Not So Good . . .

Yesterday's final fill was extra, extra tough.

And today I've been in bed all day, on prescription pain pills, muddle headed, uncomfortable, throwing up, sleeping a lot.

When I stop hurting and my brain starts working again, I'll write more.

Final Fill Monday. Crazy Hats. Duct Tape.

This morning, Steve and I went out early for our (almost daily) bike ride. As we were peacefully pedaling home, I thought back to eight weeks ago when I was recovering from surgery and would sit looking out our front window at people riding their bikes past our house. Seeing them made me feel sad and wistful and jealous and, well, a little bit cheated.

But today? Today, I got to be one of the fortunate ones strong enough and healthy enough to get on a bike and pedal home through the early morning.

Simple, sweet blessings.

I will certainly need the memories of my peaceful morning to get me through this last trip to my surgeon today. One more saline fill. One more night of pain pills and saying “ouch” every five minutes and then I’ll be free for three months!

Although truthfully, I wish I could have the replacement surgery done a lot earlier; three months is a long time to live in the state of semi-discomfort and general weirdness that these expanders create. Some plastic surgeons do the surgery within six weeks of the final fill; others wait three months. I just happened to get a three month-er. (sigh)

But enough of that. Let me fill you in our weekend.

Saturday there was a reception at our church for a couple who is adopting four siblings between the ages of about eight and thirteen. One of their sons requested that the reception also be dubbed a Crazy Hat Party. And so it was! We were all invited to wear some sort of hat--crazy or not.

Sarah went with the non-crazy look as befits her more dignified demeanor.

However, her father grabbed onto the whole “crazy hat” scheme with the greatest of gusto. Steve loves doin’ crazy! He even accented his hat (and wig) with official Bubba teeth. His parishioners weren’t quite sure what to think about him although if the truth were known, they were probably wondering, “Is it too early in his tenure to vote him out?”

He got upstaged though, by Harold, who came in wearing this getup. (Harold’s “hat” is actually a ski mask that he bought in Wisconsin. Is that cool, or what?)

Here are two of our board members. And their hats.

If you can’t tell, Steve had a very good time at the Crazy Hat Party. (The guy in the Uncle Sam hat is the adoptive dad.)

Yesterday, we dubbed our Father’s Day service at church, “Duct Tape Dad’s Day.”

Please look at the following picture and note two things:

1. There is a pile of duct tape piled up on the platform. (Each guy got a roll at the end of the service.)

2. Steve is wearing a tie. Made of duct tape. That he created himself!

Here it is in a little more detail.

Is that creative or what?

As part of the duct tape emphasis, there was a contest for the men to make stuff out of duct tape and compete to win a gift certificate to Outback Steakhouse.

We also played a comedy video in the service about duct tape and then Steve preached a sermon called “Duct Tape Dads.” It was a brilliant, creative, down-to-earth sermon that tied up the morning’s activities perfectly.

It was a great morning followed by a delicious meal on the grill after the service.

Followed by a nap.

Ahhhh . . . . I love my Sunday naps.

Okay, it’s time to get ready to leave for my Happy Appointment! (Please insert heavy sarcasm right here.) I do hope your Monday is more lovely than mine!

The Room

Today is my siblings and my first Father’s Day without our dad; he passed away in August of 2009.

This week I forgot reality for just a brief moment and was about to write “buy Dad a Father’s Day card” on my to do list. But then I stopped in my tracks. And I cried.

The tears were a mingling of sadness and joy--sadness because he’s gone and joy because there’s no need for Hallmark cards in heaven.

I would like to honor Dad’s memory today by posting a piece my sister, Ruth, wrote shortly after his death.

THE ROOM

I hate this room. It feels like a prison.

It is at the end of the hall in this sprawling, brick building. There is one wide window looking down on a busy street, so close I feel as though I could disappear down into the incoming cars, my eyes mesmerized by the constant motion three stories down. I am reluctant to look around the room anyway; it is bleak, sterile, confining.

The door is always left half open and escape is easy, always within reach. And yet I still keep coming here day after day. Free to come and go, yet still I sometimes stay around the clock. Something compels me to be here waiting. There is only one thing worth focusing my attention on and it is in the exact center of this hateful room.

A man on a bed. Dying. My father.

So I am here. I’m tethered in my mind to the lines of tubes and needles surrounding the still form. Others are around, too—sisters, brothers, mother. We have been pulled from our frenzied days to be glued together by invisible cords, unspoken words, restless thoughts, teeming with tension in the stifling air of a hospice room.

We send quick looks of encouragement to each other, give an occasional hug, discuss the future without seeming to be affected by gloomy emotions. There is even laughter at times, rather beautiful, lingering in the air, hovering over us all like a mantle of soothing comfort.

Nurses come and go, checking the numerous pieces of equipment, then tiptoe out. We are alone again, attempting to keep a flow of normal tones and conversation going while watching the bed, checking for any movement, any change, the rise of the chest, up and down.

He is still with us. We lean back. Try not to think.

But so many thoughts assault our weary minds. When will the dreaded moment come? Why does death have to enter this physical realm and snatch his presence from us? Why?

Death is here. Unseen. Invading our territory. Pressing in. Backing off. Stepping ever so lightly but marring the mind with persistent stabs of pain and doubt. It is gloating over its power to wrack the body with slow torture, pouring forth lies of destruction, aimed at the core of one’s very soul—mine and Dad’s.

But in the quiet moments that tick on and on, I sense that his spirit has held up; it has clung to the only Truth ever known. The Great I Am stands between him and the destroyer like a mighty rock, impenetrable, exuding permanent peace in the presence of utter darkness.

It would seem to the natural mind that defeat is rounding the home stretch, the finish line is in view. The decaying body has been stripped of all energy and vitality; how in the name of God will it survive? The fear of the infinite unknown rises up in me, leaving my emotions tossing about in huge drafts of hopeless longing. It strikes at everyone here.

We have no firm knowledge of what Life will be like for him. Only staunch faith holds us up now. We resolutely fasten our limited mental ability to this absolute belief that God is all and in all. He will not fail. He will not forsake, for the Bible tells me so and Dad has lived it so—for us all. His past years of leading us through the lessons of living have instilled in us his confidence—that eternity is absolutely above and beyond what we could ask or think.

Somehow he has gently conveyed to me over the years that though we are weak, He is strong. I never need doubt because Dad has lived the agony and truth of that living Word, lived it with all his guts, hung with a bulldog bite to the hand of his Lord.

So when I am so very weak, I will remember this wonderful mandate, “For my light affliction which is but for a moment works for me a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.” Those serious words ring true of his constant goal and hope—to live for the things which are not seen but eternal. Priceless.

Suddenly blessed peace presses through the emotional tumult of The Room. It so softly enters this place where we wait—flowing through and filling every particle of air and dust floating around and through us, altering the natural atmosphere of human sorrow which we mortals suffer in the final hours of seeing a loved one pass.

Away from us and unto Him. “Dust unto dust.” The ancient command becomes a bulwark of celestial hope.

My father will be gone, very soon. Gone for good from my eyes, my arms, the arms that long to be held in the safe haven of his love. Love that I have known since a child, always present for me, so beautifully given. Godlike in its unalterable acceptance of me.

Now I believe I see his footprints stretching out toward the Milky Way like tiny pricks of golden light, helping me recognize the trail home, littered with bits of hope, faith and love, released from many years of his faithful care over me. He is still guiding my path on a sure foundation where there is none. . . nothing but black, heavy deeps of endless space.

One day when I head out to follow his pioneering trail, faint to the human eye but blazing vividly to my trembling soul, I will know it has been humbly tread upon by one who has overcome the frailty of human form to gladly change over into a spiritual being of everlasting life and joy. This is my constant joy. Thank you, Dad.

And finally, swiftly running, racing, tumbling toward immense and compelling grace I will call out, “Dad, I’m home!” Then I’ll see the massive door of heaven swing forth and his answer will pull my waiting soul into vast eternity.

The familiar voice reply, mingling with exquisite harmony in a victorious song of our dear Lord, “Enter into our paradise, beloved child. The journey is done.”

What’s That?

Last night after church, refreshments were served in the fellowship hall.  Steve and I were mingling, chatting with our wonderful folks, and enjoying the hum of laughter and conversation buzzing around the room.

At one point in the evening, Steve came face to face with a little girl who was about seven years old.   She was a fairly studious, quietly observant child and she just stood there very still, peering at him quizzically, not saying a word.

As he waited to see if she was going to say anything, he saw that her intense scrutiny had zeroed in on his “slightly expanded middle section.”  And remained there for a while.

At last, she slowly reached out her little hand and patted Steve’s stomach.  And then she looked up at him and inquired with the greatest of innocence,  “What’s that?” 

Steve was still laughing about it when he got home last night and started laughing about it again when he woke up this morning.

He said he was tempted to answer, “That, my dear, is popcorn, jelly beans and ice cream.”

But he didn’t.

I’m just glad the inquisitive child ran into him before running into me! We women don’t take those kinds of questions with quite the same equanimity as men, do we?  (Well, at least I don’t.)

I hope your day gives you many reasons to smile!

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.

My Kingdom for A Bike

A couple weeks ago, we made an exciting purchase.

Walmart was having a sale and we got these for just $85 each. I have always loved to ride bike but I haven’t owned one in over ten years.

Happily, Manteo is a bike town. It is almost a requirement that you have a bike here. You are not even allowed to buy a home, or shop in the local stores, or even breathe the Manteo air unless you have a bike. And I’m not even kidding!

So my love for bikes and moving to a town that love bikes all conspired together to bring about the result you see above: His and Hers bikes.

As I’ve mentioned before, we live about a block from the town’s biking/walking trail which is a lovely place to ride.

We can stay on the trail and ride for a very long time or . . .

. . . we can turn off the trail about three blocks from our house, ride a couple more blocks and then find this.

Lovely scenery to admire. Wonderful company to share. Multitudinous calories to burn. Invigorating fresh air to breathe. God’s creation to appreciate.

Sounds like a good deal to me.

___________________________________________

To follow up on my (pitiful) post from last night, I am still in some pain today from the saline fill yesterday. I spent the whole morning in bed, knocked out by a pain killer. I’m finally awake and semi coherent but not yet feeling real zippy.

And since I’m on the subject, let me answer a couple “saline fill” questions that were asked yesterday.

Q. Amy said: OUCH poor Becky, I must know, are the expanders a permanent "fixture" or do they remove those nasty little painful things? Did I mention OUCH.

A. Amy, if all goes well, I’ll have one more fill next Monday. Then I have to wait for three months for all the needed skin/muscle stretching to take place. Then my plastic surgeon will schedule me for the exchange surgery which means he’ll take out the saline filled expander and, in its place, put in a permanent silicone implant.

Once I recover from that surgery (which sounds like it would take at least a week or more—I might even have drains again!) I should be much more comfortable. The expanders can start to feel very hard and all the stretching and pulling that goes on is not a real comfortable experience. I heard one lady describe the process as, “Wearing a bra six sizes too small with coconuts in them.” Doesn’t that sound like so much fun?

I’m counting down the days till the replacement surgery day arrives. It should be sometime mid September.

Q. Alyssa said, Forgive me if this is a dumb question, or if I missed it before (which I am sure I did), but when they fill the expander, how do they get to it? Do they have to stick the tube into the port or do you have a tube coming out of the port? Either way...OUCH. Hope you are feeling better!

A. Alyssa, there is a port built into the expander and somehow (using a magnet) the nurse finds where the port is and marks that area with an “x.” When the surgeon comes in, he gives me a little deadening shot in another area of my breast and then sticks the HUGE saline syringe into the port to deliver the goods.

He and his nurse are always chatting away amiably (yesterday it was about herb gardens) and I’m lying there thinking, “Ouch, ouch, ouch.”

Can’t you tell that I am a scintillating addition to their conversational thread?

Today I’ll continue to take it a little easy while hoping that tomorrow will be a bit better. I’ve been told that with each successive fill, the discomfort level increases, simply because there’s more stretching and pulling going on.

So that’s my story! Let me know if anyone has any more questions!

If This Is Monday, It Must Be Saline Day

Yes, indeed, folks. Today was my day to make my little trek back to the plastic surgeon’s office for what was supposed to be my last saline fill.

I was a bit apprehensive about this appointment since I’d had some “out of the ordinary” troubles since last week. My left breast turned a lovely shade of pale lavender (not really mottled like bruising) and a little strange, jagged horizontal line appeared at the top of it. Not to be outdone, my right breast started to sport some bright and interesting bruising in several different (but complementary) colors. I felt like I was a walking advertisement for Crayola crayons, or something.

I also had quite a bit more overall discomfort last week; in fact, I even called the surgeon’s nurse last Tuesday and told her what was going on. She said that although what I was describing sounded “unusual,” she wouldn’t worry about it unless the area was warm to the touch or the pain increased a lot.

When I got there today, the surgeon immediately commented on the discoloration. (Even after a week it was noticeable.) He also admitted it was unusual and gave me some highly technical explanation having to do with the chest wall and the expander and the muscles in the area. Although I didn’t completely understand him, as long as he wasn’t overly concerned, I figured I wasn’t going to worry too much.

He did the fills (ouch) and then told me I would have to come back for one last fill after all.

Happy day.

I got myself re-dressed and hit the road for home. I felt like there was quite a bit more discomfort than usual and much to my dismay, that discomfort only increased until it was transformed into all-out pain. After about a half hour, I was actually in tears from the pain, which didn’t abate (even after taking two Aleve) until I was about 45 minutes from home.

Sarah, bless her heart, had dinner on the table for us. We ate and then Steve left for a church board meeting, after making sure I was sufficiently “doped up” and had everything I needed. (And by the way, he did volunteer--several times--to make the trip with me today but I told him I'd be fine.)

Sarah informed me that if I needed her to pick up anything I dropped from the floor or if I needed her to get anything for me, just to call. She made that sweet speech in between clearing the table after dinner and putting some laundry in the machine.

I am so blessed by this wonderfully supportive family that hangs out with me.

As per usual on a Monday “fill day,” I am headed for bed very early, pain killers on board, book in hand.

Oh, and one more thing.

Since it occurred to me that this whole notion of tissue expanders is as foreign to you as it was to me when I was first diagnosed, I thought I’d include a couple diagrams. The first one is of an empty expander, the second is of one that has been filled. As you can see in the photo, the expanders are placed underneath the chest muscle and skin, which they then expand.

Hence, their name.

Hence the discomfort.

A tissue expander

B port

C catheter

D syringe

E ribs

F pectoralis major muscle

G Other muscles of the chest wall

So there. Now you know the fun I’ve been having!

And that’s all I have for tonight. I am hoping this discomfort (which has just made a re-appearance in the last few minutes) will go away and allow me to sleep tonight.

Thanks for all of your prayers and concern over these past “interesting” weeks of my life. I appreciate each one of you so much!

One Potato, Two Potato . . .

Here is a view of my plate from dinner last night.

Baked potato, apple slice, fresh corn, peas, rosemary yeast roll, tomato slice, and grilled fresh tuna. (Given to us by a local fisherman.) I just love all the flavors and colors of summer.

I also love looking around the table and noting all the interesting food-related stuff. For instance, the difference between Steve’s and my “potato cutting” is fascinating. To me at least. (Remember? I don’t get out much.)

When I get ready to eat a potato, I take a fork, make a little tattoo all the way around the middle part of the potato and then open it in half, like opening a book.

Steve, on the other hand, does the whole “crisscross cut thing” through the top which to me, looks more elegant than my “splayed out way.”

And Sarah? Well, let’s just say that Sarah does the “flinging open the potato regardless of appearance” treatment. (And don’t worry--she was going to have meat too. It just hadn’t made it to her plate yet.) Also please note the TWO rolls on her plate. That girl loves bread!

I guess I never realized there were so many potato “schools of thought.”

Have I missed any ways of opening a potato? If you have your own personal way of dong it, do tell!

_____________________________________

A couple nights ago, Sarah and I went to see Letters to Juliet at our local theater downtown.

Such a lovely movie and especially nice to see it at a theater that has been around for such a long while. (I believe it’s been in operation since 1918 and in downtown Manteo for over fifty years.)

However, I’m sorry to have to report that just recently, the Pioneer Theater raised their popcorn prices and now we have to pay (prepare yourself) a whole dollar for popcorn. A dollar! Can you believe it? A whole, entire dollar? What is this world coming to?

And then you have to shell out $5 to even get in the door! Five dollars? That's highway robbery! I mean I can drive to the multi screen cinema up the beach and pay $9 to get in and at least $10 for snacks so why in the world would I want to stay in Manteo and go to the quaint, lovely, historic Pioneer Theater and pay just $1 for popcorn?

Why indeed?

I just love small town life.

And since I’m on the subject of Manteo, Jodi left a comment asking how the name of the town is pronounced. As best as I can tell, the natives pronounce it without the “t” or else with just a very soft “t.” It’s kind of like, “MAN-e-oh.”

Got that? There will be quiz!

No go eat some fresh sweet corn already!