhelmingly clear after the port was in my chest, and there was no going back.  I joked with the staff, and put on a “happy” front, but inside I was a bundle of raw emotion.  I have always said that a big part of the battle is attitude, but this day proved exceptionally difficult for me to maintain my composure. 

Nothing really exciting happened during my first day of chemo. I mostly slept through treatment, and then got hooked up to go home.  The main part of my treatment involves taking a chemo pump/ball home with me for 48 hours.  After the first treatment ended, I did not really feel that different, besides the aching port in my chest.  The day after my treatment ended was a different story.  I could barely get out of bed, and my whole body ached.  I would get stomach pains off and on, and only managed make an appearance out of bed one time.  All I could think was “What did I get myself into?”

The next six months involved receiving treatment every other week, which meant feeling awful half of the time. However, if I had to choose a chemotherapy drug, I would choose mine. I would not lose my hair, it was not too nauseating, and the other side effects were minimal. The biggest challenges I had were carrying that pump while having two little ones run around, and fatigue.  Some days it would be all I could do to just make it through the day, and stay awake while doing it.  If I was just receiving chemo, I think things would have been fairly stress free.  However, receiving chemo while working and raising two kids made things much more difficult at times.  On one particular night after working and then going out afterwards, I could barely even make it up the stairs. My legs would literally not work, and they felt like they weighed 100lbs. Phil had to practically carry me into bed; yet another humbling moment to say the least. I found it very difficult to “slow down” or “take it easy” because I didn’t want to miss out on moments of my life, but sometimes the fatigue was just overwhelming.  My other side effects would only include thinning hair, red/peeling palms, and a really awful taste in my mouth for several days.  Despite the side effects I could, thankfully, endure and carry out my daily activities without too much struggle.

Overall, I know that I cannot really complain too much because I see patients going through this every day for years.  They are a big part of my inspiration, and they have taught me so much through this journey. Another big part was God.  It would have been really easy for me to break down and stress out throughout this process, but at the end of the day I hand my worries over to God, and just count my blessings.  I know I am not done with this struggle, and in the next week I will find out if the struggle will continue, or if I will get a break from it.  Whatever happens, I will press on and continue to give thanks to God. My children, family, friends, and loved ones are my life, and that being said, my life is pretty darn good, cancer or not. 



“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life ? ..." Matthew 6:24-34

Take Me Out to the Ball Game!

Laugher is the Best medicine...

            One gift I firmly believe that God had graced me with is humor... and laughter.  I know everyone has this gift to some extent, but I find that it is a larger part of who I am.  I have often pegged myself as being the “shy, but funny one.”  I distinctly remember as a child being yelled at by my parents to stop laughing, which only would make me laugh more. I was not your typical girly girl, as hair, make-up, and nails never really appealed to me.  I still enjoyed dressing up, but it just was not a necessity.  In grade school, me and my best of friends, Melissa and Angela, found joy in wearing matching t-shirts that read “normal is boring.” We were definitely not pegged as normal, but we had so much fun.  We frequently had sleep overs where we would stay up late laughing about poop and watching scary movies, only to then torture the one person who fell asleep first. As a girl who found the word poop and fart funny, and then became a nurse dealing frequently with both, it just seems strangely ironic that I would get colon cancer.

When I was first diagnosed with cancer, I thought I might never get to laugh again. Everything was sad, depressing, and heartbreaking. The world caved in, and I could hardly manage to get myself dressed and out of bed.  It wasn’t until the day of my surgery that I was able to find laughter again, and it was wonderful.  It started in the waiting area, bathroom jokes…always a hit, but it seemed to lift my spirits.  It then followed with a worker yelling at Melissa for bringing coffee into the holding area.  She literally had a look of panic and confusion about the possibility of parting with her coffee AND her beloved Turvis tumbler. I could just read her mind “I want to go with Lauren, but I do not want to part with my Turvis.”  Luckily for her, the , worker just wanted her to pour out her coffee…all was right with the world once more.  Lot of laughter ensued about how I was getting surgery and she was panicking about a cup. Once into the holding area, there were more jokes about the glories anti-anxiety medicine, how awesome I looked in a hospital gown, and the size of my incision.  I remember waking up and joking about the pain medicine and how “great” I felt.  Maybe this cancer thing didn’t have to be ALL bad. 

Recovery was a challenge, but there were moments of laughter.  Phil walking me down the hall holding my Foley bag was quite comical. Sayings such as “Babe, do not drop my pee bag,” and Phil responding about how so "hot" it was to be holding it in the first place.  I can only imagine what Phil was thinking as he was holding that bag…what a guy. Probably the most hysterical part of my recovery involved the surgeon walking into my room with a very serious and stern look on his face, then saying “Did you fart yet?" It was all I could do to mutter an answer and not burst out laughing at the thought of my surgeon using this word in such a serious manner. I literally felt like I was six years old again. I mean seriously, the main topic would be if I was going to “break wind” because that meant things were working again.  Again, Phil was quite the trooper, and would constantly give me grief about the how comical the situation could be.  After I got home, I would often use the term, “but I have cancer” to get Phil to do various things for me.  I try not to abuse the situation, but it is funny to see his face. Really, how do you say “no” to that?  It usually involved a conversation such as this, “Honey Lydia has a poopy diaper, I would love to change it, but ya know this darn cancer...” Then Phil will quietly grumble and do as I ask. J Again, I try not to abuse my power, but after everything I’ve been through I think I deserve to have a little fun. 

One thing I am slowly learning is that while nothing about cancer itself is funny, you can manage to find humor in the toughest of situations.  Laughter is such a wonderful release; it really is one of the best medicines. Some of my favorite memories involve laughing until I cried and it hurt.  Cancer is serious, but I’m not.  I take joy in poking fun at Phil, the kids, and even myself. I try not to take myself too serious, so therefore, I will not let Cancer change that. At the end of the day you just have to try to enjoy the ride no matter where it takes you.

"Very truly I tell you, you will weep and mourn while the world rejoices. You will grieve, but your grief will turn to joy. " John 16:19-21