Call me a fool...

It has been a long time since I have found the words to write about my experience. Its possible this is due to the fact that my time with cancer has left me more raw and vulnerable than I have cared to disclose.  My silence could also be due to the fact that my recovery (physically/ mentally/ spiritually) is a journey that is still playing out and I prefer for pain to be resolved before I reveal it. Showing unresolved pain makes one truly vulnerable and that is scary. Past pain is easy to talk about. Current pain and struggles are a different story. And yet, words are flowing with my tears tonight and begging to escape. So here we are. 

As most of you know, I have been fighting cancer on and off for the past 8 years. This most recent relapse has lasted for nearly 3 years and has stolen more of my identity than I honestly care to admit. Never have I felt pain, despair, and hopelessness like this. It's not always dark, but when it is, it is so consuming that I lose sight of who I am as a person. That may or may not sound dramatic, but it is what it is. I am a big fan of science and research- so much so that I have made a career out of it. So here are the facts about my health status (spoiler alert: Science does not seem to love me as much as I love it.)  According to the research, it is incredibly rare for Hodgkin's Lymphoma to be unresponsive to treatments. When it is, the prognosis is dire: 2-5 years life expectancy, at best. I have been battling this cancer for 8 years, so the math for my long term survival is not super great. 

Walking my family through this fact is challenging at best, but mostly, its just plain old heart-breaking. A lot of the turmoil stems from the fact that we have had so many moments of false hope. Treatments will nearly eradicate the cancer from my body and then the next scan will show that my cancer has spread so quickly and aggressively that I was worse off than when I started. This has become a common occurrence over the past 3 years. Mostly, I am able to just go with the flow but there was once specific incident a few years back that left me reeling. My cancer had started spreading, so in response, I doubled down in my faith. I BELIEVED healing was around the corner- I was so sure it would happen. Many others prayed and believed with me. I trusted what I was told and I trusted what I read in the Bible- that God is a God of healing. But Science won the day and the scans showed that my cancer had spread to every area of my body at an alarming rate. I lost my faith that day. Completely and utterly. How could a loving God look at my struggling family, at my children who have endured so much loss, at my students who have been labeled too traumatized to be loveable, and say that removing me from the equation was acceptable- that me not existing was His plan all along? Believing that left me feeling unloved and alone. I was unable to trust that God cared for those I love the most. I could no longer believe that He had a plan for their good... or worse, that His "good plan" was to label me as expendable and thus imply they would be better off without me in existence. It was not something that I could accept. I couldn't (and still can't) get on board with a plan that would cause so much heartache and trauma to the ones that I would move mountains for. A god that I cannot trust is not a god that I can serve. So I rejected Him in totality.

That loss of faith had a devastating impact on me and my family. I was unrecognizable- angry, bitter, lashing out at those I love most. I self-medicated in ways that I now recognize as unhealthy and damaging. Over the span of a year, I searched for meaning, for something that would bring me fulfillment. I threw myself into a frenzied pursuit of knowledge, into my career, into being the perfect mom and wife. None of these things were bad endeavors, but they failed to help me while I continued to grapple with my pending expiration date.  I floundered without a sense of purpose, because if all my effort and striving, all my work and passion were going to disappear when I died, what was the point? 

Through much research, seeking, and a few personal experiences, I eventually found God again. My relationship with Him looks completely different than the one that I left 2 years ago. It is tender and raw. It is not self-assured or presuming. I honestly wouldn't even classify it as a strong relationship- it is merely the relationship that I chose. He was thing that I decided I did not want to live without, because life without God was dark and bleak. Abandoning my belief did not resolve any of the pain or uncertainty that cancer leaves at my doorstep. Conversely, choosing to believe that there is Higher Being with a higher purpose, one that will remain long after I am gone, brings me a sense of calm. Sometimes. Call it a crutch if you will, but I think it is much more complicated and precious than that. Deciding to believe in the existence of a God that loves me did not resolve any of my tangible problems. I still have cancer. I still ache on a visceral level to see the damage that my illness inflicts on my husband and my children. I still question God's "plan" for my life and the longevity of it. It hurts to feel expendable and I routinely call God out on the direction that my life has taken. When reading through the New Testament, I feel bitter at all the miraculous healings that seemed to take place when Jesus walked into the room. He was like Oprah on steroids: "YOU get a healing and YOU get a healing." However, here I remain, begging for a different narrative and still dying.

 Today I am 4 days from coming home from one of Science's last ditch efforts to delay that death. (None of the doctors anticipate that this clinical trial will put me in long-term remission. It is more a stalling tactic so that we can find other treatments that may or may not cure me for good.) I have been tearing up all day. Physical and emotional exhaustion could be playing a role in my emotional state, but I think that it goes much deeper than that. Tonight, I sobbed while reading a story about a stranger experiencing a healing that was considered a medical anomaly. As I wiped my tears and laughed at myself for being an emotional nutjob, a realization dawned on me that has been years in the making: 

The truth is that I have stopped believing in God. Though I have found my faith again, I still do not believe in a God that listens, a God that is not bound by the rules of this world. I do not believe in a God that heals. Instead I have chosen to trust in Science. I believe it when Science tells me that I will never meet John's children. I have painfully accepted the fact that I will never watch Jeff walk Olive down the aisle or see Michael accept his high school diploma. I have listened as Science told me that I may never know what career Sam decides to apply his unique brilliance to or be able to watch BB's fierce tenderness change lives. I have written countless letters in my head for my children as they live out the various milestones life will bring their way. I have planned videos so they can remember my face, my voice, my mannerisms. I have tried and failed to figure out words of encouragement to tell Jeff when he faces the reality of raising 5 children on his own. I have this clock always ticking in my head- stealing my life from me one second at a time. I have bought into Science's timeline for my life hook, line, and sinker. BUT...

But, what if I'm wrong? What if Science knows a whole lot but there is a God that does not have to answer to Science? What if I am resigning myself to a lesser existence by not stepping out in faith that God can heal ME? This realization has undone me because the life that Faith would have me lead is a life of hope, which is a feeling I desperately miss. Dare I hope for a life where I have a future I can look forward to- a life where I grow old alongside my family and see them accomplish all of the beautiful achievements I am confident their futures hold? Honest introspection allows me to recognize that while I found belief in God again, I haven't yet started believing Him. Sure, I can cognitively recognize that medical miracles occur, incidents that Science is hesitant to explain. But I am terrified to ask that God extend those miracles to me. I have been down that road and the result was catastrophe. What if I believe and the result is the same? It is a terrifying proposition. No one who has ever dealt with personal trauma would willingly sign themselves up for a scenario where that exact same trauma is likely to reoccur. It is foolishness. And yet, choosing to believe in a God that I cannot prove the existence of is a little foolish too, isn't it? One of my favorite verses has always been 1 Cor. 1:25, where it says, "...the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than human strength." So, cheers to being a little foolish! 

By no means, do I expect these personal realizations to change the state of my health or make my current situation more tolerable. Dying blows, there is just no getting around that fact. But I am realizing that I am in control of the demons that come knocking on my door. I can choose to live the rest of my life listening solely to Science, and try to cope with the despair that brings. OR I can step out in faith, and ask a God who professes to love me like crazy, to give me hope for a future- one that is good and meaningful and complete. And preferably lasts another 50 years or so. 

The Calm Before...

I'm sitting here waiting for words to come. Good words...or maybe angry words. Hopeful ones or ones that will once again spark a fight in me. Where are my words of courage, of fear? Any meaningful words would be welcome. However, words escape me. Instead, there is a stillness- like a soft inhalation before diving headlong into a raging stream. It is a stillness that implies action is imminent- that Life itself is waiting with bated breath.

I began to suspect something was going awry with my health a few months ago. Fatigue hit me like a wall. A general sense that something was not quite right with my body became more convincing as the weeks went on. Per protocol, imaging was done. My lymph system must have been feeling the holiday spirit because it lit up my scan beautifully. Next came surgery. I had a laparoscopy done to remove particularly large and active lymph node located in my lower torso. I received a call two days ago with the pathology results.

My cancer is back.

The news did not surprise me in the least. There was no surge of fear or dismay; no flaring conviction that I need to head off to save the world (yes, that is an emotional response I sometimes have when I hear sad news). This was just fact. The sky is blue. Teenage boys can be smelly. I have cancer. Since receiving the news, my brain is very divided on how it wants to respond. I mostly pendulum between extremes (e.g.  "I need to not let this cancer change anything about our life" *3 minutes later* "Ohmygosh, this cancer is a sign that we need to change everything about our life!").

 My emotional state is a little more complicated because my reaction is so atypical to how I usually respond to things.  I am a person of BIG feelings. Big hopes, big fears, big dreams.  However, I seem to be operating under a strong emotional anesthetic. The thought of dying stirs no fear in me; the wonderful statistics that say I will heal from this cancer do not leave me hopeful. For the sake of complete candor, I will say that this emotional numbness has been a mercy. It provides relief from the pressure of constantly monitoring my reactions and attitudes about my future- it allows me to function. I am able to be present with my children and cherish those idyllic moments.

I have not had the chance to talk about my specific treatment with my doctor, so I do not know my treatment timeline, as of yet. The method my oncologist is planning to use has proven very successful for patients with my medical history. That in and of itself is cause to celebrate. It means chemo, again, and all the wonderful side effects that come along with that. But I can tolerate anything for a season. And this season has an end.

So, what now? Honestly, I'm not too sure. The plan is to take a semester off of work. Hopefully, that will give me enough time to finish the bulk of my treatment. I will continue working on my Master's degree so that my brain doesn't rot along with my body. In general, my biggest plan is to enjoy living life at a slower pace, as much as possible. I will post again once we have more information. Thank you, everyone, for your well wishes and prayers!

Love Is Not A Victory March...

…it’s a cold and a broken hallelujah.

Tonight, when I laid in bed, attempting to soothe my sobbing four-year-old, while listening to my nine-year-old and one-year-old simultaneously throw fits of their own, Leonard Cohen’s heartbreaking song, “Hallelujah,” started to play over my phone. I am not sure why, but this song has always struck a deep chord with me. Maybe because I truly believe Love is beautiful. Love is the highest high you can ever experience. It takes you to other worlds. You see colors brighter, feel emotions deeper, and experience a soul deep euphoria that you did not know existed. And in a second, love is dark. It is cold. It shatters your previously elated soul to a thousand pieces. The excruciating pain it brings will suck the air right out of your lungs. It is one experience to mourn a love that is ended. Most people can understand that pain. However, the pain I regularly feel is different altogether. It is like hugging a favorite, shattered vase to your chest. As it cuts deeper into your skin, you hold it tighter and tighter, not ready to come to grips with the fact that it will never be as it was originally intended…

My children regularly astonish me. All five of them are bright and incredible people that bring light and laughter into my life. Four of them have experienced pain, change, uncertainty, and chaos that most adults would struggle to bear. They are among the strongest people that I know. And yet, they are children. As I live through the cacophony of screams that can occur at any given transition, or wade through the various insecurities and fears that I am just supposed to know how to deal with, as their mother, my mind continually screams, “It isn’t supposed to be like this! This is not what having a family is supposed to feel like.” When my teenagers become sullen and silent, and I am scrambling, trying to figure out if it is just regular teen angst, or if I need to get my Mommy Battle Sword out and fight against their past and their pains and their heartache, my heart cries, “You are supposed to be able to tell! You are supposed to know them so well that you can tell in an instant if the issues are deeper issues of the heart or just regular irritation. You should know! You are their MOTHER!”

And therein lies the rub. With my daughters, I am Mom- and I am the Only Mom. I do know them like my own soul. While it is no less fatiguing, I can usually tell when my girls are screaming out of hunger, tiredness, or irritation versus when they cling to me and cry out due to fear and insecurity and the world not aligning the way they expect it to. I know them. I know their experiences. I know their struggles. This next sentence is going to be very hard for me to write; it is hard for me to admit and even harder for me to accept: I am not the Only Mother of my boys. I love them dearly- more than I love life. I am crazy about them. However, there is an enormous portion of their lives that I will never know. There is a portion of their lives that I am slightly glad that I don’t know, because I honestly don’t think I could handle even imagining the pain that they have been through in their precious, precious lives. This is the pain that adoption brings. My boys have been broken. Their lives were shattered through no fault of their own. They have been piecing it back together with the help of their other Mothers, who loved them through the hardest and darkest moments of their lives. My eyes brim with the love that I have for these women, who loved our babies before I even knew they were mine. My boys’ foster mothers are all angels in my eyes. They loved my boys, our boys, fiercely. They healed them in the darkest places. I was not there for it. I was not there for so much of their lives. Can you even fathom? The hearts of my heart, the souls of my soul, I have been with them only a small fraction of their lives. It is my greatest heartache, for I love these boys as if they were my own. I am desperate for early memories of them. I relish every single story of their early days that they share. I horde them in my heart, slowly piecing together the puzzle of who they are and how they came to be. I hear of Mother. The Mother. Their Mother. Their Father. Their Family. And my heart is shattered. Not because I am reminded that they are not from my body, though what a delight it would have been to have cherished them from their very first breath. To know them as I know my own soul. (I know one day, prayerfully, this will occur, with time.) My heart is broken for them to know the loss of family. Not just the loss of one family member, as most people know in time, through death. They lost all of their family in one fell swoop.

My heart is broken for their mother. The Mother. I cannot fathom not having these boys in my life. Their big personalities. Their enormous hearts and great generosity. Their need for love and consistency- a need that I hungrily, and tiredly, fill. To have that ripped away? Her loss. My “gain”. Both heart shattering. My heart is crushed that my presence is needed, because all I want is for my boys to be whole. My breath is stolen when I think of the heartache she must feel daily, not having these precious faces to wake up to. My soul is torn when I think of the ache and pain that MY children had to face before they made their way to me, because they made their way to me. It is the most painful and beautiful of paradoxes. Words can’t truly express. I feel my words are falling horrifically short. In fact, there are not words for this deeply broken hallelujah. Hallelujah, they are my sons. Hallelujah, they are safe. Hallelujah, they will not know that pain again. However, no matter how I spin it, this is not victory. This is not how their lives were supposed to be.

As I am writing, I am staring at my 13-year old’s face, with tears in my eyes. He is patiently waiting for me to finish writing, so we can hang out. He looks like his Father, yet he has the same interests as my husband. When he talks, I sometimes hear his mother’s voice, but he is so much like me. He and I are best friends. He is a mama’s boy through and through. I am not his Only Mother. But God redeems. Hallelujah. 

I'll Live Until I Die

Hello, my friends!

It has been a hot minute since I've blogged. In fact, the last blog I wrote, I hadn't even fully completed my treatment. Wow, what a ride it has been since then! I have started probably 15 blogs since that time, but have never had the follow through to complete them. The words just didn't feel right, and I am too idealistic to throw out words into the universe and not have them have true meaning to my being. I always work best from a place of raw genuineness (apparently that is actually a word- I must admit, I'm a little surprised!) The more raw I feel as a person, the more I ache to lay that bare in front of others. My greatest longing (much to my husband's chagrin) is to know the very souls of those around me, and I have found that cannot happen without laying your own soul on the sacrificial table. I also have another very important reason to begin to blog, but I will touch more on that in a moment. First, I must catch you up to all the insane places the Lord has taken us in our journey of life. Hold on to your hats, because, ohmygoodness, what a ride it has been! Miracle after miracle after miracle. The LORD has blessed us, indeed. (And no, this is not a typical #blessed-traffic went my way and I got my raise and my favorite book is now a movie-blessed type situation. I can't wait to share the mind blowing ways God has shown up in the lives of my family!)

First of all, we have had a few additions to our family since I last blogged. And by a few, I mean four. That's right- Jeff and I now have FIVE children! I know. I can't deal with that fact myself, most days. Just in case your mind is spinning a bit, I will break it down for you. In the span of a single year, we went from having one child to having five children. For the mathematically challenged (read: Erica), we gained 4 children in less than 12 months. "How does that even happen?!" you may be asking. No worries- I'm fairly certain my husband is still asking himself that same very same question. Here is the answer in a nutshell (knowing my inability to consolidate, lets just say this is going to be a very LARGE nutshell- possibly a wrecking ball-sized one...sorrynotsorry, God totally deserves to have me go into detail on this one.)

Story of additional child #1: "You are most likely never going to have children again. Your body is already showing signs of menopause. If you want, we can harvest eggs and attempt in vitro later on down the road- but even that would be pretty challenging." When Jeff and I heard these words right before my intensive chemotherapy 2 years ago, we didn't think much of it. God had already blessed us with a BEAUTIFUL handful of a child and we were already headed down the road of adoption, so we waived the opportunity to harvest any eggs. It wasn't something that we were particularly torn up about. So, after completing three different types of chemo in the span of a year and half, after completing 3 weeks of daily radiation therapy, we took a trip to my gynecologist. At this point, we wanted as few additional hormones and chemicals in my body as possible, to ensure that nothing would encourage my cancer to rear its ugly head in our lives ever again. We were planning to do fertility testing to see if I even needed to continue taking birth control. Well, for those of you who are blissfully ignorant in all things reproductive, in order to perform that particular test, you have to be off of your birth control for a month before they can perform fertility testing. No problem, we thought. My body gave us every sign that I had gone through menopause some time ago...(everyone with a brain knows where this story is going)....a WEEK later, we were pregnant. Just, what the what, you guys. It was insane. The world's leading lymphoma/ transplant specialist, whose name you will see on all the research and the studies, and who also happens to be a part of my oncology team, said she had NEVER seen anyone get pregnant post-stem cell transplant this quickly. The best she has seen (before me) was getting pregnant three years later. Lets just let that sink in for a sec. Three years was the earliest pregnancy they had seen prior to my pregnancy. I was pregnant with Blake Leigh three and a half MONTHS after transplant. High five for God #1. Blake Leigh Elaine (whose name consequently means Darkness, Healer, Light and whose initials spell out BLES- all accidents) was born to us on August 31, 2015- just two days shy of my one year anniversary for my stem-cell transplant. 

Story of additional children 2-4: You still with me? I told you: this nutshell is more of a Pandora's Box- except everything coming out is straight up goodness instead of evil and chaos and horribleness. So, two roughly a week or two after our miracle baby was born, God was in the process of bringing our three sons to their new forever family. Sneaky Guy! My darling sister and her husband had opened their home to hurting and aching foster children a few weeks prior. M was among the first to enter their home. Jeff and I met him, and loved him, but also knew that this 8 year old darling was part of a sibling group of three boys. And he was the youngest. The other two were *enter slasher music* TEENAGERS. NO THANK YOU. Not even a little bit interested- we can't do teenagers- we have a three year old and an infant at home. Not possible. Nope. Done. End of Story. *Now insert God laughing hysterically at Jeff and my plans* We met M's two older brothers, S and J two months after Blake Leigh was born. (Sorry- I have to use initials until our adoption is complete...oh, and spoiler alert- we were wrong and are actually adopting a sibling group of three boys)  Jeff was going to deer camp and the girls and I were coming up for the day to hang out and cook s'mores, yada yada. We knew that M's older brothers were visiting over the weekend (the boys were in two separate foster homes. You know, because there are three of them and all- my gosh, we are some kind of crazy). Well, very long story somewhat shortened, that night I fell in love with all three of those boys (I already adored M. But teenage boys were scary to me- there is a very good reasons I am only certified to teach elementary children). Never in your life have you met boys as insanely incredible as mine. I'm serious. Come meet them and you will see I am 100% accurate. Do it. I dare you. To have gone through their rough lives, and end up as considerate and caring and fun and thoughtful and marvelous as these kids are- it blows my mind every single day. The rest is history. The very night I met them, I apologetically looked at my husband as I was about to drive away and leave him with the boys for a hunting holiday. I'm pretty sure the conversation was exactly as follows:

Me: Hey, baby. I'm going to tell you something and you are going to roll your eyes and tell me I'm crazy. But I just want you to really give it an open mind. Take these few days and really think about it.

Jeff: *Rolls eyes* No. We aren't doing it. 

Me: I haven't even said anything yet!

Jeff: We are not adopting THREE boys. 

Me: *Big Grins* Just think and pray, because I'm pretty sure these are the ones. For real. It's them. 

Jeff: *BIG sigh* Ok, I will think about it. Just think. You are an insane woman who wants to slowly murder me by wearing me beyond my limits. In four years of marriage, we have done two kids, two cancers, and now you want me to do three adoptions of older kids- not 1-2 younger ones, like we had previously discussed and agreed upon. Why did I ever marry you- you belong in an asylum! 

Ok, so maybe that wasn't how he responded, verbatim. It was probably more along the lines of "I love you. You are crazy, but of course I will think about it." 6 months later, the boys moved in with their forever-crazy-about-them-family. I love these boys more than life- and their dad and sisters feel the same! J is the most incredible 15 year old you have ever met, S is our 13 year old that will make you laugh until your sides hurt, and M is the most compassionate 9 year old of all time. They are perfect and they are mine forever. High fives #2, 3, and 4 for God!

Now, don't get me wrong. Adding four children to our family has been one of the hardest things that Jeff and I have ever gone through, and we have been through some really sizeable storms together. It is a lot of adjustment and change and us dealing with children who are dealing with hurts that no person should ever have to deal with. Lots of dealing going on. Adoption is NOT painless, but, God, its beautiful. It is a shattered mosaic, a flawed masterpiece, a crumbled, ancient structure- all the more beautiful for its ruins. I'm sure future blogs will deal heavily with the subject because it is a whole THING all on its own. But, even with the addition of four children, I STILL don't have you caught up. Oh yes, there is more. 

Almost a month ago, I called my oncologist in Fayetteville. I had been having night sweats for the past couple of months (never a good sign in the cancer world). I have not had a scan since becoming pregnant with Blake. I wanted a scan to clear the air- I was sure it was nothing, but just wanted to double check. I was positive I was fine...right up until they showed us to our room in the oncologist's office. I looked over at Jeff. "Will you stay home from work the rest of the day if we get a bad answer?" "Of course I will! But we won't- it will be ok." I was now certain. The news wasn't going to be good. And I was right. Four "hot spots" showed up. It was presenting on the scan exactly like my lymphoma had in the past. My doctor said that while he was 98% this was cancer, he wanted a biopsy just on the off-chance that it was some weird, bizarre infection. So two weeks and one biopsy later, we received our results. The node in my neck was benign. Great news and horrible news all at once. Cancer was not in my neck! Yay!! But, there are three more spots that we will most likely will be unable to biopsy because they are in my abdomen. So, it may still be cancer. Boo! Add to that, the fact that when diagnosed with both of my cancers I have had previously, we received a biopsy that was negative, only to have another biopsy a week later confirming our fears- that I had cancer.

So, now you are caught up. We are in a place of waiting. Waiting to hear if I have cancer again. Waiting to see how dramatically our already topsy-turvy lives may be altered. I am not sure what our next step in our diagnostic process will be. There will be many things for my doc to consider. Lord, give him wisdom. 

For now, this is where I will leave it. I now have children who will have access to my blogs, since they are cool and internet savvy. I will not put the unnecessary fears that plague adults into their hearts. In fact, it is for all of my children/ husband that I finally found the reason to begin to blog again. It could be that, in a few weeks, we find out all is well. And that would be great! I would love that! However, this process has shown me that there may come a day where I am no longer around for them to hear my voice or for me to teach them my heart and instruct them on the things that really matter in life. It is for them that I am writing. I want them to always have a piece of me. I want to be able to reach out to them through this overly bright and meaningless screen, from behind these words that will fade almost as quickly as they are uttered, and see me. Know my overwhelming love for them. Be able to know where I stand, and what I think, and feel my insane love for them. Because it is immense. Darlings, if you ever read this and I am no longer beside you, know that my love is so deep, it makes my entire body tingle. I literally feel my love you in my stomach, in my tearing eyes, all the way through to my curled toes. Read this. Read this over and over a hundred thousand times, and you will know a fraction of my love for you. Which is miniscule compared to the love that God has for you. Never forget that. Every moment I have breath to draw, I will tell you those two things: I love you with everything I am. God loves you more. I will prayerfully live that in my life. And TO LIVE is what I fully intend to do. I will live every moment fully. Treasuring your faces. Treasuring our fights. Treasuring your humor and personality. Treasuring your eyes and voices and kisses. Seconds are valuable to me. Many women lament in their aging. I will value every grey hair and celebrate every wrinkle. Every year I get older is another year I get to spend with you.

 Lord, give me as much time as I need to show my loves Your love. My love. Our love for the hurting. Our love for them. Our love for the lost and unloved. My love for Your law, which is love. Your Gospel of peace, even in the most turbulent of times. You are great and awesome and mighty and have blessed me far beyond what I deserve. Blessed be Your name!

There's No Place Like Home

Today marks my third day home. Already, the month I spent in Omaha seems like a blur. I honestly  don't know how I survived, other than the fact that it wasn't really optional. Those three weeks of hospitalization were, very literally, THE hardest thing I have ever done. I am going to tell the story of my transplant, mostly because I am fairly certain I will forget a lot of the details in the upcoming weeks. After just three days, it already seems like a lifetime ago. I don't ever want to forget what I endured and the hidden blessings that met me along the way.

Day One/ Olive 
The hardest day of this entire process was the first day. I was fortunate enough to spend my first week outside of the hospital, playing with Olive, and enjoying all the activities that Omaha has to offer. I talked frequently with my family that was up there about my treatment plan and our next step, not even thinking about the little ears that were listening. I did not expect for Olive to understand what was going on. Oh, how I was wrong! The night before I was admitted into the hospital, Olive kept saying over and over "Mama go bye bye." I thought she was just teasing me, and telling me to walk away or she was asking me to take her somewhere. However, the morning I left for the hospital, her meaning became very clear. She and I were sitting on the couch and she insisted that I cradle her like a baby (a position she very rarely consents to). She began sucking on my shirt sleeve (again something she never does). Then she looks at me, concern etched all over her little face, and says, "Mama go bye bye. Olive not go bye bye." Then she clung to my shirt and buried her face in my chest. I feel it is unnecessary to say that my heart shattered into a thousand pieces. When I finally left, her screams echoed in my ears for hours. I cried all the way through the admission process. I am so thankful that both of my mothers (my mom and my mom-in-law) were there to comfort Olive and I. To this day, I still feel a sense of loss when I think about the three weeks and the toll they took on my little girl. She was surrounded by family, and did remarkably well, considering. However, it was easy to see the anxiety that my typically care-free girl carried around like a backpack. She would come into my hospital room and immediately get fussy and want me to leave with her. She wanted me to hold her constantly and would frequently fall asleep in my arms when it got to be too much. When we finally were able to check out of the hospital, her joy was overflowing. As we packed the car, she refused to be put down, as she lay her head on my chest. She laughed and babbled as she and I watched our bags get loaded up. When we walked back into the hospital to return our room keys, her anxiety returned full force and she cried "No! Mama go bye bye!" Once we came home to Arkansas, I watched in amazement as Olive became a different child. Her anxiety melted away almost immediately. She no longer feels the need to keep close tabs on me, and has returned to her spunky, independent little self. I thank God for this and the fact that she is young enough to where, eventually, she will have no memory of the past month.

The Cancer Bandit and the Chemo Kid
Not everything during hospitalization was horrible. Jeff and I were able to have some fun times, mostly due to a man that we met that referred to himself as the Cancer Bandit. We met the Bandit and his wife, Mother Hen, during our first week. The Bandit and I started the transplant process on the same day and so we were scheduled to do everything together: stem cell collection, six days of chemo, the transplant, and recovery. God knew that Jeff and I would need these two lovely people to survive our transplant process. It quickly became apparent that the Bandit had a marvelous sense of humor, and Mother Hen's compassion is so great, you rarely meet its equal. They quickly "adopted" Jeff and I, renamed me the Chemo Kid, and formed a bond with us that had true depth and love. During chemo, the Bandit and I entered a competition to see who could finish their chemo drips the fastest. The Bandit had an unfair advantage, due to the fact that he seemed to tolerate the chemo better and could do quicker drips (as well as the fact that he frequently cheated by going to the treatment center early!), he would always win. The nurses joined in our game and rallied to help me become more successful. Many times, they would start moving like molasses when they heard the Bandit's machines beep, while they dashed to mine so that I could be changed out quicker. They would start my drips first, even though the Bandit arrived at the treatment center before I did. I had multiple nurses going back and forth between our rooms, so the could assure me that I was winning. During our treatment, I would hear Mother Hen inquiring about my blood counts and she would come and make sure that I was ok and didn't need anything. I received many hugs and shed many tears with this sweet woman. The Bandit and Mother Hen gave us joy when there was little to be had, let me cry when it got hard, and gave me encouragement when I was sure I couldn't do it anymore. They where there for us in way that only someone going through the same process can be. They were my most unexpected blessing and I love them dearly for that.

The Treatment
One of the most surprising things about the transplant process was that, for me, it wasn't too horrible, physically speaking. I responded very similarly to the chemo as I have to many others over the past year. Not to say that it was, by any means, easy. It was hard- but it wasn't that much harder than other treatments that I have had. The fatigue was a little more intense, but my medical team and my husband did a great job staying on top of  my side effects, making sure that I got the proper medicine to control them. In fact, I did so well, that the doctors were very surprised and even commented that they hadn't seen a transplant go this well in a long time. I know, in my heart of hearts, that this is due to the hundreds of prayers that were said on my account during this time. I want to thank everyone who prayed for me, or sent me some kind of encouragement along the way. Stem cell transplants are so iffy- there are hundreds of ways a person's body can react to it and I know through no power of my own did my body respond so well. Thanks be to God.

The hardest part of the journey was the mental and emotional exhaustion that occurs when you are limited to one building, and limited in the amount of time you can see your family. While my family could visit whenever they wanted and for however long they wanted, physically I could only handle visits a couple hours at a time. Those visits mostly occurred with me on my hospital bed because I was too tired to get up and move around. When I could move, there were only one or two places that we could really visit in the hospital. I felt trapped by both my body and my surroundings. The day of my transplant (one week into hospitalization), I had a mental breakdown when I thought about having to stay at the hospital for two. more. weeks. I cried all day. One of the doctors came to visit me and told me exactly what I needed to hear. "Today is your day," she said. "You get one day to let it all out. Cry, scream, do whatever you need to do to move on [from this feeling]. Tomorrow, we will see if you need another day." So, I had my day. I cried and slept the majority of the day. The release helped me face the rest of my imprisonment (albeit an imprisonment with the kindest, most nurturing people I could ask for). When I had a week left, we made a count down. Tearing up each piece of paper at the end of the day was beyond therapeutic for me. Then, another miracle happened. With 5 days left, my body began to respond to the growth factor shots I was receiving to jump start my brand new immune system. In a span of two days, my white blood cell counts doubled, then tripled. I also began to produce red blood cells and platelets, which is almost unheard of that early after transplant. This boost to my immune system meant one glorious thing- I was able to leave the hospital four days earlier than the original estimation stated. We had to stay outpatient in Omaha for a few days of monitoring and have minor surgery to remove my port and central line. However, even with that time added on, we were still back in Arkansas before I would have originally even been released from the hospital.

My People
I can't tell the story of my transplant without giving credit to my people who helped me survive the entire tedious process. Most obviously, my precious Jesus, healed my body, worked through the doctors and the medicine to give me a smooth transplant, and gave me hope and peace when my days turned dark. My precious in laws came for over a week to help Olive adjust to her new routine and to love on her when I was first admitted to the hospital. Olive loves her Nonna and PopPop dearly and it was comforting to know that she had them to help her with the transition. My dear sweet mother came up for three weeks, first to help me while Jeff returned to AR for a week, and then to watch and care for Olive after my in laws returned to AR. She sacrificed much to be away from her family (she still raising my two little brothers at home) and did it all without a single complaint. She was tireless. My sweet, sweet friend, Erica, drove her husband and their new baby all the way to Omaha to surprise me with a visit. The time with that little family boosted my spirits more than I can say. They are my people and I love them. My darling sister, Candace, left her 2 year old son at home and came to take care Olive for the last leg of my hospitalization. Her job was hard, because by this point, we were all very weary and done with the whole transplant process. She brought fresh energy, great conversation, and play with her to help us get over that last little hump. My supportive dad called every day to check in on me, and supported us financially, emotionally, and spiritually. He made sure Olive had a place to stay that was comfortable, spacious, and not a hospital room. He, alongside my grandparents, brother-in-law, and aunt, worked to hold the fort down in AR so that my mom and Candace could stay in Omaha as long as they did. They sent frequent updates and pictures to help ease our minds and kept us informed about what all was happening at home. Their job was long and difficult, and they did it without complaining...to me at least ; ) Countless friends and family sent me encouragements while I was away. Not a week went by that I didn't receive letters, flowers, or care packages and I truly can't say how deeply these touched me. They always seemed so perfectly timed, arriving right when I was sure that I couldn't handle another second in that hospital. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! And, finally, my dearest husband, Jeff who sacrificed more than anyone ever should have to for a spouse. Even after a year of taking care of me, he was tireless in his watch over me. He kept track of my medications, my food and liquid intake, my weight, and my vitals (which he had to take multiple times a day). He rubbed my back while I hugged the toilet bowl. He would hold my face in his cool hands while I roasted from fever. He continually checked in with me to make sure that I was emotionally handling everything ok and encouraged me whenever I needed it. He was also there for Olive, reassuring her when she got anxious, taking her places she would enjoy, turning everything into a game- what a lucky little girl to have such a dad. Words cannot describe how much I love this man!

Now, the most challenging step in my treatment is complete. There is a light at the end of the tunnel! My final stage of treatment will begin in a month or so. As of now, I will be receiving radiation 5 days a week for 5 weeks. Then it is over. Done. Complete. And the rest of my life will begin.

Omaha Week 1: My Weakness

"...so to keep me from becoming proud, I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger from Satan to torment me and keep me from becoming proud. Three different times I begged The Lord to take it away. Each time he said, ' My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.' So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me. That's why I take pleasure in my weaknesses, and in the insults, hardships, persecutions, and troubles that I suffer for Christ. For when I am weak, then I am strong."  -- 2 Cor 12:7-10

       This has been a week of weakness. This week, fear comes to haunt me, even moments after I am sure I have moved past it. Momentary distractions come like gifts from heaven itself, however trepidation looms in its shadows. Shame stings my eyes as I acknowledge what a strong role fear has played in my life. When I was younger, Fear of Being Alone made most of my decisions for me. Made me into a person I was not. As I aged, Fear of Being Insignificant caused me to live without Christ's love and have an inflated sense of self. Now, I am older, and still my fear looms over me like a monster, more powerful and far greater than anything I have faced so far. Like the infamous beast, Hydra, each time I believe I have slayed my demons by severing them at the head, three more vicious heads sprout from the wound. Fear of the Unknown, Fear of Suffering, Fear of the Future, Fear of Cancer, Fear of Death...they keep coming quicker than I can quench them. Fear IS my greatest weakness. Always has been. 

      Thus far, I have made it through the week by taking it one medical procedure at a time. I can do anything for short periods of time. That has been my mantra. When I was to recieve my bone marrow biopsy and apprehension caused rivulets of sweat to permeate my skin, I repeated over and over "It'll only take 15 minutes. I can do anything for 15 minutes. Just 15 minutes." And I was right- I did it and all was ok after 15 minutes. I was able to laugh and play and enjoy my family....until the next fear came to plague me. All week long, I have experienced a roller coaster of highs and lows that can only come to one who is ruled by fear. There is always another bump in the road, another procedure which to fear, another unknown to face.

Monday: Bone Marrow Biopsy

Thursday: Fun with my girl at Omaha Zoo

Friday: Surgery for my central line catheter (which is how I will receive my chemo and stem cells)

Sunday: Family Fun Day at the Aquarium!

   The verse above came to me like a healing balm for my exhausted spirit. I am weary from trying to act brave. I hate admitting when I am scared, in fact, simply asking the nurses for help- admitting that I was terrified of my treatment- brought me to tears. Embracing weakness is not something that comes easily for me and is definitely not something I have ever bragged about. For my fear, my greatest weakness, to become something that makes me strong is truly an act of God. I have NEVER faced fear well- as a child, I would literally become hysterical, in the truest sense of the word,  when asked to face something that scared me. As an adult, I still have that natural, internal reaction. My next step in my treatment is to collect stem cells and then begin my eight day transplant process. Six of those days will be spent recieving a high dose chemotherapy. At the mere thought of this, the little girl inside me is throwing a show-stopping, lung exhuasting, screeching, kicking, and clawing tantrum, the like of which I pray you never have to witness in real life. And yet, here is God saying that this overwhelming fear is PERFECT, because through it, I am going to see how strong HE is. His power works flawlessly in this type of situation. And paradox of all paradoxes: BECAUSE I am weak, I am strong. It is due to the fact that I am such a scardy-cat that God is going to be able to work through me. 

So throughout the rest of this process, I will embrace my fear. I will welcome it- or at least attempt to.

Yea, though I walk to the valley of the shadow of chemo, I will fear no illnesses, because God is with me. His rod and his staff, they comfort me... No, that isn't a Bible verse, but it should be, am I right?! The rest of my treatment (including radiation) is going to take approximately three months. With God as my strength, I can do anything for three months. It's just three months.   

My Broken Hallelujah

It is time- as I pack up my home, I can no longer deny what is going on. I am about to leave for Omaha, Nebraska to receive my stem cell transplant, and to say I have mixed feelings about this excursion would be quite the understatement. Mentally shirking what is about to occur is the only way I have been able to cope the past few weeks. In fact, my husband has been begging for me to blog, but I just couldn't because I was not ready to face my reality. I'm still not ready, but reality has arrived none the less.

Since my diagnosis, my stem cell transplant has seemed unachievable- always looming off in the distance. I preferred it that way because then I could easily pretend like it would never happen. I completely buried myself in work, obsessively preparing for a class that I won't see for months. Now, as I stare blankly at my empty suitcase, I am forced to stop pretending. And I am terrified. 

The more I think about bone marrow biopsies, stem cell transplants, and the extensive recovery process, the more I am positive that this is not something that I can handle. My fight or flight response has been triggered, and I am choosing "flight," with gumption! Fear has closed its fist around my chest and is squeezing so tightly that I can physically feel the pain. 

For almost two weeks, I have been praying to God to take this cup from me. I don't want to do this. I don't want a needle shoved into my bone. I don't want yet another surgery, no matter how minor it is. I can't begin to fathom a chemo that will make what I have previously experienced look like child's play. I am so tired of sitting around, and yet I am about to be hospitalized for a month. There are a myriad of unknown side effects and risks that haunt my dreams at night. I am literally about to walk into my nightmares. This is my Garden of Gethsemane. Trepidation has all but crippled me and there is no escape. 

While I was praying (ok, whining) to Jesus this morning, words subconsciously rose to my mind, bringing with them the heavy feeling of contrition. "Lord, forgive my unbelief." They didn't make sense to me, until I sat and pondered them a while. Initially, I didn't feel like my belief was called into question. It's ok to be fearful and to dread your suffering. In fact, I was following the model Jesus left me when He visited that aforementioned garden. However, I eventually saw that there was one difference between Jesus and I (ok there are a thousand differences between the two of us- I'm working on that!)- in one sitting, Jesus was able to pray "Yet not as I will, but Your will be done." For weeks, I haven't even been able to put my fears into words before God. I couldn't acknowledge them, lest they destroy me. I was so focused on the pain I will endure, that obedience didn't even enter into my mind's equation. Yet, for a reason unknown to me, God has chosen to lead me down this path. He has chosen to put me in a situation that is beyond anything I can handle. And He asks me to believe in Him and His plan for me. Lord, forgive my unbelief.

I am aware that this new mindset does not change anything. I will still have needles shoved into my bones; I will still have to have another surgery; my body will still have to endure such a physical attack that it will have to all but shut down in order to survive. Believing in God's goodness does not change your suffering. It simply changes how you see it. And that will have to be enough for me.