I originally wrote this as part of the first post about my last radiation treatment. But the post was too long, and I don't want you to miss this story.
On the last day of treatment, the radiation techs gave me a certificate before I left. Congratulations on finishing your treatment, that kind of thing. And then: "We Salute Your Courage!"
This stuck with me as we drove to the restaurant, and again as we drove home. I realized something I hadn't been able to piece together before. What were all these tears about? At the end of chemo? And now?
It's not relief. Maybe it is a little. But I can tell you that mostly, I'm not feeling relief.
But that certificate. . . Yes. This was it. There's the thought out there that doing chemo and doing radiation took courage. It didn't. I mean, what was my option? You do what you got to do, right?
There's nothing brave in that. Maybe if the option was a fast, painless death, then choosing a bummer treatment to live instead would have been a little courageous. But dying from an untreated cancer? In my mid-30's? That would have been a ton worse than anything I lived with the past few months.
No. I realized that the courage starts now. At least, I need it to. How to go forward without the cancer? After these several months and the tidal wave of love that has poured through our lives, I'm a changed person. There's no going back to my old life. But what does my life look like now? How do I go on without this giant circumstance?
I think all the crying has more to do with the grief over the end of that circumstance, over a changed life.
Don't get me wrong: Life will go on. And it will be far superior to what it would have been if we had not run this race. (Well, it's not quite over, is it?) But going on, and being willing to go into a new life, as a new person--this is what takes courage.
At least, this is what I came to believe and feel in that deep place as we approached our home. I prayed right then, that God would give me all the guidance and courage I would need.
Then Bryan picked up the mail from our box. In it was a package from my friend, Sarah. I thought 2 things:
1. "Oh! I keep forgetting to call her back!" and
2. "She mentioned wanting to send something earlier, but not quite getting around to it yet. I guess this is it!"
We pulled in. Piled out. Got inside. I opened the package. In it was a sweet note wishing me a year of--I am not making this up--"Hope and Courage."
She sent a pad of paper with "Hope" written on top.
And a pearl bracelet with a clasp that says "courage."
I tell you. . . it's almost too much love for one life to hold.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Radiation: End of a Road
These last 5 treatments of radiation have been different. I mentioned this already--about the electrons and it being focused on the scar line.
I didn't tell you yet about my appointment 2 weeks ago, when they needed to prepare for this last 5 day extravaganza. Dr. Tanner came in to the treatment room, and using the $12 surgical marker with my name on it, traced an oval around the scar. A general outline about 2 inches around it on all sides. He didn't use any special instrument for this--just his eye and his hand and a $12 marker.
They took a photo of it.
They made a tracing of his marker line.
And a week later, I went into the treatment room to find an extension hooked onto the radiation machine. It was basically a frame of a cube. Inserted into the bottom plane of that cube was a square slab of lead with a hole cut out of it that fit the exact shape of Dr. Tanner's drawing. This was to shield the rest of me and let the radiation hit only that concentrated area.
Yeah, yeah, I got that. But it amazed me that they'd pour a mold based on the marker outline that my 6 year old could have drawn. "Amazed," because it had to be Dr. Tanner who drew it. The techs couldn't do it, nooooo, it had to be the bigshot radiologist.
Every time, for those last 5 treatments, this cracked me up. I asked what they did with the slab after I was done. If they were going to throw it out, I'd have asked to keep it. Now that would have been a conversation piece.
But they melt it down for use with the next patient.
Speaking of other patients, I did indeed outlast all the others who had dates before mine. And I outlasted all the others added right up to January 11.
I brought the kids with me all of last week. I told them On Friday that this was their last treatment--Mommy still had one more, but they would be with Betsy that day--so they needed to celebrate the last one with me on Friday.
After I got dressed (out of my gown, of which Joshua said each day, "That dress looks cute,") I brought them into the hallway outside the treatment room where a ship's bell hangs. Next to it is a brass plaque with a poem engraved,
I ring this bell
Three times to say
I've finished my course well
And I am on my way
I lifted Gemma up, and then Joshua, and let them ring the bell. They did it with great joy, free of concern, oblivious to the meaning of it. And they rang it loudly and a lot, a lot more than 3 times, because it is fun to ring a bell.
I cried and cried. Mostly because I can look at them and see that they don't get it. And I'm glad about that. Thankful. They have no idea what this year has been for me and Bryan. What they know and care about right now is that Mommy won't have a rigorous treatment schedule anymore, and the appointments she will have won't make her tired.
Today, it was supposed to be just Bryan and I, but then Betsy's son got sick, sick, sick with the flu, and those are germs the Ponce family doesn't need right now. So the kids came again.
They didn't ring the bell this time, and neither did I, because a patient went in for treatment right after me and I didn't want to risk disturbing her. My version of the bell, I think, was tossing my gown into the hamper, and leaving behind my very own cubby hole at the radiation unit.
I cried and cried again. I'm crying now as I tell you all about it.
We went to dinner together at Fargoe's, a very fun pizza place, and it was our first time, so it felt extra festive. At the table, we played 20 questions, a game Gemma loves, and Josh, too, though he has his own little version of it. . .
They have a little game room, too, where Bryan tried his hand at PacMan. Just seeing that was worth the trip. The picture I'm making is that we had a fun evening as a family. It was a simple delight just to be together. A delight to see my children enjoy themselves.
A delight I hope to enjoy for a long time coming.
Will you bear with me for a story
The radiation techs gave me a certificate before I left. Congratulations on finishing your treatment, that kind of thing. And then: "We Salute Your Courage!"
This stuck with me as we drove to the restaraunt, and again as we drove home. I realized something I hadn't been able to piece together before. What were all these tears about? At the end of chemo? And now?
It's not relief. Maybe it is a little. But I can tell you that mostly, I'm not feeling relief.
But that certificate. . . Yes. This was it. There's the thought out there that doing chemo and doing radiation took courage. It didn't. I mean, what was my option? You do what you got to do, right? There's nothing brave it that. Maybe if the option was a fast, painless death, then choosing a bummer treatment to live instead would have been a little courageous. But dying from an untreated cancer? In my mid-30's? That would have been a ton worse than anything I lived with the past few months.
No. I realized that the courage starts now. At least, I need it to. How to go forward without the cancer? After these several months and the tidal wave of love that has poured through our lives, I'm a changed person. There's no going back to my old life. But what does my life look like now? How do I go on without this giant circumstance?
I think all the crying has more to do with the grief over the end of that circumstance, over a changed life.
Don't get me wrong: Life will go on. And it will be far superior to what it would have been if we had not run this race. (Well, it's not quite over, is it?) But going on, and being willing to go into a new life, as a new person, is what takes courage.
At least, this is what I realized and felt in that deep place as we approached our home. I prayed right then, that God would give me all the guidance and courage I would need.
Then Bryan picked up the mail from our box. In it was a package from my friend, Sarah.
I didn't tell you yet about my appointment 2 weeks ago, when they needed to prepare for this last 5 day extravaganza. Dr. Tanner came in to the treatment room, and using the $12 surgical marker with my name on it, traced an oval around the scar. A general outline about 2 inches around it on all sides. He didn't use any special instrument for this--just his eye and his hand and a $12 marker.
They took a photo of it.
They made a tracing of his marker line.
And a week later, I went into the treatment room to find an extension hooked onto the radiation machine. It was basically a frame of a cube. Inserted into the bottom plane of that cube was a square slab of lead with a hole cut out of it that fit the exact shape of Dr. Tanner's drawing. This was to shield the rest of me and let the radiation hit only that concentrated area.
Yeah, yeah, I got that. But it amazed me that they'd pour a mold based on the marker outline that my 6 year old could have drawn. "Amazed," because it had to be Dr. Tanner who drew it. The techs couldn't do it, nooooo, it had to be the bigshot radiologist.
Every time, for those last 5 treatments, this cracked me up. I asked what they did with the slab after I was done. If they were going to throw it out, I'd have asked to keep it. Now that would have been a conversation piece.
But they melt it down for use with the next patient.
Speaking of other patients, I did indeed outlast all the others who had dates before mine. And I outlasted all the others added right up to January 11.
I brought the kids with me all of last week. I told them On Friday that this was their last treatment--Mommy still had one more, but they would be with Betsy that day--so they needed to celebrate the last one with me on Friday.
After I got dressed (out of my gown, of which Joshua said each day, "That dress looks cute,") I brought them into the hallway outside the treatment room where a ship's bell hangs. Next to it is a brass plaque with a poem engraved,
I ring this bell
Three times to say
I've finished my course well
And I am on my way
I lifted Gemma up, and then Joshua, and let them ring the bell. They did it with great joy, free of concern, oblivious to the meaning of it. And they rang it loudly and a lot, a lot more than 3 times, because it is fun to ring a bell.
I cried and cried. Mostly because I can look at them and see that they don't get it. And I'm glad about that. Thankful. They have no idea what this year has been for me and Bryan. What they know and care about right now is that Mommy won't have a rigorous treatment schedule anymore, and the appointments she will have won't make her tired.
Today, it was supposed to be just Bryan and I, but then Betsy's son got sick, sick, sick with the flu, and those are germs the Ponce family doesn't need right now. So the kids came again.
They didn't ring the bell this time, and neither did I, because a patient went in for treatment right after me and I didn't want to risk disturbing her. My version of the bell, I think, was tossing my gown into the hamper, and leaving behind my very own cubby hole at the radiation unit.
I cried and cried again. I'm crying now as I tell you all about it.
We went to dinner together at Fargoe's, a very fun pizza place, and it was our first time, so it felt extra festive. At the table, we played 20 questions, a game Gemma loves, and Josh, too, though he has his own little version of it. . .
They have a little game room, too, where Bryan tried his hand at PacMan. Just seeing that was worth the trip. The picture I'm making is that we had a fun evening as a family. It was a simple delight just to be together. A delight to see my children enjoy themselves.
A delight I hope to enjoy for a long time coming.
Will you bear with me for a story
The radiation techs gave me a certificate before I left. Congratulations on finishing your treatment, that kind of thing. And then: "We Salute Your Courage!"
This stuck with me as we drove to the restaraunt, and again as we drove home. I realized something I hadn't been able to piece together before. What were all these tears about? At the end of chemo? And now?
It's not relief. Maybe it is a little. But I can tell you that mostly, I'm not feeling relief.
But that certificate. . . Yes. This was it. There's the thought out there that doing chemo and doing radiation took courage. It didn't. I mean, what was my option? You do what you got to do, right? There's nothing brave it that. Maybe if the option was a fast, painless death, then choosing a bummer treatment to live instead would have been a little courageous. But dying from an untreated cancer? In my mid-30's? That would have been a ton worse than anything I lived with the past few months.
No. I realized that the courage starts now. At least, I need it to. How to go forward without the cancer? After these several months and the tidal wave of love that has poured through our lives, I'm a changed person. There's no going back to my old life. But what does my life look like now? How do I go on without this giant circumstance?
I think all the crying has more to do with the grief over the end of that circumstance, over a changed life.
Don't get me wrong: Life will go on. And it will be far superior to what it would have been if we had not run this race. (Well, it's not quite over, is it?) But going on, and being willing to go into a new life, as a new person, is what takes courage.
At least, this is what I realized and felt in that deep place as we approached our home. I prayed right then, that God would give me all the guidance and courage I would need.
Then Bryan picked up the mail from our box. In it was a package from my friend, Sarah.
Haiti Orphans Update
It's Monday night as I write. I read in this morning's news about the children who've been joined with their families.
It's probably impossible to overestimate their shock in having gone from utter devastation and lack to a life of love, belonging and provision. A lovely picture of salvation, now that I think about it. . .
It's also probably impossible to overestimate their new families' joy at having them. I am good friends with a few of these families and they are just about ready to climb onto their rooftops and start singing.
It's probably impossible to overestimate their shock in having gone from utter devastation and lack to a life of love, belonging and provision. A lovely picture of salvation, now that I think about it. . .
It's also probably impossible to overestimate their new families' joy at having them. I am good friends with a few of these families and they are just about ready to climb onto their rooftops and start singing.
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