Pinch Me-It’s September

Hi September. We have a track record.

A year ago, I revealed the loss I experienced in the month of September almost two decades ago HERE.

September, you can’t snatch my comeback: delivering another babe via cesarean section, the epic girls trip to Disney, and NEEDTOBREATHE at Red Rocks.

Satan, you can’t have my September.

I’m here for all of it. The tortured transition between summer fun and school bells. The crisp air passing through my bedroom window kissing my furnace of a body. Harvest goodies. Ginger Golds.

September 2022, my oncologist etched the words in my brain, “You’re not out of the woods yet.” According to my faith, I am never really out of the woods.

September, you remind me - it’s go time!

It’s time to slay giants. It’s time to go after the enemy. It’s time to stop the evil of this world from coming after me and my crew.

Just a couple of days into September 2024, I was reminded of the enemy’s work coming after me.

I joined the leadership team for a local Bible study in my community. First day jitters, I thought to myself: people aren’t going to recognize me!

The last time I was part of this leadership team, I was bald. Bald, hit by the chemo train, hopeful for a healthy year, and blinded by my cancer’s persistence.

This year, excited and feeling 100%, I exposed myself to commitment. Committing to volunteer in a capacity cancer previously stole from me. The seminar’s facilitator encouraged the team of leaders to, “Spread good.” There it was.

Cancer, your reign of spreading bad life circumstances - thwarted.

Cutting my bag of kale for lunch after the seminar (the pains of doing my one clean eating thing for the day), I became overjoyed by the life I’m living. Fully aware of the realities of “waiting for the other shoe to drop,” I didn’t let fear overshadow the joy of serving my sovereign God.

In all the stages of cancer, healing, and survivorship, spreading good was right at my fingertips.

Spreading good is always just one decision away. No matter how September says hello to you, spreading good is available for you too!

September, I am coming for you. PR in the making. I’ll be over here wearing my “sapphire slippers” to be ready for you.

Unpacking Summer & “Mum School”

I did a thing this summer.

By noting the date of my last post, you also realize the gap.

Like I said, I did something.

Tomorrow marks ten years of raising my babes. What a blessing that I continue to raise my babes, and that they still adore and fight me raising them. Thanks God! This is truly gold that comes from you.

School is in full swing. And when I say full. Like for real full. Full of hot lunch, cold lunch, new gear, new teachers, new worries, new bus routes, new wake up times, new routines, and already the dreaded kid home from school sick multiple days. Like our bellies bursting after grandma’s Thanksgiving dinner. Bursting so much, one child gagged all of the contents of said child’s stomach in the middle of the school hallway just on the second day. And to hope, the year can only get better from here, right?

Enter my baby child flying the coop. On one of our last weekday adventures with the big kids in school, we went to said child’s favorite spot: the lake by the bagel shop. With our bagels in tote, we trekked through geese poop to get that prime seat, right next to the boat launch. Quickly by babe was in his glory: in full wardrobe chasing ducks through the murky, shallow water. To my dismay, my bagel became a donation to our new, stalking friends.

I didn’t want this moment to be over, and so with all my power and control over the moment, I told the kid that’s no longer a babe, “Let’s take a selfie.” So, the kid threw his arms around my neck and said, “Look mom. I’m like an angel on your back.”

Enter the full waterworks.

This is the kid that was exposed to the implications of cancer almost his entire existence.

After two days of a NICU stay for him, I held him in my hospital room looking out the window anticipating my husband’s arrival during the snowstorm. The building across the street caught my attention. The same view as my stem cell transplant. It was the place that cared for those battling cancer. I remember clinging to my newborn son praising God for his deliverance from suffering and good health. A view only worthy of praying for the afflicted. The future place of my care team, brains team, and the chemotherapy nurse that held me tightly.

If the postpartum season wasn’t enough, this guy would top the charts in weight and it seemed like lifting him broke my back. Cancer cells were hiding in my back. Before the babe was crawling I was laid up. I was canceling plans to help move a friend, and seeking alternative medicine to popping Advil to manage the pain, so I could simply not feel a thing and sleep through the night.

Fast forward, my unknown condition progressed, to flu-like symptoms day in and day out attached to the pain, unable to keep up with my busy toddler. He found himself with some really great women, but none of which were his mom. My bedroom door shut and locked reminded him, mom was off limits.

Enter cancer treatment for Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, and he truly became my angel.

He was the hug before I left the calm, peace filled walls of my home that would later that day become stained with the after effects of chemotherapy. He was worth every struggling ask to the friend that I needed multiple times a week to watch him, so I could go to another appointment. He was the snuggle that was always available.

God gave him to me because I would need an angel for what would shortly come after his birth.

And to hope, my cancer journey will bring him more good than sorrow.

Remission and survivorship welcomed new realities and challenges for my son and I. I was still on the mend, and he would be off to preschool part-time. What a relief. Yet, he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t potty trained. Through all the shuffle of my health, he didn’t advance into this territory. No one told me this would be a side effect of cancer. We had a “healthy” year together at home. I welcomed “Mum School” as Bluey puts it.

I knew moments with my kids would be fleeting once they were all in school for majority of the day. Well and you know because scans happen, life happens, storms happen, valleys happen.

For the first time in ten years, I approached our summer days with their agenda and not mine. I set aside cleaning just to clean, watching TV just to binge, blogging, and saving money. I was failing “Mum School” balancing all the plates at the same time. And boy was it delightful, even if it drove my hubby crazy.

This week my little “Greenie” flew the coop. He’s living his best days: outdoor school.

Here’s to failing “Mum School” and asking for forgiveness.

Here’s to finding gold together!

And to hope, the year can only get better from here, right?

P.S. If you need another heart warming smile, watch the Bluey episode “Mum School.”

A Mother’s Submission

May.

Rearrange the letters.

Okay God, you have my attention.

Your’s Truly, A-M-Y

Hello all the things that May brings. In my opinion, May is busier than the festivities of December.

Field Day / Reading Campout Day / Teacher Appreciation Week / end of BSF season for our family / Holiday Weekend / School Ends / End of school year activities at the library / planting the garden / Graduation Parties / Birthday Parties / Tulip Time / Cinco de Mayo / an out of the blue kindergarten graduation for one of my littles / you get the idea because your list keeps growing too.

As a kid, my extended family got together in May to celebrate about 15 May birthdays.

For me all the things have always happened in… May.

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I recently shared HERE the torture of planting my garden at this time of year and waiting for it’s goodness to blossom several days later. May warrants cultivating, believing, and the slow process of waiting.

Over the years, May has symbolized putting on my big girl pants versus being consumed by the busy happening around me.

My Birthday - May 13

Mother’s Day - May 12

Remission from Hodgkin’s Lymphoma Day - May 24

Getting my scans in to meet with my oncologist every six months even falls in May. - Scan: May 13 and Doc: May 23

In this space and time, three out of the five happen within 24 hours.

3 Reasons to “Throw Up My Hands.”

Mother’s Day… Celebrating a lack of control. As a mom, I fight to control all the things. Disappointment, grief, loss, pain, the straight path taking a detour, the zig zags, disease, outcomes, and fear. Sometimes, I experience these myself and as a mom.

Luckily, for all of us we come from a Creator who knows all the shoes we step into, knows our hearts desires, and forgives us when we neglect obedience. Our Creator loves us, so we can love too. Our Sovereign Creator loves creating good.

Scan Day… The old familiar feeling that, “I am a bump away from a blowout.” Yet, I am feeling armored up compared to my last scan that I shared about HERE. Bracing myself because “My insides will be exposed.”

Breathe.

If the laundry phrase, “Free and Clear,” doesn’t say it all, well here’s my best shot. My prayer is that I will walk in freedom of whatever comes of my scan and the weight of dancing between milestones. Motherhood in a nutshell, right? And hopefully a little more obvious… Clear, clear, clear results and a clear mind in the waiting.

My Birthday… Remembering I am still alive. God created me on purpose for a purpose (Psalm 139:16). God’s not done with what he started.

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All the Reason to Praise Him

From scan day (May 13) to results day (May 23), join me in shifting valley thoughts into praise. Tag me on Instagram and Facebook when you embrace God’s goodness and shift those valley thoughts into gold. I will be doing exactly the same. Showing up in the social world pointing to the everyday gold God provides.

Valley shifters… let’s throw up our hands in praise of our good God.

There's gold out there. Let's find it together!

Throw Up My Hands

Disclaimer: The word friend is used to describe family, friends, blood related relatives, church family, and my cancer support group interchangeably.

Special thanks to… all of my “friends” who made what could have been a nightmare an absolute adventure. Thank you!

If one phrase can clearly express the dichotomy of cancer it’s that exactly… “throw up my hands.”

Clinging to life, but ultimately not having any control.

The good and the bad.

A universal symbol of surrender.

A spiritual symbol of dependence on worshiping God.

One of my favorite songs by Brandon Lake called “Gratitude,” moves me to do just that, surrender and “throw up my hands.”

There’s a story in the Bible of a man’s hands being held in the air. This man Moses was leading the Israelites in a battle against the Amalekites. Scripture goes on to describe Moses’ success in battle this way:

11 As long as Moses held up his hands, the Israelites were winning, but whenever he lowered his hands, the Amalekites were winning. 12 When Moses’ hands grew tired, they took a stone and put it under him and he sat on it. Aaron and Hur held his hands up—one on one side, one on the other—so that his hands remained steady till sunset (Exodus 17:11-12).

Somedays, I am great at submitting to God’s control over my life, but most days, I move and be as if God’s sovereignty depends on me.

My tendency to do things myself really had to change in the wake of feeling the worst symptoms of my looming cancer, a cancer diagnosis, treatment, and survivorship.

My friends did just that: held up my hands.

I advanced because they held me up in the presence of my nemesis: cancer. God’s love for me, spread amongst an entire army walking through the fire with me.

My friends cleaned my house, willingly folded my husband’s underwear, visited me in the hospital, prepared meals, dropped off takeout, traveled hundreds of miles to pamper me, gave my kids opportunities to be kids, and refused to let me win at Scrabble. They held a space for me to pour out my heart and loved me through the trauma I was experiencing. My people validated my feelings, even if they had never been in my shoes.

Then, there was the group of friends that knew what I was going through. In an effort to find people in my stage of life walking through unforeseen circumstances, I discovered an organization that focuses on coming alongside adolescents and young adults who have crossed paths with cancer. Elephants and Tea exist so that no one has to walk through cancer alone.

To say I had the best of both worlds supporting my journey is an understatement. I had an opportunity to write for Elephants and Tea last Fall and this Spring discussing the power of finding the good on a ferocious cancer journey. You will definitely want to check out the newest article “The Power of Your Herd,” and the one you’ve probably already read, “Make Gratitude the Loudest.”

No one should have to fight cancer alone. A herd of any size has immeasurable strength. If you are walking through cancer treatment or chronic health issues, please know I am praying for the one friend that will cheer for you on your good days and bad days.

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My Neck of the Woods

May is around the corner…

The planting of good things to come. I won’t see the tomatoes and strawberries, but I can tend to them and watch them grow. Enough said, right? Waiting is hard. Tending is hard. Are you in a season of tending to the things you want to produce, good fruit? Or are you in a season of blooming? Possibly both. I would love to be praying for you and celebrating you. Drop a comment or fill out this form, so we can connect.  

Wherever you are, good fruit is coming.

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My son flies the coup next school year, to say I feel like an empty nester is completely ridiculous and insensitive to those sending their grown babies off to new endeavors, but it feels like the chicks hatched, and now, they are flying. He starts preschool next year. I will be attempting to intentionally live outside the day to day before sisters are off of school for summer break.

I’d love to hear your ideas to celebrate the end of an era - transitioning from staying at home with my babes to all of the kiddos being at school the majority of the week.

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Because you are my praying crew…

May marks a milestone - a huge milestone. It’s a milestone people dream of. A milestone folks with chronic illness hold on to both lightly and tightly. May marks one year of remission. One year without evidence of disease and no treatment. One year of feeling the joy of healing. One year of mourning the reality that I am surrounded by people who haven’t had the same experience.

One year of holding…

The light and the dark.

The joy and the sadness.

The clarity and the confusion.

Deliverance and waiting.

Celebrating remission comes with an upcoming month of throwing up my hands in the CT machine, waiting, waiting, getting nauseous on the way to appointments, waiting some more at the oncologist’s office, and sitting in front of my oncologist to hear what’s next.

A moment of “throwing up my hands,” so my body can creep through the scanning machine.

A moment of “throwing up my hands,” surrendering to God’s sovereignty.

If you feel inclined to pray for my family and I, that would mean so much to me. Pray that I can embrace May with joy and freedom from the wrath of cancer. That in the midst of an angsty time, I will fix my eyes on the everyday blessings God pours out to me.

From the bottom of my heart…Thank you for being a part of my dream herd!

Encountering Jesus On the Road to Emmaus

Easter 2024. Hi, I see you. Only by your mercy God, I want to feel you.

Looking back on my childhood/teenage years, I remember the significance of Easter as a parishioner of a Catholic church. The season of Easter encompassed: specific colors, Fat Tuesday, Ash Wednesday, Palm Sunday, Stations of the Cross, Fasting, Washing of Feet (gross everyone shares), and Resurrection Sunday. And this is just a short list of the activities I remember. I wouldn’t even say I participated or understood the formal traditions of each event. What I do know is all of these shaped my faith in my Savior. I even shared HERE how “fasting” continues to shape my life. What kid wouldn’t remember the gloriousness of bringing home a palm branch on Palm Sunday?

Yet, I needed something more. I needed freedom from the things of this world. I needed intimacy with my Savior.

Easter of 2010, I went to a non-denominational church by myself at the age of twenty-one completely unsure of my future, specifically my career as an aspiring teacher battling for zero to one teaching positions. That Easter service not only changed my eternity, it also changed the trajectory of my earthly life. I watched God unveiling His plans for my life.

I encountered God.

Recently, I binged watched my favorite Chicago T.V. shows cringing in between scenes at the monstrosity of fictional events. Yet, feeling the weight of Jesus’ death doesn’t seem to move me. In more specific words, it doesn’t move my callus heart.

I told a friend this reality. I asked her, is it hard to feel the cross because I look at the joy of Easter Sunday, or is it just the condition of my heart?

How can I cringe at the pollution of fictional plots on television, but not be phased by the final payment for the wrongs I committed and the wrongs I will commit?

While I don’t know why I am numb to the brutality of Jesus’ death for my sin, I do feel this: “The Road to Emmaus.” In the wake of a cancer diagnosis and the early stages of losing my hair to chemotherapy, the account in Luke chapter 24 after Jesus’ followers discover the empty tomb describes Jesus revealing himself to two people traveling to Emmaus. My hometown pastor put it this way, “Jesus still shows up on my road to Emmaus.” HERE is that exact sermon, if you need to hear the truth of Easter in the midst of a life not going the way you “hoped for” (Luke 24:21).

Jesus still reveals himself, so that we may have peace (Luke 24: 36).

Jesus meets me on my “Road to Emmaus.”

Jesus meets you on your “Road to Emmaus.”

Jesus, meets us on our “Road to Emmaus.” We just need to recognize Him.

Lord, have mercy on me. Help me to be more vulnerable in being emotionally present versus closed off in emotion. Soften my heart to the weight of sin I choose every single day, so that I can live differently. That I may better appreciate the people you’ve surrounded me with. Lord, break down my walls, so that I can walk free. Help me recognize you in my coming and going. Help my friend reading this notice your hand on their life. I also pray the person reading this will encounter you God. That they will find security in eternity with you, and the trajectory of their life will honor you.

Back Home

Can you believe this year’s Lent season is already more than halfway to Easter? This season of hungering for Christ is almost complete in the marking of Jesus’ torture, death, and resurrection back home.

This Easter season, there is no better reminder of my transplant anniversary than that dreary day: Valentine’s Day landing on Ash Wednesday this year. You could read more about my Valentine’s Day track record HERE.

This Lent season, I came up with an array of things I could rid myself of, so that my gaze could be on Jesus. Some of them were social media, carbs, sugar, sitting, and being negative.

Given the first anniversary of my transplant, I knew I’d have to be very gentle and graceful towards the ebbs and flows of my emotions. Therefore, instead of a Lent season focusing on depriving myself in observance of Jesus’ sacrifice and redemption, I shifted my mindset to adding Jesus into my everyday life.

As I’ve taken time to reflect on each day of last year’s transplant and hospital experience mentioned HERE, I drew my attention to hungering for God’s character.

By no mistake, God’s hand has been on the sum of anniversaries in my life falling between Love Day and Easter. The true beauty of death to life during the season of Lent.

Relationship heartbreak -> My life is so better off

Arriving in Africa -> Home and no more jet lag

We hired someone else -> Back to teaching as a sub

Winter days -> Almost 70 degrees

Single -> Engaged

“Amy, you have cancer.” -> Here comes the chemotherapy

Arrive for my transplant -> Discharge and see my kids again

This shift of unknown to God’s faithfulness tends to magnify at this time of year. They all stick out as much as the drastic rearrangement of decor in my home from blood, red to bright sunshine.

Never do I want to forget the one, true, absolute love Jesus shed with His own life for the restoration of my sins, and hope to be with Him forever.

Love Day and Easter collide at its finest!

And you can accept this love gift too. Or if you already have, you can remember this glorious gift today.

Here’s my confession. Life has felt like a blur. For most people, I think we can all feel like life before Covid is a blur, but unfortunately for my four year old son and growing daughters the past three years have been foggy. Life with chronic health issues yielded a fast pace, going from this place to that place, getting a sitter, rushing kids to bed kind of drill.

Existing and moving in the midst of fatigue, pain, sleep deprivation, and an array of inputs from the opinions of doctors and loved ones was simply where I lost myself. My focus turned into:

How can I please my family? VS -> How can I please my God?

Will this get me closer to a cure? VS -> God, you are sovereign over my life regardless of the status of my health.

Hubby, just be present with me. VS -> Holy Spirit, you see me and you are constantly with me.

How can I distract myself with business? VS -> Okay God, the quiet, slow, not moving and attacking my to do list warrant time with you.

Why would people fall away and not want to do life with my mess? VS -> You never shy away from my mess. You choose to always be with me.

I want to grow old and live forever. I don’t want my kids and husband to live without me. VS -> Have your way with my life Lord. You are good at being God. You know exactly the kind of life each of us will have.

Author and speaker Jennie Allen reminded me on her Instagram of the symbolism of Lent and confirmed the conviction: I was clenching on to my life. She cuts through the pain, “Today is Ash Wednesday. The day we collectively remember we are simply dust to dust, our lives but a breath… A perfect day to remember success here- it’s vapor, dust, breath.” Flourishing on earth and a successful stem cell transplant is a vapor. Just water meeting heat, no big deal.

I went into the Lent season gripping my future, in dismay that I had no control. “For dust you are and to dust you will return” (Genesis 3:19 NIV).

This Easter season, in light of a Lent season from home versus a hospital residency, I’m embracing the gift of gold He gives me EVERYDAY.

2-14-23 to 3-3-23, thank you for healing my body. I don’t miss you.

2-14-24 to 3-3-24, God you showed up a year ago, and you continue to show up!

Today’s Gold:  Eventually being at home with Jesus, but until then, snuggled up with my crew.

Our Family’s Favorite Easter Traditions:

Resurrection Egg countdown to Easter - We countdown to Easter with a dozen symbols that remind us of the Easter story. I hide an egg each day and it’s our favorite adult and kid friendly way to dig deeper into the meaning of Easter.

Washing of Feet - Just like Jesus washed His disciples feet, we wash one another’s feet. If we have loved ones over, we wash their feet. If we fought earlier that day, we still wash each other’s feet. We humbly wash despite reality, and remember to extend love, service, and forgiveness to the people around us.

Decorating Eggs - There’s no greater holiday pastime than convincing myself I will finally be able to add words to a decorated egg.

What part of Lent is impactful for you? I’d love to know some of your favorite Easter traditions too!

20-24

Disclaimer: This writing might be triggering for someone overcoming grief and loss. It is not my intention to add pain to one’s life, but help one see good things come from hard seasons. My heart aches for those whose heart breaks because of unexpected loss.

I’m a grown woman, celebrating what my bone marrow transplant nurse calls, “My second birthday.” Little does she know, celebrations aren’t my thing. Bringing attention to myself is surely not my thing. Plus, this regeneration of my cells doesn’t compare to the new birth in Christ I experienced fourteen years ago.

Okay fine. Today is one out of three monumental days (everyday deserves this praise) out of the year, I get to remember and reflect on the blessing of God not being done with me.

Today, I reflected on my transplant and the difference a year makes.

A year ago today, sadness overwhelmed my kids as we only talked through FaceTime.

Today, I got them up and out the door before the bus pulled up.

A year ago today, I was attached to a heart monitor.

Today, I closed a chapter on pelvic therapy because cancer cells wrecked havoc for way too long.

A year ago today, I was flooded with texts and prayers.

Today, I had an audience of one.

A year ago, my hubby fetched me hospital cafeteria french fries for a late night snack.

Today, I whipped up school lunches and the kids’ favorite pasta and garlic bread for dinner.

Not being able to shake the concept of my bone marrow transplant being like an additional birthday, I wrote in my journal, “If birth precedes death, then death also precedes birth.” Like Lazarus coming out of his grave, death preceded his new life. Here’s what the Bible says about Lazarus coming back to life (John 11:43-44)…

43 “Jesus called in a loud voice, ‘Lazarus, come out!’”

44 “The dead man came out, his hands and feet wrapped with strips of linen, and a cloth around his face.

Jesus said to them, ‘Take off the grave clothes and let him go.’”

What a beautiful reminder on a heavy day like today to take off those “grave clothes” of mine. That the death of cancer inside of me, and God’s healing on my life has fresh hope and a renewed purpose.

This day, a year ago, was called “day zero.”

Each inpatient chemotherapy day leading up to the transplant was marked with a negative number. Progressively getting closer to transplant day, -6, -5, -4, -3, -2, -1. The grueling week that finally brought on “day zero.” A new slate and opportunity to gain ground. I counted up the days until I’d be home with my family and a little further out of the woods. +1, +2, +3, +4, and so on.

Today marks +365.

365 days of physical, emotional, and spiritual healing and renewal.

A day worth celebrating because even against my own efforts, my body is far more mature than last year.

If this beautiful design by my daughter doesn’t seal the day, I don’t know what does. I love me some good number sequences, do you?

February Feels

If a Window Could Say 1,000 Words 

I looked out my window, the snow hadn’t started yet. Would it come at all? Would it complicate my husband’s arrival for my discharge? Every couple hours the babe woke up to tummy grumbles, and I gazed out my window waiting for the snow to fall. 

The dark sky illuminated by lamp posts highlighted the flakes beginning to fall. As daylight began to peak through the room, my gaze cut through the pouring of snow and onto the building across from the hospital. 

The building directly across from my room, I knew of it, but I didn't know a thing about it. Sure, I’d been there before to survey a breastfeeding infection gone wrong with my middle child. Come to find out, I had no concept as to what that cancer building represented. 

I held my newly arrived babe, and waited for my hubby to pick us up. I looked out that window and praised God for a healthy life. One that the people across the street from my room were ferociously fighting for. 

Fast forward three years to the day, I admitted myself for my stem cell transplant, and my room had the same exact view. Nonetheless, I knew exactly what was beaming across the street. 

The place I turned into a radioactive hazard. 

The machine that decided my cancer was stage four, from my neck to my sacrum. 

The office of my oncologist. 

The place my kiddos came with me to get my white blood cell boost shot.

My newfound bestie and confidant Sarah injected me with poison and embraced me with a hug. 

The best parking garage in the world because of its bright lights and greenery.

It’s the place my hubby met me, sat with me, and swept me out of my wheelchair after a day's worth of chemo. 

The place my hubby would fight my oncologist to do better. 

The crevices spread throughout the building where I attempted to make sense of my upside down world and fall short. 

What’s more, God knows all too well, if it was the only time, I’d embrace my kids jumping for my gaze completely out of reach. 

Avoiding Nausea or a Lack Thereof 

This year, it was my mission to avoid being at the hospital on Valentine’s Day. Better yet, it was on my agenda to redeem a day that has captured a lot of heartbreak in my life.

Humiliation 

Breakups

Career Rejection

Career Changes

Foreign Travels 

Winter Weather and a Broken Furnace

Mostly, an expensive night's stay alone with terrible room service, was the thread I hoped would come to an end. Three out of the last four February fourteenths were just that: insurance charges and hospital cafeteria food. A cesarean delivery, NICU stay, a lung biopsy performed by a thoracic surgeon, and inpatient chemotherapy to kickoff a stem cell transplant were all reasons this year’s superficial holiday would be all things ruby red. 

I dreamed of getting out and doing something fun that my hubby and I never do: skiing, or rollerblading. However, I quickly realized both of those could potentially warrant a hospital visit. So, we set our sights way out there and dreamed of life on the water at the nearby boat show. 

Figuratively speaking, I didn’t even avoid nausea! 

Redeeming What Was Stolen 

With a babysitter set a month in advance, and the hopes for a fun time outside of reality and the boundaries of a hospital alarm bracelet, we ate a quick dinner and immersed ourselves in living on a boat. Luckily, all of the boats were outside of our school district, and the ability for my body to feel the slightest waves allowed us to leave with our money in hand. 

I wanted this date to be perfect. Honestly, I had high expectations to be free of fasting liquids and foods, and tearing up my husband and kids’ lives. Walking around the event space, I had seen exactly what God had done. He impressed on me the sacrifice my husband had made all those years. 

That’s what Valentine’s Day evolved into. Not a measure of love, but the immense sacrifice my husband has made between raising children and overcoming cancer. 

The exact location where the boat show took place, was the spot my hubby served me wearing a mask against all of his might because he didn’t want to expose my chemo whelmed body to the masses of people he would interact with at the home show he participated in for work.  

It was the spot he previously walked the aisles of viewing his wife’s dream of a camper and not knowing if she’d survive long enough to one day enjoy it. 

It was the spot where he prepared his team’s booth for the upcoming home show, and abandoned his passion to meet customers over the span of four days because his wife was in isolation. (Thank you God for an employer that is more like family. A place Tim is valued and poured on with grace in the midst of treading water in the cancer pool: appointments, school transportation, and hospitalizations.)

God’s ultimate sacrifice when He sent His son to die on the cross for our sin and the things that break our heart is the greatest redemption story of all. The one true love story. “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13 NIV). 

Love day magnified the depths of my soul and the aches of my heart. Where I’ve been, and where I was going. Sometimes, it didn’t match up with my desirable life goals. At the same time, the cries of my heart projected the trajectory of my life. 

Here’s to many years of life changing February fourteenths! 

“No More Lives Torn Apart”

The season was festive, but my heart was bare. The climb to the top was far off. I had no clue what next year would bring.

I wrote this a year ago.

It’s been an effort to reframe what Christmas looks like this year. The staying home part is a bummer, but isn’t the worst either. The four rounds of chemotherapy and handful of doctor appointments this month is not very festive. But embracing the real reason for Christmas has been timely and challenging. 

Accepting the gift of the miracle of Jesus’ birth this season is so different being in need of God’s supernatural power. I’m confident, I’m not the only one who feels like they are at battle or facing something tough this Christmas. I’m believing for you, that there is more to your Christmas than the unwanted part.

Somehow, this is just the way life unfolds. While my health completely turned around, I can’t help but think of the loved ones who are experiencing Christmas differently this year. 

Really, who puts it better than Amy Grant? In her song, “Grown-Up Christmas List,” she goes on to say these earth shattering, baby crying in the manger words, “No More Lives Torn Apart.” 

As I grow up or become more seasoned to the reality of the dark and light of this world, my priorities for receiving gifts have changed. My Christmas list as a kid and an adult have evolved over the years. They ranged from toys I still hadn’t outgrown, to everyday necessities. To my husband’s dismay, after riding the cancer wave, there’s really only one thing I want, “No More Lives Torn Apart.” Not something he can wrap and put under the tree at all. 

The darkness of the world was so dense. Humanity torn apart by sin. Yet, God didn’t want our lives to self-destruct. He sent His perfect light into the world, a babe in a manger Jesus. 

This past weekend, my daughter’s ballet class performed to the music “The Greatest Love,” by Tori Harper. The most profound part of the dance was the timing of the motions that went with the following lyrics: 

The greatest love came for us

And we threw Him in the cold

Even so, He chose to come

I am so grateful, “Even so, He chose to come.” He came to be the light of the world (John 8:12). 

This Christmas, my hope is to embrace the baby I throw in the cold. That in welcoming His light this season, and in all my days to come, I just might receive the gift of, “No more lives torn apart.” 

Heavenly Father, thank you for lighting up my own darkness with your immeasurable light. Even when I feel like my life is in shambles, it is not. You hold it all together. 

Merry Christmas!

Gratitude Hasn’t Been the Loudest

So I throw up my hands

And praise You again and again

'Cause all that I have is a hallelujah

Hallelujah

Feet first, the sliding table moves through the device that has the power to permit seasons of pain, waiting, trauma, fear, joy, grief, and peace. And those are only a few of the many emotions and implications of any scan that serves the purpose of lighting up inconsistencies. 

Automatically, I sing Brandon Lake’s “Gratitude,” following the nurse's instructions to expose my body. I oblige to her request, “Put your hands above your head.” 

So I throw up my hands

And praise You again and again

'Cause all that I have is a hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hands go up, praise goes out, and the horror of what could be, flees. 

At the moment, I have scans every six months as opposed to three months. Somehow, my six month routine scans can’t be the only time I throw up my hands in surrender and praise my Heavenly Father. 

The horror of the unknown must continue to flee. 

One of my new favorite podcasters Alisa DiLorenzo puts words to the meaning of gratitude that resonate with me. She alludes to gratitude meaning an awareness of what one has received. I love that her version of gratitude isn’t attached to feeling happy or content. It’s simply an awareness. 

One thing I am fully aware of is the shame I felt for knowing the value of gratitude and neglecting its purpose because life hadn’t been peachy. Embarrassed by the grumbling life I was leading, despite God healing my cancer, I refrained from sharing my first published article. The irony of not sharing this piece: it’s simply called, “Make Gratitude the Loudest.” 

The non-profit, young adult cancer group Elephants and Tea sent me to Boston to read this article in their Words Matter magazine.

At the event, I didn’t read straight out of the magazine because the print was too tiny. Instead, I had a copy of the article in larger font. When reading my article, I froze not knowing the name of the article I would go on to share. 

I was unable to lay hands on “Make Gratitude the Loudest.” 

Come to find out that’s exactly what has happened in this season of remission, living amongst the sick, and facing the implications of an emotional, physical, and spiritually taxing, traumatic three years. 

Gratitude is missing. 

The dichotomy of two worlds is knocking at my door: the good and the bad, the light and the darkness, the mountaintops and valleys, the highs and the lows, good times and traumatic times. I share more on this in my previous blog here. 

If gratitude is an awareness or the position of my heart’s ability to notice the good, then surely gratitude can soften my heart and change my outlook. The words of praise on my lips surrender to The Great Orchestrator. The One who is worthy of my praise.   

This fall, in more ways than one, I was reminded of the time Jesus healed ten people consumed with leprosy (Luke 17:11-19 NIV). Ten people set free. My attention was drawn not to the healing, but to the person who left Jesus’ presence healed and well. Nine lepers healed. One leper healed, full of faith, and well. 

The trajectory of the one leper’s life: well – healthy, strong, shrewd, and advantageous (thanks to a quick Google search).  

Lucky for us, the same thing that separated the one leper from the other nine lepers is accessible to us today. 

One leper returned to Jesus with a grateful heart of praise. Scripture from the Bible says, “One of them, when he saw he was healed, came back, praising God in a loud voice. He threw himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him—and he was a Samaritan. Jesus asked, ‘Were not all ten cleansed? Where are the other nine? Has no one returned to give praise to God except this foreigner?’ Then he said to him, ‘Rise and go; your faith has made you well’” (Luke 17:15-19 NIV).

Praising God unleashes us to not just be aware of what we’ve received, but sets us apart. We become advantageous no matter where our story has landed us. 

Whatever uncleanliness, grief, pain, sorrow, or awful circumstance you are facing, God has the power to make you healed and well.

Brandon Lake continues the song declaring, 

I've got one response

I've got just one move

With my arm stretched wide

I will worship You

Moving in the valley is a mountain in itself. It is lonely, confusing, dark, and overwhelming. Simply torture. 

Make gratitude your “move” today. 

Here’s to remembering, “Make gratitude the loudest!”

Follow me on Instagram and Facebook to see photos from my holiday.

Credit: Brandon Lake’s “Gratitude”

Avoiding the bumpy Road

My son peeked around the driver seat, and squealed, “Mom, go the bumpy road.” Ignoring his request, I turned left, finding my breath in the smooth pavement. Who knew I could escalate a situation by simply getting on with my day and heading home versus going straight and taking “the bumpy road.” 

Quickly, I recalled a conversation with my good friend just ten minutes before this “fork in the road.” Convicted, I searched for another dirt road to make his day. Hopefully, I’d reap the benefits of him being better regulated after all that extra vibration of the dirt road. 

Turning down the next dirt road, his eyes sparkled as he let out his joyful screech. 

Immediately, my loss of control flew out the window. 

I’ve lost control like this before. 

The divots in the road have bounced my insides up and down, setting me off balance. It was enough jerking for the contents of my stomach to come out of my mouth. Just ask my sister. Well in this particular case, I was surrounded by people I didn’t know very well. I was on a mission trip in Nairobi, Kenya. The potholes, brick roads, and the savannah’s winding roads just about tortured me. 

My new found friend rubbed my back and held me close to help me center myself on the dusty, three hour adventure to our service project in the bare, vast open road of Kenya. 

God provided comfort when I had no sense of control.

A bump away from blowout. 

Terrified of blowing out my tire, the squeal of the tires going up and over the gashes in the road reminded me of how this season of survivorship feels.

My summer consisted of these highs and lows, me running from what cancer had stolen from me. I ran from my hobbies, friends, and family. 

I tried avoiding the blowout. Between my emotions, physical healing, hormones tanking, facing the realities of new beginnings, and unregulated kids, I felt like I was stuck on the side of the road figuring out how to change my flat tire. 

Recently, my family and friends joined me in a cancer event supporting the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. Caught between two worlds, the light of the world and the darkness that so easily entangles, I searched to do just that: light up the darkness of cancer. 

Carrying the light of healing doesn’t negate my grandma’s unconsciousness, the loss my best friends experienced, my friend in active treatment, and the loved ones on the verge of beginning treatment. With darkness lurking, what a great reminder: a small amount of light actually illuminates in the deep black of the night.    

Is moving forward possible, if I’m just a bump away from a blowout? 

In my rear view mirror, there he was having the time of his life, bumping up and down. I also couldn’t help but notice my obscured view through the dusty, rear window. 

In the thick of life, it’s hard to see how far I've come through that filthy rear window. It’s hard to feel like I am carrying even an ounce of hope and light in this broken world. 

The gift of seeing clearly on the bumpy road, isn’t that the antidote? Finding gold in the midst of fear and suffering leads to a life lived out to the full. 

When I went to Boston for a young adult cancer event, I was blown away by the obstacles my peers have had to endure through their cancer. Standing before them, I shared the importance of “Making Gratitude the Loudest.” 

Simply gratitude. My Heavenly Father says just that, “In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.” (1 Thessalonians 5:18)

So, many of you have ventured on this journey of overcoming cancer with me. Recently, you prayed and believed big things for me on my trip to Boston. I shared the reason for that trip here. To say it plainly, I’ve neglected sharing the highlights of this trip and my first published piece of writing. 

I have not been making gratitude the loudest.

Staring through my filthy rear window, I am overwhelmed: lacking focus, overscheduling my time, prioritizing temporary things of this world, and sulking in the cards I’ve been dealt. My whole being feeling out of control.

Jesus declares to His disciples the reality of hardships.

Avoiding getting dirty isn’t an option. 

Obsessing over cleaning up the house, stuffing my kids’ emotions, and writing off my husband, I am full of pride. I don’t want to get dirty. My son thinks the dirtier the van gets the better. At the same time, I cringe at the thought of moving forward wearing the filth. The shame and fear I dress myself in are so much more comfortable than the possibilities that lie ahead. 

Confession: I utilize my spending money on a monthly car wash membership. It would be a sensible expense if I lived off of a dusty road or frequently traveled the highway. Yet, I’m in the clean vehicle pulling up to the carwash to get a good rinse. 

Am I even worthy of a carwash? 

The bumpy road is messy. I’ve got loads of baggage riding shotgun: unmet expectations, hurt, rejection, fear, trauma, shame, control, obsessiveness, avoidance, and darkness tucked tightly inside of me. All of which, I’ve endured through cancer, and in some instances, my entire life. 

If only the baggage of cancer: shedding hair, menopause, scans, medication, pelvic floor pain, depression, and trauma disappeared like the cancer cells did with those toxic chemotherapy drugs. 

Fortunately for each of us, our Creator calls us His very good work and cleanses us of our pasts and present better than any chemotherapy drugs. Like a filthy van needing a good wash, Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection gives us hope and a future with God. 

My pastor put it this way, “If you’re stuck in your past, you can never walk into your future…You have a huge windshield up here because what matters most is where you’re going and what’s in front of you. Could you imagine if I tried to leave my house and drive all the way to work only looking in the rear view mirror?” Rehearsing the pain will only keep me from the future God has for me. 

Are you in need of a carwash? 

That deep cleansing of our souls is available for us today. The Bible says, “If you declare with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. For it is with your heart that you believe and are justified, and it is with your mouth that you profess your faith and are saved.” (Romans 10:9-10) If you declared that, please let me know here. 

To my son’s dismay the bumpy road ended. Praise God!

My son and I landed far off the path we were originally on.

I shared in my last update, the Israelites discomfort with their far from direct route to the Promised Land. How refreshing that God is still at work on the roundabout way, so that he gets all the glory and praise.

What detour have you been on in the past or recently? I’d love to see how God is moving on your detour here. 

By the grace of God, today’s bumpy road trip set the trajectory for my interactions with my son the rest of the day. 

My prayer is that you will find hope that the bumpy road will come to an end. Maybe not right now, or even here on earth, but if we allow God to be in the driver seat, the road will smooth out, and He will eventually redeem the bumpy road. God is worthy of our trust in Him.  

Let’s fix our gaze on the GOOD He is doing on our bumpy journey. Simply glancing at the grime behind me, I can see the gold God provided in my past and the gold He is using to pave my future; even if it's a little bumpy. 

P.S. Special thanks to Cocomelon for providing me the opportunity to get back on the horse and write. 

“Wake Me Up When September Ends”

My senior year of high school started off awesome. I was part of a teaching program that allowed me to leave school two hours early to teach at a nearby elementary school. I was finally connecting with friends, and the White Sox would soon clinch the title of World Series champions. 

But then September came. 

My grandpa—who had been ill most of my childhood but hospitalized for six months—passed away. For the second time in my life, I felt extreme grief, that the weight of life was crushing me.

That September marked the trajectory of how I feel about most Septembers. This old Green Day song caught my attention then. 

Summer has come and passed

The innocent can never last

Wake me up when September ends

Last year, I counted down the days until September. How many more chemotherapy sessions would I need to earn my sapphire slippers and reclaim my health? I was ecstatic for September. My daughters would have the best teachers that school year, I would be done with treatment, and I would be on my way to celebrate at the happiest place on earth. 

Quickly, no treatment turned into hypothetical situations, extra scans, and a supposedly twenty-five minute MRI that took more than two hours, requiring stopping and starting back up seven times. 

By default, I found myself humming, “Wake me up when September ends.” 

Somehow, disease has a way of silencing seasons, and here I am today. Alive and cancer free, but far from okay. It must be September. 

This summer, I poured all of my energy into my family. Shortly before school began, the panic set in. I was wiped, exhausted, and unable to keep up with daily tasks. Come to find out my hormones—or lack thereof—were waging war against my body. Between my mood swings, lack of focus, brain fog, short fuse, and exhaustion, the repercussions of cancer and treatment side effects were getting the best of my moments. 

“Wake me up when September ends.” 

So, here’s to my upcoming “megapause.” Pun definitely intended. It hurts my heart to break away from attempting to write regularly. But I’m going to use this time to rebuild the bridges cancer burned. I’m looking forward to ingraining healthy rhythms in my everyday life, cooking, resting, building deep connections, volunteering at school, and rediscovering God’s unchanging grace. 

The pastor at my hometown church recently preached on the Israelites exiting Egypt. You can find the sermon HERE. He draws attention to the condition of the Israelites’ heart being in between slavery and the promised land. They weren’t where they wanted to be. 

Are you where you want to be? 

Are you in between where you were and where you want to be? 

Like the pastor goes on to say, where are you at “For now?”

My three and a half year old, who mustered up the strength to have a different caretaker each day for two years, isn’t potty trained and his preschool won’t have him, “For now.” 

The transplant that kept Hodgkin’s Lymphoma away destroyed my reproductive system, “For now.” 

The gals I send off each day are tip-toeing their way through their new school, “For now.” 

It’s September, “For now.” 

I’m believing God is using this season of transition to continue to draw me to Himself. I naturally wouldn’t sign up for change. I think that’s why I somehow always lose my cool in September. Summer is turning to fall. Pajama days on those unplanned summer days are evolving into school-bell hustles. 

I can hear my best friend speaking over me, “Fill the gap with trust.” Easy for her to say. She lives on the delicious side of the big lake. Just like Ecclesiastes says, 

There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under the heavens: 

    a time to be born and a time to die,

    a time to plant and a time to uproot,

    a time to kill and a time to heal,

    a time to tear down and a time to build,

    a time to weep and a time to laugh,

    a time to mourn and a time to dance,

    a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,

    a time to search and a time to give up,

    a time to keep and a time to throw away,

    a time to tear and a time to mend,

    a time to be silent and a time to speak,

    a time to love and a time to hate,

    a time for war and a time for peace.

He has made everything beautiful in its time. (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8,11)

Here’s to filling the gaps of healing, hurt, and suffering with trusting God’s goodness in my life. He provided for my family when my family lost our source of income during Covid. He preserved my life when I was in between doctors diagnosing the pain I thought for sure was just in my head. His goodness showed up everywhere when my family and I gasped for air on my journey to be cured. He will indeed do it again. He is pointing me to deeper resilience in Him. 

Good fruit is coming, even in the middle of the mess. 

When I come back, I will be sharing exactly how I embraced September: “Bridging the Gap: Back to School, Warfare, Boston, and Menopause."

I am heading to Boston!

I was chosen to write an article for adolescents and young adults walking through cancer as a patient, caregiver, or medical professional. On top of the magazine publishing my article, they’ve invited me to share my piece at their magazine event in Boston. Would you be so kind as to rally around me in prayer? Drop a comment with the day and time you’ve marked me down in your calendar. I will be traveling from September 22nd through the 24th.

I’d love any Boston tips too! I’ll be one of the few not eating the coveted seafood. Fun fact about me: I don’t eat anything that swims.

Despite my “megapause,” there's gold out there. Let's find it together!

In Sickness and In Health

The day before our wedding, our pastor hosted a rehearsal to make sure the bridal party knew where to stand, and of course, he threw some commentary and advice our way. We practiced reciting our vows, and instead of saying, “For richer or for poorer,” the pastor rehearsed, “For richer or for richer.” Come our actual wedding day, I was too busy laughing my way through repeating, “For richer or for poorer,” I blew through the next vow. 

There’s no rushing, “Sickness and health.” Sickness and health comes and go, but matrimony on this earth together never fades. Marriage is exposed to all the things. Seasons, stages of life, and money don’t replace the priority of clinging to one another. During seasons of marriage bliss, thriving, transitioning, and fighting, “To have and to hold,” Tim through it all will always be worth the good and the bad. 

This week is 10 years of running the race God has marked out for us! We put this verse at the forefront of our marriage on our wedding day, and God continues to reveal His joy, peace, and purposes as we run this race together.

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.” (Hebrews 12:1-3 NIV)

Indeed, what a race it has been! Whether the years went slow, altered our lives, or we desperately wanted to get on to the next season (hi, cancer), God has been so faithful. 

Enjoy the trip down memory lane!

By no means am I a runner. Lately, I even have walking limitations for my residual back pain. Yet, I’m so glad my race isn’t over yet. I’m overjoyed that I get to keep running this race with my husband by my side. 

Happy Anniversary Tim. You’ve made our marriage all that it is today!

Heavenly Father, help Tim and I keep our eyes on you. Thank you for the mentors, friends, and community of witnesses you continue to surround us with. Thank you for sending us great people to rally and fight for us. Thank you for loving us first, so that we could extend our love to one another. Amen

They Said Florida Would Be Hot

Often, when we shared we would be traveling to Florida in July, people looked at us like we had three heads. They couldn’t understand why anyone would want to be in the Florida summer sweatbox.

I thought to myself, families experiencing cancer don’t get to choose the season of their trips. 

Believe it or not, Florida is open 365 days a year. 

To be frank, when we arrived home from Florida on that July summer day the weather in Michigan: a whopping sixty degrees and raining. So ha. Who wants to turn on the furnace in July? 

Florida represented big things for my family. Years ago we finished paying $10,000 in medical bills for my son’s birth. My sister had just moved to Florida, so my husband and I agreed to save up money towards taking a family trip to visit her and my brother-in-law. We decided anytime we wanted to go off budget we would declare “grapefruit.” That it wasn’t worth going over budget in our day to day because we wanted to get to Florida. 

Florida grapefruit ripens during that lovely biased season, spring. 

When I was diagnosed with cancer, I had a six day window to enjoy a trip with my family. While the budget for the trip didn’t matter because cancer has a way of encouraging priorities, I couldn’t wrap my head around getting all the way to Florida. I didn’t want to spend more time driving to Florida than quality time in Florida. My husband and I decided on Gatlinburg, Tennessee to make the most of our time together, pre-chemotherapy as a family. 

But Florida. But Grapefruit. 

I just wanted to see my sister and the life she was building with her husband and son. After my first installment of chemotherapy, I considered flying solo to see them, but that didn’t make sense as my pain reappeared and intensified. Doctor appointments outweighed the luxury of traveling. Surely, I thought I’d go that upcoming spring during grapefruit season, but enter a February stem cell transplant. 

Even more of a reason to travel, and cherish family time, but isolation and stem cell protocol wouldn’t welcome leaving a bubble for quite some time. 

The grapefruit may have been done for the year, but the fun was just beginning. Just over 4 months following my stem cell transplant we drove to Florida. 

It was hot. 

It was fun. 

It was a slow going kind of trip. 

Once we got to Florida, we didn’t drive all over creation. We didn’t even set morning alarms. For not having a busy trip, all the swimming and sun knocked us out. Tim and I didn’t even have a chance to play cards after the kids went to bed. We simply rested as much as we could. 

Summer update: Woah! It was a busy July. We have 3 weeks left until the girls start at their new school. We’ve pumped the brakes on potty training a kiddo that has no interest. 

We are looking forward to a slow August, slower than July that is. 

Oh, No She Didn’t

After scoping out the inside area of my elbow she flipped my hand over. Immediately, I pulled my hand out of her hand. Resistant, I declared to her, “We aren’t using my hand for the IV.”

Of course, Parnell wasn’t my nurse, and the fight to make my short visit as painless as possible was escalating. Quickly, my nurse managed to find a spot on the inside of my elbow. Lucky for her, that meant we could be friends. 

Come to find out, my IV bothered me the entire two hour visit. I don’t know if it was the tape holding it down, or the position of the IV, but it quickly became the worst part of the procedure.

It never fails the IV is the worst part. 

I can clearly remember starting the IV for a Cesarean was worse than surgery itself. Three nurses attempting to start a line five times was worse than the actual spinal and surgery. There was even a time I had a nurse completely violate my wishes when she aggressively chose where she found a vein for her to access. Yep, it was right near my hand. 

You’d think I’d become numb to the pokes, but it’s always eventful. 

My counselor says it’s because it’s the first thing that happens during a scary event. The reality of needing an open biopsy, surgery to deliver a baby, or a line added for a transplant are all marked by the opening horror of that first poke: the IV. 

In some odd way, I’m thankful for those hard experiences because they are etched in my memories. Between cancer side effects and growing children it’s hard for me to capture memories I don’t have proof of.

The small office I frequent for Interventional Radiology procedures is completely different from the cancer center I regularly visit. There is only one procedure room, so patients arrive once an hour. Unlike the cancer center, there are only a handful of employees, a parking lot versus a parking garage, and very few patients.

I was the first patient of the day. The next patient would arrive while I was undergoing my procedure. You may remember the time I fell apart getting a biopsy because the person next to me was getting her port removed. I was so happy I didn’t have to whisper the reason for my visit. I was pleasantly surprised I could share the joy of my port being removed without upsetting the patient in the bed next me. 

Sure enough, after my procedure, I overheard the next patient state she was in to get a port. Immediately, I knew she was the priority I wrote about weeks ago. The nurse went on to explain how the port would work at tomorrow’s chemotherapy infusion. My heart broke for her. 

I feel torn between two worlds: celebrating the excitement of the end of treatment and friends of mine still needing their ports.

That’s where I’m at today. I’m sad for those who aren’t able to get their port removed because they continue to need treatment. My heart breaks for the friend who’s port has become useless because the cancer overrides the treatment. And a part of me feels terrified to celebrate the end of a chapter I potentially may have to read again. 

Cancer blows, but God is so good. His goodness is always right there in the middle of the junk.

Even though, I should have had a port flush, I didn’t have to because it was being removed. Grandma is helping with the kids. My husband went above and beyond to surprise me with a treat. My nurse and I connected over her obsession with all things grocery shopping and clean eating. No complications. Good sedation to not feel a thing. No nausea. A community of believers lifting me in prayer. My village. None of the other patients knew what I was in for. My friends going through their own cancer journey are encouraging me to find hope. 

Best of all, I didn’t need stitches. Stitches are on the inside of my skin, but glue and Steri-Strips hold the outside of my skin together. This was a huge win, and not because it’s swimsuit season! Yes, the healing time will be faster. However, I have a little one who hates invasive procedures. We thought I’d have stitches again, and that stressed her out. She knew in the past that stitches meant her life would be turned upside down. I was so excited to share with her that God was blessing us by shutting the cancer book closed. 

I know Satan is attempting to orchestrate doubt and cause chaos. That when I don’t believe the cancer book is closed it’s because I’m running on Satan’s lies that I am not healed. 

Now, onto the hard work of believing I’m healed and free of the disease that broke me to pieces for almost three years. I believe God is making something really beautiful out of those pieces. 

Has your life been turned upside down? 

God is making something beautiful out of your pieces too. Somedays, you probably feel like your life is being ripped out of your hands. I hope today you can choose to allow God to continue his masterpiece in you. That the fearful, doubtful, and painful voice of Satan will not trump the goodness of God that surrounds you. 

There's gold out there. Let's find it together!

Freedom To Surrender

For those of you who have been following my journey, you may remember my friend that brought me watermelon. A year ago, Tim and the kids visited with family up north while I recovered at home from chemotherapy. My friend bursted in with her positivity and that perfectly ripe watermelon that I so needed. At that point, watermelon was the only thing I could eat. That specific day, I was missing out on all the Fourth of July fun my crew was having at the lake. 

Before I could even feel sorry for myself, I remembered the sacrifice her family made. It's hard to have a pity party for yourself when you surround yourself with people who freely give of themselves. Her family had sacrificed in huge ways when her husband was deployed to serve our country. For one year their life as a family looked so different than their norm. Yet, on 4th of July she is bringing me goodies.  

Fast forward a year, my crew is spending the holiday together. We've fought to find freedom from cancer over the past year. While I am physically in remission, surrendering my health is a continuous battle. Usually, a battle that starts with lies that I won't always be free of cancer. 

Do you ever have a battle that starts with a lie? What lies do you need freedom from?

Could it be freedom from chemo, radiation, or cancer? Did the diagnosis you received turn your life upside down? Maybe the full-term date of your pregnancy haunts you. For someone, it’s interacting with a loved one post-conflict. Loss. Anger. OCD. Addiction. Comparison. Pride. 

God loves you way more than the bottomless spiral of any lie that is holding you back from your best self. Freedom in Christ is available today!

Surrendering your life for His ways is an option today.

Not sure what that means, reach out HERE. I'd love to chat. 

Like I've said before: if I could, I would bring you a bowl of watermelon and tell you how much God loves you.

“Soon”

We are officially in summer mode. It didn’t even take a week to get here. The kids and I have snoozed most of the early part of our days away. I’ve realized that I should not make any morning plans. We all like our sleep; especially, after staying up pretty late. 

Generally, my husband and I try to keep our kids to a decent bedtime, so he and I have a chance to connect. Lately, it seems impossible to watch a show or play cards after the kids go to bed. By the time the kids go to bed, Tim goes to bed. 

Between extra fun with kids outside, or jamming their shower in because they’ve gone too long without one, Tim and I don’t really have a window to hang out at the end of the day. I blame the sky for going to sleep at 10 p.m. We are on the west edge of eastern time, so the daylight lingers. Great for summer fun, not so great to get kids off to bed. 

I know we are in summer mode because I have a list for everything. Packing lists, grocery lists, kids’ chore lists (which mysteriously went missing), goals for the day and week, and my own long term goals all of which bring me comfort. As soon as I wake up until I go to bed, my day is jammed with kids and summer fun. If I don’t keep track of my thoughts it’s as if I never had the thought. 

What can be more gratifying than crossing off an item? 

Paper lists, laminated checklists, lists on my phone, and reminders, I use it all. If there is one way cancer snuck up on me, it was being able to keep details straight. I think the number of appointments, prepping questions for appointments, and being so immersed in cancer life just had way too many moving parts. I learned to keep my lists nearby, and write it down immediately. 

We’ve been busy. Summer fun is in full swing. Little brother wants to know all the things, and do them right this second. He usually can sense what’s going on, and attempts to get involved. For example, Annie put her golf clubs in the car for golf camp, and Silas took it upon himself to load every golf ball we own into the van. 

He always needs to be in the know. Usually it means more work for me. Somehow, he manages to create a tornado by helping, or he throws a fit when he has to wait. One of the calming strategies that works for him is knowing it will happen “soon.” Toddlers have no concept of elapsed time. Between my brain being in packing mode and his little brain filtering when the fun begins, he’s been asking to do all the things “soon” all day long. 

“Soon” we'll be tackling all things summer: Vacation Bible School, cancer camp for the kids, virtual writing conference for me, my port removal, and travel. First on the list: a family road trip to Florida. Last on our summer list, Tim and I will take a trip for our ten year anniversary. 

For now, it will be much easier if I don’t forecast our plans to the little guy. Somehow, we communicate what’s going on with the girls, and he gets wind of what’s going down. At the end of the day, what’s at stake for him? Probably whether or not he will eat when he wants to and have a chance to ride his bike. 

The day he can keep a list of his own agenda will be a very good day. 

Here’s to a summer full of fun, happening very “soon!”

Leave a comment guessing where Tim and I will travel this August for our anniversary. 

That’s a Wrap

It’s wild to think the 2022-2023 school year began while I was still receiving treatment for my first go at chemotherapy. The kids entered Spanish immersion young fives and Spanish immersion second grade. I still had two rounds of treatment for my first chapter of chemo. 

Wow! Our school year consisted of three chapters of chemo, celebrating chemo was over, and grieving more biopsies and disappointing news. Plus, we ventured into a stem cell transplant and isolation from the kids for eighteen days. We even had grandma move in for seven weeks. 

What a year. We made it. While we may have been sucking air, the girls flourished!

Our school year started with a huge blessing. My second grader would have the teacher of our dreams. She essentially runs the school, knows every kid by name for the crazy pickup line, and just has all her ducks in a row. We weren’t sure we would have her, but last year’s two first grade classes combined to one amazing second grade class. 

It was common to have a new driver pickup the girls from school each day. This sounds chaotic, but our favorite second grade teacher always greeted our mystery driver with grace and patience. She pushed Elsie to do her best every single day; regardless of what was going on at home. She was our ace in the hole; the ace I knew we needed. I just didn’t realize the extent to how badly we would need her awesomeness in our kiddo’s life. 

Then, there is the Maestra herself, Annie’s teacher. She was a repeat teacher for us. Elsie had her years ago as a young fives teacher. We knew from the get go, we were in luck. She would be the reason our daughter would love school. Annie even refuses to go to kindergarten because she doesn’t want to leave her teacher. 

Annie’s teacher holds such a special place in our heart.

When I wanted the scoop at school, I went to her (even if the girls weren’t in her class). She showed up for us when Elsie gained a brother while attending her class. And how can one not cherish the teacher who was excited and presented learning goals over Zoom during a Covid outbreak. She has seen our family in all of our splendor, and she was always an excellent communicator and teacher for both of the girls. She ran a tight ship, worked above and beyond, and still made time to play tic-tac-toe with Annie whenever Annie was having a rough day. 

Highlights from this year: watching the girl’s perform at their Spring Showcase, walking the Tulip Time Parade with their classes, joining as mystery reader from isolation via Zoom, throwing up in the pickup line, and watching the kids build strong friendships.

Most of all, our girls rocked it. Tim attended a donut social with the girls before school one day. I was still in the hospital. Tim got an opportunity to check-in with the girls’ teachers. They both said the girls were doing so well it was as if there were no added stressors at home. While home life was wild during the transplant process, the girls thrived as best as they could. 

We couldn’t have made this school year a huge success without our friends that mentored our girls weekly, the cutest furry friend carpool, grandma running all over town, amazing teachers, parents of the kids’ friends that met us in our mess and provided solutions, an outgoing local library that provided endless activities to keep our little learners curious, and the man, the myth, the legend himself…Tim. 

Dad worked it out to take the girls to school every day for quite some time. He showed up for all of us: reinventing his schedule, and pulling off the entire morning routine himself. He definitely sacrificed sleep, his own time to workout, and making his schedule the way he wanted it. He saved our school year. And for those wondering, Tim totally rocks the morning hustle. Let’s just say the kids’ teachers can definitely tell when mom drops them off versus dad. It may or may not have something to do with their arrival time. 

God provided all the things and more this school year. 

I know every year will look different, and have its pros and cons. This year has been unforgettable. It’s so hard to even put to words, we won’t be returning next Fall. 

Parents of school aged kids understand the whole registering for school in advance, and for us this took place January through March. It was right in the heat of all things to prepare for transplant, transplant, and house arrest. In Michigan, we have school choice, so depending on availability, we can attend any public school. 

Our school is about twenty minutes from our house, which makes for lots of driving. My health and the distance to school were not friends this year. We knew we needed to be closer to home. God confirmed this months ago, and it’s still hard to get behind. For years we’ve tried to get into a local school, three minutes from the house. Of course, Annie’s name got picked in the lottery while I was lying in a hospital bed. 

You can continue to pray for our kids; specifically, as they transition to the local Spanish school. They continue to prove their resilience, and we are confident they will grow this upcoming year too.

God, please help me see the fruit quickly! Help me see you are doing GOOD things for us, even if it involves change. (Fun Fact: I hate change!) Captivate the girls with your moving in their lives.

Here’s to one more sleep until Summer Break! Rather, one more alarm until I get to sleep in for a few months!

Phew, I’m Not the Priority

It’s been confirmed. My appointment to get my port out is not the priority. 

Praise God. 

Join me in thanking God that my port is being removed. For this I am so grateful. Often during scanxiety, I would pray more for the moment my port would be removed rather than for the scan itself to be clear. My port removal makes the news of remission a reality.

Disclaimer: Somehow, my heart can be so happy and grieve at the same time. My friends who are newly diagnosed, and the friends in this treatment game for way too many days, my heart mourns for you. I am praying that you will have this same victory. That even if your treatment plan has turned into more treatment, you will one day soon be comforted by the same news that you're not the priority. Until then my friend, you will be the priority in my prayers. 

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I remember all too well the quick turn around to receive care from Interventional Radiology. I would receive a call from central scheduling and the next available appointment would be a few days later. Whether I was getting a bone biopsy, receiving my chemotherapy port, earning my central line for stem cell collection, or gearing up for my transplant without meds for a PICC line placement; IR saw me quickly. I was the priority.

A curtain was the only thing that physically separated us. Come to find out there was even more that divided us. The nurse was doing his rundown with the lady in the bed next to me. He asked her what she was there for and she announced, “To have my port removed.” 

Those words were etched in my heart. My cancer didn’t go away. I should have been getting my port out and I wasn’t. Instead, I was getting a bone biopsy of my hip to confirm the spots that lit up on my PET scan were actually cancer. The lingering cancer that resisted the first chapter of chemotherapy. 

Before my eyes could dry up, a nurse who claimed she could access my port versus starting an IV in my arm really stuck it to me. If the appointment couldn’t get any worse, the nurse had no clue how to start a line to my port. There was no way I was giving anyone access to my port that day. Access denied.

I highly discourage anyone receiving a PICC line to do so without sedation. For some reason, I was told sedation wasn’t necessary, but I beg to differ. The GOOD that came from that experience: the nurse held my hand the entire time I bawled my eyes out. You know, momentarily after I called her out for not wearing her mask properly…while working over a sterile field.

IR saw several of my darkest moments. Whether it be the shock of the catheter dangling across my chest, or all the rage I kept bottled up inside somehow leaked down my face. IR I loathed you then and I still do. 

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Yet, there was that one time. To prepare for the stem cell retrieval, I had a central line placed on a Friday and removed the following Friday. My nurse, one of the best I’ve ever had. Fortunately, I had him as my nurse on both of those Fridays. He did his job without a care in the world, and with a confidence that took the edge off the entire experience. 

One time he called me asking if I could arrive for the line removal early so I didn’t have to wait for the doctor to be done with a meeting. I remember feeling caught off guard because Tim was at home and he was going to come home to take me. At that particular moment Tim was in a meeting, I couldn’t get ahold of him. I took a stab at it and drove myself to and from the bedside removal of my central line. Parnell was just down to earth and painted a picture clear enough to not get overwhelmed.

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Unfortunately, the date of my port removal creates a conflict. Every twelve weeks I have to have my port accessed to keep blood from clotting. My removal appointment is a few weeks outside of that twelve week window. Of course, it’s outside the window. Why wouldn’t it be? 

For those who don’t understand how the port works, I hope this helps. Over the last fifteen months, I have had the same port under my skin, on my chest, the opposite side of my heart. This has been used solely for outpatient chemotherapy. Basically, any chemo I’ve received apart from the stem cell transplant. 

To the eye, you can see the port beveled under my skin. It’s probably the size of a dollar coin. The tubing inside the port connects to a large vein near my heart. So, when a nurse accesses it he or she has to puncture the skin on the outside of my port. It’s almost as if the poker they use to puncture the skin were a button with a large thumb tack on the back of it. The button literally clips on. Medication is pushed through tubing that connects to the button. Before IV fluids or medications run through the tubing, the nurse uses awful smelling liquids to clean out the foreign object tucked under my skin. It’s usually sensory overload for me. 

In the infusion world, chemo nurses know how to access these ports with ease because they do it to administer chemo drugs. Now, an IR nurse, not as much exposure. What ends up happening is they poke several times to catch the spot the port is in. I essentially don’t let anyone besides my chemo nurse access my chest’s device. 

If I have any chemotherapy triggers, it’s getting my port accessed. Between the smell of cleaning the skin, the smell of the liquid used to flush out the line, and the poke, I prefer using my arms to access my veins. I better message my favorite nurse to put me on her schedule. 

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Here’s to July 10th’s port removal. I told you I am not the priority. What a great day it would be if Parnell was my nurse. I do plan on being sedated regardless of what the team suggests. Most of all, when they ask what I am in for, I will remember to whisper, “To have my port removed.” 

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PS… Don’t you love that we don’t have to find things or people in this world to make us feel important. We are a priority to God. Every moment. Always!

What’s Next?

My husband’s best life skipping lines at amusement parks has come to a close. I’d say that was his favorite part of cancer. Me having medical conditions to bypass the lines was a huge highlight for him. He didn’t have to stand in lines for hours with restless children. Heck, I didn’t have to stand in lines with my husband losing his mind. 

Thankfully the side effects of a year's worth of chemotherapy have subsided, leaving me without a medical condition requiring I bypass some pretty intense lines. I praise God every time I fill out my symptom sheet at the doctor’s office. There are over forty-five side effects of cancer or chemotherapy that get monitored at each appointment. I am always in awe of the fact that I have a handful or less of mild side effects. 

My most up to date side effects of treatment and damage from cancer include: achy legs, soreness in my lower back where the tumor was evicted, gynecological issues, and fatigue. Gladly, I will wait in line for the blessing of my health. 

Next in line, my favorite part: my port is coming out. 

My port coming out really symbolizes achieving a positive outcome. This journey of: treatment, not clear, waiting, more treatment, additional biopsies, all clear has no match to not physically needing my port. July’s port removal cannot come soon enough. This will be a glorious day. Glorious. 

In addition to my port coming out, I will continue to see my physicians. Every three months for a couple of years I will see my oncologist for a physical assessment. Then, every six months for five years, I will have a CT scan. Indeed, I will graduate from PET scans and switch to CT scans as long as my body doesn’t warrant a need for radioactive tracers. I will also frequent the stem cell transplant team for follow up at the six month and one year mark. 

More complicated than my port coming out will be updating my immunizations at the end of summer. The inpatient chemo I received in February wiped out my immune system of childhood vaccinations. I am not looking for advice in the differing worlds of immunizations. This is just another tricky piece of walking through cancer that leaves me not knowing what to do, or what avenue to take. 

The news of remission doesn’t warrant life starting over. There are residual effects from the cancer and treatment. My oncologist even went on to say to not be surprised if depression comes up for me and my husband. 

The world of remission is far from sunshine and celebrations. It’s the hard work of moving forward while my friends’ ports stay in. It’s embracing medical freedom. It’s using what I experienced in my cancer journey for good. It’s finding unshaken stability in trusting God’s goodness in this fragile world.