Grand Finale

The week heading into surgery, I prayed that God would do one last Big Thing. Something that'd make for a real bang-up last post. You know. End with fireworks.



But I didn't have any visions of Heaven while in the ether. And, as I've told you, my hospital stay wasn't great. I spent the weekend in a real funk, which I thought was due to the emotional expense of the surgery. Then, after posting on Sunday with those notes and updates, and signing off that night with such resignation, then God showed me that all of what had happened in the hospital and the days that followed was my last Big Story.



I used a phrase in that Sunday post: "frustration that one of my medical requests had been ignored," and left it at this because I didn't want any of you to think Mayfield was a jerk. Seriously. He has been the ultimate agent of God's grace and mercy in our lives, I didn't want one small thing from the end of this road to cloud anyone's estimation of him. I love him and so should you!



Now I see that probably the bigger reason I didn't elaborate is because I was the total jerk. And who wants to be a jerk at the end of her own blog?



Well. Without further delay, here is the story, starting at the place where Bryan, Amy, the surgical nurse, pre-op nurse, surgeon and nurse anesthetist were all huddled in the pre-op bay.



I was talking with the surgical nurse. She had the standard list of questions to ask and then I asked one myself: Will you be inserting a catheter?



Yes. It would be a longer operation because of the two procedures, so, yes.



With great forethought, I recalled my first major surgery in July, my ankle surgery from 2 years ago and my baby deliveries following the epidurals and said, "You know, I can never urinate following anesthesia, and I really hate being awake when they put a catheter in to relieve me, so can we just leave this one in until tomorrow morning?"



And she said yes. No problem.



Fade to black.



Wake up, as I've reported, way too early. Feel them holding me up so they can wrap my chest and immediately realize just what's happened up top. Do my best to scooch myself over to the bed even though the pain is screaming from two places. Recall why my abs might be hurting and feel even worse.



And then. And then. Feel a bit of pressure in my bladder. I murmured, from my haze, "Is my catheter still in?"



The recovery nurse checked. Nope.



"They said they'd leave it in."



She checked again. Nope. She said she was surprised, too.



An intense wave of anxiety swept into me. My mind raced--still foggy, of course--as I flashed back to what it's like to be post-anesthesia with no catheter to help me. It was sheer irritation to try to urinate when you know you're full and yet you just can't. And so humiliating to have to have a nurse walk you to the toilet before you're ready to walk only to sit down and not do anything while she's standing there, waiting on you. It just sucks.



Mayfield walked in at this very moment. Now. I'm going to report this conversation to the best of my recollection. But remember that I was still foggy, and what you're about to read is a blend of what was actually said mixed with heavy amounts of what I perceived about the tone.



I'm pretty sure I started it. "You took my catheter out." It was an accusation.



He said, "Yes. . ."



"I said I wanted it in. How am I supposed to urinate?" Still accusatory.



"You're allowed to get up as soon as we get you to your room." His tone seemed flippant to me. Like: no big deal. Just pee.



"I can't just walk around right after anesthesia." The pulse monitor starting beeping a bit faster.

"You should be trying to walk around as soon as you can. You're supposed to be walking around."

"You've been pumping me full of IV fluids for how many hours? And I'm not going to have to urinate before I'm ready to walk around?"

"You can use a bedpan."


Use a bedpan? Idiot man! Stupid, insensitive, idiot man who has no idea what it's like to have a woman's equipment!

I flashed back to the ankle surgery when I didn't know I could ask for a catheter and no one offered one and, given that I had a broken ankle, I wasn't allowed to try to get the toilet myself in the middle of the night. So, all night long, once the urine actually started to flow following several painful hours, I used a bedpan.


And it was disgusting. Urine doesn't actually go into the pan. It spreads out all over such that I had not only to ring the nurse every 30 minutes to ask for it to be emptied, but I had to do a big wipe-up as well, and then try to sleep in the dampness of my own urine.


I hate bedpans. Which is why I said, "Bedpans don't work."


And then he scoffed. Or laughed. Or some other non-taking-that-comment-as-truth sort of reaction. I said, "I'd have to call the nurses to ask them to empty it." This was only a shadow of the problem. But the haze of ether, alas, the haze. . .


He said, "Amy, that's their job." And at this point, I didn't recognize his tone, my brain just couldn't track with it. But in the moment, I took it as sheer argument. This guy was arguing with me. I'd just had several girlie-parts removed and I felt like crap and I'd just thrown up in dry heaves from the anesthesia and he was arguing with me?


Poor customer service, people. And, like you, poor customer service has the power to enrage. The pulse monitor beeped yet faster.

He probably noticed this. He said, "Amy, I'm not the bad guy here. I'm trying to take care of you the best I can."

Such confusion here. He thought I was accusing him of being a bad guy? How could he think that I'd ever think he was the bad guy? Being a jerk about this catheter thing, yes. But it made me even angrier that he'd say this. It felt like condescension.

Yet, with the haze of ether. . . I was in no shape to explain it to him coherently. I just said, as my voice got louder, "This whole thing is just an extra layer of humiliation I don't need in my world right now!"

He said, "The catheter presents an extra layer of infection you might not want, either." Cheeky bastard!! "But if you want to buy into that risk, you can. . ."

And this felt like manipulation. The pulse monitor sounded like a bomb timer right before it explodes. "I just want to be able to urinate and it doesn't even matter if I can walk around yet!"

"Well I wouldn't want to have that thing hanging down between my legs while I was trying to walk around, either."

And that was it. That was the end. I shouted at him, and I mean,
I shouted, "Mayfield, you're not the f****ing patient!"

Oh yes I did.

The recovery nurse, witness to all thus far, stiffened. Who else was in recovery? Anyone awake and in that giant room heard me.

My pulse, I would learn later, was at 163, which is around my maximum target heart rate for a cardio workout. And yet it got there through sheer emotion.

I'm not sure what he said. I think he came towards me, from the foot of my bed where he'd been. And I screamed at him again to "Get out of my space!" Which is a total Mommy thing to say. . .

He left.

The nurse decided I was well enough to go upstairs to a room. I cried a lot. Listened to her hand-off instructions that described mostly the catheter issue. The recovery nurse said, "Amy and Dr. Mayfield. . .disagreed. . . They had a. . . disagreement. . ."

Bryan came in soon after. His face was full of pity. I told him I was so glad to see him, I had been so lonely and upset in recovery. He nodded.

Then I asked, "Did you see Mayfield?"

Uh, yeah. "Did he. . .quote me? Directly?"

Bryan kind of smirked. "Yeah. . ."

I got the full report. Mayfield told Bryan the main issue, and then quoted the final moments, said I could have a catheter if I was willing to take on the risk of infection from it, that this was my choice.

This still didn't make sense to me. We didn't have the whole risk-of-infection talk/concern last time. The nurse just put one in after it was clear I couldn't go on my own.

I asked Byran--can you believe I asked this? this is how mad I was at Mayfield--"And was he laughing when he told you? Did he think it was just hilarious?"

Bryan said, no, "He looked really sad, Amy."

Oh.

The afternoon passed. It included two trips to the bathroom that were both unsuccessful and that both happened in front of my roommate's freakish visitors. I just couldn't get past my frustration. The feeling that all this could have been avoided if he'd just listened to me.

The nurse did a bladder scan. Detected that I was nearly at capacity, and started a catheter. There was no discussion about "Mr. Wink" this time, I can be thankful to say. But it took two nurses, one of the most humiliating positions you can imagine, and 3 attempts. Seriously, they opened 3 different catheter kits before getting it.

What relief, though! Whew!

The early hours of the evening passed and as I felt better and better physically, I felt worse and worse in my heart. The whole day, I commented to every nurse who came in--and surely they all knew about the incident because gossip must surely travel quickly in a hospital--"He might have been wrong about this, but Dr. Mayfield really is terrific. I love the guy. This was just one small mistake. . ."

Each one nodded and smiled and said something like, "Yes, he's the greatest."

I told Mayfield this much later, that he was very popular with all the staff and he said, "That's because I don't steal food out of their break room."

He came into my room at about 7 PM, and he looked really terrible. I mean. . .just really down and sad and disheartened.

I said, "Mayfield, I'm so sorry I cussed at you. I shouldn't have yelled at you. I'm so sorry."

He came and squatted at the side of my bed so he'd be at head level and said, "I'm glad to hear you say that because that really hurt my feelings."

I cried at this. My pulse went back up to 130. He was teary-eyed, too. And he went on to say that he accepted my apology, and it was all OK, I'd had a really rough time, I had been through a lot, it was OK that I'd gotten so upset. He said that he'd had a really long day, too, following my surgery. And he looked like it.

Which is why I said, "We don't have to talk about it now, but. . .you said some things that were not very cool either."

He nodded at this and said he had plenty to learn and that he was open to getting better in any way that he could.

And that was the end of that part of the discussion. We went on to discuss my condition and medical needs. And then we three talked for a bit longer about general things.

But right here is where I have to put that asterisk. Right at that moment when I declared, basically, that I still held something against him. He didn't take it that way, and I didn't mean it that way, but as the weekend ensued, it became clear that this was happening.

All of Friday, Saturday and Sunday, my heart just ached. I attributed this to the loss. Right? I mean, of course I'd be feeling sad.

But it was more than this. When I wrote that post on Sunday, I wanted badly to be able to share a Good Word from God, to tell how the light was still shining in that dark moment. But throughout the whole history of The Big "C," I've never allowed myself to fake it. I've never put a braver or happier or more joyful face on the truth than what I was honestly experiencing.

So, Sunday as I wrapped up that post, I did what God asks His children to do: When we're not feeling the God-juice, so to speak, we don't pout and we don't doubt, we just need to bank on Scripture.

In those low moments--indeed, following a whole weekend of not being able to see God or sense His joy--we need to say, "That which is true is true, regardless of what I can perceive at this moment. And what I know is true is God's Word."

In this case, God's Word says that I might be pressed, but not crushed, might be persecuted, but not abandoned, might be struck down, but not destroyed. And God's Word says that I am blessed beyond a curse--even the curse of cancer and breastlessness and early menopause--because it's His promise that endures, not my circumstances.

And I thought that was the end of it, friends. I thought, "Well, no really great story. Only a horrible moment with my surgeon that I'd rather no one know about. . ."

Sunday night, I couldn't get to sleep. My heart was still aching. And it made no sense. Grief, yes. But grief that lasted over so many days? For this? This was the end of the cancer marathon! There should be at least as much relief and gladness as there was sadness. But I couldn't shake that sadness.

There's one thing you can do when you get to this point--when something is wrong, and you know it, but you can't put your finger on it.

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for the kingdom of Heaven is theirs."

That doesn't sound helpful, but that's kind of because it's in code. A helpful paraphrase of it is this: "You're blessed when you're at the end of your rope. With less of you, there is more of God and His rule."

So I prayed that simple prayer. God, I'm hopeless on my own. I can't do anything right for myself apart from You. Search my heart. Show me what I'm missing.

This Scripture came to mind immediately: Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

And that was my problem, wasn't it? That after so many months of seeing God's Hand so clearly, day after day, at the very end of the trial, I just couldn't.

If you're pure in heart, you'll see God. If you're not seeing God, you must not be pure of heart. Simple modus pollens logic.

I asked God to show me what was wrong with my heart, and like a movie, the entire scene from the day of my surgery replayed. Only this time, it didn't look as I've described it to you. God somehow let me see it out of the haze of ether.

In this new version, Mayfield is the doctor who came to check on me in recovery only to find a patient mad as a hornet, and he was completely bewildered. And flummoxed. This wasn't a situation that escalated because of his presence, it was already an impossible situation when he walked in. An ambush, really.

In this new version, I saw how I hadn't had the catheter discussion with Mayfield, I'd had it with the surgical nurse, who makes no decisions in the OR. She knew of my preference, he did not.

And in this new version, I was holding something against him. "I apologize, but. . ." and it wasn't OK to walk away from that with the conclusion that he'd messed up, but in the grand scheme it didn't matter.

If he had messed up, then that would have been fine. Granted, he shouldn't suggest that a woman use a bedpan. But other than this, I saw clearly that he hadn't been wrong.

I played a hypothetical situation out. Suppose I had told him about the catheter thing instead of the nurse. He would have said, "I see your point, but catheters present an additional risk of infection. So it might be better to go without, try to urinate on your own. And then if that doesn't work again, we can always put one back in."

I'd have accepted that. That sounds completely reasonable. And following this realization, as I lie awake not able to sleep, God showed me that the core offense is that I did not trust this doctor's motives for me. I should have. Instead of insisting on how right I was, I should have just asked, "Why?" with a belief that he'd had a good reason.

This isn't advice I'd give to many other patients. I think we're all better off being our own best advocates. But after this guy had done so much for us, had gone so far beyond the call of duty and even beyond the call of excellence. Really. That deserves a measure of trust.

I fell asleep soon after figuring all this out.

We saw Mayfield the next morning, and I shared it all with him. That I was sorry for more than just the yelling and the cussing, but for not trusting him when he'd more than earned it.

He said I didn't have to apologize, and it was all OK, that, yes, he'd only been concerned about infection. That this is the kind of thing surgeons have to answer for if something does go wrong. That having a port in made the possibility that much more risky, because the bacteria would have circulated through it and built up there into a real poison. That--and he kind of let this slip--one of his colleagues (not from this hospital) had just lost a patient to port infection resulting from a catheter infection. And that he'd been "petrified" of any infection in me.

At this point, we were both teary-eyed again and Bryan was looking at us with his little smile. He said later, "I think it's cute how you both find something to cry about at every appointment." Cry-babies, we are. Absolutely.

He also mentioned that he'd love to take a class where they teach him how to talk to patients as they come out of anesthesia. But I'm pretty sure that class doesn't exist because there's as many ways to do it as there are patients. And in my instance, there's probably not a single thing he could have said that would have penetrated the frenzy I'd worked myself into.

And all of this makes for a grand Grand Finale, why?

Because this whole cancer journey has born a lot of fruit. It's been good and big for Bryan, for our children, for our friends and family. It's been the Hand of God reaching down to Earth in ways that we can see and enjoy, and I've been glad to share openly what that all looks like.

But chiefly, it has not been about other people. It's been about me. It's been for me. This cancer and the treatment of it has been a gift meant to bless me. And at the last moment, when I was looking for one last great God moment to wrap it all up, He gave me one.

He used Scripture to show me the sin in my own heart and the cure for it and how to love someone better having learned the lesson. It was a microcosm of God's bigger project in my life. An example of what it means to have a relationship with Him, what it means to live with the Holy Spirit alive within me. And that's what this whole cancer thing has been mostly about: The God of the Universe is bigger than whatever circumstances come my way.

Thank you for being used by Him to encourage me. You have been His instruments of blessing.


There's a lingering question from The Big "C," isn't there? The question: What shall we call people like me if we don't call them "warriors"?

And the end of the marathon, as we left Mayfield's office following the post-op check-up and tube withdrawal, he said, simply, "You're a champion."

Yes. That's it, isn't it?

That Guy Again

On today's pre-op appointment with Mayfield:

How long are these things, usually? 20 minutes? 30 minutes? We were there for an hour and a half with Mayfield, chatting about all manner of things. Many of them medical, of course. But some of them completely irrelevant to the coming surgery.

Like his dogs. Turns out he has always been an akita man. I told him my akita story, you know, the one where my brother's dog tried to kill me.

I asked him one pressing question, and he says he'll have an answer for me soon: How often does a person come to Evans Community Hospital for one reason, then twist or break her ankle on the piles of rocks dividing out the parking lot sections because no one is actually going to walk all the way down an aisle instead of cutting across the lot to get directly to the door, and need, say, ankle surgery?

I'll be certain to tell you all whatever Mayfield learns from his colleagues about this.

Speaking of follow-up, do you remember Yolanda? She was the quasi-willing participant as proxy in the Name Game. She left a note on Mayfield's desk that read, "I have to leave at 11 today, but please tell Amy Ponce I say 'Hello.'"

The whole dang bunch of them are just so super! I took the note and plan to put it in my scrapbook.

We're counting down to the Big Day on Thursday. There is a lot of sadness in this. Tears come out of the blue, often at inopportune times. The pressure this time is almost as great as it was for the first surgery.

But knowing that God has chosen Mayfield to do the job for us is an immeasurable comfort. We're going to march forward, and get through this, and one day count it as pure joy.

A Strange Embrace

Here's a story for you:

On Sunday, I was checking Joshua out of his classroom at church when Susan tapped me on the shoulder to say hi.

Susan is not really a friend. We don't know each other well at all. The last time I was in the same room with her was a day in September 2008. But I've always liked her, and she's an amazing woman with an amazing story. God is BIG in her life. . .

So I turned to greet her and suddenly found myself hugging her. She hugged me back--it was a really intense embrace, and I started crying. Not out of sadness or grief I just. . .I had no idea why I was hugging this person and why we were both now crying. But there came an overwhelming sense of joy that we cried even more.

It was crazy.

And you all know me! I don't mind a hug, but I'm not A#1 hugger either.

Totally weird.

Eventually, we broke it off and she said I looked great. That she'd been hearing from Christine, a friend we have in common, updates about me.

"You talked with Christine, right?" she asked.

Well, yes, I see Christine every Thursday morning at our Bible study.

We had to hustle along at that moment, and so said good-bye.

A few hours later, I was talking to the very Christine in question and I mentioned how I'd seen Susan for the first time in what seemed like forever.

"Oh!" Christine said, "Did she tell you?"

Tell me what?

"That she was just diagnosed with breast cancer."

Long silence.

Christine went on, "It's at stage 1, and she told me that this is going to be a blessing her life. And I told her, 'You know who else believes that? Amy Ponce!'"

Shortly after their conversation, Susan saw me picking up Joshua from his room at church. So, she knew about her cancer and about my cancer. But I'd had no idea about hers.

But our spirits knew. Amazing. . .

The Coming Surgery

I've mentioned that the other breast removal surgery is scheduled for 25 March.

There we were, steaming steadily towards this date with complete peace. Anticipation, almost, as it will be the last Really Big Thing we have to do in this marathon.

Then Dr. Science called at 5:15 PM on last Wednesday evening. He was on his cell phone, we had a terrible connection, and he was saying something about talking with a colleague (?) and then talking with Mayfield (why?) and then, at last: "Something you should consider is having your ovaries removed during your upcoming operation."

The rest of the call was a blur, except that he apologized profusely for having this conversation on the phone and not in person.

Well, why wasn't it in person? I had just seen him 2 weeks earlier, and he went through the whole song and dance about tomaxifin, the drug I'll take for 5 years that will block the estrogen from getting to any remaining cancer cells.

Except that it's "not as effective" as this other drug, which is given only to women who are definitely menopausal. And what is menopause? Medically speaking, he explained, it's terrifically difficult to identify. Even if the cycle has stopped, there may well still be estrogen in the body.

But at no time during this talk did he mention the recommendation to have my oviaries out alltogether.

At one point, I asked, "What is life like without estrogen?"

He said, "You've been living it since September" (e.g. when the chemotherapy threw me into "menopause.")

I said, "I gotta say, I was really looking forward to having estrogen back again."

He slipped into a special doctor tone called, "Help the patient see the big picture," as he said, "Look, I know this sucks. But as an oncologist I will never be able to tell you that there are no cancer cells in your body. There might be just one cell that is hiding, and 10 years from now, it will have grown to be detectable, and it would grow back in a place where you don't want cancer cells to grow. Given the size of your tumor and your young age, your risk for this is very high.

Estrogen coursing through your body is about the most dangerous thing you can have in your body at this point because your cancer is estrogen receptive. It will eat that estrogen and breed."

Sigh.

I told him, obviously, that Bryan and I would talk about it. Pray about it.

Bryan came home towards the end of the conversation and could kind of tell what the content was. When I told him, he cried and cried. We both did.

For him, it was mostly a child thing. We had hoped for a third. But number 3 didn't come along before the diagnosis. And we'd both been making the calculations of treatment schedules and time tables, and he especially carried a small hope that there'd be a window of time just big enough at the end of it all.

For me, it's a little bit of this. But more a grief over more loss. To be such a different person physically than I was a year ago at this time is still shocking. My figure is different, obviously. My hair is coming in gray. And now the chemical of a young woman will be gone from me.

We talked a lot about the recommendation. A clear and logical choice emerged. It's common sense, really. Just one little cell. Just one. It would be enough to kill me before the children we do have leave home.

And we haven't gone through all this treatment and surgery thus far only to stop short of completing a necessary step.

But.

But, but, but. . . This is a pretty big thing to choose. We're smart people, but we're not smart enough to know what is right for my body, my future health, our future family. We just don't have the knowledge we'd need to know for certain.

So we prayed that God would confirm the decision for us. Sometimes, all God gives is our common sense and faculty of reason. If this was all we'd have for this choice, then. . .OK. But we prayed on Wednesday and Thursday that He would let us see His hand on this plan. Or, at the least, that He'd work to stop us if my ovaries are to stay in.

On Friday, I talked to Dr. Markus again. This time it was a clear connection, and I had my questions lined up.

Q: Why had he not mentioned this earlier?

A: Because this is normally a conversation he has with a patient after 5 years of tomaxifin. It's standard protocol.

Q: So why now?

A: Well. . . The director of some big shot national cancer research and oncology project just "happened" to be in town on Tuesday night to give a paper.

Markus went to it, know the guy, and the two met afterwards as old colleagues.

Markus "happened" to mention my case: young woman, huge tumor, estrogen receptive cancer, and this big shot guy said that it is his standard recommendation now to advise that the ovaries come out, especially if there are no plans to have more children. The benefits of not providing the cancer cells a food source far outweigh the downside of not having estrogen.

Then on Wednesday, Mayfield "happened" to call to discuss a few patients they have in common. And Mayfield "happened" to ask if I was having ovaries out as well.

It's peculiar that he had asked this. I talked to Mayfield myself to make the surgery appointment, and he said nothing of it. But since scheduling it, he had been thinking, "Maybe she should think about this. . ." and he wanted to know if Markus had discussed it with me.

Following that conversation, Markus felt really compelled to call me right away about it. Because, after all he "had just had this conversation with the guy at the forefront of this research." Hence the phone call on Wednesday evening as he drove home.

All of this we take to be God's confirmation. No such thing as coincidence, especially not with this kind of timing, following the timing of our prayer.

It's made a huge difference to know that we're not just going with common sense. If it's OK with God that we won't have more children, that's a lot easier to bear than the feeling that cancer has robbed us of something.

Neither of us is crying anymore. Truly. It's all good.

Speaking of which: I "happened" to be studying the following Scripture during the week that this happened. Romans 8:28-39. I won't quote the whole thing here.

But the key part of it in relation to this development is this:

"Whom He foreknew, these He pre-destined to be conformed to the image of His Son"

This has been the greatest comfort of all. It's not my destiny--my purpose--to hold onto my youth for as long as I possibly can. I've been pre-destined to become more like Christ. And if my ovaries have to come out, then God's promise is that He will "use (this) for the good to those who love God, to those called according to His purpose" (8:28).

As for the details:

Mayfield called today to confirm that he found a Gyn to do the procedure with laperoscopy while I'm already under. The surgery stays the same day.

"And I'm going to be there for the whole thing to make sure he does it right." Uh. . . OK. "I'm serious, Amy. I am extremely protective when it comes to you and I will be watching every last thing to see that it goes smoothly."

Another great comfort.

We remain as blessed as ever. And more joyful--honestly, seriously: more joyful--than ever before.

Courage

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.

A Rhinestone Studded Evening

Bryan and I went to the JFCC-IMD inaugural awards dinner on Friday night. 2 months ago, this evening was to be the General's retirement party, and I told Bryan I wouldn't plan on it. I had no way of knowing what I'd be feeling like 5 weeks into radiation, right? And at 30 bucks a ticket, it wasn't the kind of thing I wanted to have to decline at the last minute.

1 month ago, it became both the General's retirement party, and the Christmas party for the command. Same price. I had the same answer.

2 weeks ago, it stopped being the General's retirement party, because he's no longer retiring. It continued to be the Christmas party and now it was also to be an awards dinner. And Bryan had been nominated for field grade Officer of the Year.

And I was feeling pretty good with the radiation.

So then:



The evening was a delight. They held it at a hall on the Air Force Academy campus and the meal was actually really delicious. The people seated at our table were very talkative, a few of them were very funny. I had a great time.

Bryan won the award. As he went to the front to receive it, I told James, who sat next to me, "Shout out for him to take his jacket off." And James did.

Everyone in the hall laughed. Then silence. Then I called out, "No, seriously, take it off!" and everyone laughed again. But it was a less confident laugh. A "What the heck are they talking about?" laugh.

What were we talking about?

Bryan's way-fab shirt, that's what. He had it tailored while in Korea. But he wouldn't take his jacket off up front. This is one way Bryan and I are different from each other.

He did remove it after returning to our table, and so James and I were vindicated for shouting out in the first place. If you ask me, Bryan may have won the award, but he missed his moment for fame.

But here was the highlight of my evening:

That Friday afternoon, I was talking with my friend, Mike, who mentioned that he'd seen a made-for-TV movie recently about the man who invented/developed Herceptin. This is the protein therapy, you may recall, that has single-drug-edly raised the survival rate of patients with this particular breast cancer from 23% to 83%.

We talked for a bit about medical research, and how humbled I am by it, especially by all the women who participated in the clinical trials that led to Herceptin becoming standard treatment. What a gift to me. From people I don't even know and can't even thank. Then our conversation moved along to the business at hand.

A few hours later, there I was, at the Air Force Academy, chatting with a couple during the

mingle time. They were Filipino Americans, and I mention this because, to my knowledge, only a Filipino woman would think to wear the following piece of jewelry at a formal military awards dinner: A giant, pink rhinestone studded ribbon pendant on a multi-colored rhinestone chain.

I said to her, "I notice your pendant."

She said back to me, "I am a survivor!"

I said, "I am on my way to becoming one myself." And with that, she launched into her war story, which focused mostly on her reconstruction surgery.

Then her husband mentioned, "She was part of the Herceptin trial, and now it is standard treatment."

The tears welled up. I couldn't believe it. Just couldn't. I hugged her and said, "Thank you, thank you for being part of that trial, I've always wanted to be able to thank the women who helped me this way."

What a gift to have met her. And the timing of it! God just doesn't stop.

And, hey, let's also hear it for giant, rhinestone studded pink ribbon pendants.

Radiation Update

12 treatments to go. Notes from thus far:

My cubicle in the radiation wing is marked "AP 12/7." It holds my gown.

There are a few other cubicles that are marked as well. 4 others, now. 1 that is marked 12/3 and 3 that have dates starting after my own. There used to be 6, but I've outlasted 2 so far.

"Outlasted," because it's become a little game I'm playing. Each day I discovered another gown gone, I had one of those "Yess!" arm pumping victory moments.

Am I crazy? Because, you know, what a victory that I have to do 7 weeks of radiation.

Yet you all want me to keep you posted, don't you? How many of these 4 can I outlast?

Every 5th day, the techs take x-rays as well as dispense treatment. There is a glass plate they slide in that is marked with a "Y" and "Z" axis, a cross right in the middle of the field.

The "Y" is the horizontal axis, and the positive is on the left while the negative is marked on the right. But. OK. From the camera's point of view, the negative is on the left and the positive is on the right.

On the "Z" axis--the vertical--the positive is marked on the bottom and the negative is marked on the top.

What?

There can't be a good reason for this. Yet there must be. I asked the tech and she didn't know. Every fifth day, it drives me a little more crazy.

Speaking of techs, how does this story make you feel:

The procedure for treatment begins with the set up. I lie down, assume the position of hands above head, and the techs slide me around on the table a bit here and there until the lasers are lined up with my tattoos.

Then one goes to a computer monitor and calls out 2 numbers, one for moving me to the side, and one for moving me down.

I kept forgetting to listen to the numbers and memorize them for the next day, but after several treatments, I was pretty sure they were different numbers each day.

But why would this be? If I'm lined up with my tattoos, and the lasers are at fixed points and my tattoos are fixed points, then shouldn't I be moved--while already on the table--in relation to the machine the same distance each and every time?

I asked the tech.

She said, yes, they were different numbers that get called out, and it was to make sure I was in the same spot each time.

I asked her how this could be possible. Just as I explained it to all of you. She said, "In a perfect world, yes, but we have to be absolutely precise."

What?

"It's all complicated science."

What??

I'm not concerned that the beam isn't hitting the right spot. I have complete confidence that I'm being radiated accurately each and every time.

But this doesn't make sense. Lasers, tattoos, precision machine. . . I should be moved the same distance and direction each time.

I had to let it go. The whole matter. I had to stop thinking about it.

Then, this week, I made the effort to listen to and memorize my numbers. And you know what? They are the same every time.

Now. This tech. Very nice woman. But how would you feel if it were you on the table and she with her finger on the button?

Speaking of feelings, I can finally tell you a very disturbing story from two weeks ago. I have to. Leaving it out would be to permit an incomplete record.

Dr. Tanner was on vacation. I knew there was to be a substitute there that Wednesday, the day that patients meet with a doctor.

So I was quick on the uptake when, Wednesday morning, I lay on the slab, in the position, when this guy walks into the treatment room.

And he made some kind of joke. Something not memorable. He looked at me, at my face. Didn't say a word.

So I said, "Who are you?????" And I probably sounded pretty disturbed.

He said, "Just some guy off the street."

And then the tech made some joke about how, sure, they let just anyone walk in.

So I said, "You should not be making light of this. And I still don't know who you are."

Folks, I was "in the position" already. Naked. Lying there. Looking at a man who hadn't bothered to tell me that he was Doctor so-and-so. I just closed my eyes. Closed them before they went blind with white rage and I started saying things unbecoming.

Then he said, "Oh dear, I've embarrassed the poor woman."

This part looks bad in print. But he said it with genuine regret. And then started saying other stuff--you know how when you really step in it, and you just keep talking, and every additional thing you say only makes matters worse? That was this guy.

The problem was not embarrassment. In his little post-stepping-in-it rant, he mentioned how medical professionals don't get embarrassed about anything--e.g. naked bodies are no big deal to him. The problem was his profound disrespect for my dignity.

What a jackass. That's pretty much the nicest term I can come up with.

And my opinion didn't really change during or following my appointment with him after the treatment. He apologized again in that room, where I was dressed. And told me to 'Drive safely, Girl' -- but he was an old jackass, so I didn't take the remark to be condescension so much as it was just more jackassery.

I got home that morning and cried and cried about it as I told Bryan.

There were those few minutes during treatment, when I was alone, on the slab, following the incident yet preceding the appointment I knew I had to have with this jackass. What would I say? He was guilty of unprofessionalism, yes, of a poor bedside manner, yes. But he hadn't meant to be hurtful.

Yet, I knew there was a huge possibility I would just rip into him. It was about to be a moment very unbecoming of Christ, I knew, I could see. So I prayed right then.

And the Holy Spirit answered: Jesus knows what it feels like to have one's dignity assaulted--and He at the hands of people who really did mean to be hurtful. And it was a small price to pay compared to the salvation it bought for those He loves. You can forgive this guy, Amy. For the glory of Jesus, you can count this a small price.

'Tis the Season

Permit a tardy Deep Christmas Thought:

One of the primary lessons I've learned through the military life of moving around, changing jobs, changing churches, changing ministries, changing roles, changing changing changing--one of the lessons of this is that life happens in seasons.

For instance, our normal Ponce Family Policy is that the children don't watch many movies throughout the week. (We don't have television, so it's easy to count just how much DVD time they get.)

Then I did chemotherapy and suddenly we were in a new season: A time whence Gemma and Josh got out of bed, got their own breakfast and put a movie in to watch until Mommy managed to get out of bed herself.

I have been thinking about Mary's seasons of motherhood. It must have been a hard adjustment for her when baby #2 came along and was a sinner, unlike his big Brother. . .

But in general, that time between His birth and His public ministry starting about 30 years later must have been a joyful season. Not without its trials and difficulties (she did, probably, lose her husband at some point). Not without its similarities to the work of all mothers everywhere. But also, not without its joys at seeing such a marvelous Boy grow to manhood.

Then came that dark day. And a dark 3 days following. Throughout these, we should always remember, those who loved Jesus had no hope at all that they would ever see Him again before they themselves died. They had no expectation that He would resurrect. They had only their grief and dispair and whatever other ache their hearts held.

Multiplied by a hundred in the case of His mother, I would expect.

Then He appeared. And everything changed forever.

This Christmas, I was thinking about how Mary knew a joyful season of motherhood, and only after that crucible of grief--indeed, only out of its event--came a new and glorious season.

This is what the living Savior does. He makes the season new. He turns a dark hour into a dawn.

My own marathon proceeds. A lot of radiation left. Then surgery. And though I'd expected to be of very light heart by this time--the worst is behind us, no?--there's more sadness now than ever before. Even so, I know this is just a season.

And I do sense that there is something glorious ahead. The darker this season seems to me, the brighter, I believe, will be His triumph.

Half Time Remarks: Part 3 of 3

The Big "C"


It's time for the Big Reveal. If The Big "C" is not about cancer, then what is the Big "C"?

Well, cancer is a little "c." It's just a circumstance. It has posed some challenges. But it has also been the vehicle of great blessings--and I'm not even done with it yet.

The Big "C" is Christ, the Name above all names, the One who can make and keep cancer a little "c" in my life, in anyone's life.


Many have remarked in the comments, through e-mail, and in person upon "Amy's faith." Something along the lines of "It's so strong. . ."

I know that, universally, all of these comments are meant to encourage and support, and I do receive them gratefully as love. But now it's half-time, and I want to clarify something:

There is nothing about me that has created this faith, that is responsible for this faith, that should be admired for this faith.

There is nothing I know about God that you cannot know.
Nothing I experience with or in God that you cannot experience.

God loves you as much as God loves me, and His desire is for you to know and experience that love.

Some of you already know God and have a relationship with Him such that you've been able to relate to a lot of what I've written.

Some of you are simply not interested. You've got your reasons. Fine.

But some of you, I do believe, are interested. There's curiosity there. Maybe some wonder, some yearning. Maybe there's some pain that could really use the kindness of a Savior. This Half Time post is for you.


*********
The message is this:

God created a perfect world. Then sin entered the world through the sin of one man, and all of creation suffered the consequences. There's no point in being annoyed with that first man because we all know that if he hadn't messed it up, we would have. All fall short of the glory of God--we're all imperfect creatures walking around in an imperfect world.

The worst part about our fallen state is one that we're not even naturally aware of--that our sin interrupts our relationship with God. We can't have unity with a perfect God on this side of Heaven if we are imperfect, and we can't be unified with a perfect God on the other side, either, if we are imperfect.

Cut off from our Creator. Forever. The wage of sin is death, and you and I earn that wage every day.

But there is a free gift offered by God: eternal life through Jesus Christ.

How's that?

Way back, just moments after that first sin, God promised to send a Savior through Whom people could be restored to a relationship with God.

The Bible, among other things, is a series of stories of how God worked in people's lives to communicate His love, and these stories, again and again, presented symbols and pictures of the coming Savior.

God delivered His people out of Egypt, and the symbol He used was lamb's blood.

He gave a ritual law to His people in which He described what their yearly animal sacrifice should look like--to atone for their sins, they were to shed the blood of an innocent lamb. This was a symbol of what Jesus would become.

He spoke through His prophets with specific descriptions of who, what and where the Savior would be.

Then Jesus was born. He lived a quiet life until the age of about 30. He had a public ministry of preaching and miracle working for about 3 years. Then He was crucified by Roman decree and when He died, He completed an earthly life during which He had not sinned. He was that innocent lamb. He was buried in a tomb. Then His body resurrected from the grave and He appeared--to various women, then to His other friends, then to whole crowds of people.

And now there can be "eternal life through Jesus Christ." That is, if you believe that Jesus' death on the cross was the atoning sacrifice for your sins--that He paid the price for your sins with His death--and you believe that God resurrected Him from the dead, then God no longer sees you as an imperfect sinner.

Instead, God sees you as someone whose sins have all been covered, have all been paid for by Jesus' sacrifice. And you can have unity with Him--here on Earth, and after you die, in Heaven, too.

I write all this out because I don't want to assume that everyone knows the basic Christian Gospel. If you are one of those who is interested in the "God stuff," well, there it is. I hope I said enough to lay out the basic story, and I hope I have not said too much. . .

The best place for you to begin from here--for us all to begin, actually--is with 2 steps.

1. Talk to God. The only prayers He listens to are the honest ones. So if your prayer starts with, "I don't even know whether I believe in you or what I believe about you . . ." then that's the prayer to say.

2. Read the Bible. If you don't have one, you can read online at www.biblegateway.com , or you can stop by a bookstore, or you can e-mail me and I'll send you one.

You can start at the beginning and read straight through if you're feeling ambitious.

Or you can start with one of the biographies of Jesus' life: These are Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.

If you really like a lot of symbols and poetic language, start with John. If you want a straight-forward, nuts and bolts, Life of Jesus, start with Mark. If you want the accounts that have most of the famous stories of Jesus, including His amazing Sermon on the Mount and most of His parables, read Matthew and Luke.

And as you do these 2 things, be ready to see how God grows faith in you. Be ready to hear His voice. Be ready to get to know your Creator.

Wellness Update

Sunday evening.

Had a terrific visit with Sister #3. Plenty to tell you about her visit, and the impression she made on certain physicians, but not tonight.

I'm such a tease.

I cried a lot this week, every time I thought of how I am done with chemo. It's very surprising how emotional this end has been. I can't think of a good reason for it except to say that I don't think I've ever felt this kind of relief before, and I guess relief produces tears.

The other part, I realized during worship service on Saturday night, is deep, deep gratitude. To all of you. Seriously. Your comments, knowing you were reading this blog, knowing I had so many amazing people in my corner were all a genuine help along the road thus far. You should all very proud of yourselves and even productive.

"What did you do this year of significance?"
"I helped a friend get through chemotherapy!"

And then there was that time of worship with the Lord. My, my. . . I haven't had too many moments as intense as that one.

To be able to come before Him after Round 6 and say, "You promised not to forsake me and You didn't. And You did so much to make those weeks a lot easier than they could have been. . ." it was breath-taking.

There is that famous hymn "all is well with my soul," written by a guy who'd just lost his wife and daughter at sea, and it echoes a theme found often in the Bible and throughout the Christian life--that God is Sovereign, and come what may in personal circumstances, the thing that makes the worst conditions OK is the very character of the Living God--that He's faithful, powerful and good. And because of Who He is, one way or another, the story is going to have an ending that the believer can be thankful for.

I haven't--and we haven't--lived in anything close to the worst of circumstances. On a scale of 1 to 10 of Bad News, I'd say the year so far has been about a 3. But even so, now that I'm on the other side of that rough patch of surgery and treatment, and have experienced--not just been told about--walking with the living Lord of Lord through a narrow passage, I see the point of that hymn.

What a Mighty God.

I have much to tell you about radiation, The Visit, as I mentioned, and the coming Extended Blogger Break I'm planning on. But I'm still tired enough from Round 6 that I turn in early. And I haven't seen my husband in a week, so it'd be nice to talk to him while I'm still conscious. . .

Thank you again, truly, truly. I'm living with an embarrassment of riches.

Brief Notes on the Last Round

DONE.

And there's a lot to say about it. For now:

1. My body feels pretty crappy right now. And yet I am so happy! Kind of like: hit me with your best shot, you crazy poison, because it's the last shot you get.

2. And I feel so thankful. Only the really wealthy women of the planet get this medicine, and I did nothing to be an American, thereby being one of those wealthy women.

I got this medicine before the cancer spread to a different part of my body, and that too, had practically nothing to do with my own merit.

I am a picture of grace: undeserved blessing.

3. And not only do I live, but I do so at the end of a yucky portion of road that was swamped with the love and support of so many, including all of you. God used all of you to make this comparatively easy on me.

4. I'm thinking of Song 10:

He is an everlasting God.
He will not faint, He won't grow weary.

Strength will rise as we wait upon the Lord.

Sparks!

I am writing this on Sunday night, to be posted on Monday morning. I won't blog live from the chemo barn this time because I'd rather spend the time crocheting, reading and talking with Bryan.

But I'll take copious mental notes and if anything really interesting happens, I'll be sure to report it to you on Tuesday.

For now, let me tell you about my Sunday afternoon:

I went to AWANA today! I signed up to be a leader for Sparks, the K-2nd grade level that Gemma started this year, and completed the training for it. But because of my treatment schedule, I knew I'd have unreliable attendance this semester at least, so I wasn't actually slated into a position.

It had been my intention to avoid AWANA on the Sunday after chemo and Sunday right before a round because of germ issues. But one each one of those middle Sundays, I've always felt so crummy and/or sick!

So, even though tomorrow is a chemo round, I went anyway.

For those who don't know, AWANA stands for "All Workmen Are Not Ashamed"--from a verse in 1 Timothy that talks about knowing the Word of God well so that when various moments arrive, you'll have the answer you need.

This is a Bible memory club/organization. Kids wear a uniform vest for each level, and as they memorize Bible verses, they earn patches and gems to put on those vests. The meetings are filled with games and story time and the year is filled with extra fun like skate parties, grand prix rallies and dress-up nights. (Tonight was Bible Character night and Gemma was a mouse. You know. From either the 6th day of creation or Noah's Ark, take your pick. . . .)

Gemma loves it. So does Josh, who is a Puggle. (Did you know that a puggle is a baby platypus?) He doesn't have verses to memorize, but they have a curriculum in his room, too.

As for me? I was so glad to finally get to a meeting! I went with the plan of just hanging around and looking for ways to be useful. I'd told the Sparks leader ahead of time that I couldn't be in one of the small classrooms with the kids because of germs, but that I could stay in either the big story room or big game room.

And lo! In the story room, they started singing "This Little Light of Mine," with no one to lead the dance motions. So I ran to the front and did them. (This is a big deal for kids: to have motions to go with their songs.) And then I made up motions to go with the other songs we sang.

Sparks also do a little mini-cheer for each award that is announced. I got to lead that cheer, too! And I turned off the lights for the candle-in-the-pumpkin object lesson, and I passed out the pumpkin cookies. . . All of this 3 times over because all the Sparkies rotate through as 3 groups.

What fun.

Parin once told me, as she watched me facilitate a pinata-busting, "You missed your calling! You should have been a cruise director!" Sometimes I think she's right. I just love leading folks in the fun stuff.

But what was best of all was actually being a helpful, useful person. It's not that I was a spectacular servant before chemo began, and that I got knocked off my game by it. But since the surgery on 23 June, I have been on the receiving end of help, and there haven't been too many opportunities to be the helper that I could actually rise to.

Being a helper today just felt terrific. Being with all the other AWANA leaders and children was terrific, too. Our church is a real family to us, and being part of the Body in this meaningful way was good medicine.

PS: Happy Anniversary, Sister #2 and Brother-in-law #1!

Sunday Storytime: A Year Ago, Monday

A year ago Monday, it was a Sunday.

Bryan and I took the kids to beautiful Mt. Cutler in Cheyenne Canyon. It's about a 30 minute drive to get there, and the hike is about a mile long with a gradual elevation gain, so the kids could do pretty well with it.

The view along the way are amazing and at the top, as per our usual, because we did this hike a lot, we set out our blanket and ate our picnic as we overlooked the canyon.

Then we headed down. Joshua was too big for the baby backpack, so we took turns carrying him on our backs and making him hoof it. I was carrying him when: Slip. Going Down. OhnomakesureJoshualandssafely. Pop. Joshlandsonhisfeet. I land. . .on. . .my. . .butt. . .what is that horrible, horrible pain?

I screamed. A general, "Owwww! OOOWWWWW!" kind of scream.

Bryan and Gemma heard me and caught up in a hurry.

We took stock. I has slipped at the top of the last switch back of the trail. So. Maybe 2 to 3 city blocks to go. (This is how I picture distance: by how they would be measured off in concrete sidewalk squares.)

Bryan took the kids and hustled down the mountain as I lay there. He was going to lock them into the car and then come back up for me.

I was praying, praying, praying. That everything would turn out OK. Shortly after he left, a tingly numbness set it and my ankle suddenly didn't hurt anymore. It just. . .tingled.

A couple of hikers came upon me on their way down and offered help. I sized them up, and while I didn't want to refuse help in a time of great need, I also didn't want what appeared to be a man weighing 120 lbs and a woman weighing about 90 lbs to involve themselves. Particularly when my husband would be along shortly.

But the little man declared, "Let's get you down this mountain." At first we tried one of my arms over each set of their shoulders, but that didn't work. The woman was just too small for the job.

The man's next idea: I should just climb onto his back.

I told him, no need, my husband would be coming for me in just a few minutes, besides
a) that's how I hurt myself in the first place and I was only carrying a baby and

b) If you fall with me like I fell with my baby, it will really hurt. For me. Not just you. and

c) Although the surgeon I will meet tomorrow and the surgeon I will meet months from now after a breast cancer diagnosis will both tell me that I am thin, I am still way too big for you.

He was not deterred. And, God Bless him, he piggybacked me the rest of the way down.

Bryan caught up to us at the very end. I remarked, "I think I only sprained it. If I'd broken it, the pain would be a lot worse, no?" I hadn't realized that the adrenaline was responsible for the tingly feeling.

I got into the car. Then the adrenaline wore off when we hit our first bump and I dropped a very loud f-bomb. Right in front of Gemma and Joshua. It was, however, the only cuss word I used in the whole escapade.

A painful 30 minute drive home ensued. We were in the Volvo, which gets some serious pick-up. Normally, I am the annoying sort of wife who nags her husband about driving too fast and too aggressively.

On this drive, as we barrelled down the road at 70 in a 55, I was gritting out between clenched teeth, "YOU HAD BETTER MAKE THIS LIGHT!!!!"

We got home (which is on the way to the ER). Bryan stayed with kids while my neighbor took me to the ER. Now, at this time, the Presidential election was 5 weeks away and I still had hair. Dark hair. I wore it up on the sides and in front. I wore glasses. I wore lipstick. So it was not too surprising to me when the nurse who wheeled me into triage said, "Look! We have Governor Palin in our hospital tonight!"

To which I said, as I did to the several others who made this remark to me that September and October, "I had this brainy look going a long time before she came along."

I fractured my tibia and fibula right above the ankle, and dislocated a small ankle chip. I got an appointment with the Chief of athletic medicine at the Air Force Academy. This is the kind of surgeon one wants for this operation because this is the guy who fixes tib-fib fractures all day long. But he wasn't supposed to be my doctor.

No. Originally, I was supposed to have my surgical consult with a guy at Ft. Carson. The night of the accident, with the consult scheduled for the next morning, I called my brother-in-law, a bone surgeon, to ask what kind of questions I should be asking the surgeon I'd go to see. You know: to make sure I wasn't dealing with an idiot.

Brent said, "Amy, you're not going to Ft. Carson! You're going to the Air Force Academy where Senators' sons go!!" and he called one of his best friends, Dr. Tokish, whom Brent knew from his own tour at the Academy. Der! I had totally forgotten that Brent had even served as a surgeon at the AFA!

I labor to explain all this because months later, when I was set up with a surgical consult at Ft. Carson, I wanted nothing to do with him. Mayfield. Whatever. The Air Force surgeon wasn't available because he was in Iraq. But Ft. Carson? No way. I had been strongly cautioned against it. So Bryan and I went to that appointment with both guns loaded with reasons why we wanted a referral to some place else.

But. Well. Score one for Ft. Carson.

That Sunday night, after I got home from the ER, Bryan brought the kids to Betsy's house and they stayed there until Thursday, when my mother arrived to help for 2 weeks.

The next day I saw Dr. Tokish and he operated on me at 4:30 Monday in the civilian hospital right up the street from my house. I saw the after x-ray and my ankle now looks like a home improvement project: a 3 inch stainless steel plate held in with 4 screws, plus an additional screw stuck in from the other side for good measure. So I was bionic almost a year before the port installation.

We had a great time with Mom. Then Gayl, Bryan's Mom, came for the next 2 weeks and we had a great time with her. I was able to do a lot more myself by then, so she was free to help him on the basement finishing project, the kind of thing they both love to do, so that was a special blessing for them.

I came to appreciate my children in a fundamentally important way through the experience of being off my feet for 6 weeks. And I could go on about all the great things the Lord did in our lives and my heart through this accident and the recovery.

Just think: At the time, I thought this would be the Big Event of my 30's!

I wrote an e-mail to my family a couple days after surgery, giving all the details of what had happened, and I concluded with this paragraph:

"My neighbors are taking good care of me. Ladies from our church will be bringing meals. The pain is very well controlled with pretty mild stuff. And the JFCC IMD/J35 "family" just sent me flowers. Really, we are very, very blessed and I feel very, very loved. Nothing to complain about, given how bad things could have been and just how great things are."

Funny.

Even though things, in some ways, are now a lot worse, other things are, in some ways, so much better. And I feel like I could write that same paragraph today, a year later, and still mean every word.

Sunday Storytime: Real Estate

I love this term. Real estate. Not fake estate. Estate that is real. Love it.

I was thinking this week of the times when Bryan and I have seen God's Hand in our lives, working to bring us along to where He wants us to be. One story came to mind, and I suppose it's the kind of thing that another might experience and simply say, "How nice that things worked out." But that statement only makes sense if there is no God interested in us personally. If there is such a God, then things don't "just work out."

So here's a story of real estate that God worked out for us.

We had been married for just a year and were living in Jacksonville, Florida when we scheduled our house-hunting trip to Norfolk, Virginia. There was a lot going on: Many good-byes to say, a long road trip through the midwest to do before Bryan reported for duty, a house to pack out of and close on. We'd sold it very quickly, and went to Norfolk without any contingency hanging over our heads.

Maybe that's why we thought arriving on a Thursday afternoon and leaving on a Sunday morning would be enough time to find a place to live.

We weren't set on buying. If nothing had panned out, we would have been content to rent. But we'd been in touch with Jeannette, a realtor, and she'd set up some appointments for Friday. It was to our advantage that Bryan had been stationed there before, and he knew roughly what neighborhoods would be good both for an investment and for his commute.

Our drive started at the crack of dawn on Thursday. We arrived in time for me to go to an interview with the English Department at Old Dominion University on Thursday afternoon. I was applying to be an adjunct professor of English, and in that interview, the Department Head said to me, "A lot of these students are walking ignoramuses and we have to teach them to think. I mean, this is Jerry Falwell country!"

Ah, Academia. Always fighting the good fight against ignorant Christians.

I did say something. Along the lines of, "Yes, I'm all for helping my students become critical thinkers. And as I probably agree a lot more with Jerry Falwell than I do with, say, you, I also want to help equip students to argue against whatever bias confronts them."

She nearly choked. And I got the job because, as all English Departments are, she was desperate for adjunct professors. (And she was a really great boss, I liked working with her those 2 years.)

So, I left the office with a job and the campus was in a neighborhood called Larchmont, which was one Bryan had told the realtor we were interested in.

The next morning, we met with said realtor and looked at 6 different houses. I love looking at houses to buy! It's so much fun to imagine life in each one. This is the first time I'd gone house-hunting and it felt like a day of treats.

A fifth house was a so-so option.

And then there was house #6. Owned by Mrs. White for 40 years. She was moving to a retirement home and her kids had called Jeannette the day before our arrival to put it on the market. They wanted to spend about 4 grand re-doing the plaster and paint before showing it, but Jeannette told them about a "nice young couple" coming to town and arranged for a showing on Friday--Mrs. White didn't even have to leave the house.

Oh, that sweet little house! It was a 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom post-war dollhouse with a huge backyard beautifully landscaped over the years by Mrs. White, an avid gardener and lover of flowering shrubs.

We offered their asking price minus the 4 grand that afternoon. They accepted that night. We had an inspector in that Saturday morning and then left town under contract.

Gosh, I loved that house. . . We did a little project on it--knocked out the wall between the kitchen and the small bedroom and then made double french doors onto the screened-in porch. When we left Norfolk, we thought it would be for just 1 year. But then 1 year of Army War College turned into a second. And that second year turned into a tour in Korea. And by the time we got overseas, it was clear we wouldn't head back to Norfolk.

We'd been renting this house, but while in Korea, it became clear that it was time to sell. Either that, or we'd have to hold that mortgage in addition to whatever we got in the Springs. It looked like the price would be good in Virginia, so we had it appraised. The guy's advice was to ask for what would have been 160% what we paid. That was good news.

Then we hooked up with a realtor who said, no, no, we should ask a lot more. And it sold within a week for 210% what we paid for it.

Ha! How about that!

Now, I don't think this happened because it's God's goal to make us rich. We don't want to be rich, and I'm certain God doesn't care whether we are. (And, of course, just by being Americans, we already are very wealthy.) We have been able to see some of the effects of that Norfolk house already--it has been used for good in a lot of lives, some while we were still there, some after we left, some through that sale.

But the bigger picture? Just how "God uses ALL things for the good of those who love Him and are called according to His purpose"? That complete reveal remains to be seen. Just as every event--whether one we welcome like a great house story, or one we have to persevere through, like breast cancer--will be revealed.

What we know for certain is that things didn't just "work out" with the Norfolk house. Are things are not just "working out" with breast cancer. If God is real, then His hand really is really working.

Anatomy of a Choice

If you’ve read all of “The Medical Story” posts, you know that early on, we had a Big Choice to make. Should we do surgery or chemo first?

I’ve written without much description that we knew how God was leading us. I want to explain more about that for 2 reasons: 1) I want my children to know and not wonder, years from now, what I was talking about and 2) A few people have mentioned that they wonder what I was talking about.

So: surgery or chemo first?

We chose surgery. We chose a very radical surgery that, we were told, would leave me permanently deformed with a caved-in chest, without strength on the right side, with nerve damage that would limit my range of motion and let my scapula wing out sometimes, and with a cancerous lymph node stuck under my collar bone.

Why surgery?

1. From the beginning, it appealed to my common sense. I knew that the advantage of chemo first is prognostic—e.g. we can see if the tumor responds to treatment and so know for certain that all the cells we can’t see are responding, too. But leaving a tumor and cancerous lymph nodes in for longer than necessary seemed. . .dangerous. Even though statistics show that it is not.

So, from the first, this was my bias.

2. One of the first things I learned about breast cancer is that everyone knows someone who’s had it. For as much as statistics show that the outcomes are as good for surgery first as they are for chemo first, every single story I heard of a breast cancer patient featured

A) a woman who had surgery first and survived, or
B) a woman who had a lumpectomy and then had to go back for mastectomy and chemo, or
C) a woman who had chemo first and then surgery and then, sadly, the cancer came back.

Every single story. And I’d put the number of stories at 30. At least.

I didn’t hear one single story that featured a chemo-first patient who was now cancer free. (Or, in the case of one good friend, a child who endured several additional years of cancer recurrence and chemo before finally becoming cancer-free.) Statistics show that there are as many out there as surgery-first patients who are now cancer free. But I didn’t hear about any of them.

This is what we took to be the first super-natural leading. God speaking through circumstances of whom I happened to be meeting and which cancer patients they knew. Not a big thing. Not enough to base a whole decision on. But it was part of the caseload.

3. When we met with Mayfield for the first time, we concluded the appointment by scheduling the surgery for the following Friday. We were in no way locked into it. I felt completely free to cancel it, or make it a mere port installation. But I also felt a great peace about it. No misgivings at all. Plenty of grief, sure. But not even a slight inclination that maybe we shouldn’t.

We took this non-anxiety to be supernatural as well. We believe God is real and that He loves me and wants to see His will done in my life (even if that includes deformation and other side effects). If this wasn’t cool with Him, I expected the living God to tell me or us with some kind of emotional content: anxiety, disease, non-peace, unsettledness. But we experienced none of this.

4. As I thought and prayed about the choice, Biblical examples kept coming to mind of “cutting out the cancer.” Most days, I read a children’s Bible with the kids and during this time we “happened” to be on the part where many Israelites were put to death because they’d led everyone to idolatry.

And in my own reading of Acts, I “happened” to get to the story of the two fakers in the early church who tried to pull off fraud. God struck them dead. Aside from the places where I was reading, other Bible stories came to mind, and all of them had a certain theme: Don’t mess around with the trouble-causers. Cut the trouble out.

Now, there are also plenty of stories in the Bible that describe redeeming the trouble. It’s definitely God’s character to re-claim what has been spoiled and make it good again. Maybe if these portions of scripture had come to mind and our attention, we would have had to think about whether God was leading us to allow the chemo to re-claim my body from the cancer.

But these portions didn’t come to our attention. Again, we took this as more leading towards the surgery option. It’s important to note that this wasn’t Russian Roulette with a Bible—e.g. Flip open to random page, see what’s there and interpret an answer from it. These examples were what came to mind as we prayed, and what were already on the page we were already reading at that time. Was this God’s timing? That we should happen to be at those portions of scripture on those days?

Why would we think it wasn’t God’s timing?

5. A week after our first appointment with Mayfield, we had our second. The pre- surgical consult. We went in ready for mastectomy, knowing that the MRI showed the muscle had cancer, too, knowing he’d cut out a hefty portion of it.

Mayfield launched into a very serious talk about how serious this surgery was.

OK. . . We knew this already. . .

Then he told us that for the last week, since first meeting us, he hadn’t slept well. He’d had disturbing dreams. That there’d been no good rest because he couldn’t stop thinking about me and my children. He would read Scripture to help ease his mind enough to sleep. His wife, obviously, noticed the distraction and had started praying for him and for me. Finally, he told us that in the case of most other patients, he’d actually recommend chemo first. But that he really thought we needed to do the surgery, as hard as that would be.

I asked, ‘Do you get like this with everyone?’

And he looked at me with disbelief. Did that question even make sense? He’s a surgeon. He’d be dead by age 40 if he bore this much angst over everyone. “No,” he said, “That’s my point.”

“Well. . .” I began, “Are you leading up to some extra terrible news? Because we’re already going to do the surgery.”

No additional news. Why had he given such an intense plea about his disturbed sleep? He just really thought we needed to know all of this.

Okedoke.

We left the office in great spirits. I remarked to Bryan that of all the side effects Mayfield had described, the one I really wanted to avoid was the arm swelling—a potential effect of removing the lymph nodes. I said to him, “Let’s pray against that one.”

10 minutes later, Dr. Markus, the oncologist called with news: He was looking at the detailed pathology report and mine was the kind of cancer that is very responsive to the H protein. So we could do chemo starting next week, shrink this sucker down, maybe even do breast conservation surgery in the end, but almost definitely avoid the “terribly morbid” surgery that would take my muscle as well as breast.

The lymph nodes would still come out after chemo. This means I’d still be at risk for arm swelling. That’s key. If we had left Mayfield’s office, and I had remarked to Bryan, “I just wish there were some other way. Let’s ask God for some other way” and then gotten the call from Markus, maybe the decision would have been different.

Instead, I had very specifically said that the only part I really wanted to avoid was a swollen arm for the rest of my life. And the option that came in 10 minutes later, while offering to change a lot, would definitely not change my risk for a swollen arm.

I told Markus we would call back after talking about it.

This chemo option was tempting. Are you kidding me? Not losing my right pectoralis? Possibly conserving my breast? Of course it looked good.

But, but, but. We had been praying—and others had prayed with and for us—for discernment and wisdom. That we would choose what God would have us choose. What did we expect His help to look like? Writing in the sky? A letter from God in our mailbox? He’d given us scripture, circumstances and a believing-surgeon who had just given a passionate recommendation for surgery even though at the moment he was giving it, we weren’t even thinking there was another option worth considering.

What were we to do with all of the above input? And the absence of any input recommending the chemo first option? Could we write it off? Could I say that, given my bias from point #1, all the rest feel into place because that’s what I wanted/expected?

Yeah. I could have said that. But then what does that say about my alleged relationship with the living God? That He let me fake myself out? That He let me receive as His leadership something that was really just a psychological mistake?

I thought of Lot as we ate lunch and talked about this decision. I specifically mentioned him to Bryan. The famous Lot who enjoyed success and the same kind of wealth as Abraham did. And eventually, their flocks were too big to share space, so Abraham told him: You pick a region and I’ll go the opposite way. Go ahead. Pick.

And Lot “raised his eyes and saw with them” that this one direction was good and fertile. He chose it. This was his pattern for the rest of his life, to walk by sight. He might have had one foot in God’s kingdom some of the time, but all of the time, he had his other foot in the world and he chose according to what looked good and right to him. Of course, this is a life that ended in tragedy.

I told Bryan I felt a similar temptation as Lot did. Look with our eyes and we see the possibility of a healthy breast in the future, and at the very least, an avoidance of a severe procedure. With our eyes, one direction looked good.

But faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. We’re certain that God is powerful enough to lead people as stupid as we are in the way we should go if, in our hearts, we truly welcome that leadership. We’re sure that God’s version of what my life should look like is the best possible version, even if it includes deformity following a bummer surgery.

In those two days before surgery, I was a wreck. A good portion of this was due to my sugar reaction to the radioactive glucose and the rough recovery from it. But a bigger portion was the sheer sadness over the coming surgery. This all was probably even harder on Bryan, who, of course, couldn’t do much to help. He kept saying, “Babe, you don’t have to do this. If you’re not feeling a peace about this, we can reconsider.”

And I kept telling him, “No, that’s just it. I have complete peace about this, which is why I know it must happen, and it just sucks that this has to happen.” I can only describe the actual feeling of those few days as being pressed. Being absolutely wrung tight.

But scripture promises that His joy comes in the morning. The morning came pretty quickly for me, didn’t it?

Praise be to God, for the miraculous surgery that left my muscle behind and pulled that last lymph node out. Praise Him for being the Good Shepherd in our lives. Praise Him that His staff is with us every day, and not just on the days when the Big Choice is before us.

The Catch

I mentioned that we went to the JFCC-IMD picnic last Friday. Had a terrific time. The weather was perfect. It was held at the Farrish campgrounds which are military-owned and set in the mountains about 40 minutes from here--gorgeous scenery. No insects to bother us. A few moments to share:

1. The reason we had so much fun is that Joshua is now 3. Overnight, it seems, he changed from being a toddler who needed pretty intense supervision, to being a little boy who could run with the Big Dogs. And run he did. There was a little playground next to the picnic pavilion, and because we were so secluded, the kids were free to play here and there with the pack of other children. I so enjoyed not having the responsibility of being right next to a child the entire time.

2. Bryan has only told a handful of people at work what we're dealing with, the handful who are most impacted by his being out of the office at random times. These guys made a point of telling me I'm in their prayers, and offering their help to us. It was very sweet. And here is where I'll point out that I didn't wear my fake boob. Not only do I hate that thing (writing about this is for another day), but I kind of felt like these were people who were already so supportive and already knew about everything. . .what would be the point?

Plus, I didn't want to confuse anyone who had only been hearing scattered details around the work place. "So. . .you did have a surgery?... Or...well. . .I mean, what kind of cancer did you have again?"

3. One guy caught me off to the side and shared this kind of sentiment. Then he told me that he was a two-time survivor himself. At age 35! Both thyroid and "ventricular" cancer, within 2 years of each other. (Bryan had no idea when I told him, as this apparently hasn't been a life-defining experience for Nick. This in itself was encouraging to me.)

Nick had a port both times, and I was glad to ask him whether it ever feels comfortable. Because, almost 2 weeks after the installation, my port is still very uncomfortable. He said he never got used to his.

It felt really good to "talk cancer" with him, possibly because he had been so young, too. There is a peculiar sense of camaraderie there. "Peculiar," I guess, because I hadn't realized that I'm now in a Club. When we were done talking, he gave me a hug and I will never forget the feeling of that much compassion packed into that short a moment.

4. Colonel Putko's wife, the other Colonel Putko, not only has 6 children, she also has a PhD in rocket science. And they're both still active duty Air Force. The Mrs. Colonel Putko brought stuff for the kids to launch rockets using 2 liter soda bottles, water, a launching tri-pod and high-speed air pumps.

The directions, after the rest of the stuff was rigged up, were to pump up to 70 or so and then pull the pin.

Bryan helped Gemma and Josh launch rocket after rocket.

Pretty soon I realized that each launch, the kids would pump for a little bit, then he'd pump after them, but that with each rocket, he'd pump a little longer.

And the bottles blew higher and higher and higher, with Bryan giggling each time a little more, a little more.

He pumped up to 180--180, people!--before breaking the Mrs. Colonel Putko's high speed air pump.

But the Mr. Colonel Putko and Bryan's other boss who was launching rockets with his kids, and who was also competing for height, both laughed and laughed about it.

5. The day, for me, culminated in The Egg Toss.

Do you know this game? I grew up watching the adults play it at the Ferrone Family picnic. Maybe I even played a little myself in the later years. It's just like a water balloon toss--find a partner, throw it back and forth, each time taking one giant step backwards.

Bryan wouldn't play, so I was partners with this guy named Mike. We were doing pretty well. Holding our own. He knew the drill about bringing the egg in for a soft landing, especially once the distance becomes great.

Then he launched the egg to me with what was not such a great throw. It was coming in high and to my right. I reached out, way up, a little behind me and snagged that egg, without breaking it, with what must be one of the Top 10 catches in Egg Toss history.

It was breath-taking.

The other competitors applauded. We went on to win the game. And on the way home, I was like George Costanza revelling in his great parking space.

"Bryan! Did you see that catch? It was incredible! I would still be raving about it even if it had been someone else's! That's how great a catch it was. . . Man. What an amazing catch."

Then I realized: I had caught it with my right arm. My right arm! The arm that I wasn't going to be able to lift above my shoulder! The arm that would still be healing around now if the muscle had come out!

And right there in the car, I teared up. God has been so good to me. He has spared me the worst, and preserved me for a beautiful day to enjoy with my family, and freed me to win the Egg Toss with a spectacular, full-extension catch of the most fragile thing in a fairly harsh circumstance.

So Long, Mayfield

This is Part II of remarks following the post-port surgery appointment.

We brought Gemma and Joshua with us because we wanted them to see the mysterious place where I'd gone so many times and had my surgeries. They were very excited about seeing the hospital, so I think they had some sort of need along these lines.

Yes, all of that went well. I was glad they could meet Mayfield, so they could see that Mommy was being cared for by nice people. I was glad Mayfield could meet them because he is the one God used to save their Mommy's life. All looked good with the port. And so this is where Mayfield leaves off and we continue on under the care of one Dr. Maurice Markus.

This was the sad part that I just wasn't expecting. It felt like a real loss to say good-bye to this doctor. I cried most of the day.

Maybe a big part of the emotional charge is that the rest of the walk is still unknown. I don't know what chemo is going to feel like, or what these coming 18 weeks will be. I didn't know everything about the past 6 weeks, either, but at the start of them, I knew Mayfield and it was an enormous relief and blessing to have him as a constant.

Not to saying anything bad about Dr. Science, of course. Once I learn the story behind his name, I'm sure I will like him just as much.

So, here I am, some history behind me, looking ahead into a murky darkness with nothing but God's promises and a mental image of baldness, fatigue, and emaciation. (Though, if the latter happens, just think how many medical folks will be telling me how thin I am!)

In a position like this, I climb into the Way-Back machine and visit Amy Ferrone, graduate student, as she sat her cozy, cinderblock, studio apartment about 2 months before her wedding.

That morning, I had broken out into a cold sweat. Possibly the only nerve-related cold sweat of my life. Was I really going to marry this man? I hardly knew him! And that's a literal statement.

I was planning to get married to this person I hardly knew, move to a place where I had no friends, and no job, that was longer than a day-trip drive from anyone I even knew and then. . .live there for a year, 9 months of which Bryan would be at sea.

This was madness.

Why was I doing this?

I remember taking deep breaths, and deciding to read through my journal. This calmed me. I was reminded as I read that God had orchestrated this whole thing. That this was His crazy idea, not ours.

The cold sweat faded. Then I read where I "happened" to be studying in the Bible at the time. I came to the part where Moses is sharing a last speech with the people of Israel before they cross into the Promised Land after their long years of wandering.

They had some history behind them, as I do now and did then as that young fiance. They had only God's promise and a murky darkness of the unknown ahead of them.

God told them, and I paraphrase, "Remember the ways which I have led you these 40 years. I worked miracles among you to sustain you and protect you--miracles that your fathers hadn't even seen before, I designed them uniquely for you. And here's one of the reasons I led you in the wilderness for 40 years and worked miracles among you instead of just delivering you straight to the Promised Land: So that you would know that people don't live by bread alone, but they live by the Words that proceed from Me."

That is, this is one of the ways God worked then and still works today: He gives us experiences with Himself, and tells us to remember them. And when we're tempted to rely on "bread alone"--e.g. on what we know in this physical body, what we see, what we hear, what we read about, what we feel--to remember that this is not all we are and this is not all our life is.

We don't live by bread alone. We also live by the words that proceed from the mouth of the Lord our God. That is, we decide to trust what God says--His commandments, His promises, what He has done in our lives to show Himself to us--over what we can see for ourselves.

Back then, 10 years ago, this was a watershed moment for me. What I could see for myself was that it's stupid to marry someone you hardly know and walk into a life where nothing is certain. But what God had said to me and Bryan was that we should get married that Spring. I thought, 'These are the verses I will remember on the days of this coming year that absolutely suck. God has sustained me--sometimes in supernatural ways--to get me to this point, and if I will keep my eyes on Him and off what I perceive to be a bummer situation, then I will live.'

That first year was really terrible. Full of a grief I never expected. But I lived to be thankful for the experience, though it took me a few years to arrive at that gratitude. I know Bryan pretty well now. Turns out he was the right guy to marry.

You see where I'm going with this: History behind me, nothing but God's promises and a murky darkness ahead of me.

What I haven't told you is how Mayfield came to be my doctor.

My first clinical appointment was on a different base, with a nurse practitioner who sent me for an immediate mammo and ultra-sound. The second the MRI results came back (a week later), this nurse practitioner was on the phone, trying to line up a surgical consult for me.

I was on the phone with her, too, urgently making it known how intently I wanted to see a civilian and not anyone at Ft. Carson.

I believe she tried her best. But she ended up talking to the surgery clinic at Ft. Carson with my MRI result on her screen and on theirs. The surgeon "on call" was Wilcox. This means he would be assigned my case. But he was planning to be on leave that week, so he'd have to see me as early as possible the next week.

Mayfield "happened" to be walking by the office while this phone call was happening, heard about the scheduling issue, and said, "I'll take this patient."

I do not believe this was a coincidence. And in the coming 18 weeks, we'll be able to look at this gift--a divinely arranged appointment with the doctor who would do so much to make a difficult process a little easier and a lot more joyful--as a word that proceeded from God. What I see is 18 weeks of bodily weakness and physical trial. What I will trust in is that God has chosen it for me, and that He will use it to some good purpose of His own, and that one day, I will be able to see for myself all the reasons to be thankful for these 18 weeks.

If all we have looking ahead into the darkness of the unknown are God's promises, (and we have more than this, I know--we have the help and support of so many awesome people), then we also have a history with a God Who makes good on those promises.

This was a good-bye to Dr. Mayfield. But God's grace stays with us.