Bought the T-Shirt

When we used to travel full time across the country in our music ministry, I remember driving through big cities and seeing certain large, well-lit buildings perched within view of various freeways in various states.

Emblazoned on the sides of those buildings were the words, “Children’s Hospital.”

I would gaze in frightened awe at the buildings as we passed and then I would glance furtively at my own healthy children in the back of our truck, barely suppressing a shudder as I thought about the pain and trauma that went on inside those walls—not just for the children, but for the parents, as well.

And then I would breathe a silent prayer for the people whose lives those hospitals touched before adding, “Lord, I’m quite sure you know that I could never deal with that sort of thing. I could never, ever deal with having a child who was sick enough to have to be admitted to a specialized children’s hospital in a large city. That would just be too much for me to handle.”

And then those moments would pass. And life just went right on. The way it is wont to do.

A few years later, Sarah started getting sick. Very sick.

Mysterious symptoms. Baffled doctors. No answers.

We made the rounds of a few physicians and were finally sent to Brenner Children’s Hospital, an hour from where we lived.

A children’s hospital. Near a freeway.

We were suddenly inside the sorts of walls that I had viewed from a distance with such anxiety and trepidation.

But it was okay, really, because the reports we were hearing didn’t seem to indicate anything life threatening for our small, suffering princess; in fact, the consensus seemed to be that she had some sort of arthritis. Not a great thing to have, by any means, but it didn’t seem to be anything that might steal her life away.

I remember the day after getting that preliminary diagnosis, I was walking the halls of the hospital and I happened upon a certain office door that had a sign on it. The sign said, “Social Worker/Counselor for Pediatric Oncology Patients and Families.”

I stood frozen in the hallway and stared at that most horrific combination of words: “Pediatric Oncology Patients.”

I prayed, “Thank you Lord, that Sarah doesn’t have cancer. You know I could never deal with a child who had cancer. It would just be too overwhelming, too traumatic, too un-doable.

The next day Sarah was diagnosed with cancer.

Without a miracle, it was terminal cancer.

And my mind flashed back to those imposing, lit up buildings beside the freeway that I never ever pictured myself entering. And my mind flashed back to the day before when I had seen that sign on the office in the hallway and thought that I could never cope with having a child with cancer, a child who was really and truly life threateningly sick.

But suddenly the impossible was handed to us to do. Walk a child through chemo. And vomiting. And hair loss. And multiple surgeries. And numerous hospitalizations.

And then when that’s all done, get ready to transfer to another Children’s Hospital for a bone marrow transplant.

It was unspeakably hard for all of us.

I learned very quickly that I could do things that I never before thought were doable. I became the parent I had prayed for earlier—the parent behind the walls of a children’s hospital, hiding behind the blank, unblinking stares of rows and rows of windows and wondering whether or not my child would survive.

I never thought I’d be in a place like that. Never thought I’d get through.

But I made it! We made it!

And then . . .

Two years ago, I had a major cancer scare. I was told I had a 90-95% chance of having cancer in one or both breasts.

I just knew I couldn’t cope with such a horrific thing. I was especially convinced of that fact when a friend who’d had a mastectomy gave me a book with information and pictures showing women in different stages of breast cancer, surgery, and reconstruction.

I clearly remember sitting down with that book one evening and leafing through its pages. I lasted all of about ten minutes and then I shuddered violently and threw the book across the bed thinking, “I can not even comprehend what those words are saying. I can not even look at those pictures. I just can not face that sort of thing. Not now. Not ever.”

And then somehow, mysteriously, miraculously, the report from surgery came back. Benign. No cancer. No need for scary books and scarier pictures.

I had been given a reprieve.

But two months ago, everything changed.

Cancer found me.

Surgery was scheduled.

Recovery was endured.

Reconstruction commenced.

Two weeks ago, I picked up the very same book I had flung across the bed two years earlier. I read all the information without a qualm. I looked at all the unnerving pictures without a quibble.

What was the difference? I was able to look at those pictures because I was those pictures.

And I found out something important. I found out that we can deal with a lot more than we think we can.

I’ve dealt with my daughter’s cancer. I’ve dealt with my own cancer. And I’m okay.

Sure I’ve had my moments of horrific grief and tears and hopelessness and anger and every other awful emotion that can possibly be experienced.

But I’ve made it. I’ve faced off against the monsters and the monsters didn’t win. I’ve found out I’m a whole lot stronger than I thought.

And that’s a lovely feeling.

Even with the scars that mark Sarah’s body and the scars that mar my own body, it’s a lovely feeling to go through something that’s impossible and come out at the other end with a smile. And peace. And a grateful heart.

Because now Sarah and I know that when the next “impossible” thing comes (and it will), we’ll be ready for it.

Because we’ve been there. Done that. Bought the t-shirt.

Morose

Still feeling miserable. Didn't sleep well last night. Had some problems with my meds. I still hurt. I'm still wondering if I will make it through this whole experience. Wondering if it's all worth it.

Tired. Crabby. Sad.

I have a very patient family.

In other news, Steve is doing everything in his power to get our housing crisis resolved by Friday, which as you know is our Big Looming Deadline.

At this point it looks as though we may have something in the works, but there's no done deal until a signature is on the paper.

For now, though, I'm taking my miserable, morose self back to bed.

Maybe things will get better soon but I just don't feel like I'm making progress toward getting better. And it's discouraging.

Faced. Handled. Gotten Through.

It's a beautiful morning here at our vacation house; I'm sitting in a comfy chair and staring at the ocean. So very lovely. So very therapeutic.

By way of an update on life in general, Steve and I will hang out here until Wednesday afternoon (Sarah is staying with friends from church) and then we'll head home to unpack and get a whole slew of things accomplished before heading to Greenville late Thursday afternoon.

Steve will need to have most of his sermon for Sunday finished by then and I'll also need to work on prep for the service. (Even though I won't be there.) That includes filing music from last Sunday's service, making a new music list, pulling music for the four singers, drummer, Steve, and the pianist who will be filling in, and then getting all the songs and Steve's sermon Power Point slides entered into the computer, and creating new announcement slides to be projected on Sunday morning.

Of course, I'll be packing and getting things ready for my sister and Mom's arrival at the same time.

Sarah, Steve and I will drive to Greenville Thursday night and stay in a home owned by one of our church members. Steve's parents are driving into Greenville from Charlotte Thursday; they'll stop through Raleigh on the way to pick up Mom and Debbie from the airport and bring them on to Greenville.

And then Friday morning? Well, we all know what happens Friday morning. I'm just not going to think about that right now. How can one dwell on a subject like a traumatic surgery when one is gazing at the ocean?

Nope. Just can't be done.

Yesterday at church, Steve asked if I would sing a particular song I've written following his sermon. (He's doing a series on the book of Job.) I got up there feeling pretty calm and "in control" but when I got to the second verse, I just lost it. Here are the lyrics:

I never thought the time would come when I'd embrace the fire
Never thought I'd choose to face the flame
But in its sacred light I've seen the ash of my desire
Swept away, till just your Voice remains.

Well, those words just did me in and I spent the rest of the song, half singing, half crying. By that point, most of the people in the congregation were crying too, all of them fully aware of the fire that I was about to face.

Steve came up and stood with me and put his arm around me while I continued to sing--and sniffle. He was being such a wonderful, supportive husband, trying to sing the words for me when I was too choked up to continue. Unfortunately, since I haven't sung that song for a while, he wasn't real clear on how all the words went, so there he was, cheerily and courageously singing out words to my song that weren't even correct! (smile) I was so tempted to giggle, right in the middle of my tears which would have been a rather alarming sight--the pastor's wife crying, giggling, sniffling and singing, all at the same time!

At any rate, we did eventually make it through to the end and it just turned out to be such a sweet moment for all of us. Tears have a way of breaking down walls, bonding hearts and mending spirits--it was truly a special morning between us and our dear congregation. (Note: I've included the lyrics to the song at the end of this post; it's one of my favorites.)

Today, as I was thinking through all the stresses that we're facing right now (and yes, we're still at a point of great stress concerning our housing situation) I remembered back to 2008 when I had a cancer scare amidst a lot of other things going on. I went back and found a timeline that I had drawn up and as I read through it, I was reminded that we made it through that difficult season and we will make it through this one, as well.

Dec. 5-6 (2007)
Sarah and I were at Duke for her 5-year post transplant studies. After plenty of nervous waiting and stress we got the "all clear" report!

Dec. 14
Steve had surgery to remove two suspicous moles.

Dec. 20
Steve had a colonoscopy (Oh happy day!)

Dec. 31
Had my annual physical and was told to schedule a mammogram as soon as possible.

Jan 7 (2008)
Steve was diagnosed with skin cancer.

Jan. 10
Had my mammogram and was told that I would need a Breast Specific Gamma Imaging Study. (BSGI)

Jan. 11
I had my pulmonary function testing done and was told there was a 10 percent drop in function since last year and that I might be looking at a double lung tranplant if the trend continues. (I'm at 60 percent of normal lung capacity right now) Was started on a new, heavy-duty inhaler.

Jan. 15
Steve had surgery to remove more of the area around the place where the two (one cancerous, one pre-cancerous) moles had been.

Jan. 17
Had a chest x-ray because my pulmonologist wanted to see if there was anything "obvious" causing decreased lung function.

Jan. 18
Sarah went to Duke for a routine dermatology visit and ended up having two suspicous moles removed.

Jan. 24
Had the BSGI study done as well as an ultrasound. It was made clear to me during that visit that there were definite areas of concern.

Jan. 28
Got the call that there were "atypical cells" in the moles Sarah had removed and she would need additional surgery.

Jan. 30
Had a breast MRI which turned out to be traumatic, teary experience because of a severe, unexplained pain in my abdomen during the whole thing.

Feb. 1
Got the MRI report saying that there were areas in BOTH breast that were highly suspicous of malignancy. (90-95% chance)

Feb. 6
Had core needle biopsies done on both breasts

Feb. 7
Had an appointment with breast surgeon where we were supposed to get the biopsy results and discuss surgery options. (She was talking about surgery sometime in the next two weeks.) Found out that the biopsies results had been delayed but, in her words, the mammo/MRI results were "very, very concerning."

Feb. 8
Got the news that six pathologists had argued all day over the biopsies with half of them thinking they were malignant and half of them thinking they were benign.

Feb. 11
Was told that the biopsies were being sent to the experts at Mayo clinic for further study. Was also told that my films and biopsies would be studied by a group of area radiologists, surgeons and pathologists on Feb. 14.

Feb. 14
Should have the results from that "study group" today.

Appointments yet to come:

Feb. 15
A visit to my pulmonologist and follow up pulmonary function tests.

Feb. 26
Sarah will go back to a Duke surgeon to have more of the area around her suspicious moles cut out.

And in all likelihood, a follow up surgical biopsy of the breast will be scheduled for me soon. (Note added: Yes, I did go on to have surgical biopsies of both breasts. Results: benign.)

So there you have it--a tough period of life.

Faced. Handled. Gotten through.

We did it before, with God's strength and the help of of our friends. No reason why we can't do it again.

I'll close with the lyrics from the song I sang yesterday.

QUIETLY

1. I never thought the day would come

When I'd be stripped so bare

Never knew such brokenness could be

But here I stand before you with my heart in disrepair

Take me where your healing waits for me

Chorus

Quietly,speak to me

Tell me you inhabit every heartache, every tear

Quietly, sing to me

Melodies of mercy only broken hearts can hear

Quietly

2. I never thought the time would come

When I'd embrace your fire

Never thought I'd choose to face the flame

But in its sacred light I've seen the ash of my desire

Swept away till just your voice remains

Repeat chorus

I can feel the thunder from the storm, yet I'm at peace

And I will smile and rise to ride the wind

My fragile wings are stronger and my heart is finally free

And as I fly, I'll hear your voice again

Quietly, speak to me

Tell me you inhabit every heartache, every tear

Quietly, sing to me

Melodies of mercy only broken hearts can hear

Quietly

(You can info about ordering "Sweeterwater," the CD this song is on, by clicking on the CD order link at the top of the page.)

Pastors. Pancakes. And Whales.

Breakfast . . . .

by . . .

the . . .

sea.

Today was our monthly get together with a few local pastors and wives; we usually eat at someone’s home but this time we opted to go to a rustic, ocean front restaurant instead. Just a few minutes before I took these photos, there had been whales spotted right out at the end of the pier. That would have been pretty cool to experience pancakes and whales at the same time!

Of course, the way I’ve been eating comfort carbs lately, I could probably float on out to sea and do my own (very convincing) whale impersonation. But I won’t. (I wouldn’t want them to look bad.)

And since I’m on this (delightful) subject, I’ve decided that I’m going to make something good come out of a bad situation. When I go in for my mastectomy next Friday, I’m going to speak to the surgeon beforehand and ask him to go ahead and do a hip, stomach and thigh reduction while we’re in there. I mean, really--what’s the big deal? I’m already asleep. I’ve already got a bill to pay that will curl my toenails. He’s already got the surgical team assembled. Just take another few minutes and go ahead make me a happy woman! (A double chin-ectomy would be great, too.)

Um. Am I living in a dream world? Sigh. I was afraid of that.

Anyway, back to the pastor’s breakfast.

As the ten of us were sitting at our table overlooking the ocean I thought to myself, “If someone walked around the restaurant and asked the other customers to guess our profession, no one would ever think to guess, “I bet that’s a bunch of pastors and their wives.”

Seriously. This group consists of some of the zaniest, loudest, funniest, wackiest people you have ever met. And out of the five couples, there were three different denominations represented. But there wasn’t any competition. No trying to “one up” each other. No sheep stealing. No intimations of, “Our church is better than your church,” or “We’ve got it right and you’ve got it wrong.” Instead, we were affirming each other, asking how we could help, how we could better cooperate, how we could reach out to the community better.

And you know what? I think I could safely say that if Jesus had been sitting there with us--eating pancakes, listening to us talk, watching the waves, watching for whales--He would no doubt have had a little smile on His face. Shucks. He might have even been thinking, “This is such a great thing to see my ‘kids’ getting along so well!”

But the morning wasn’t only about smiles and laughter. Halfway through the breakfast, when one of the pastor’s wives asked me for details about my surgery, I suddenly discovered that I couldn’t answer her without breaking down into tears.

You know what? Had Jesus been sitting there with us when I started to cry, I believe that His smile would have turned to tears, right along with mine.

And when the pastor’s wife next to me put her arm around me and gently rubbed my shoulder, I understood an old truth in a new way. I understood that Jesus truly was present in that small room surrounded by the ocean He had made. He was revealed in the splendor of His creation. He was seen in the beauty of our unity. And He showed up in the compassion of one of His children reaching out to another.

He was there, indeed.

Amid the pastors. The pancakes. And the whales.

Husband. Wife. Daughter. Dog. Dusk.

Today I’m doing something new, different, out-of-the-ordinary, novel, unusual and just downright extraordinary.

I’m driving to Greenville! Again. (Sigh.)

The plastic surgeon and the surgical center both need me to come in and look over some stuff and sign some papers (promising them our first born son, no doubt) and so off I shall go, over the river and through the woods, for another 4 1/2 hour round trip journey. When this trip is done, I will have traveled 1750 miles in the past three weeks, just getting to and from doctor’s appointments.

However, it could be much worse; I could be going to Norfolk for all these visits, instead of Greenville. (The two cities are both two hours away—just in opposite directions.) Now I have nothing whatsoever against Norfolk, mind you, but in order to get to the highway going to Norfolk, one has to drive down The Beach (as the locals call it) which is a 30-mile strip of the Outer Banks dotted with stores, shops, traffic, restaurants, congestion, and stop light upon stop light. (By the way, where I grew up in Wisconsin, they call stop lights “stop and go” lights. I just love that.)

However, when you turn your car east instead of west? This is one of the few stop lights you will see!

And the view’s really not all that bad.

If you like that sort of thing . . .

Since I’ll be making that trip many times in the coming year for ongoing reconstruction procedures and surgeries, I’m extra thankful for an extra lovely drive.

Yesterday’s church service was not too terribly difficult to get through, although I still felt myself tearing up at the oddest moments, like during the offering when a quartet was singing the offertory. I just sat there and quietly cried and cried—for really no reason whatsoever. Next thing I knew, Sarah had reached over, grabbed my hand and held on tight.
So nice to have a built-in comforter in the pew next to me.

Steve made the announcement about my upcoming surgery in a low key way, and then moved right on with the service. We hate to draw a lot of attention to ourselves and our situation, and yet we know that our church family wants to stay in touch with what’s going on. I was surrounded by hugs and tears and words of encouragement after the service; we feel blessed to be in a community of believers that is stitched together by prayer and compassion and kindness.

And speaking of kindness, Steve and I have been given the opportunity to get away for a couple days before the surgery date. We have the (free) use of a million dollar, 5-bedroom home on the ocean for two nights! There will be many stresses and adjustments ahead for him, for me, and for our marriage as we navigate these waters; this time away for just the two of us will provide a healing oasis and give us the chance to gather up our strength for the battle.

As for the house situation? We did counter offer, with a price $1,000 less than the asking price. She can take it or leave it. There’s just not a whole lot more we can do at this point.

Steve is going to be in touch with the person who wants to buy this house (if we aren’t able to buy it), in order to see what he might be thinking about charging for rent. That will go a long way toward deciding if we can even afford to stay here on a rental basis.

Steve and I were even thinking about seeing if we could delay my surgery a little, because we’re so stressed about the possibility of a move right after the surgery; however, we’re hesitant to do that because you never want to give cancer any more ground than it already has.

And so life continues to be interesting. And stressful. And blessed. And challenging. And scary. And full of surprises and joy and tears.

But thankfully, sometimes life mercifully takes a break from throwing complexities our direction and offers instead the chance to go outside on a perfect Sunday evening and take a stroll through the evening’s golden hour.

Husband, wife, daughter, dog, dusk. Peace.

Troubles seem just a tad smaller when gazed at under the expanse of a sapphire sky; they seem a little less complex when compared with the intricacies of the dogwood blossom displayed along the journey.

Right now, our time spent together as a family--this Before Surgery time—is extra precious and extra special. Yes, a health crisis is looming. Yes, a house crisis is looming. But towering over the crises lined up at our doorstep is the knowledge that we can lean hard on the love of family, and the support of friends, and the faithfulness of God. We can be assured that somehow, someway, we will get through this choppy chapter of life.

So enjoy a few pictures that show the peace of our evening walk. And know that your prayers and kind words have helped contribute to that peace we are experiencing, even in the middle of this the storm.

And after we come through the storm, we know our home will always provide for our family a safe harbor--wherever that home may be.

Emotionally Discombobulated

Well, it’s been an interesting morning.

I got up at 6 am feeling positively perky and perkily positive. However, a couple hours later, I was back in bed, crying under my pillow. And something tells me that this emotional roller coaster, these discombobulatory feelings as I enter uncharted waters, will be with me for a long time to come. It should make for some interesting blog writing. (And reading.)

As always, I was touched by your words of support in the comments area; I feel doubly, triply, quadrupally blessed to be a part of this Smithellaneous community, where strangers become friends, and where laughter and tears are equally at home.

And speaking of home (wasn’t that a smooth segue?) here is a bit more info concerning our alarming (and discombobulatory) house news.

When we signed the rent-to-own agreement almost six months ago, the agreement was that when the six months were over, we would have first dibs on buying the house. If we were not able to buy it, then it would be available for anyone else to buy. (The landlord is not interested in long term renting; he needs to sell the house as soon as possible and was actually quite generous to even allow us to rent for as long as we have.)

What we've just found is that the other person in the wings would be buying it for investment purposes; he wouldn’t even be living in it. And it does sound like he is also willing to rent it to us; however, there are two problems with that:

1. We would have to rent it for an entire year because some sort of capital gains tax keeps him from being able to re-sell before then. We really don’t want to rent for that long because not only is it money down the drain, we really want to own own home sooner than a year from now. It will help us feel a lot more "settled" here.

2. Also, the rent we’ve been paying for the past six months has been fairly reasonable in Manteo, which is a frightfully expensive housing market. Chances are that a new owner would kick the rent up to its “rightful” amount and it would be too much to afford.

The good news is, though, that we won’t be out on the street on April 30; we’ll just have to have a firm plan in place by then and decide if we’re buying or moving.

We lowered the price on our house in Smithfield yet again this week (sigh) and last night got a call from our realtor saying that THREE families are coming to see it in the next couple days. I tell ya, for what they’re paying for a house like that? I would snatch it up in an instant if I still lived in Smithfield! So we’ll see if--maybe, possibly, hopefully, miraculously—one of them might be the answer to our (getting more desperate by the moment) prayers.

Those of you who have commented on the housing situation (being indignant on our behalf, asking about fundraisers, offering concern and prayers, giving practical advice) have truly made my heart feel lighter. I’m amazed that you would invest your emotional energy into taking on our burdens--people you haven’t even met. Thank you so very much!

Last night, when Steve and I were feeling pretty weighed down by all the trauma, Sarah gave us a little something to smile about. She decided to grow a mustache! How can you be sad looking at a sight like that?

As I’ve been pondering yesterday’s events and the medical news we got, it occurred to me that it might have sounded a bit self contradictory when I wrote that my original intent was to opt for the lumpectomy/radiation and then later on, mentioned that my best option (because of my history) was a double mastectomy.

As I thought about my options during the week I was waiting for MRI results, my line of thinking was this: If the cancerous area was indeed as small as they originally thought, then I didn’t feel ready to take such a drastic step just to fight a small number of micro calcifications.

As I told Steve, “I’m going to have the lumpectomy now and then, if at any point down the road, there is even a hint of cancer in either breast, it will be a double mastectomy, no questions asked.”

I guess I was just wanting to offer “the girls” one more chance to behave! (Smile) But behave they didn’t.

And then, as if I didn’t have anything else to worry about, it hit me on the way home that whenever Sarah fills out any medical form, it will ask for a cancer history in her family. And she will check the box, “Mother.” I’ve always heard that if your mom or sister have had breast cancer (especially pre-menopausal) then it increases your own risks. And then I got all stressed out over that whole scenario!

I can do some stress!

Speaking of checking boxes, last week when I went to the plastic surgeon’s office for the first time, I had to fill out a medical history. I was breezily whizzing on through all of the boxes that I always check “no” on:

Diabetes-no. Heart disease-no. High blood pressure-no. Cancer- no.

Wait. Back up. Erase.

Cancer-yes.

And then there was a whole new, freshly produced batch of tears, just from filling out a dumb form. Who knew tears could be hiding around such odd corners, just waiting to show themselves?

But you know what? There’s a wise saying somewhere in the universe that says, “For every tear that falls, a bite of chocolate should be eaten.” (Or maybe I just made that up.)

And to help me out on this important project of keeping the tears and chocolate ratio balanced, I received this in the mail from our friends, Jim and Ann Martin.

Just looking at that picture makes me feel better!

________________________________

I received a couple emails asking for our mailing address. I hesitated about posting it here (security and all) but I figured if anyone knew our last name and town, they could look it up somewhere anyway. So, here it is. (Deranged ax murders, please disregard.)

Steve and Becky Smith

127 Raleigh Wood Dr.

Manteo, NC 27954

______________________________

The question was asked in the comments section: Did Sarah's stick group do "Arise my Love" for Easter?

Yes, she did, and it was absolutely amazing. What a creative way to present a song! (And she absolutely loved doing it.)

The Cancer Road. Just Peach.

A couple days after getting my breast cancer diagnosis, I drove about two hours to attend a meeting for female ministers living in eastern North Carolina.

I was, of course, still a bit emotional and shell shocked from my news and, of course, I shared it with the other women who had gathered. Imagine my delight when one of the women said to me, “Well, I had that same diagnosis a year ago and I got my radiation done at a clinic on the Outer Banks. I highly recommend it; the facility and people were wonderful.”

Now you have to realize that just the day before, I had driven by that very clinic she mentioned and noticed that it offered radiation therapy. I thought to myself, “Well, that’s probably going to be the closest place for me to go, but who knows whether it’s any good or not?”’

What a timely turn of events to get up the very next morning and have my question answered! There’s nothing quite as reassuring as getting a recommendation from someone who has “been there, done that.”

I took a few pictures that morning because the place where we met was so quaint and beautiful. (Half of the building was set up for a wedding reception; the other half was the public eating area.) If you live near Plymouth, NC, be sure to check it out.

Speaking of radiation and cancer treatment in general, I got a couple comments from people who were a bit surprised that I’d had my MRI done in a trailer.

Actually, every single MRI that Sarah has ever had at Duke was done in a trailer, similar to the one you see in the picture. So although it is probably a bit “alarming” if you’re not used to seeing it, we’re aware of a good number of hospitals/medical facilities that use these specially built/equipped trailers just for that purpose.

And as much as I appreciate MRI technology, if I never have to see another MRI machine as long as I live, I would be a very happy woman!

As for what the next stop is for us on the Cancer Road:

Tomorrow, Steve and I (accompanied by Sarah, since she’s out of school this week), will drive to Greenville yet again to get the results of the MRI. To me, this appointment is almost as scary as the actual diagnosis because we will be getting a much clearer picture of what we’re dealing with and what the treatment will consist of.

As I wrote earlier, around 20% of patients who are diagnosed with cancer that is “contained” are found (through an MRI) to have cancer in other areas of the breast(s) as well. So we’ll meet with the breast surgeon/oncologist first to hear the results and then (depending on what the results are and what treatment we’re leaning toward) we will go on to meet with the plastic surgeon afterwards.

Do I know how to have a good time, or what? Sigh.

Speaking of surgery, right this very minute Nathan’s girlfriend, Meagan is in the operating room having major surgery. Although I’m not completely clear on all the specifics, she has a condition having to do with the alignment of her jaw that, if not repaired, will cause major problems for her down the road. After the surgery, she will be in the hospital a couple days and when she gets home, she can only have liquids for 4-6 weeks. If you think about it, keep her in your prayers. Even though the surgery was not unexpected, it’s still a traumatic thing to have to go through.

Here’s one of my favorite shots of Meagan and Nathan.

In other news, we are getting perilously close to The Panic Button Pushing Point concerning the sale of our house. (We just thought we were near it before.) As I mentioned before, if we have a contract on our house by April 30, we will receive a $6500 rebate. Also, selling the house will free us from double house payments, double power bill payments, etc.

To make life even more interesting, it appears that 2 HVAC units in our rental home need replacing; it’s been 80 degrees here and our ac unit has been producing little or no cool air. Since we’re dealing with the complexity of renting with an option to buy, we don’t know what (if any) help will be given by owner to replace the (very expensive) units.

And as if we needed anything else to deal with? On the very day of my diagnosis, we got some other bad news that had to do with Sarah’s medical coverage and some other benefits we had been receiving.

So if you’re a praying person, we would appreciate prayers for us as we deal with the stress of this diagnosis and treatment, in addition to the financial complexities we’re working through.

In the meantime, I guess I will just have to get used to glistening. (Remember this point: Ladies glisten. We don’t sweat.) I will also have to get a fan out and gently cool myself like the lovely ladies in the Old South used to do on their front porches. While sipping mint tea. Which I don’t like. (Or maybe they sipped mint juleps? I don’t quite remember my Sipping History.)

Hmmm. I wonder if I can be a true Southerner and not like tea. Probably not.

In closing, I wanted to mention how much I enjoyed all your comments/stories about the Peach Angel story. (Scroll down to read.) It’s one of the things I love most about being a blogger—the interaction between my readers and me, and also the interaction between my readers and each other. So cool.

I also love the fact that your blog comments not only inspire and cheer me, they also make me think. A case in point would be this comment:

Becky, it's a great story. :-)

Could I gently ask a question? Why is race salient in this story? Just speaking as a family of color, I was struck by the need to tell us that he was African American. If he had been say, Caucasian, would you have told us that? Why not, just a man in peach? --Adria

Her comment was followed by a couple of thought-inducing responses:

Adria,

I can't speak for Becky, but when reading a story such as hers, it helps me to visualize the story by such descriptions. It is the way we were taught to write in school here. Adjectives help describe the person. If her story were to become a movie, that would be an important part of casting the role.:) ---Jill

Adria,
I agree with your comment about race, but I thought maybe it was a cultural thing.
I live in Canada, which places a huge emphasis (both in the courts and in schools) on multicultarism and on viewing all people as the same. Since about 1/6 Canadians are an ethnicity other than Caucasian, these "differences" are so common that a persons' skin color is not really thought of as relevant, if that makes any sense.

When I read the description, I thought maybe it was a common part of southern US culture to include a person's ethnicity in a description. (In a writing course I took a few years ago, I was told that in Canadian books an author should never mention a character's ethnicity since that would contradict Canadian norms. BUT if that same book were to be published in the US, that race descriptions should be included because Americans might consider race relevant.)

From Adria once again--

To anonymous person responding to my post, a few thoughts:

I would venture that people of color in Canada don't think their race is irrelevant, or that a multicultural approach does away with differences. In my thinking, multiculturalism holds to a strong view of cultural strengths and differences. It honors the differences, rather than obliterating them.

You could be right about a difference in the U.S. South. Hadn't thought about that.
I get weary sometimes when Caucasians seem to feel it necessary to tell a story that mentions a person's race when it isn't integral to the story. In other words, if I tell a story of Ruby Bridges, her race would be salient. If I tell a story about Michelle Kwan's phenomenal ice-skating abilities, it may not be. If I tell a story of Michelle's family's history, it would fit.

To tell a story of a man who was helpful, as Becky does here, the racial aspect doesn't seem integral to the story at all. If Becky were black and then said, another brother was there to help, that might be different.

I don't know. I just know as a family of color, these things are important to me. --Adria

See what I mean about great interaction? (And I especially appreciate the mood of respect and courtesy present in each of these responses; you guys are wonderful!)

I’ll just briefly add my two cents to the dialogue:

When I was writing the story, I hesitated before using the “African American” description, simply because I realized that its use might be questioned.

However, just a few days previously I had been reading Newsweek magazine and it featured the story of a recently deceased photographer who had covered the Civil Rights movement. The magazine published a few of his better known photos and as I looked at pictures of attack dogs being let loose on peaceful demonstrators, and as I saw pictures of Martin Luther King being dragged into a police station with his wife looking on, I got mad all over again about the abysmal way our country has treated the African American people.

And so when I had that encounter with The Peach Angel I thought, “Maybe I can do a teensy little bit of good here and tell a story that so beautifully illustrates courtesy and kindness between two races.

That was my motivation. No more. No less.

As a couple of you so graciously pointed out, it’s a shame we even have to have race and color delineations. Which is why I guess the best name for the man in my story truly was, “The Peach Angel.”

Not American Indian. Not Asian. Not African American. Not Caucasian.

Not red. Not yellow. Not black. Not white.

Just peach.

A “2 P Day”

Don’t tell anyone, but it’s 10:02 am and I’m still in my pajamas. I didn’t even really wake up until 9 am which is pretty late for me since I usually get up around six o’clock every day.

However, after three days in a row of doctor appointments and the stress that comes with dealing with this sort of new diagnosis, I think I deserve at least a Partial Pajama Day. (Also known as a “2 P Day.”)

And Snowy’s not complaining. He’s tucked right in the chair beside me, sound asleep and not at all concerned as to whether the leg he is snuggled up against is pajama clad or jean clad. That’s what I love about dogs. They don’t worry about a whole lot of nothin’!

I’m also recovering from the non-fun MRI I had yesterday.

I’ve had three MRI’s in my life: two of them were breast MRI’s and one of them was a heart MRI. The heart MRI was completely non stressful. I was on my back, in a comfortable position and didn’t feel at all bothered by the noise, the confinement, nothing. I could have stayed in there for hours and hours with nary a worry.

But the other two MRI’s? Not so much.

Two years ago when I had the Big Cancer Scare (90 to 95% chance of having cancer in one or both breasts) I had an MRI done and came out crying. I just figured that it was a fluke and that for any future MRI’s, I would be fine. Not to mention dandy.

Ha.

After having my IV started yesterday, I was rolled into the big MRI tube on my stomach with my right arm (the one with the IV) down at my side and the left arm crossed up and over my head. And that position was comfortable for, well, about two minutes. And then it was comfortable no more. My rib cage started aching almost immediately, being smushed up as it was against the hard table.

And the noise. Hoo boy. My family will very quickly tell you that I am hyper sensitive to noise. I will jump at the slightest sound and I can’t sleep unless my white noise machine is turned on to block out other sounds. Well, the MRI is incredibly loud by itself, but they also clamped a pair of headphones on me which was playing oldies music at a pretty loud volume. (In order to block out the MRI sounds, I guess.) I felt like my whole pitiful psyche was being assaulted by those decibels roaring through my brain.

And then I tried to move my right arm a teensy bit in an attempt to get more comfortable. When it ran right into the wall of the machine, the thought suddenly crashed into my brain, “It’s really tight in here. I can’t move. At all. I’m trapped!" (And I’ve never been claustrophobic before.)

Of course, the underlying stress, in addition to everything else, was the knowledge of what was actually being tested. The scan was examining me for cancer. Doctors were going to use that test to decide whether or not I do, indeed, have a contained cancer that can be successfully treated or whether there are other spots anywhere that could be more serious, more life threatening, more difficult to treat. So those thoughts were all scrolling determinedly through my beleaguered brain.

Then suddenly my whole body was as hot as fire; I felt sweat start to trickle down my face and panic start to trickle through my brain. And I thought, “I can’t do this. I can’t make it through this.”

In between the VERY LOUD scans, the tech asked, “Are you doing okay?”

Um. That would be a big negatory.

I replied, “If I come out for a minute, do we have to start the whole thing again?”

She said, “You can come out; you just can’t move.”

I said, “Well, I’m started to feel a bit stressed. (Understatement of the year.) Please bring me out.”

The table rolled on out and I lifted my head a tad (I was allowed to do at least that much) and gulped in some cooler air. The tech patted my back and said I was doing great.

Truth is, I wasn’t doing so great. I was quite convinced that I couldn’t go back in there for another minute, let alone twenty more minutes.

But I did.

Ten minutes later, my torso ached even worse, my back started to hurt, my sacroiliac nerve began to ache, sweat trickled down my face and I felt the beginnings of panic niggling around at the edge of my brain.

I was thinking, “I can’t do this. I can’t do this!”

At my anxious request, the very patient tech brought me back out and calmed me down a little, patting my back, letting me get some deep breaths. And once again, I was put back into the tube to face the battering noise, the panicked feeling of confinement, the minutes that had turned into hours, and the seconds that had become eternities.

When she finally brought me out for the last time, I was sweating, on the verge of tears and felt like every muscle in my body was screwed up into a tight ball. My face was flushed and sweaty, my hair was smushed flat in some areas and sticking straight up in others. I was not a very inspiring sight, on the inside OR the outside. (And yes, I probably WILL take some Xanax for any future MRI’s.)

When I finally got back into the privacy of the dressing room, I let the tears come--partly from the stress of the experience, partly because of the relief that it was over, partly because I was still getting used to the idea that I have breast cancer. That knowledge seems to come and go in unpredictable waves of emotion and denial and fresh realization.

I must say that this is quite a road to walk. I was pondering it all on the drive home yesterday and I think that part of the challenge for me right now is that I’m not in a town where I have lived for ten years and have lots and lots of people that I know well. I’m dealing with entirely new doctors in every category—pulmologist, family doctor, breast surgeon, plastic surgeon. There are no kindly, familiar faces in the medical field that I have any history with; I just sort of feel flung to the wind, in many senses.

And that is not to say that our new church family hasn’t been wonderful and supportive. They have. Different church friends have picked up Sarah from school, taken her to school in the mornings, walked the dog when we were at an appointment, brought plants and chocolate, called us, cried with us, hugged us and prayed for us.

So we’re in very good hands here, without a doubt.

It’s just that I was still just getting used to my new church, my new town, and my new community when this hit and so that’s why I feel a little more “at sea” than I might have otherwise, being in a more familiar place at diagnosis.

But that’s okay.

I think that this cancer diagnosis will speed up the “getting to know everybody” process in a good way; crises have a way of weaving peoples’ hearts together in a matter of weeks, rather than months or years. And that’s a very good thing.

I’ve actually got another story to tell from yesterday about a Peach Clad, African American, Angel Fella who came to my assistance when I needed it. But truthfully, all I can think of to do right now is to climb back into bed, put the covers over my head, and maybe cry a little, read a little, rest a little, and cry a little more.

This “2 P Day” has the makings of turning into a Whole Pajama Day.

And I think I’m good with that.