Archive | November 2014

The Big Question…

Nov24

As you recover from breast cancer treatment you find yourself questioning just about everything.  Your decision-making, your motives, your beliefs, your loved ones, your doctor’s recommendations- everything comes under the microscope of your thoughts. Sometimes the microscope’s lens is fuzzy; other times the image is crystal clear.

One crisp fall morning my new friend asked me a question.  The question was simple yet so complicated.  The question was pointed yet subtly gentle.  This question seemed like a cliche’ yet also stopped me in my tracks with its intensity.

She looked into my face and asked, “Do you trust God?  Do you believe that no matter how this turns out, no matter what happens, He’s got your back?”  I looked at my friend.  I started to speak, stuttered a little, and then fell silent.

I put this big question on the shelf of my mind for a while.  I didn’t want to look at it. I was afraid to answer.  I knew God loved me. I knew He didn’t give me breast cancer but He did allow it. I knew He had a plan for my life.  But did I trust Him? Did I believe with every fiber of my being that He had my back?

As the pages of my calendar turned, I took the question off the shelf.  Dusting it off, I examined all the angles and planes.  Smooth angles, rough edges, whispered conversations with my God.  It has been a journey- a journey that really doesn’t have a final destination.

Every day I make a conscious choice.  A choice to say, “Yes, I do trust my God. I know deep in my soul that no matter what happens in life, He has my back. He will never overlook me.  He will never dismiss my thoughts.  He will never become angry with my doubts. He will never abandon me.”

His Hand will never let go of mine.  He is always with me. He protects me. He listens to me. He can take every doubt, every anxious thought, every hard moment and transform my question mark into something strong and beautiful- an exclamation point.

 

 

 

Everyone Loves A Parade…

Nov12

About eight weeks after my surgery I knew I needed to make a new friend. My family and close girlfriends were there for me to talk with.  My husband was my confidante and biggest supporter. But something was missing.  I didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin anymore.  My thoughts were anxious, my emotions were messy, and my words sometimes resembled short, clipped staccato notes.

It was important to me to find a Christian counselor.  I went to the website of a Christian counseling practice that our church often recommends to people.  I scrolled through the pictures and bios of possible counselors.

Counselors for mood disorders, borderline personality issues, addiction, abuse, marriage problems, depression, life coaching.  Hmmmm… I couldn’t seem to find me anywhere.  None of the bios read:  A specialization in bilateral mastectomy recovery and reconciliation with God.  Go figure!  🙂   Then, I found her- my new friend.  She specialized in women’s issues (I definitely had an issue) and before pursuing her counseling degree, she worked in the medical field.  Perfect… she would be empathetic with her counseling nature and completely objective with her medical background.

And just because I try to never leave anything to chance, I left a voicemail and an e-mail message for good measure.  My new friend returned my call just a few days later.  We set up our first time to “hang out together.”

As I sat in the waiting room that first time, I felt calm.  “I probably don’t even need to be doing this ,” I thought to myself.  I was a few minutes early yet I stewed about the waiting.  I did write down the correct date, right?  I mean- I missed the lump in my breast- maybe I wrote down the appointment date incorrectly too.

Then… my new friend breezed into the waiting room and smiled at me.  We went to her office which was decorated beautifully.  Focus Pam, focus.  She looked at me and asked the most innocuous four words known to man:  “How are you today?”  My lips parted to give the obligatory “Fine,” but my eyes began leaking water everywhere. I looked into her eyes and just cried, and cried, and cried some more.

It struck me later that she never offered me the Kleenex box on the table next to her.  It was odd too that I never reached for it.  Looking back, I think we both knew that to offer me a tissue would have been a plea for me to stop crying.  And I needed to simply immerse myself in my own tears.

As we talked more that morning, I shared with her some of the thoughts and dreams I had been having.  I told her how I had researched every article and treatment for invasive lobular carcinoma on the internet known to mankind.

She looked me over and said something I’ll never forget.

“Instead of trying to stop thinking those fearful thoughts, why don’t you try looking at them as a parade?  A thought parade….  You think the fearful “what if” about breast cancer….  You look at the thought completely, examining it carefully, and then you let it march right on by.  A thought parade.”

At first, this seemed like an impossible task.  After all, I wanted to stop having these fearful thoughts.  I wanted the anxiety to end- period.  But the more I told myself to “stop thinking these things,” the more devious those thoughts became.

So…  because I like to try new ideas that experts recommend, I let the next thought come- parade style.   And I have been hosting a thought parade in my head ever since.  🙂   Sometimes the band plays a little louder than others, but now I’m almost always in step.

An excerpt from my journal…

Chase

Chase my darkness Lord,

Shine your Light on my doubt.

Pursue my every thought,

Help me to be obedient unto You.

Chase my darkness O Lord,

Shine your Light on my sin.

Pursue my every Hope,

Hold it within Your Hand.

Chase my darkness Jesus,

Shine your light on my heart.

Pursue my every action,

Make it pleasing to You.

Chase my darkness Abba,

Hold me close in Your Light.

 

 

Go Time…

Nov10

July 3, 2013…  arrive at 9:00 a.m. with a surgery start time of 11:00 a.m.  Dr. Brenda’s surgery from 11:00 to 1:00 and Dr. Grawe’s plastic surgery magic commences at 1:00 and will conclude at 2:30 or 3:00.  Overnight bag packed, 2 dogs and 1 cat fed, parents showered, sisters arrive on the scene, adult children up and rising and a’ shining.  It’s GO TIME…

We check in with a really nice young lady.  She is so friendly and upbeat- I find myself wanting to chat with her so we won’t need to proceed any further.  Then off to get weighed, blood pressure taken, urine analyzed, and to offer reassurances to every hospital employee who asks if I could possibly be pregnant. 🙂

We go to the surgery waiting area.  The curtain is drawn and I am now the proud owner of a new gown and an IV.  I answer more questions about my lump, which breast is that again, what are you having done, etc., etc.  The nurse’s voice is beginning to sound a lot like the teacher in “Charlie Brown.”  Her lips are moving and she’s looking at me- but what is she saying?!  Focus, I tell myself.

A new nurse arrives and explains it’s time for me to go downstairs to Radiology for a  shot in the side of my nipple.   The needle will inject dye into my breast tissue. The dye will light up the nodes that my tumor would most likely drain lymphatic fluid to and possibly deliver cancer cells there as well.  Dr. Brenda will have an instrument that sounds something like a “Geiger Counter” to let her know where these lymph nodes reside.  Those will be the nodes that are dissected.  A young man- an orderly- I love this word!- comes on the scene and whisks me away in the elevator to go downstairs to Radiology.  We stop outside a door and he rings what resembles a tiny doorbell.  He turns to me and says that someone will come out in a few minutes and then he says, “Good luck.”

I wait, lying on my gurney.  No one is in the hallway.  I wonder if this is what dying will be like someday.  You wait outside a door and wonder who will be opening it.  Minutes tick by and no one comes.  I’m starting to feel cold and wonder what I should do if the door doesn’t open.  I mean I’m wearing a hospital gown, tethered to an IV, and I have no idea how to get back to my original starting point.  A nurse comes from down the hall and asks how long I’ve been waiting.  I must look a little forlorn- she opens the magic door- goes inside and comes back out smiling.  Just a few more minutes she says.  She asks if I’m cold and brings me a blanket.

The wizard opens the door and I’m wheeled in.  A nurse is there with a doctor.  Suddenly this seems a little too real.  The nurse offers to hold my hand.  The doctor instructs me to put my other hand under my backside.  Apparently in the past women have flailed their arm at him when the needle goes is.  He obviously doesn’t know I am the epitome of medical self-control.  He says it will feel like getting a flu shot- only in your nipple.  Hmmmmmmmmmm… I just have to say that no flu shot has ever felt quite like that.

We go back to the surgery waiting area and the nurse retrieves Bob to wait with me.  My kids, my parents, and my sisters take turns coming back to see me.  Dr. Brenda checks in with us.  I ask if she will pray with us.  She holds my hand and the three of us pray.  Bob gives me a kiss and off I go.

The operating room feels cold and is a flurry of activity.  Someone asks me to stretch my arms out horizontally.  I think to myself that this is how Jesus’ arms were outstretched for me. I wonder how I’ll feel when I wake up…     I pray…   I fall asleep.

It’s GO TIME…

 

License and Registration Ma’am

Nov7

Every great television drama has its comedic moments- an intense scene that ebbs and flows with just a dash of  slapstick thrown in so that we can weather the emotional storm.  So why should breast cancer be any different?

My surgery was scheduled, my leave from work had been approved, my family was set to come- now all that was left was…the waiting.  In the meantime, I remembered that I was due for my yearly skin check with my dermatologist.  Ironic isn’t it- the girl freshly diagnosed with breast cancer makes and KEEPS all her doctor’s appointments- like clockwork!!  I had a skin cancer removed over ten years ago and had been diligent ever since in keeping my annual check-up with my dermatologist.

That morning when I got out of the shower I suspiciously looked my skin over.  One mole in particular looked like a renegade to me.  I peered closer into the mirror.  Then I got out my five times magnification mirror which no woman over 45 should own!  The mole didn’t look right to me.  My palms grew sweaty and my mind started to race.  “Not only do I have breast cancer- but there’s something going on with my skin too.”

I threw my purse into the car and headed toward Gahanna for my appointment.  (Insert full symphony music here- with a crescendo as I exit the freeway)  I had just turned right and was on the street of my dermatologist’s office when I saw it in the mirror-  a flashing red light atop a black and white police car.  “Well, that’s strange- he must need me to get out of his way so he can pull someone over.”  Then (insert audience gasping here) I realized he was pulling me over.

Somehow I managed to find the berm.  I hit the button to put the driver’s side window down only to find that my shaky fingers had hit the button for the back window.  I tried again because I never give up easily and success- I was looking into the eyes of a full-fledged police officer. (Insert ripples of laughter here.)  And then the words that still ring in my subconscious:  “License and Registration Ma’am.” 

Some people have very organized glove boxes- alas I am not one of them. My fingers stumbled around an old grocery list, an expired coupon, and eureka- the registration.  I retrieved my license from my wallet and handed them over.  The police officer looked at my offerings and said, “Is there a reason you’re speeding today Ma’am?”

(Insert full-on orchestral climax here)  The floodgates opened and I held nothing back.  I had just been diagnosed with breast cancer, my surgery was next week, Friday was my last day at work, I found this strange-looking mole this morning in my mirror and was on my way to the dermatologist for a skin check.  Maybe I had skin cancer too.  (All this said with the appropriate gasping sobs)

I would like to say that he looked at me with compassion, but I think it might be hard to look compassionate when in uniform.  Instead, he looked me square in the eye and said, “I’m sorry to hear that ma’am.  Let me run your license and registration.  I’ll be right back.” After what seemed like an interminable amount of time (3 minutes?) he approached my car.

 “Mrs. Hardin, how many tickets have you had over the years?”  A quiet little voice  (was that me?) whispered, “None.”  “Well, we’re not going to start today by giving you one.  Would you like me to follow you to your doctor’s appointment?  Would you like to call your husband maybe?”

I wiped my now running nose with the back of my hand like a first-grader, and mustered up as much dignity as I could by sitting up a little taller in my seat.  “No thanks- I’m okay.”  This kind public servant reminded me to drive carefully and then he wished me well.

A few minutes later I was sitting in the exam room when my dermatologist walked in.  “How are you today?” he inquired innocently.  (Insert canned laughter here.)  “Oh, I’m fine, just fine.”   And just for the record, so was my mole…

 

My Robert…

Nov6

In an earlier blog entry, “What Do You See?” I shared that you must find a way to quell the anxiety that a diagnosis of breast cancer brings.  Visualizing Jesus pulling me up from the mud and mire of my thoughts was one way I quieted my fear.  Another way was nothing I did –  but it was everything my husband, Bob, did.

I had my MRI on a Thursday and on Friday we received the phone call we dreaded- it was breast cancer.  Dr. Brenda’s office scheduled us for an appointment that Monday, so we had the weekend to wait and stew… and wait and stew…

My husband told me – implored me- to please have a bilateral mastectomy.  He told me that he wanted me around for a very, very long time.  And that was all he cared about.  He went with me that Monday and we prayed together in the parking lot.  He became a little emotional but quickly regained his composure.  Oddly enough I didn’t feel the least bit teary-eyed at this point.  We talked with Dr. Brenda, she made a tape of her recommendations (which I listened to countless times later), and before I knew it we were at the front desk scheduling an appointment with the plastic surgeon and the hospital for surgery.

In the coming days before the surgery Bob held me, cried with me, reassured me, and prayed with me.  The evening before my surgery we shared a very tender moment.  The next morning we parked the truck in the parking garage and I prayed for us.  It resembled more of a throwing of myself upon His mercy seat.

After the surgery, Bob spent the night with me in the hospital.  When I became very ill during the night from the morphine pump, it was Bob who washed my face with a warm washcloth.  It was Bob who fed me ice chips because my arms refused to make the journey to my mouth.  It was Bob who in the coming days helped me with the drains that I came home with.  It was Bob who went to every appointment with the plastic surgeon when I experienced problems healing.  It was Bob who just held me as I cried and cried and cried some more.

It was my husband who made me feel beautiful again.  He helped me laugh again.  And when I felt like pulling those covers up over my head and not coming out, he motivated me.

Everyone needs a champion, a strong shoulder, someone who can look you in the eye and see to the very darkest part of your soul.  That person was my Robert.

From my journal:

My Robert

Your eyes hold me in their gaze,

It’s as if I’m coming home.

Your smile reaches my deepest places,

melting all the sadness away-

I’m coming home.

Your voice reaches my ears,

reminding me you love me-

I’m coming home.

Your arms encircle me,

providing strength and a haven for all moments-

I’m almost home.

Your soul mingles with mine,

Leaving your print there for Eternity-

My Robert- I’m home at last…

 

 

Signposts

Nov3

October’s 31 days have come and gone…and I made it!  I have to say this October was much easier to march through than last year.  I think this means I am healing- not just on the outside- but on the inside too.

My plastic surgeon told me that having a bilateral mastectomy and reconstructive surgery produces post-traumatic stress in many women.  A very fancy way of saying the experience sends you spiraling down into a cavern- it’s dark, it’s frightening, it’s lonely.  You have to find a way to light a torch in the cavern and look for signposts that lead to the nearest exit.  Proximity to the exit is not always the best option.  You need to maneuver all the twists and turns in this cavern; otherwise, you find yourself having to doubleback and traverse a tricky bend once again.

Signposts along the way vary for every woman:  getting fitted for a beautiful, sexy bra, lying on your stomach with no fear of deflating your new friends- :), raising both arms overhead as you praise God and sing in the shower, seeing your Christian counselor for the last time and praying you never need this new friend again, being with your husband and feeling relaxed and may I say a bit naughty, and the list goes on.  Perhaps one of the most startling signposts is the moment you realize you feel like yourself in your body once again.  Your implants have become part of you- you feel relaxed, peaceful, “normal”- a new normal.  The cavern seems like a distant memory, tucked away in your subconscious.  It’s still there, but now all the lights are on.

 

 

 

My Old Friend

Nov2

I remember the moment I felt it.  It had been quite a while.  It crept in slowly- taking me by surprise.  I hadn’t seen it for a while – at first I wasn’t quite sure what it was.  Then I remembered what it felt like.  And I smiled…

I was walking around our neighborhood.  It was fall- about 3 months after my surgery.  The sun was out and there was a light breeze.  I didn’t need a jacket.  My walk was going well.  I felt…  good, “normal,” but something else.  What had been missing for so long- the feeling that had eluded my spirit was simple- yet oh so complicated.  It was Joy…     Joy to feel my breath, joy to just be moving, joy to be healing, joy to be here in this moment.

I laughed to myself as I reveled in my old friend- Joy- it was back.  I wanted to grasp it tightly, wrap it up, and make sure it stuck around in case Fear tried to kidnap it.  Joy- it cannot be stolen, it can not be diluted by pain, it can not be overwhelmed by breast cancer. JOY…. Welcome back my friend.

 

From my Journal:

Song of Joy

Your kindness and mercy for me overflow.

You come in the night and lay your Hand upon my heart.

You bring me a smile when Fear creeps in,

You send your angels to plant a hedge around my mind.

You take hold of my right hand,

and fill me with Your Presence.

You shelter me,

You ARE my strong tower.