(Please enjoy the completely random images throughout this post that have nothing to do with my writing, but everything to do with love and hope and perseverance).
When I started this blog in February, I was set on posting two times a week, turning this whole cancer thing into an outlet for my writing and maybe finally making some strides there.
But, here’s the thing, having cancer is pretty difficult. Shocking, right? Huge surprise. It turns out you can have terrible reactions to chemo and have multiple ER visits and even be admitted to the hospital. And, if you already have a knack for depression, boy does that kick in as the world around you keeps on moving while you’re trapped in this stagnant zone of sickness and helplessness. I would come up for air every now and then, cook some dinners, bake some cakes, desperately attempt to be Mom of the Year…and then sink beneath the surface all over again.
There wasn’t a single day from January 23rd until May 9th that my stomach wasn’t in pain. I could barely eat and lost 30+ pounds (which, on one hand - yay! - but on the other hand, I was suffering). Toward the end of that time frame, I was only eating a cup of cottage cheese a day. I wasn’t truly functioning anymore. As a result, I was totally isolated, because who could relate? Who could understand what it was like to have actual labor-like pains in my stomach almost daily? I put on a happy face and played into my sarcasm a whole lot, but the truth is that I was absolutely terrified and miserable all the time.
Then, at long last, May 10th came. My surgery day. My colorectal surgeon removed my sigmoid colon, which housed my primary tumor, the stent placed on January 23rd and an ulcer. She also removed 38 lymph nodes, four of which contained my cancer. My liver surgeon removed the largest of six tumors from my liver. I’m told it was a completely successful, best case scenario surgery.
Praise the Lord.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to celebrate that success. Immediately upon waking from anesthesia, I was in excruciating pain. The epidural hadn’t worked except for one quadrant of my abdomen - I could feel (almost) EVERYTHING. I fully admit to screaming and crying and begging for help in the recovery room, where I was repeatedly told “You’re on epidural, you’re fine.”
Yeah, totally fine here, guys.
I vaguely remember someone “accidentally” spilling ice all over my stomach. They were doing the “ice test,” which is where a glove full of ice is placed wherever the epidural is supposed to be in order to see if the patient is truly numb. I could feel the ice everywhere but the one quadrant. Especially once all the ice spilled out of the glove and started melting everywhere. Oh, I guess she is telling the truth! So, the nurse starts pumping me full of Dilaudid, but even that isn’t working. For 5.5 hours I endured this, only allowed to see my mom for less than 10 minutes until she was kicked out because of the “tight space.”
It took the Acute Pain Service team more than 24 hours to get my pain under control. But I kept hearing how successful the surgery was, so shouldn’t I be grateful/happy?
I won’t go on about the hospital stay. After that first 24 hours, the truth is that it was a mostly normal recovery process. I developed a few low-grade fevers, which thankfully were just my body’s reaction to inflammation. Otherwise, I was able to (very slowly) get up and out of bed to pee every 1-3 hours and eventually pass my physical therapy test so that I could go home. I was discharged the morning of May 16th. Once I was finally home, the true healing process kicked into gear and now, more than a week later, I’m doing really well.
The chronic stomach aches are gone. I’m able to walk as long as I’m wearing an abdominal binder. I get my staples out tomorrow. I can confidently tell you that God is good. Does that mean I’m back above the surface more often than not? I wish I could tell you, “yes,” but the truth is that I’m still overwhelmed by fear and helplessness. I can’t pick up my daughter until June 26th. That’s a whole month and then some of watching her run to my husband, call out for my husband, and being completely unable to pick her up when she falls or, hold her in my arms as she drifts off to sleep. It’s a mother’s nightmare.
And then there’s the nagging fear in the back of my mind - the constant “what ifs?” I start chemo again, soon, for 14 weeks, and still have another huge surgery coming around the end of the year. And we’re doing all of this with the hope/prayer/trust in God that I will be NED and in remission. But…what if? Because the truth is that we have no idea what God’s plans are, what He wants for me.
Mercifully, He knows my fears and He knows my heart. It doesn’t necessarily change how full of fear and panic I am (some days are better than others) - I am human and so very imperfect. But, as Jon Guerra so beautifully puts it, “we will trust in the Lord and the Lord will provide.” (Seriously, check out his new album Ordinary Ways. It’s amazing). I digress…willingly.
For real, though, it’s music like Jon’s that reminds me how beautifully God works in everything. It’s little things, like listening to this kind of worship music, that remind me of who I am according to the Lord and that despite so much emotional and physical pain, despite so much terror in the unknown, God’s promise is greater and truer than the lies of fear. Jesus Christ has already won this battle - He IS the victory. I will ardently pray for this cancer to leave my body and never return, and if that prayer is answered with “yes,” the victory is His. And if that prayer is answered with “no,” then despite the utter wretchedness that could ensue, the victory is His.
I’ll end with lyrics from Jon Guerra’s song, “Illness of the Heart,” which is a mirror of my state of being these last few months:
“…When I am afraid / There is not a word my friends can say / I am in a sinking ship of worry / I am in a petri dish of living / Father, would You override / My body, soul, and mind / And the illness of the heart? / I know You can make me well / Father, make mе well /… Stillness of the heart / I am still a novice at the art / I am still embarrassed in Your presence / I am still ashamed of being naked / I am still afflicted by unwillingness to kill / The illness of the heart.”
