Do me a favor. Please. 

Touch the skin on your arm, move your hand and feel the sensation as you move it…your nerve endings perking up as your hand passes over as they recognize the sense of touch. Now press in, what do your muscles feel as they respond and contract to counterbalance the pressure you’re applying? Can you feel it? Can you describe it? What words would you use?

I wish I would have asked myself these same questions 3 years ago tonight. I wish someone ‘on the other side’ would have told me to. I wish I would have found words to describe the sensation on my skin that, little did I know, would literally be gone, not just dulled or less intense, but G O N E in a matter of 24 hours. 

I’ve mentioned to people before, when they have asked about my story, that I don’t have feeling anymore in my chest, torso, most of my left arm and parts of my legs due to the surgeries of bilateral mastectomy and reconstruction. And they respond, I think only as they know how: “Oh, yeah, that is interesting,” or “Wow, that would be strange,” or “Huh. That’s wild.” And I probably would have said the same thing. [As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure I did since I had a physical therapist before my surgery tell me that I’d lose some feeling…] 

But as I am ‘on this side’ of 13 surgeries, 3 years later, I really had no concept of what it would mean to lose all feeling. And minus the very internal pain that I can sometimes feel in my rib cage or my sternum, I literally mean *all* feeling. 

3 years ago I remember feeling a desperation. Get this cancer off. But I wish you didn’t have to take them. Maybe I’ll wake up and get to the hospital and check in for MY FREAKIN BILATERAL MASTECTOMY and right before they cut me open, they will realize somehow [maybe by a miracle of God talking directly to them] that the cancer had been plucked out by Him as I slept the night before. That they would wheel me out to Chris in the waiting room and tell him the good news. That I’d get up off the bed and walk out, cancer free and miraculously healed. It was my last-ditch effort to cling to this desperate hope. Maybe, just maybe. But that isn’t my story. Instead, I sit here 3 years later (grateful, no doubt), grieving a loss of something so minutely detailed but so taken for granted. A loss of something seemingly insignificant but so desperately missed. Do me a favor. Imagine what it would *really* feel like to not be able to sense touch. If you didn’t touch your skin when I asked before, do it now. Then sear that feeling into your memory. Find words to describe what it feels like. And then write those words down. 

*Post 886

3 Years Ago Today :: Oh the Thousand Thoughts

9/7/17 :: Post 6

Today was hard. But it was hard because I have so many people who love me and are in my story. I’m so thankful for them.

I’m scared. I feel calm. I’m scared. God’s holding me in His hands. He’s gone before me. This stupid cancer is written into the stories of my girls. And that’s hard to watch. My friend reminded me today that when Jesus was on the cross, He felt the same feelings I am feeling. He felt them for me. He has been here before me. He will not abandon me. I’m not even comfortable in my own skin. Ugh. My boob hurts. A lot. All of the time. It’s a constant reminder. My anesthesiologist just called to check in and see how I was doing and if I had any questions. He then said that his wife had to go through this same thing and the surgeons I have were her surgeons and he thinks the world of them. I gotta make sure to wash my clothes. I’m so tired. Like beyond tired. Like the deepest tired I have ever been. Every fiber of my being is tired. My husband is unclogging a toilet. Life happens even in the midst of cancer. Tensions are high tonight. I can feel it…. Ugh, I have heartburn. And my stomach hurts. This time tomorrow night I’ll be without a part of my body that I’ve had for 25+ years. That feels sad. This time tomorrow night I’ll be without tumors in my body. That feels hopeful. I need to pack for my overnight at the hospital. I wonder what I should take? My sweet friend bought me a few shirts and pants that are supposed to be easy to put on since I’ll have limited mobility. I’m so grateful for that. I’ll have to take out my nose ring. I hope I can get that back in….. It’s fall. Football season. My favorite time of year. I wonder if I’ll ever feel the same about fall… Oooo, that was a nice catch! I didn’t get a chance to do my nails. Bummer. It’ll be awhile till I can do them again. Oh well. I hope surgery goes ok. Nothing is guaranteed. Everything has been moving so fast. So fast. And yet time is slow as molasses on a cold day. Being at the mercy of time is such a hard place to be. I hope my momma is okay tonight. And tomorrow. And Saturday. I think I should email my kids’ teachers to let them know I have surgery tomorrow. I forgot to tell them that detail. Crap. I have a long pre-op tomorrow…that time is going to be like frozen molasses. “Bring a book” I was told…..yeah, I won’t be able to actually read and retain anything. I wonder what I’ll be doing for that whole time? Please Jesus let it go fast. Please Lord, let nothing happen to the surgeons before tomorrow. Keep them safe and well and I pray they rest well. Time for bed. Tomorrow is almost here. Jesus be present.

2 Years Ago Today :: Stones

9/7/18 :: Post 358

I chose to do a hard thing today. I went to the funeral for a dear friend’s husband. It was so precious. And difficult. 

This amazing man, with his amazing family, battled cancer for 8 years.

Today was deeply intense as I sat there and heard so many things that I could connect with and relate to….from the inside. Each song sang was joined with an emotional upheaval in my soul. Seeing his precious family demonstrate just how much the battle is not a solo fight………….hugging his wife, my friend, and having a bond with her that I wish I didn’t have but so grateful it exists and such a bond that I treasure. We looked into each other’s eyes and didn’t have to speak many words….that kind of bond.

Stones of Remembrance was something I took from this man’s service today that I am going to spend some time thinking on. He chose to catalog several life experiences that spoke to God’s sovereignty in his life and how God was seen at integral life-moments…where God showed up in especially necessary ways. And on the altar this morning, there were stacked stones to visually represent each of those moments for him. This man chose to follow the examples of both Samuel and Joshua in the Old Testament as they, too, used Stones of Remembrance to remain mindful of God’s presence in their lives. 

I am going to take some time to choose some of my own stones so that when the darkness comes, I have light to see.

The first – that the Lord provided safety and security for my mom and me as she bravely navigated being a single mom…having my grandparents love her so unconditionally as they let us live with them after we were left to fend for ourselves and then the way God placed my amazing stepfather in our lives who would become the rock of our family and who would lead us into relationship with Him. THAT is a foundational stone that I will hold dear to my heart and be forever grateful for.

And a close second – that the Lord brought Chris and I together. We were so young and so naive and so barely-adult to be making the lifetime decision of marriage. God has protected our marriage through some horrendously difficult things, cancer to top that list, and I am forever grateful that He wove us together and we find ourselves stronger because of the hard that we have endured….not to mention the incredible daughters He has shared with us. 

A third that I can call out tonight is how the Lord worked on my behalf as cancer tore through my soul…especially at the beginning when I was swirling in a chaos of unknown and He just kept placing the people, the doctors, the surgeons, the operating rooms, the wig specialists, the friends and the next steps necessary to survive this hell. The day my nurse navigator called me and said, “this never happens so quickly, but the stars aligned and we have the schedules of two surgeons and an OR that all match next week. Let’s get that cancer off of you so that you can live.” My response: Thank you, Jesus, not the stars.

And it just so happens that the year anniversary of that perfectly timed and God-organized surgery is tomorrow. September 8.

As days and weeks go on, I will think on this more. I’ll name more stones. I’ll find significance and light and call those moments by name….moments where my God showed up.

1 Year Ago Today :: Remembering 2 Years Ago…

9/7/19 :: Post 723

September 7, 2017 – the night before my bilateral mastectomy. So much was going through my head.

The thousand thoughts: I’m scared … I feel calm … I’m scared … God’s holding me in His hands. He’s gone before me … This stupid cancer is written into the stories of my girls and that’s hard to watch … My friend reminded me today that when Jesus was on the cross, He felt the same feelings I am feeling. He felt them for me. He has been here before me. He will not abandon me … I’m not even comfortable in my own skin. Ugh … My boob hurts. A lot. All of the time. It’s a constant reminder … My anesthesiologist just called to check in and see how I was doing and if I had any questions. He then said that his wife had to go through this same thing and the surgeons I have were her surgeons and he thinks the world of them … I gotta make sure to wash my clothes … I’m so tired. Like beyond tired. Like the deepest tired I have ever been. Every fiber of my being is tired … My husband is unclogging a toilet. Life happens even in the midst of cancer … Tensions are high tonight. I can feel it … Ugh, I have heartburn. And my stomach hurts … This time tomorrow night I’ll be without a part of my body that I’ve had for 25+ years. That feels sad … This time tomorrow night I’ll be without tumors in my body. That feels hopeful … I need to pack for my overnight at the hospital. I wonder what I should take? … My sweet friend bought me a few shirts and pants that are supposed to be easy to put on since I’ll have limited mobility. I’m so grateful for that … I’ll have to take out my nose ring. I hope I can get that back in … It’s fall. Football season. My favorite time of year. I wonder if I’ll ever feel the same about fall… Oooo, that was a nice catch! … I didn’t get a chance to do my nails. Bummer. It’ll be awhile till I can do them again. Oh well … I hope surgery goes ok. Nothing is guaranteed … Everything has been moving so fast. So fast. And yet time is slow as molasses on a cold day. Being at the mercy of time is such a hard place to be … I hope my momma is okay tonight. And tomorrow. And Saturday … I think I should email my kids’ teachers to let them know I have surgery tomorrow. I forgot to tell them that detail. Crap … I have a long pre-op tomorrow…that time is going to be like frozen molasses. “Bring a book” I was told…..yeah, I won’t be able to actually read and retain anything. I wonder what I’ll be doing for that whole time? Please Jesus let it go fast … Please Lord, let nothing happen to the surgeons before tomorrow. Keep them safe and well and I pray they rest well … Time for bed. Tomorrow is almost here … Jesus be present.

It’s emotional reading through those thoughts two years later. I can put myself in the same room with the same sounds and the same smells. I can close my eyes and picture that night as if it is my reality this night. Tonight my stomach hurts badly and I have awful heartburn, just like I did that night – that’s an odd coincidence. And my husband is unclogging another toilet because it turns out, life still keeps happening in the midst of cancer.

The line that is heard loudest in my spirit tonight – This time tomorrow night I’ll be without a part of my body that I’ve had for 25+ years. That feels sad. But this time tomorrow night I’ll be without tumors in my body. That feels hopeful. What an astoundingly difficult tension to sit in…to recognize the immense loss that was coming while holding hope for what remained unknown. 

The night before was devastatingly emotional. I remember the stinging in my eyes from the sobbing I had done. I remember the confusion in my mind wondering why I had to walk this road. I remember the ache in my heart as I contemplated the reality of death. 

Two years later, I sit here somewhat pieced back together. I sit here sad for what we’re walking but grateful for the story that is being written. I sit here continually being transformed, living changed and trusting that when more hard things come, resilience will prevail, again.