I've told you all about my initial look at my new look.
For a few days after coming home, I had pretty much the same reaction each night before the mirror. Maybe it was even worse because it was a full-body picture. And it is grotesque.
Maybe you're thinking, "No, no. Come on, Amy. You're not grotesque." If you are thinking this, I invite you to re-visit the definition of "grotesque."
But as I looked, I would say to myself:
a) This is what the cure for cancer looks like
b) Each day you see this, it will seem a little more normal. And one day, maybe a year from now, you will not mind.
(This is probably the place to note that we could have taken a script from a Hallmark TV special depicting the ideal husband's reaction and it would have looked identical to Bryan's, the only difference being that Bryan actually meant it all.)
Well, it's been all of 2 weeks. And I already don't mind. That's how long it took to get used to. Less than 2 weeks. Life goes on. Maybe re-construction awaits me in the future. Maybe not. It's all good. And it's pretty low on my list of concerns.
So now that I'm over the sensitive, tragic element of the surgery, can I register a complaint?
Let's stop calling this surgery a 'mastectomy.' And, for that matter, let's stop calling the yearly x-rays "mammograms."
Why?
Because we need to stop pretending that breasts are mammary glands. They are not. Breasts are breasts. They are almost completely about appearance. And once in a while, some of them make milk.
I'm no gender historian, but I'd be willing to bet that the one mark of physical difference between the sexes that transcends time, culture and class is breasts. Not hair style and length. Not make-up. Not clothing. Not the swivel or non-swivel of hips. Not the shaving of certain body parts. But breasts. Sure, obviously, there is another physical difference, but that one is not publically apparent.
For a brief window of time in the lives of a lot women--but not all, let's note--breasts feed children. I am thankful that I was able to nurse my two babies. But even then, part of that experience was experiencing my breasts as something other than body parts directly related to appearance. And after a combined total of about 16 months between 2 babies, they stopped being mammary glands and went back to being breasts. 16 months! Out of 34 years? These are not glands, people!!!! These are half of a woman's physical treasure.
That's why everyone notices when a woman has a lot more treasure than most.
Can we just be honest about this? Let's just call it "Breast removal surgery." OK? And let's recommend that women get their yearly "Breast X-Ray." And we'll leave all the mammary gland nonsense to the scientists who need to classify humans as mammals because we nurse our young. The rest of us can classify humans as the creatures who appeal to one another in more vastly sophisticated ways than any other animal, along with one pretty basic way that has a lot to do breasts.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Not Always So Sweet
How are Gemma and Joshua doing?
Really well. The thing they have going for them is that, like all children, they are extremely self-centered. As long as they feel secure that all is right with their parents, they are all about themselves. They must be pretty secure, then, because they are as self-interested as ever.
It helps that it's summer, and that's the season of friends! They love being outside with the neighborhood children and Gemma's solitary goal these past 3 weeks has been to play with someone. And my neighbors have been so kind and helpful to have her over often for playdates while I've rested at home. Joshua has taken a lot of naps lately, which is his contribution to my recovery. (And probably his way of registering and managing the stress.)
But as for the title of the post. My 2 Gemma and Josh entries thus far portray the sweet side. Here's a little picture of the cherubs when they're not at their best:
2 days before the surgery, we got home in the afternoon following our consult, with the pressure of the srugery vs. chemo first decision newly upon us. Plus, I was about 2 hours away from the start of my sugar reaction to the glucose, and so was already feeling icky.
Mom had suggested we go out to dinner as a family--you know, before the surgery while I was feeling great. We expected a long and painful recovery from what was supposed to be a very severe procedure, so we figured we'd have our fun early.
This is why, when Gemma's next-door-neighbor friend, Kate, invited her over to prance in the sprinkler, Grandma told her "no." That is, we would be heading for the restaurant in less than an hour, soon after Mom and Dad returned.
Plus, Gemma had told her that morning that she had a sore throat. Mom didn't want it to get worse given that she was going to stay at Miss Betsy's the next night for several days. Why not send a healthy kid instead?
Bryan and I, a little stressed out, walked into the scene of Gemma having just been denied a sprinkler dance with her friend.
And she was ticked.
I got the scoop from Mom and figured
a) Got to back Grandma's play--especially since she'll be in charge of the kids for the next 2 weeks and
b) Gemma had developed the habit, back in October when I broke my ankle, of complaining of fake maladies, often imitating whatever pain I was having. Man, it was going to be a long year if she was going to keep doing that. I knew the sore throat thing was not real, so this would teach her to pretend!
When I told Gemma that Grandma was right, there would be no sprinkler action, she freaked out. Started yelling and stomping her foot as she--to her exquisite frustration--searched for the right words to convince me: "But I want to play with Kate SO BAD!"
There's no reasoning with a child in this state. And I felt her frustration. And I felt amused at her foot-stomping. And I remembered being the child throwing the fit.
And in the midst of this, Joshua, the little brother who daily puts up with mothering from Gemma got right up in her face and said, in his older-wiser-too-bad-for-you-voice "No, no, Gemma. You cannot play outside. You cannot play with Kate!"
Gemma stopped her yelling. Stuck her hands on her hips. Pursed her lips and narrowed her eyebrows at him.
He continued with the lecture, "Mommy says you have to stay inside. You cannot play outside, Gemma!"
She reached out and pinched his cheeks in one hand. Pinched his mouth shut. He has big cheeks and his lips looked like a fish and he seemed not to mind his sister's hand on him.
Silence.
Then she let go.
Then he said, "No, no, Gemma. You cannot play with Kate. You cannot play outside. . ."
Then I burst out laughing.
And that really ticked her off.
It ended with her in her room until she could calm down. And my call to Kate's mom to assure that, yes, tomorrow, if it was hot and sunny, they'd do the sprinkler again. And our decision to opt out of the restaraunt because by then no one was in the mood. And then my sugar reaction started, to I was glad not to have wasted the meal.
Really well. The thing they have going for them is that, like all children, they are extremely self-centered. As long as they feel secure that all is right with their parents, they are all about themselves. They must be pretty secure, then, because they are as self-interested as ever.
It helps that it's summer, and that's the season of friends! They love being outside with the neighborhood children and Gemma's solitary goal these past 3 weeks has been to play with someone. And my neighbors have been so kind and helpful to have her over often for playdates while I've rested at home. Joshua has taken a lot of naps lately, which is his contribution to my recovery. (And probably his way of registering and managing the stress.)
But as for the title of the post. My 2 Gemma and Josh entries thus far portray the sweet side. Here's a little picture of the cherubs when they're not at their best:
2 days before the surgery, we got home in the afternoon following our consult, with the pressure of the srugery vs. chemo first decision newly upon us. Plus, I was about 2 hours away from the start of my sugar reaction to the glucose, and so was already feeling icky.
Mom had suggested we go out to dinner as a family--you know, before the surgery while I was feeling great. We expected a long and painful recovery from what was supposed to be a very severe procedure, so we figured we'd have our fun early.
This is why, when Gemma's next-door-neighbor friend, Kate, invited her over to prance in the sprinkler, Grandma told her "no." That is, we would be heading for the restaurant in less than an hour, soon after Mom and Dad returned.
Plus, Gemma had told her that morning that she had a sore throat. Mom didn't want it to get worse given that she was going to stay at Miss Betsy's the next night for several days. Why not send a healthy kid instead?
Bryan and I, a little stressed out, walked into the scene of Gemma having just been denied a sprinkler dance with her friend.
And she was ticked.
I got the scoop from Mom and figured
a) Got to back Grandma's play--especially since she'll be in charge of the kids for the next 2 weeks and
b) Gemma had developed the habit, back in October when I broke my ankle, of complaining of fake maladies, often imitating whatever pain I was having. Man, it was going to be a long year if she was going to keep doing that. I knew the sore throat thing was not real, so this would teach her to pretend!
When I told Gemma that Grandma was right, there would be no sprinkler action, she freaked out. Started yelling and stomping her foot as she--to her exquisite frustration--searched for the right words to convince me: "But I want to play with Kate SO BAD!"
There's no reasoning with a child in this state. And I felt her frustration. And I felt amused at her foot-stomping. And I remembered being the child throwing the fit.
And in the midst of this, Joshua, the little brother who daily puts up with mothering from Gemma got right up in her face and said, in his older-wiser-too-bad-for-you-voice "No, no, Gemma. You cannot play outside. You cannot play with Kate!"
Gemma stopped her yelling. Stuck her hands on her hips. Pursed her lips and narrowed her eyebrows at him.
He continued with the lecture, "Mommy says you have to stay inside. You cannot play outside, Gemma!"
She reached out and pinched his cheeks in one hand. Pinched his mouth shut. He has big cheeks and his lips looked like a fish and he seemed not to mind his sister's hand on him.
Silence.
Then she let go.
Then he said, "No, no, Gemma. You cannot play with Kate. You cannot play outside. . ."
Then I burst out laughing.
And that really ticked her off.
It ended with her in her room until she could calm down. And my call to Kate's mom to assure that, yes, tomorrow, if it was hot and sunny, they'd do the sprinkler again. And our decision to opt out of the restaraunt because by then no one was in the mood. And then my sugar reaction started, to I was glad not to have wasted the meal.
Friday, July 10, 2009
The Oncology Appointment
10 July 09
We met with Dr. Markus today. This was our second appt. with him. He is part of the Rocky Mountain Cancer Center practice, which itself is a satellite of a center up in Denver. We're very happy with the arrangement and as for Markus himself? Kind of an egghead. And I'm pretty sure that's how he'd describe himself.
He's a really, really, really smart guy--MD and PhD--and as he talks about cancer and oncology, I can see that he is. . .on fire about it. He likes his subject. And he really knows his subject. He is a man of science, and not too interested in a personal connection. That said, let's be realistic about what kind of doctors the field of oncology is likely to attract. Are these doctors supposed to "people people"? No. They're supposed to be eggheaded scientists constantly striving to identify and deliver the latest and greatest advancement. At least, that's who I want on my team.
And all that said, Markus himself has a talent for explaining his mega-wat knowledge in exactly the terms that makes sense to me and Bryan. He answers our questions very well and completely and he's very likeable. Just when I was thinking to myself, "I guess it's OK that I'm just another cancer case to this guy" he commented on the philosophy of treatment we should be taking: "Let's just beat you up now with everything we have because then you'll be dancing one day at your child's wedding." To his great credit, he teared up as he said it.
I am a sucker for doctors who nearly cry.
So, yeah, we believe we are hooked up with the right guy. Not a single reservation about him. Of note is that his first name is Maurice. I am hard-pressed to name more than 5 American pop songs that include a man's name. "Maurice" is on the list.
Do you care about any of this or should I just get to the treatment portion of the post?
Chemo shall begin 2 weeks from now. We have two options in front of us. Tests demonstrate that they have the same outcome. But this doesn't mean that there is not a right choice for us.
With the surgery vs. chemo first choice, research shows the same statistical result. Yet it was very clear to us that we were to do one and not the other.
With this choice, there seems right now to be no big distinction. Option 1 is Old School. It includes getting "A," which is the "poster child" poison of chemo from the beginning. And it also includes starting "H" at the end of the protocol. The advantage is that "A" attacks cancer cells. There's a reason it's a classic.
"H" is a protein that's only a few years on the scene. Mine is a really aggressive, nasty sort of cancer that multiplies quickly. "H" is a protein that stops its growth. "H" is not for every type of breast cancer, but it is for mine. (Before "H" came along, the prognosis for my type of cancer was a little on the dim side, just because it is so dang aggressive. Amid everything else I'm feeling, I am deeply thankful to all the women who came before me and offered up their treatment to clinical trial.)
Option 2 does not include "A," but it starts "H" at the very beginning of the protocol. The advantage is that we'd be starting "H"--the cancer-growth inhibitor--right away instead of later.
And it's not a simple "A" vs. "H" kind of choice--it's not like that's the only difference. The two protocols themselves are different chemical approaches. I've just broken out the theoretical difference for you as Markus explained it to us.
As far as side effects, both protocols are identical. Except that "A" is the primo cause of nausea, and as I'm prone to nausea (e.g. motion sickness, car sickness, trampoline sickness) I'd likely become nauseous. They give drugs to counter-act this, of course. But then, that's just more drugs for my system to absorb.
This is what we need to think about and pray about in the coming week. We hope to give him a decision by next Friday.
Both protocols last for about 4 months. The chemo goes in once every 3 weeks. And either way, I'll go in once a week for an entire year to get the "H." (With Option 2, I'd start going weekly from the beginning because the "H" starts immediately.)
In terms of the statistics, it's a coin toss, as Markus says. He is very good about sharing which way he leans/where his preference lies, but also pointing to the science and admitting that it's just that: a preference. (And his preference is Option 2.)
So, coin toss, yes. But, again, this doesn't mean there's not a definite path before us. Please pray for our discernment.
We met with Dr. Markus today. This was our second appt. with him. He is part of the Rocky Mountain Cancer Center practice, which itself is a satellite of a center up in Denver. We're very happy with the arrangement and as for Markus himself? Kind of an egghead. And I'm pretty sure that's how he'd describe himself.
He's a really, really, really smart guy--MD and PhD--and as he talks about cancer and oncology, I can see that he is. . .on fire about it. He likes his subject. And he really knows his subject. He is a man of science, and not too interested in a personal connection. That said, let's be realistic about what kind of doctors the field of oncology is likely to attract. Are these doctors supposed to "people people"? No. They're supposed to be eggheaded scientists constantly striving to identify and deliver the latest and greatest advancement. At least, that's who I want on my team.
And all that said, Markus himself has a talent for explaining his mega-wat knowledge in exactly the terms that makes sense to me and Bryan. He answers our questions very well and completely and he's very likeable. Just when I was thinking to myself, "I guess it's OK that I'm just another cancer case to this guy" he commented on the philosophy of treatment we should be taking: "Let's just beat you up now with everything we have because then you'll be dancing one day at your child's wedding." To his great credit, he teared up as he said it.
I am a sucker for doctors who nearly cry.
So, yeah, we believe we are hooked up with the right guy. Not a single reservation about him. Of note is that his first name is Maurice. I am hard-pressed to name more than 5 American pop songs that include a man's name. "Maurice" is on the list.
Do you care about any of this or should I just get to the treatment portion of the post?
Chemo shall begin 2 weeks from now. We have two options in front of us. Tests demonstrate that they have the same outcome. But this doesn't mean that there is not a right choice for us.
With the surgery vs. chemo first choice, research shows the same statistical result. Yet it was very clear to us that we were to do one and not the other.
With this choice, there seems right now to be no big distinction. Option 1 is Old School. It includes getting "A," which is the "poster child" poison of chemo from the beginning. And it also includes starting "H" at the end of the protocol. The advantage is that "A" attacks cancer cells. There's a reason it's a classic.
"H" is a protein that's only a few years on the scene. Mine is a really aggressive, nasty sort of cancer that multiplies quickly. "H" is a protein that stops its growth. "H" is not for every type of breast cancer, but it is for mine. (Before "H" came along, the prognosis for my type of cancer was a little on the dim side, just because it is so dang aggressive. Amid everything else I'm feeling, I am deeply thankful to all the women who came before me and offered up their treatment to clinical trial.)
Option 2 does not include "A," but it starts "H" at the very beginning of the protocol. The advantage is that we'd be starting "H"--the cancer-growth inhibitor--right away instead of later.
And it's not a simple "A" vs. "H" kind of choice--it's not like that's the only difference. The two protocols themselves are different chemical approaches. I've just broken out the theoretical difference for you as Markus explained it to us.
As far as side effects, both protocols are identical. Except that "A" is the primo cause of nausea, and as I'm prone to nausea (e.g. motion sickness, car sickness, trampoline sickness) I'd likely become nauseous. They give drugs to counter-act this, of course. But then, that's just more drugs for my system to absorb.
This is what we need to think about and pray about in the coming week. We hope to give him a decision by next Friday.
Both protocols last for about 4 months. The chemo goes in once every 3 weeks. And either way, I'll go in once a week for an entire year to get the "H." (With Option 2, I'd start going weekly from the beginning because the "H" starts immediately.)
In terms of the statistics, it's a coin toss, as Markus says. He is very good about sharing which way he leans/where his preference lies, but also pointing to the science and admitting that it's just that: a preference. (And his preference is Option 2.)
So, coin toss, yes. But, again, this doesn't mean there's not a definite path before us. Please pray for our discernment.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Prayer Request
So many are praying for us. Knowing this is not some mere "happy thought" that lets us know how supported we are. We are truly thankful, and we truly believe God uses these prayers somehow. Thank you for them.
What is before us now is the chemotherapy portion of the adventure. We have our appointment with the oncologist today (Friday, 10 July) and I presume that protocol(s) will be put before us. Maybe we'll have to make choices. Please pray again for our discernment in proceding. That we would hear God's whisper, "This is the way, walk in it."
I'll give a full report after the appointment.
What is before us now is the chemotherapy portion of the adventure. We have our appointment with the oncologist today (Friday, 10 July) and I presume that protocol(s) will be put before us. Maybe we'll have to make choices. Please pray again for our discernment in proceding. That we would hear God's whisper, "This is the way, walk in it."
I'll give a full report after the appointment.
When the Bandages Came Off
The morning I checked out of the hospital, it was time to remove the wraps from surgery and have a look to see how the wound was healing. Mayfield had warned me the day before, saying that some women don’t look at all and that others are desperate to see it ASAP. As for me, I thought of the matter as relentlessly inevitable. I had seen nothing with my own eyes, so on some level I still looked like the woman of my wedding photos. But, after all, I was in the ICU of an Army hospital. Surely something must have happened.
I sat at the edge of the bed. Mayfield, his nurse, the ICU nurse and Bryan were all in the room. But when the bandages came off and I looked down, there was nothing in the room.
There are very very few times when I am not thinking something. This was one of those times. There was nothing but sadness. I realized from almost outside of myself that I was in the midst of a resigned weeping.
I vaguely heard Mayfield say that it was going to be all right, that I was a warrior. I get his metaphor, of course. He’s an Army doctor. He’s a West Pointer. He’s worked on real warriors in Iraq and Afghanistan. It makes perfect sense for him to bring a martial frame—the talk of enemies and battle plans and strategies—to the entire cancer event. But none of this feels like fighting. It feels like something to endure, and to be led through.
I also vaguely realized that Mayfield was gently re-fastening my gown, and then from there it was a glowing report of how great everything looked. As for me, I could not look away.
Now, two weeks later, I experience something much different when I look at myself. Different enough that when I write about it, I’ll label it “The Lighter Side.” But that First Look is burned into memory. There are a few experiences that, when I re-visit them and re-member them, make me cry all over. Very likely, this one will be among them.
And I’ve been wondering lately whether I would choose it for myself. You know, the past Spring I did a study of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount. It was life-changing. And Jesus says near the start of it, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”
There was a real question in this statement, and it’s one that stares me in the face as I do my wondering about whether I’d pick this road for myself: Do you really want to see God? Amy! If you could see God as a result of circumstances that also include looking down at your own carved up body, do you really want to see Him?
Pontius Pilate and Herod come to mind. Those two buffoons of the Gospel accounts. Seriously. I am so struck at how Pilate was simply uninterested in Jesus. Here he was, the Roman official, assigned to the backwater province of Palestine. Probably had ambitions of finishing up his tour there so he could go back to Rome to be a power broker, maybe even a senator.
He (and those before, and those after him) famously took up residence in Jerusalem once a year, at the time of Passover because that was the only time the Jewish city caused the Empire any angst. What would all those Jews do, all gathered together? Would that religious celebration of theirs ignite a rebellion one of these days? So, the Prefect from Rome would show up with all his guards and a heavy presence, and discourage the feast from becoming anything more than their yearly ritual. And when, inexplicably, these people brought before him a guy who seemed innocuous, maybe a little perplexing, what did Pilate do? Did he want to do anything more than handle this sudden inconvenience?
Not so much. His own wife had had disturbing dreams the night before, and something about Jesus recommended itself to Pilate enough that he’d “wash his hands” of the whole affair—that is, Pilate had a clue there was something unique about Jesus—but when he was actually in the hot seat himself, what did Pilate ask? Did he really want to see who Jesus was?
No. He gives this half-hearted effort at questioning the prisoner and when Jesus told Pilate He came to testify to the truth, do you know what Pilate said? “What is truth?” Kind of like, “Yeah, Yeah, buddy, I’ve got half a dozen friends and enemies jockeying for position in the center of the universe, where I come from, and each one has a version of the truth.”
I’ve often wondered about the heart of a guy like Pilate. He so obviously didn’t want to see Jesus. Was he alive a couple decades later, when The Way became big enough to capture the attention of the Empire? Did he comment over drinks with friends that he, in fact, had been the one to crucify the guy who started the whole annoyance? Who’d have thought? Of all the hundreds—maybe even thousands, we don’t know much about Pilate’s career—of men he’d had executed, who could have guessed that this one particular, humble Jewish guy would be so slow to die away? Was Jesus, for Pilate, only ever an intellectual curiosity?
And then there was Herod. “When Herod saw Jesus, he was greatly pleased, because for a long time he had been wanting to see him. From what he had heard about him, he hoped to see him perform some miracle. He plied Jesus with many questions, but Jesus gave him no answer.”
That’s one thing this last month has shown me: Sure, I’m no Pilate. But to what extent am I a Herod? It’s easy to sing the worship songs, and enjoy my church family, and look forward to hearing about God’s next miracle—it’s easy to be religious. Do I want to see God? Sure. If He wants to show up and heal someone in an instant, of course I want to see that.
But Jesus has no answer for the heart that seeks after the signs and wonders.
If seeing God means seeing something with my eyes that seers into memory a forever-sad moment, do I still want to see Him?
Blessed are the pure of heart. OK. But purity of heart? There’s nothing I can do for myself to have a pure enough heart for God. Wanting to see God in the first place? It’s a fair question.
I sat at the edge of the bed. Mayfield, his nurse, the ICU nurse and Bryan were all in the room. But when the bandages came off and I looked down, there was nothing in the room.
There are very very few times when I am not thinking something. This was one of those times. There was nothing but sadness. I realized from almost outside of myself that I was in the midst of a resigned weeping.
I vaguely heard Mayfield say that it was going to be all right, that I was a warrior. I get his metaphor, of course. He’s an Army doctor. He’s a West Pointer. He’s worked on real warriors in Iraq and Afghanistan. It makes perfect sense for him to bring a martial frame—the talk of enemies and battle plans and strategies—to the entire cancer event. But none of this feels like fighting. It feels like something to endure, and to be led through.
I also vaguely realized that Mayfield was gently re-fastening my gown, and then from there it was a glowing report of how great everything looked. As for me, I could not look away.
Now, two weeks later, I experience something much different when I look at myself. Different enough that when I write about it, I’ll label it “The Lighter Side.” But that First Look is burned into memory. There are a few experiences that, when I re-visit them and re-member them, make me cry all over. Very likely, this one will be among them.
And I’ve been wondering lately whether I would choose it for myself. You know, the past Spring I did a study of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount. It was life-changing. And Jesus says near the start of it, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”
There was a real question in this statement, and it’s one that stares me in the face as I do my wondering about whether I’d pick this road for myself: Do you really want to see God? Amy! If you could see God as a result of circumstances that also include looking down at your own carved up body, do you really want to see Him?
Pontius Pilate and Herod come to mind. Those two buffoons of the Gospel accounts. Seriously. I am so struck at how Pilate was simply uninterested in Jesus. Here he was, the Roman official, assigned to the backwater province of Palestine. Probably had ambitions of finishing up his tour there so he could go back to Rome to be a power broker, maybe even a senator.
He (and those before, and those after him) famously took up residence in Jerusalem once a year, at the time of Passover because that was the only time the Jewish city caused the Empire any angst. What would all those Jews do, all gathered together? Would that religious celebration of theirs ignite a rebellion one of these days? So, the Prefect from Rome would show up with all his guards and a heavy presence, and discourage the feast from becoming anything more than their yearly ritual. And when, inexplicably, these people brought before him a guy who seemed innocuous, maybe a little perplexing, what did Pilate do? Did he want to do anything more than handle this sudden inconvenience?
Not so much. His own wife had had disturbing dreams the night before, and something about Jesus recommended itself to Pilate enough that he’d “wash his hands” of the whole affair—that is, Pilate had a clue there was something unique about Jesus—but when he was actually in the hot seat himself, what did Pilate ask? Did he really want to see who Jesus was?
No. He gives this half-hearted effort at questioning the prisoner and when Jesus told Pilate He came to testify to the truth, do you know what Pilate said? “What is truth?” Kind of like, “Yeah, Yeah, buddy, I’ve got half a dozen friends and enemies jockeying for position in the center of the universe, where I come from, and each one has a version of the truth.”
I’ve often wondered about the heart of a guy like Pilate. He so obviously didn’t want to see Jesus. Was he alive a couple decades later, when The Way became big enough to capture the attention of the Empire? Did he comment over drinks with friends that he, in fact, had been the one to crucify the guy who started the whole annoyance? Who’d have thought? Of all the hundreds—maybe even thousands, we don’t know much about Pilate’s career—of men he’d had executed, who could have guessed that this one particular, humble Jewish guy would be so slow to die away? Was Jesus, for Pilate, only ever an intellectual curiosity?
And then there was Herod. “When Herod saw Jesus, he was greatly pleased, because for a long time he had been wanting to see him. From what he had heard about him, he hoped to see him perform some miracle. He plied Jesus with many questions, but Jesus gave him no answer.”
That’s one thing this last month has shown me: Sure, I’m no Pilate. But to what extent am I a Herod? It’s easy to sing the worship songs, and enjoy my church family, and look forward to hearing about God’s next miracle—it’s easy to be religious. Do I want to see God? Sure. If He wants to show up and heal someone in an instant, of course I want to see that.
But Jesus has no answer for the heart that seeks after the signs and wonders.
If seeing God means seeing something with my eyes that seers into memory a forever-sad moment, do I still want to see Him?
Blessed are the pure of heart. OK. But purity of heart? There’s nothing I can do for myself to have a pure enough heart for God. Wanting to see God in the first place? It’s a fair question.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Surgical Follow-Up
9 July 09
Went to my follow-up with Mayfield today. All is looking really great. There is a risk with this surgery that the flaps of skin that are preserved and sewn down won't take and then you have to do skin graft stuff later. Not the case with me, Praise God. It's looking like a perfect recovery, with just a small issue on the wound where the tumor actually sat. Nothing a little anti-biotic ointment can't handle.
We discussed the pathology report. No surprises there. The MRI measured the tumor at 8 cm, actually, it was 9. 9 centimeters! I asked, "Is that a record????" Nope.
I insisted he tell me what stage I'm at. The answer is stage III, which I guess I knew already, too. We didn't even talk about survival statistics. As he pointed out, it doesn't change our "battle plan" at all, and statistics don't govern an individual's life. They make no difference to me and Bryan because God has already told us that this cancer won't kill me.
In all, something about this doctor just. . .floats my spirit. In general, I'm doing very well, and feeling pretty great almost all the time. I'm in practically no pain and taking very little of my pain meds by this point. But in addition to this glad disposition, appointments with Mayfield multiply my joy. It's like God has put into his heart a very special care and compassion for me. Mayfield treats me like a beloved kid sister. And on a deep, deep level I register: God loves me so much.
Went to my follow-up with Mayfield today. All is looking really great. There is a risk with this surgery that the flaps of skin that are preserved and sewn down won't take and then you have to do skin graft stuff later. Not the case with me, Praise God. It's looking like a perfect recovery, with just a small issue on the wound where the tumor actually sat. Nothing a little anti-biotic ointment can't handle.
We discussed the pathology report. No surprises there. The MRI measured the tumor at 8 cm, actually, it was 9. 9 centimeters! I asked, "Is that a record????" Nope.
I insisted he tell me what stage I'm at. The answer is stage III, which I guess I knew already, too. We didn't even talk about survival statistics. As he pointed out, it doesn't change our "battle plan" at all, and statistics don't govern an individual's life. They make no difference to me and Bryan because God has already told us that this cancer won't kill me.
In all, something about this doctor just. . .floats my spirit. In general, I'm doing very well, and feeling pretty great almost all the time. I'm in practically no pain and taking very little of my pain meds by this point. But in addition to this glad disposition, appointments with Mayfield multiply my joy. It's like God has put into his heart a very special care and compassion for me. Mayfield treats me like a beloved kid sister. And on a deep, deep level I register: God loves me so much.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Biopsy and MRI -- A Two-fer Terrific Morning!
My biopsy and MRI at the Air Force Academy clinic were on a Thursday morning. I had spent the week leading pre-school games at our church's VBS, which is a great place to be when the phrase "you have cancer" is first swirling around in your head. "Great" because I was surrounded with a bunch of friends, with worship music that made me smile, with a way to spend a whole morning doing something life-giving instead of being alone with the kids life-wondering.
But Thursday morning, Bryan and I were at the AFA.
The biopsy was first. At 8:00 AM. We got there at 7:45. They didn't take me in until 8:30. This bothered me. I mean, an appointment is an appointment. Mine was the first in the day. What are you doing for half an hour? And then I thought, "Your entire year is going to be full of appointments. How many are going to start on time? Exactly. So just let it go now."
Eventually, I was lying on the table and the doctor was about to poke me with a lydocaine needle before doing the needle biopsy. Just before the insertion he said, "I don't think you do, but I am required to ask: Do you have implants?"
What do you mean you don't think I do? What, exactly, gave me away, Doc?
"Because sometimes we have to poke right through the implant," he continued, "And that gets them mad."
Soon after, I did the MRI right down the hall. Every MRI I've seen in the movies shows a person lying on her back, rolling back into the big tube thing. This is because they've never shown a breast MRI in the movies. For this particular image, the patient lies on her front, with her torso raised up on a plastic ramp. The ramp has a big opening through which her appendages free-fall. And her face rests in a massage-table-like face pillow. And her arms lie outstretched above her head.
And then they roll her back into the tube thing.
Overall, I'm glad the technicians for this were women. They put ear phones on me so I could hear country music--that's what was playing, The Country--during the scan. But the music did not block out the sound of the camera. The machine gun stutter rotating around and around and around. Just breath normally. Just keep breathing. Don't move. Don't move. Don't move. Then it all stopped and they rolled me out a little. Then they injected a contrast into the IV they'd put in before it started. And then I rolled back in and did it all over again.
Never mind the wierdness of the experience. And the emotional discomfort of it. Is this pretty amazing technology or what?
Mayfield arranged for me and Bryan to see the scan. It's a series of over a thousand "photos" linked together so that the radiologist can "play" them to get a full picture. And what we saw was a big, white, irregularly shaped mass on one side with long, tentacally spindles stretching out and sweeping around. Just like a monster. And they showed us the muscle that was glowing with contrast, too, which is why they predicted the cancer was eating into my pectoralis.
There was the "enemy," as Mayfield called it.
I was pretty much thinking, "No, that's not the enemy. That's my body. Why in the world did it decide to mutate? Stupid breast. Stupid, silly, dumb, bad-team-player breast. Now I have to go all Rahm Emmanuel on you and cut you off because you've failed to stay in line."
But Thursday morning, Bryan and I were at the AFA.
The biopsy was first. At 8:00 AM. We got there at 7:45. They didn't take me in until 8:30. This bothered me. I mean, an appointment is an appointment. Mine was the first in the day. What are you doing for half an hour? And then I thought, "Your entire year is going to be full of appointments. How many are going to start on time? Exactly. So just let it go now."
Eventually, I was lying on the table and the doctor was about to poke me with a lydocaine needle before doing the needle biopsy. Just before the insertion he said, "I don't think you do, but I am required to ask: Do you have implants?"
What do you mean you don't think I do? What, exactly, gave me away, Doc?
"Because sometimes we have to poke right through the implant," he continued, "And that gets them mad."
Soon after, I did the MRI right down the hall. Every MRI I've seen in the movies shows a person lying on her back, rolling back into the big tube thing. This is because they've never shown a breast MRI in the movies. For this particular image, the patient lies on her front, with her torso raised up on a plastic ramp. The ramp has a big opening through which her appendages free-fall. And her face rests in a massage-table-like face pillow. And her arms lie outstretched above her head.
And then they roll her back into the tube thing.
Overall, I'm glad the technicians for this were women. They put ear phones on me so I could hear country music--that's what was playing, The Country--during the scan. But the music did not block out the sound of the camera. The machine gun stutter rotating around and around and around. Just breath normally. Just keep breathing. Don't move. Don't move. Don't move. Then it all stopped and they rolled me out a little. Then they injected a contrast into the IV they'd put in before it started. And then I rolled back in and did it all over again.
Never mind the wierdness of the experience. And the emotional discomfort of it. Is this pretty amazing technology or what?
Mayfield arranged for me and Bryan to see the scan. It's a series of over a thousand "photos" linked together so that the radiologist can "play" them to get a full picture. And what we saw was a big, white, irregularly shaped mass on one side with long, tentacally spindles stretching out and sweeping around. Just like a monster. And they showed us the muscle that was glowing with contrast, too, which is why they predicted the cancer was eating into my pectoralis.
There was the "enemy," as Mayfield called it.
I was pretty much thinking, "No, that's not the enemy. That's my body. Why in the world did it decide to mutate? Stupid breast. Stupid, silly, dumb, bad-team-player breast. Now I have to go all Rahm Emmanuel on you and cut you off because you've failed to stay in line."
Monday, July 6, 2009
When it All Sunk In
By the time I was lying down in the ultra-sound room, I had figured out that it wasn't a swollen lymph node. The biggest indication of this was that the radiologist, who had just read the mammogram, came in himself to supervise the ultra-sound.
After that screening, I went straight to the radiologist's office and he showed me the mammo, the big scary lump, the calcifications. I sat there as it sank in. At the end of the appointment, after he'd ordered both an MRI and biopsy, I asked him, lamely, "So you're ordering these tests as a precaution? You see this kind of thing often and it turns out to be nothing?"
He just stared at me. For a good four seconds. And he wanted to say, "Lady, I'm looking at a textbook example of malignant cancer in the breast." But what he did say was, "We are very concerned."
I cried all the way home. Started thinking of all the things I would have to record on our movie camera for Gemma and Joshua to watch one day. You know. In the event that I died soon.
I sucked it all up when I got home around the kids. Bryan was concerned but not worried, figuring that we didn't know anything until the biopsy came back. But I knew.
That night, after the kids were in bed and I could fall apart again, I asked God what was going on? An immediate calm came over me and I flashed back to a moment in January.
So, flashing back now. . .
By January, it had been 3 months since Bryan had applied for an extension here in the Springs. That is, his tour is officially up in August, and he was hoping to stay in this job for the remaining 9 months before his retirement in May of 2010.
But 9 months is kind of a perfect amount of time to deploy an officer as an individual augmentee. Bryan was prime meat for such an assignment. In the military, requests for extensions get answered in about 2 weeks if the answer is "yes," and much longer if the answer is, "no, we're sending you somewhere else."
With this heavy on my mind and heart one weekend, I went to our church service. During worship, I told God, "Please tell us. If it's deployment, OK, I just want to know what the coming year is going to be for us."
His answer was, "The coming year is going to be very difficult. A very long road. But I'm choosing it for you and I'm protecting you with My peace."
On the way home, I told Bryan, "God said you're going to deploy!" And I felt great about it. Completely OK with the possibility. I told several friends what "God told me."
Imagine my surprise when, a week later, the Navy granted Bryan's extension.
Was this a test of faith or something? Had I heard wrong? Huh! I shrugged it off. Thanked God for extending Bryan here. Went on with life.
And in that moment of flashing back, I realized what God was talking about. "Difficult year." Uh, yeah.
How gracious of God to tell me this long before a diagnosis. To tell me right around the time I had noticed the "swollen lymph node." In that week between the mammogram/ultra-sound and the MRI and biopsy, when we didn't officially know, I knew.
And you know what? I haven't had a moment like that ride home ever since. No dark moments of imagining my death bed, or thinking about who will shop for Gemma's wedding dress with her one day.
There are a lot of moments of grief, to be sure. But not worry and not fear. Jesus is holding His banner over me.
After that screening, I went straight to the radiologist's office and he showed me the mammo, the big scary lump, the calcifications. I sat there as it sank in. At the end of the appointment, after he'd ordered both an MRI and biopsy, I asked him, lamely, "So you're ordering these tests as a precaution? You see this kind of thing often and it turns out to be nothing?"
He just stared at me. For a good four seconds. And he wanted to say, "Lady, I'm looking at a textbook example of malignant cancer in the breast." But what he did say was, "We are very concerned."
I cried all the way home. Started thinking of all the things I would have to record on our movie camera for Gemma and Joshua to watch one day. You know. In the event that I died soon.
I sucked it all up when I got home around the kids. Bryan was concerned but not worried, figuring that we didn't know anything until the biopsy came back. But I knew.
That night, after the kids were in bed and I could fall apart again, I asked God what was going on? An immediate calm came over me and I flashed back to a moment in January.
So, flashing back now. . .
By January, it had been 3 months since Bryan had applied for an extension here in the Springs. That is, his tour is officially up in August, and he was hoping to stay in this job for the remaining 9 months before his retirement in May of 2010.
But 9 months is kind of a perfect amount of time to deploy an officer as an individual augmentee. Bryan was prime meat for such an assignment. In the military, requests for extensions get answered in about 2 weeks if the answer is "yes," and much longer if the answer is, "no, we're sending you somewhere else."
With this heavy on my mind and heart one weekend, I went to our church service. During worship, I told God, "Please tell us. If it's deployment, OK, I just want to know what the coming year is going to be for us."
His answer was, "The coming year is going to be very difficult. A very long road. But I'm choosing it for you and I'm protecting you with My peace."
On the way home, I told Bryan, "God said you're going to deploy!" And I felt great about it. Completely OK with the possibility. I told several friends what "God told me."
Imagine my surprise when, a week later, the Navy granted Bryan's extension.
Was this a test of faith or something? Had I heard wrong? Huh! I shrugged it off. Thanked God for extending Bryan here. Went on with life.
And in that moment of flashing back, I realized what God was talking about. "Difficult year." Uh, yeah.
How gracious of God to tell me this long before a diagnosis. To tell me right around the time I had noticed the "swollen lymph node." In that week between the mammogram/ultra-sound and the MRI and biopsy, when we didn't officially know, I knew.
And you know what? I haven't had a moment like that ride home ever since. No dark moments of imagining my death bed, or thinking about who will shop for Gemma's wedding dress with her one day.
There are a lot of moments of grief, to be sure. But not worry and not fear. Jesus is holding His banner over me.
The Mammogram
The biggest reason I'm doing this blog is because I want to record my whole experience for Gemma and Joshua to read one day.
So I'm going back to the beginning, back to the day when I thought I had a swollen lymph node under my arm, and am going to work forward from there.
*******
One day, I found myself getting my first mammogram at age 34.
I was sitting in a hospital gown, naked from the waste up, and this much I expected. What I did not expect was to be handed 3 stickers. 2 were circles, to be placed on my nipples, and one was a triangle, to be placed on the lump. And they all had a little metal dot in the middle so they'd show up on the mammogram.
They were patterned like Laura Ashely curtains.
For whose sake? Mine? Oh thank you, mammogram people, I feel so feminine now. I know! While I'm feeling so flowery and pink and delicate, why don't I load one of my breasts onto that plexiglas tray and have you press another tray on top of it until it's really squeezed and then have you press just a little bit more and you tell me to throw my head back lest my chin get caught in the radioactive waves coursing down in front of me?
The only difference between that machine and a dry cleaner's pants press is that the latter is not ice cold.
But, thanks, the decorated nipple labels helped take the edge off the experience.
So I'm going back to the beginning, back to the day when I thought I had a swollen lymph node under my arm, and am going to work forward from there.
*******
One day, I found myself getting my first mammogram at age 34.
I was sitting in a hospital gown, naked from the waste up, and this much I expected. What I did not expect was to be handed 3 stickers. 2 were circles, to be placed on my nipples, and one was a triangle, to be placed on the lump. And they all had a little metal dot in the middle so they'd show up on the mammogram.
They were patterned like Laura Ashely curtains.
For whose sake? Mine? Oh thank you, mammogram people, I feel so feminine now. I know! While I'm feeling so flowery and pink and delicate, why don't I load one of my breasts onto that plexiglas tray and have you press another tray on top of it until it's really squeezed and then have you press just a little bit more and you tell me to throw my head back lest my chin get caught in the radioactive waves coursing down in front of me?
The only difference between that machine and a dry cleaner's pants press is that the latter is not ice cold.
But, thanks, the decorated nipple labels helped take the edge off the experience.
From Betsy
Dear Friends,
There is something I need to set straight regarding Amy's recent surgery. When Amy called me after her surgery, I immediately sat down and relayed the conversation to all of you. Although I thought I used her same wording, "broke down", she later told me it was more like, "choked up." Amy is really concerned that if you give somebody an inch, they may take a yard and the whole thing could really be taken out of context.
While I was up at the lake this weekend, I really felt the Lord telling me to set the record straight, and let you know how monumental the whole scenario was.
As most of you know, my daughter is a cancer survivor. When my child was first diagnosed the day before she was eight months old, I felt the Lord telling us to do surgery first. The surgeon told us, "The current research tells us that we should shrink the tumor first with chemo and then do clean up surgery." If my relationship with the Lord was the same then as it is now, I would have left our wonderful, world renown doctor and found someone who would have done it God's way.
My disobedience almost cost me my child's life.
Years later, many reoccurances, surgeries, and various chemo protocols later, we were told they wished they had listened to us. They figured out that one or more cells had hidden in the scar tissue and had they done surgery first, she probably would have been well after the first protocol.
Seventeen years later, my beloved friend is battling breast cancer. As I was praying for her, again, I felt the Lord saying, "Do surgery first." So I prayed, "Lord, if I am hearing you correctly, please convict THEM to do surgery first." And He did! The Lord convicted the surgeon to do surgery first!
Because of his obedience, he had more than just God given talent. He had God by his side. Is it any wonder he was able to get all of the cancer?
As Paul Harvey would have said, "Now you know the REST of the story."
Some of you might be wondering what difference it makes that I set the record straight. I want everything I say to be filled with truth. I honestly thought I had said it correctly. I am sorry if I was wrong. While I was praying by the lake, I really felt the Lord telling me to clarify things and tell you how monumental it all was.
It is important to God, and that is good enough for me.
Blessings, Betsy
There is something I need to set straight regarding Amy's recent surgery. When Amy called me after her surgery, I immediately sat down and relayed the conversation to all of you. Although I thought I used her same wording, "broke down", she later told me it was more like, "choked up." Amy is really concerned that if you give somebody an inch, they may take a yard and the whole thing could really be taken out of context.
While I was up at the lake this weekend, I really felt the Lord telling me to set the record straight, and let you know how monumental the whole scenario was.
As most of you know, my daughter is a cancer survivor. When my child was first diagnosed the day before she was eight months old, I felt the Lord telling us to do surgery first. The surgeon told us, "The current research tells us that we should shrink the tumor first with chemo and then do clean up surgery." If my relationship with the Lord was the same then as it is now, I would have left our wonderful, world renown doctor and found someone who would have done it God's way.
My disobedience almost cost me my child's life.
Years later, many reoccurances, surgeries, and various chemo protocols later, we were told they wished they had listened to us. They figured out that one or more cells had hidden in the scar tissue and had they done surgery first, she probably would have been well after the first protocol.
Seventeen years later, my beloved friend is battling breast cancer. As I was praying for her, again, I felt the Lord saying, "Do surgery first." So I prayed, "Lord, if I am hearing you correctly, please convict THEM to do surgery first." And He did! The Lord convicted the surgeon to do surgery first!
Because of his obedience, he had more than just God given talent. He had God by his side. Is it any wonder he was able to get all of the cancer?
As Paul Harvey would have said, "Now you know the REST of the story."
Some of you might be wondering what difference it makes that I set the record straight. I want everything I say to be filled with truth. I honestly thought I had said it correctly. I am sorry if I was wrong. While I was praying by the lake, I really felt the Lord telling me to clarify things and tell you how monumental it all was.
It is important to God, and that is good enough for me.
Blessings, Betsy
Surgery Update
30 June 09
1. A giant thank you to Laurie, who sent out all the e-updates over the past week. It was a load off Bryan's shoulders not to have to send them, but still to know they were going out and prayers were going up.
2. A giant thank you to Laura, my sister, who set up this blog and coached me in the way of bloggers.
3. I got home on Monday and am feeling really great. The kids are home. Mom is here for another week. All is very, very well. Thank you for all your prayers. We don't know everything about how prayers works. But one day, we will. And as of today, what I know for certain is that they have been "working" for the last 3 weeks. See below.
4. A brief re-cap: I went into this surgery expecting a radical mastectomy--the breast, all the lymph nodes on the right side and a huge portion of my pectoralis. I was expecting a total of 3 nerves to be cut, a drastic reduction of strength on the right side because of muscle loss, and a disfigurement that basically looked like my right chest was caved in.
The PET scan also showed a cancerous lymph node under the collar bone that the surgery would not be able to address. So even though I'd have these complications for the rest of my life, I would still leave the hospital with cancer in my body.
Bryan and I chose this surgery over the option of doing chemical and protein treatments first. I'll write more about the details in a post under the "Seeing God" label. Suffice to say here that we chose surgery because God led us to it. Not doing the surgery would have amounted--for us--to ignoring the voice of God.
I didn't relish the predicted outcome, but in the end, we made the choice we knew to be God-honoring because we couldn't know for sure with our eyes what was right. But we know for certain that we can't go wrong when our intention is to obey Him.
Here's what actually happened in the surgery: the surgeon took a small slice of muscle and pathology showed it to be non-cancerous, so my pectoralis was spared. The 2 nerves in the muscle went un-touched. (There is no way to avoid the 3rd-it gets cut when the lymph nodes come out.) And, in the words of my surgeon, "By grace, I just reached up in there and was able to feel the lymph node under your collar bone. I pulled it out with my hand." That is, the surgery was a mastectomy, not a radical matectomy, and every last bit of cancer is now out of my body. My surgeon is crediting God for this and so are we.
5. Speaking of the surgeon. Dr. Mayfield. From the beginning--including the moment where he ended up taking our case even though it should have gone to a different doctor on call--God has made it clear that Mayfield is the surgeon He chose for us. And Mayfield himself--by his own accounting--has been filled with a compassion and concern over my case that has exceeded what he usually experiences, and Byran and I believe that this special concern has been an instrument for God to lead us to a choice we otherwise might not have had the courage to make.
My surgery was on Friday at 11 AM. He stayed until 9:30 PM to make sure everything was settled.
There was a blip with the port installation. Something about it didn't go right, and he had to insert a chest tube to suction air out. Because of it, I had an extra 2 seconds of pain when the tube went in to release the air pocket and an extra 2 seconds of pain when the tube came out the next day and a total of 4 days in my own, private room with my own nurse in the ICU. I call that a great bargain.
Mayfield came in himself on Saturday and Sunday--though it wasn't his weekend on call--and even brought his wife on Saturday to meet me! (She is a sweet gal, and the two of them are the cutest couple--I wanted to put them on a shelf!)
It has been a pure blessing to us that he is a believer. In the last 3 weeks, we have clearly seen God's Hand in his. I know I'm going on too long about this. But what can I say? God saved my life and he used Dr. Mayfield to do it.
6. But even greater than Dr. Mayfielf emerges the biggest hero of the story: sweet Bryan. I knew he was an excellent husband. 4 weeks ago, before the diagnosis, I was completely in love with him and completely ensured that he loves me. But in these last weeks--particularly this last one--I have been overwhelmed by his heart. I guess there's no point in giving the details because you already get the point: There is no one I'd rather have at my side on this road, there is no one who could do a better job, and aside from my very salvation, there will be no greater blessing in my life than having Bryan as my husband.
7. I feel like George Baily in It's a Wonderful Life --he has this incredible, unique experiences that shows him how many people love him and value him, that shows him all the ways he is walking in grace. That's what this whole cancer thing has been like for me. I am surrounded by love and support and sweetness, and God is showing me how He's tying it all together, using it all to paint a portrait of provision and protection, mercy and grace.
Thank you thank you thank you all--for your prayers, cards, e-mails, books, flowers and fruit (!) and your love. I am a blessed woman. May God bless you.
1. A giant thank you to Laurie, who sent out all the e-updates over the past week. It was a load off Bryan's shoulders not to have to send them, but still to know they were going out and prayers were going up.
2. A giant thank you to Laura, my sister, who set up this blog and coached me in the way of bloggers.
3. I got home on Monday and am feeling really great. The kids are home. Mom is here for another week. All is very, very well. Thank you for all your prayers. We don't know everything about how prayers works. But one day, we will. And as of today, what I know for certain is that they have been "working" for the last 3 weeks. See below.
4. A brief re-cap: I went into this surgery expecting a radical mastectomy--the breast, all the lymph nodes on the right side and a huge portion of my pectoralis. I was expecting a total of 3 nerves to be cut, a drastic reduction of strength on the right side because of muscle loss, and a disfigurement that basically looked like my right chest was caved in.
The PET scan also showed a cancerous lymph node under the collar bone that the surgery would not be able to address. So even though I'd have these complications for the rest of my life, I would still leave the hospital with cancer in my body.
Bryan and I chose this surgery over the option of doing chemical and protein treatments first. I'll write more about the details in a post under the "Seeing God" label. Suffice to say here that we chose surgery because God led us to it. Not doing the surgery would have amounted--for us--to ignoring the voice of God.
I didn't relish the predicted outcome, but in the end, we made the choice we knew to be God-honoring because we couldn't know for sure with our eyes what was right. But we know for certain that we can't go wrong when our intention is to obey Him.
Here's what actually happened in the surgery: the surgeon took a small slice of muscle and pathology showed it to be non-cancerous, so my pectoralis was spared. The 2 nerves in the muscle went un-touched. (There is no way to avoid the 3rd-it gets cut when the lymph nodes come out.) And, in the words of my surgeon, "By grace, I just reached up in there and was able to feel the lymph node under your collar bone. I pulled it out with my hand." That is, the surgery was a mastectomy, not a radical matectomy, and every last bit of cancer is now out of my body. My surgeon is crediting God for this and so are we.
5. Speaking of the surgeon. Dr. Mayfield. From the beginning--including the moment where he ended up taking our case even though it should have gone to a different doctor on call--God has made it clear that Mayfield is the surgeon He chose for us. And Mayfield himself--by his own accounting--has been filled with a compassion and concern over my case that has exceeded what he usually experiences, and Byran and I believe that this special concern has been an instrument for God to lead us to a choice we otherwise might not have had the courage to make.
My surgery was on Friday at 11 AM. He stayed until 9:30 PM to make sure everything was settled.
There was a blip with the port installation. Something about it didn't go right, and he had to insert a chest tube to suction air out. Because of it, I had an extra 2 seconds of pain when the tube went in to release the air pocket and an extra 2 seconds of pain when the tube came out the next day and a total of 4 days in my own, private room with my own nurse in the ICU. I call that a great bargain.
Mayfield came in himself on Saturday and Sunday--though it wasn't his weekend on call--and even brought his wife on Saturday to meet me! (She is a sweet gal, and the two of them are the cutest couple--I wanted to put them on a shelf!)
It has been a pure blessing to us that he is a believer. In the last 3 weeks, we have clearly seen God's Hand in his. I know I'm going on too long about this. But what can I say? God saved my life and he used Dr. Mayfield to do it.
6. But even greater than Dr. Mayfielf emerges the biggest hero of the story: sweet Bryan. I knew he was an excellent husband. 4 weeks ago, before the diagnosis, I was completely in love with him and completely ensured that he loves me. But in these last weeks--particularly this last one--I have been overwhelmed by his heart. I guess there's no point in giving the details because you already get the point: There is no one I'd rather have at my side on this road, there is no one who could do a better job, and aside from my very salvation, there will be no greater blessing in my life than having Bryan as my husband.
7. I feel like George Baily in It's a Wonderful Life --he has this incredible, unique experiences that shows him how many people love him and value him, that shows him all the ways he is walking in grace. That's what this whole cancer thing has been like for me. I am surrounded by love and support and sweetness, and God is showing me how He's tying it all together, using it all to paint a portrait of provision and protection, mercy and grace.
Thank you thank you thank you all--for your prayers, cards, e-mails, books, flowers and fruit (!) and your love. I am a blessed woman. May God bless you.
Betsy' Report
This one came the morning of my MRI and biopsy"
Dear Amy,
Just to let you know, we are having a wonderful time with the kiddos!
I wanted to share a beautiful response from Josh tonight, just in case you check your e-mails and want to carry something heartwarming with you tomorrow. Josh was gleefully eating his brownie tonight. What a happy munchkin.
I asked him if brownies made him happy. He replied, "No". I asked him what made him happy. "Jesus", he replied matter of factly. This was COMPLETELY on his own. What a beautiful response from such a young little boy.
You are an excellent teacher and mom.
Love, Betsy
Dear Amy,
Just to let you know, we are having a wonderful time with the kiddos!
I wanted to share a beautiful response from Josh tonight, just in case you check your e-mails and want to carry something heartwarming with you tomorrow. Josh was gleefully eating his brownie tonight. What a happy munchkin.
I asked him if brownies made him happy. He replied, "No". I asked him what made him happy. "Jesus", he replied matter of factly. This was COMPLETELY on his own. What a beautiful response from such a young little boy.
You are an excellent teacher and mom.
Love, Betsy
Betsy's Report
Our dear friend, Betsy, is like a grandmother to our kids. Gemma and Josh love her (and Mr. Terry and their two teens, Amy and PJ) and they love to have long visits at their house. Thank You, Jesus for this family!
Betsy wrote in with a few reports while I was in the hospital:
Dear Amy,
Tonight, PJ was tapping underneath the kitchen table during the bedtime snack.
Gemma said, "I know that is you PJ, because my ears pick up a signal and send a picture to my brain so that I know it is you."
PJ thinks she has been sneaking out to Harvard in her spare time.
Josh hit his head on the table trying to get down after snack. PJ ran to his rescue (rats- missed my chance to cuddle!) and held him. He did not want me to cuddle him!
PJ asked him if he was a tough little boy. "No, I am not, but I will rescue myself first!", he replied. Such little cuties.
Thank you for letting us take them for a few days. We are praying for you LOTS and LOTS! You have a whole lotta' love going up for you!
Love, Betsy
Betsy wrote in with a few reports while I was in the hospital:
Dear Amy,
Tonight, PJ was tapping underneath the kitchen table during the bedtime snack.
Gemma said, "I know that is you PJ, because my ears pick up a signal and send a picture to my brain so that I know it is you."
PJ thinks she has been sneaking out to Harvard in her spare time.
Josh hit his head on the table trying to get down after snack. PJ ran to his rescue (rats- missed my chance to cuddle!) and held him. He did not want me to cuddle him!
PJ asked him if he was a tough little boy. "No, I am not, but I will rescue myself first!", he replied. Such little cuties.
Thank you for letting us take them for a few days. We are praying for you LOTS and LOTS! You have a whole lotta' love going up for you!
Love, Betsy
PET Scan Results
25 June 09
My surgery is tomorrow.
The good news from yesterday is that the PET scan came back negative. That is, the cancer is not elsewhere in my body at a size bigger than 1/2 a centimeter. (It might be somewhere smaller than that, I suppose. . .)
It is "locally spread," meaning the tumor in my right breast, the lymph nodes in the right arm pit, and a few lymph nodes up under the collar bone that the surgeon will not be able to remove.
I am thankful for this. The reality of the surgery--a radical mastectomy, which means a big portion of my pectoral muscle too--is kind of hanging over my head and overshadowing the sense of relief I should be feeling. But it's OK for all of you to feel relieved.
The PET scan began with an injection of radioactive glucose. Many of you know that I have a bizarre allergy to refined sugar--even a little bit of it gives me the effects of severe food poisoning. About 6 hours after the injection, I had a "sugar reaction" and spent the entire night in the bathroom with vomitting and toilet problems. It is very hard to recover from a night like that under normal circumstances, but with the added stress of the surgery, today has been a very, very difficult day indeed.
I'll have to ask next time if they can use organic radioactive glucose.
I keep thinking of the part of Christ's passion where He prayed in the garden. Knowing what was coming ahead of Him. Not really wanting to go there. And yet He did, and He did it for love. I feel like I'm tasting a small sip of that cup--there is so much sadness and grief in this. And yet I will do this for my children and for Bryan.
Romans 8 has also been a real comfort to me. It happens sometimes that you read a verse that you've read before many times only this time it shines in a different way. This is what has ministered to me:
"Those who live in the Spirit set their minds on things of the Spirit. Those who live in the flesh set their minds on things of the flesh."
I live in the Spirit. And what is true about the spiritual world is that my Redeemer lives, and He reigns, and He walks ahead of me in this. So, grief. . .yes. But there is comfort for those who mourn. And His joy comes in the morning.
My surgery is tomorrow.
The good news from yesterday is that the PET scan came back negative. That is, the cancer is not elsewhere in my body at a size bigger than 1/2 a centimeter. (It might be somewhere smaller than that, I suppose. . .)
It is "locally spread," meaning the tumor in my right breast, the lymph nodes in the right arm pit, and a few lymph nodes up under the collar bone that the surgeon will not be able to remove.
I am thankful for this. The reality of the surgery--a radical mastectomy, which means a big portion of my pectoral muscle too--is kind of hanging over my head and overshadowing the sense of relief I should be feeling. But it's OK for all of you to feel relieved.
The PET scan began with an injection of radioactive glucose. Many of you know that I have a bizarre allergy to refined sugar--even a little bit of it gives me the effects of severe food poisoning. About 6 hours after the injection, I had a "sugar reaction" and spent the entire night in the bathroom with vomitting and toilet problems. It is very hard to recover from a night like that under normal circumstances, but with the added stress of the surgery, today has been a very, very difficult day indeed.
I'll have to ask next time if they can use organic radioactive glucose.
I keep thinking of the part of Christ's passion where He prayed in the garden. Knowing what was coming ahead of Him. Not really wanting to go there. And yet He did, and He did it for love. I feel like I'm tasting a small sip of that cup--there is so much sadness and grief in this. And yet I will do this for my children and for Bryan.
Romans 8 has also been a real comfort to me. It happens sometimes that you read a verse that you've read before many times only this time it shines in a different way. This is what has ministered to me:
"Those who live in the Spirit set their minds on things of the Spirit. Those who live in the flesh set their minds on things of the flesh."
I live in the Spirit. And what is true about the spiritual world is that my Redeemer lives, and He reigns, and He walks ahead of me in this. So, grief. . .yes. But there is comfort for those who mourn. And His joy comes in the morning.
Marathon
21 June 09
As we've prayed about this whole cancer thing, what we've been hearing back from God is that we are heading down a long road that will end well. God has told us several times: This is a marathon, not a sprint.
Go back 5 years to our time in Korea. The movie theater there showed movies for free, so we went all the time. They always showed the same refreshment movie where candy wrappers balled themselves up and jumped into the trash can and tubs of popcorn gathered into a kickline. The music to this movie was so wonderful! It was fast and catchy and I'd always kind of dance in my seat and tell Bryan how badly I wanted a copy of this song. This was music that could get me out of bed in the morning!
But there are no credits for that kind of thing. I had nothing to go on. No artist. No title. Nothin'! I left Korea and said goodbye to that refreshment music.
Fast forward to this past weekend. We had promised Josh that we'd take him to the "North Pole" (a kiddie-ride amusement park nestled into the mountains) for his 3rd birthday. Figuring that I might not be feeling to well come late July, we went on Sunday. Had a great time. Perfect weather. Not crowded. So much fun. We took a break to watch the magic show and the magician took the stage and began performing to. . . that refreshment song!!!!!! I couldn't believe it! Bryan! That's the song!
After the show, I approached the magician and said, "Great show, great show--now what was that one song called?"
"Oh, this one?" he asked, and re-played a snippet of it. "This is called 'Marathon.'"
Well. How about that.
People, what can I say? If Jesus Christ did not resurrect from the dead, if He stayed dead as all other people do, then I am imagining things. I'm imagining God's peace. I'm fabricating this joy. And the 15 years since I chose to believe that Jesus Christ is the resurrected Savior have not been full of God's Hand working in my life. They've been full of coincidence and wishful thinking.
But if He did resurrect from the dead, then I am right to put my hope and trust in Him, and the belief that He is mighty to save.
I am thankful that this tough road before me comes only after I spent 5 years working for a New Testament historian specializing in debates with atheists and Muslims. In those 5 years, I came across every objection to God, to Jesus, to the Bible. And I've seen each objection fail. (I could even make a bar game out of it: If you can come up with an objection I've never heard of, I'll buy you a drink. And if I can't come up with a good and reasonable answer to it, I'll start drinking with you.) I can gladly say that my faith is born and strengthened by experience and rational inquiry.
So if you're reading this and thinking that you are glad that I'm walking in peace even though it's from some sort of placebo effect, please consider beginning or resuming or re-visiting your own inquiry. And I'm not asking you to do it because I've got cancer and can therefore ask anything of anybody. I'm asking because you are all going to die at some point. And if now isn't an OK time to bring up that fact and sincerely share my deep hope that my entire family will know the riches of Christ along with me, then there will never be an OK time.
As we've prayed about this whole cancer thing, what we've been hearing back from God is that we are heading down a long road that will end well. God has told us several times: This is a marathon, not a sprint.
Go back 5 years to our time in Korea. The movie theater there showed movies for free, so we went all the time. They always showed the same refreshment movie where candy wrappers balled themselves up and jumped into the trash can and tubs of popcorn gathered into a kickline. The music to this movie was so wonderful! It was fast and catchy and I'd always kind of dance in my seat and tell Bryan how badly I wanted a copy of this song. This was music that could get me out of bed in the morning!
But there are no credits for that kind of thing. I had nothing to go on. No artist. No title. Nothin'! I left Korea and said goodbye to that refreshment music.
Fast forward to this past weekend. We had promised Josh that we'd take him to the "North Pole" (a kiddie-ride amusement park nestled into the mountains) for his 3rd birthday. Figuring that I might not be feeling to well come late July, we went on Sunday. Had a great time. Perfect weather. Not crowded. So much fun. We took a break to watch the magic show and the magician took the stage and began performing to. . . that refreshment song!!!!!! I couldn't believe it! Bryan! That's the song!
After the show, I approached the magician and said, "Great show, great show--now what was that one song called?"
"Oh, this one?" he asked, and re-played a snippet of it. "This is called 'Marathon.'"
Well. How about that.
People, what can I say? If Jesus Christ did not resurrect from the dead, if He stayed dead as all other people do, then I am imagining things. I'm imagining God's peace. I'm fabricating this joy. And the 15 years since I chose to believe that Jesus Christ is the resurrected Savior have not been full of God's Hand working in my life. They've been full of coincidence and wishful thinking.
But if He did resurrect from the dead, then I am right to put my hope and trust in Him, and the belief that He is mighty to save.
I am thankful that this tough road before me comes only after I spent 5 years working for a New Testament historian specializing in debates with atheists and Muslims. In those 5 years, I came across every objection to God, to Jesus, to the Bible. And I've seen each objection fail. (I could even make a bar game out of it: If you can come up with an objection I've never heard of, I'll buy you a drink. And if I can't come up with a good and reasonable answer to it, I'll start drinking with you.) I can gladly say that my faith is born and strengthened by experience and rational inquiry.
So if you're reading this and thinking that you are glad that I'm walking in peace even though it's from some sort of placebo effect, please consider beginning or resuming or re-visiting your own inquiry. And I'm not asking you to do it because I've got cancer and can therefore ask anything of anybody. I'm asking because you are all going to die at some point. And if now isn't an OK time to bring up that fact and sincerely share my deep hope that my entire family will know the riches of Christ along with me, then there will never be an OK time.
Surgical Consult
17 June 09
Bryan and I went to my consult today. Our biggest prayer was that we'd either have an extreme peace with the Army surgeon, or that serious red flags would go up such that we'd seek medicine out in town with civilians.
By way of bias, we were already gunning to get out into town. But it turns out that Dr. Mayfield is awesome. We love him already! Our concerns were all laid to rest and we're completely confident in entrusting my care to him. Praise God. Truly. He has made the path ahead of us very clear and we're both glad to have no ambiguity about it.
There is only one course to pursue and though it looks rough, at least it is plainly evident. Mine is a common kind of cancer, the sort that grows in the ducts. The tumor is a whopping 8 cm big. 8 centimeters. That's pretty freaking huge, and Mayfield guesses that it has been growing for several years now. And it's aggressive, too, as it is already pushing into my muscle. It's rare to find this kind of cancer is someone 34 years old--I'm in an elite 5%. So how about that.
Surgery is scheduled for next Friday, the 26th. It will be a radical mastectomy, which means he'll carve into my muscle as well (which means the recovery will be a pretty big deal. On the one hand, it's a bummer to lose a breast. On the other hand, I really see today how life threatening this cancer is. As Mayfield said--with tears in his eyes, which I thought was great--I really only have one shot at getting this right. So there's no holding back. There is a lot of grief in this. But there's no point in being in a coffin with 2 breasts. That are getting a little saggy anyway. And frankly, once I'm re-constructed, I'll be even more smoking hot than I am now.
Before the surgery, I'll undergo some sort of glucose imaging procedure where they'll determine if the cancer has spread into any other organs. They are nearly certain it's in the lymph nodes of the right armpit. The left lymph nodes and the left breast, at this point using the MRI, look clean. So all the right lymph nodes will come out during surgery as well. Before the operation, I'll also see an oncologist and radiation guy to consult with them. Then they'll confer with the surgeon and tell him if and where to place the valves that they'll use to shoot the chemicals through. Mayfield is 95% certain that both therapy doctors will recommend giving me everything in their armory. Because I'm young and healthy, I'll be able to tolerate anything. And so they'll want to hit me with "The steak, the potato, the green bean, and then the tray itself." Because, again, my first shot is my best shot. As unpleasant as this sounds, I'd rather they be aggressive than having them tenderfoot around, hoping for the best.
Again, I cannot tell you how pleased we are with this guy. It really feels like God hand-picked him for us. We also happened to discover that he is a Christian who first submitted to the Lord in 2006, and that he had prayed before our appointment. He intends to remain in the military for 20 years, which is usually a serious warning sign because competent doctors can find better-paying employment elsewhere. But he's staying because his wife has MS, and in this way, he can ensure that she will always have medical coverage. (This is an example of a concern laid to rest. e.g. That he's not an incompetent military doctor. :) Needless to say, it'd be hard to imagine a better match for ourselves.
Bryan and I went to my consult today. Our biggest prayer was that we'd either have an extreme peace with the Army surgeon, or that serious red flags would go up such that we'd seek medicine out in town with civilians.
By way of bias, we were already gunning to get out into town. But it turns out that Dr. Mayfield is awesome. We love him already! Our concerns were all laid to rest and we're completely confident in entrusting my care to him. Praise God. Truly. He has made the path ahead of us very clear and we're both glad to have no ambiguity about it.
There is only one course to pursue and though it looks rough, at least it is plainly evident. Mine is a common kind of cancer, the sort that grows in the ducts. The tumor is a whopping 8 cm big. 8 centimeters. That's pretty freaking huge, and Mayfield guesses that it has been growing for several years now. And it's aggressive, too, as it is already pushing into my muscle. It's rare to find this kind of cancer is someone 34 years old--I'm in an elite 5%. So how about that.
Surgery is scheduled for next Friday, the 26th. It will be a radical mastectomy, which means he'll carve into my muscle as well (which means the recovery will be a pretty big deal. On the one hand, it's a bummer to lose a breast. On the other hand, I really see today how life threatening this cancer is. As Mayfield said--with tears in his eyes, which I thought was great--I really only have one shot at getting this right. So there's no holding back. There is a lot of grief in this. But there's no point in being in a coffin with 2 breasts. That are getting a little saggy anyway. And frankly, once I'm re-constructed, I'll be even more smoking hot than I am now.
Before the surgery, I'll undergo some sort of glucose imaging procedure where they'll determine if the cancer has spread into any other organs. They are nearly certain it's in the lymph nodes of the right armpit. The left lymph nodes and the left breast, at this point using the MRI, look clean. So all the right lymph nodes will come out during surgery as well. Before the operation, I'll also see an oncologist and radiation guy to consult with them. Then they'll confer with the surgeon and tell him if and where to place the valves that they'll use to shoot the chemicals through. Mayfield is 95% certain that both therapy doctors will recommend giving me everything in their armory. Because I'm young and healthy, I'll be able to tolerate anything. And so they'll want to hit me with "The steak, the potato, the green bean, and then the tray itself." Because, again, my first shot is my best shot. As unpleasant as this sounds, I'd rather they be aggressive than having them tenderfoot around, hoping for the best.
Again, I cannot tell you how pleased we are with this guy. It really feels like God hand-picked him for us. We also happened to discover that he is a Christian who first submitted to the Lord in 2006, and that he had prayed before our appointment. He intends to remain in the military for 20 years, which is usually a serious warning sign because competent doctors can find better-paying employment elsewhere. But he's staying because his wife has MS, and in this way, he can ensure that she will always have medical coverage. (This is an example of a concern laid to rest. e.g. That he's not an incompetent military doctor. :) Needless to say, it'd be hard to imagine a better match for ourselves.
The First News
11 June 09
Hello Everyone--Laura, Trey, MJ, Marc, Leslie, John, Susan, Janice and Carlo, Mom and Dad--I don't have addresses for all the "in-laws," but of course I'm writing to you all: The following is not good news, and I'm sharing it over e-mail so as not to repeat the same conversation 6 times (though I did just talk with Mom and Dad on the phone).
I have breast cancer. I found a lump on the right side, near the arm pit. Went in to have it checked last Thursday. That nurse practitioner ordered an ultra sound and mammogram right away, which I did that same morning. The radiologist read it right there and ordered a biopsy and MRI, which I just did this morning at the Air Force Academy. All of which is a very good start to my next hilarious book, the working title of which is "The Cancer Chronicles."
They are expediting the biopsy results so that we'll get them tomorrow. I should say here that it's not official yet. But the nurse practitioner is right now setting up a surgical consult for me so that when the results arrive, I can meet with the surgeon immediately. The radiologist and biopsy guy both did things that indicated how concerned they were--e.g. ordering an MRI along with the biopsy instead of waiting for biopsy results first, which is the usual, and taking 8 samples instead of 6--so I asked the nurse what the warning bells were that were causing so much concern. The lump is irregular in shape, it casts a shadow and calcification spots showed up on the mammo. And it's on a lymph node.
I feel confident that I'm in good hands, and am very thankful they are all working so quickly on my behalf. I haven't said anything to you all this week because I didn't see the need to cause needless concern. But now I might well go into surgery by Friday night/sometime this weekend, and with the kids at Betsy's (she took them for the whole day), now is a good time to write this e-mail.
I will surely keep you all posted on the results tomorrow and the surgeon's consult. Most importantly, I have to tell you about the amazing week between last Thursday--when I thought they'd tell me this was just a swollen lymph node--to today. It has been the most joyful week of my life. Truly. The first day or so, I was frought with all the typical emotions we'd expect. But starting with the church service we went to on Saturday night and continuing on without interruption, God has been pouring joy and peace on me.
Not coincidentally, this is our Vacation Bible School week--for Gemma and Josh, and for me as I've been leading games for the little ones. Every morning I've been surrounded by dear friends, and worship songs that remind me of God's power and His faithfulness. And as I've prayed, and as Bryan has, and Betsy, too, the answer back has been repeatedly that there are trials ahead, but that this isn't going to kill me, and that God will bring mighty blessings out of it. So, in this way, it's a pretty exciting time for us. I know that not all of you can relate to what I've described. But I tell you about it in the hope that it will lessen your concern for me. I am in Good and Loving Hands. :)
I'm cutting and pasting a prayer that my dear friend, Mandy, offered for me because
a) it made me laugh and
b) it reminds me of the wonderfully supportive place I'm in right now. I hope it helps you, too.
love Amella!
"Dear God, Lord, this really sucks!! Praise YOu for being Soveriegn over all things. Amy is your most precious daughter, the Apple of Your eye! Her life is an act of worship to you and her Love for you is contagious. God You are always good and we are asking You, in Your Most Holy Name, to give Amy an abundant and joyfilled and Long life!!!
Jesus thank you for Amy and what you have already done in her life. We praise You Yaweh for the Wife and Mother and Friend she is and the pure Joy and fun she excudes!! My prayer for Amy is long life and long boobs... meaning she will see the day when those big girls can be tied around her waist.
Thank you Lord. Bless Amy and her family tomorrow and in the coming weeks, and we trust you God. Asking You for Complete healing in Your Name. Amen."
Hello Everyone--Laura, Trey, MJ, Marc, Leslie, John, Susan, Janice and Carlo, Mom and Dad--I don't have addresses for all the "in-laws," but of course I'm writing to you all: The following is not good news, and I'm sharing it over e-mail so as not to repeat the same conversation 6 times (though I did just talk with Mom and Dad on the phone).
I have breast cancer. I found a lump on the right side, near the arm pit. Went in to have it checked last Thursday. That nurse practitioner ordered an ultra sound and mammogram right away, which I did that same morning. The radiologist read it right there and ordered a biopsy and MRI, which I just did this morning at the Air Force Academy. All of which is a very good start to my next hilarious book, the working title of which is "The Cancer Chronicles."
They are expediting the biopsy results so that we'll get them tomorrow. I should say here that it's not official yet. But the nurse practitioner is right now setting up a surgical consult for me so that when the results arrive, I can meet with the surgeon immediately. The radiologist and biopsy guy both did things that indicated how concerned they were--e.g. ordering an MRI along with the biopsy instead of waiting for biopsy results first, which is the usual, and taking 8 samples instead of 6--so I asked the nurse what the warning bells were that were causing so much concern. The lump is irregular in shape, it casts a shadow and calcification spots showed up on the mammo. And it's on a lymph node.
I feel confident that I'm in good hands, and am very thankful they are all working so quickly on my behalf. I haven't said anything to you all this week because I didn't see the need to cause needless concern. But now I might well go into surgery by Friday night/sometime this weekend, and with the kids at Betsy's (she took them for the whole day), now is a good time to write this e-mail.
I will surely keep you all posted on the results tomorrow and the surgeon's consult. Most importantly, I have to tell you about the amazing week between last Thursday--when I thought they'd tell me this was just a swollen lymph node--to today. It has been the most joyful week of my life. Truly. The first day or so, I was frought with all the typical emotions we'd expect. But starting with the church service we went to on Saturday night and continuing on without interruption, God has been pouring joy and peace on me.
Not coincidentally, this is our Vacation Bible School week--for Gemma and Josh, and for me as I've been leading games for the little ones. Every morning I've been surrounded by dear friends, and worship songs that remind me of God's power and His faithfulness. And as I've prayed, and as Bryan has, and Betsy, too, the answer back has been repeatedly that there are trials ahead, but that this isn't going to kill me, and that God will bring mighty blessings out of it. So, in this way, it's a pretty exciting time for us. I know that not all of you can relate to what I've described. But I tell you about it in the hope that it will lessen your concern for me. I am in Good and Loving Hands. :)
I'm cutting and pasting a prayer that my dear friend, Mandy, offered for me because
a) it made me laugh and
b) it reminds me of the wonderfully supportive place I'm in right now. I hope it helps you, too.
love Amella!
"Dear God, Lord, this really sucks!! Praise YOu for being Soveriegn over all things. Amy is your most precious daughter, the Apple of Your eye! Her life is an act of worship to you and her Love for you is contagious. God You are always good and we are asking You, in Your Most Holy Name, to give Amy an abundant and joyfilled and Long life!!!
Jesus thank you for Amy and what you have already done in her life. We praise You Yaweh for the Wife and Mother and Friend she is and the pure Joy and fun she excudes!! My prayer for Amy is long life and long boobs... meaning she will see the day when those big girls can be tied around her waist.
Thank you Lord. Bless Amy and her family tomorrow and in the coming weeks, and we trust you God. Asking You for Complete healing in Your Name. Amen."
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