“Beauty for ashes.” In a very literal sense, Colorado is burning up, the devastation of fires rampant and painful. From the literal ashes and smoke in the air, though, the horizon yesterday was absolutely breathtaking. Like, stop-everything-, pull-off-the-side-of-the-road-, capture-100-pictures-, call-everyone-you-know-, -and-stare breathtaking. . .
“Beauty for ashes.” It is quite poetic and the words themselves even feel beautiful, eliciting assurance and making hope touchable. And if you read in context where the verse came from, Isaiah 61, it is a powerful chapter with a very powerful message.
“Beauty for ashes.” A simple search offers that the phrase reflects a cultural custom of ashes being used in grief, literally on heads and figuratively on hearts and that the promise of God is that even in pain, He offers redemption and that this world is temporary but heaven is eternal. Ashes. Beauty.
“Beauty for ashes.” In my cancer story, every bit of my authentic self struggles with this. I hear it and I wanna immediately disregard it. “Yeah, yeah…” I say in my head. “…Good comes from bad.” “…I should find something to be happy about.” “…I’m so blaaaaaahhhhhessed.” “…It’s just another cliché.” “…You’re right [followed by a slouch made heavy by shame].” That’s my knee-jerk response and I’d challenge anyone to consider theirs. Not in hindsight. Not in presumption. Not in imagination. But smack-dab-in-the-middle of their worst, deepest, most destructively painful, very tangible grief.
Yet, there is inherent value of hearing it while in that pit. Because sometimes we have to cling to its truth if even by the tiniest of threads. And sometimes we have to let others speak for us when our own words are made incomprehensible by tragedy. And, whether we like it or not or whether we are capable of believing it or not, there exists immense beauty in the ashes of grief. Seeing yesterday’s haltingly stunning painting in the sky was a picture of just this. Holding awe for the astounding beauty made possible only in the presence of destructive ash, acknowledging that even when the phrase is hard to accept, its truth is absolutely true.
*Post 931
The Plank is in Sight :: 10/22/17 :: Post 55
I’m on the front end of an interesting week. And I’ve been on the verge of tears all evening. I’m not sure if it’s because I haven’t felt very good most of the day or if it’s because I’m so tired I can’t see straight. Or maybe it’s because of what lies ahead.
I feel somewhat conflicted about my week. On one hand I’m good with what will come to be this week. On the other, I’m dreading that which is to come.
This is my “best” week as far as side effects go…it’s the third week of my chemo round and supposedly I will feel my best, my most normal. I’m looking forward to a good week where I can work and have some of my old energy back. That said, in the midst of this best week, there will be planks on bridges crossed that I never thought would come into my path.
In addition to another painful physical therapy appointment and one last “fill up” of my expanders before final reconstruction next year, this is the week I will become bald.
I gotta say, this part of the journey has felt all-consuming. Why is it such a big deal to lose my hair? With all of the other stuff I’ve managed to get through – a forever-changing diagnosis, many huge decisions, a major surgery, a rough post op, a first chemo round (all while figuring out how to live life forever-changed) – this whole losing-my-hair business has felt so big. In the scheme of all that I’ve been through already, and all I have yet to navigate, this part may seem so small, so insignificant, so temporary… but to me, it feels incredibly difficult. And ultimately, I still wish I could wake up tomorrow and have this all have been a bad dream.
But no. Again, that’s not how this works.
I find that even though I’m dreading this next step, I’m also kind of ready. I’ve been thinking about it for so long now and it’s felt so all-consuming up to this point that I’m actually thankful that the day is finally almost here for me to actually walk it instead of just talk about it…for me to get to that part of this treacherous bridge and take the step (the plank has been on the bridge the whole time). I liken how I’m feeling tonight to how I have experienced much of this journey, the nights leading up to all the other big things – the first appointment, the mammogram, the biopsy, the MRI, the surgery, the CT and bone scans, the first chemo infusion – I’m done thinking about it and now let’s just do this…even though I’m scared to death and have no idea what’s on the other side. The upset and nervous stomach. The headache. The tears. The fears. The anger. The exhaustion. The uncertainty that I’ll have the strength to withstand. The praying for peace. The pain in the present. The hope for future purpose. The expectation of resilience. The rubber-to-the-road-faith.
I don’t know what this will actually feel like…what it will actually look like. I’m scared to death of what is on the other side, but the plank is already there and there’s no going back.
Oh the Tensions – A Year Later but with Deeper Presence :: 10/22/18 :: Post 404
As I stared at my ugly, un-feminine, scarred-like-Frankenstein’s-monster, bruised, cancer-beaten body this morning, it occurred to me that surviving cancer is way harder than not.
Surviving cancer means a compromised immune system, for life. Radiation tightness, for life. Scars, for life. Limb restrictions, for life. Pain, for life? …..All daily reminders of the battle behind and ahead. More surgeries. Oral chemo every day for 5-10 years. IV chemo every 6 months for 3-4 years. Acknowledging the fear of recurrence and constantly not letting it overtake me. ….And more that I don’t yet know.
Of course I am grateful to be surviving so that I can see my girls grow up and I can experience life, but the reality of what surviving looks like is still really hard. Oh the tensions….
Joy and grief. Hope and despair. Gratitude and resentment. Peace and confusion. Trust and fear. Presence and escape.
That said, it also occurred to me today, that this was the first Monday of a 21 day cycle following 365 days of that countdown that I did not have to go get chemo. I did not have my port accessed. I did not have to put lidocaine cream on my port so it didn’t hurt as bad to stab it with a needle. I did not have to sit in my infusion chair and take a “whatever # chemo round” selfie.
One chapter officially closed. Many more ahead.
October 22 of 31 :: 10/22/19 :: Post 767
I’m having one of those moments where I sit in disbelief that I am where I am. Did I really get the call? Did I really have body parts cut off of me? Did I really look at a bald reflection?
It’s so odd when moments like this happen…Simultaneously I feel so present in the pain while also feeling like I’m just an outsider watching someone who looks a lot like me walk this road. I shake my head sometimes thinking, really?
Yes, really. My mind struggles to truly comprehend the depths of pain that I experience….the heights of resilience that I touch….and the weary in-between that I slog through. …And not just me but also my people. We are really doing this. This is really our story.
Breast Cancer Awareness Month…
…Day twenty-two – Two years ago feels like two minutes ago, the memories are not distant and the consequences are forever. And I realize that this somewhat contradicts what I just wrote but that’s the wacky thing about all of this is that I am literally holding both tonight. In one moment, I sit in disbelief while in another I fully accept my cancer-riddled-reality.