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Gratitude: A Tutorial

Nov22

Thanksgiving is almost upon us. There is a distinct chill in the autumn air and one can detect the faint scent of snow. As another holiday season commences, I have been contemplating gratitude.  The act or perhaps the art of being or becoming grateful.

Where does this word, ‘gratitude,’ come from? Its origin may be late middle English or old French or even medieval Latin. From the Latin we have ‘pleasing, thankful.’ Medieval Latin also lends us ‘gratitudin’ which is the equivalent to ‘grat’ (us). The old French offers us ‘good will’ and middle English provides us with the ‘feeling of being grateful.’ Gratitude also rhymes with attitude which I am certain is no coincidence.

William Arthur Ward said of ‘gratitude’:

“Gratitude can transform common days into thanksgivings, turn routine jobs into joy, change ordinary opportunities into blessings.”

As I look back over the last year my heart smiles at so many blessings.  My continued health, a husband who loves and supports me in so many incredible ways, children who are growing and learning about life, dogs who pepper my days with warm, unearned affection, and family and friends who paint beautiful colors on my life with wide, generous brushstrokes.  A God who takes my every care, each layer of anxiety, and wraps it in Himself. Life can throw some real curveballs. Family members and friends die, people get sick, a mere phone call can change one’s trajectory. It’s so pleasing, so gratifying to know that The One who is in control is just that- in control. I am not God.

When I land on my past diagnosis of breast cancer, I am incredulous. I made it through. My treatment ended, my scars healed, my spirit was restored. I also feel immeasurable gratitude for the miracles that God has wrought through medical science. Surgeons who are divinely gifted, medications that target cancer’s ugly head, nurses who offer kindness, and research that continues to delve deeper into the abyss of illness.

And while I never thought I’d say this, I must acknowledge this truth. I am grateful for breast cancer. It has offered a tutorial in ‘gratitude’ like no other. Breast cancer teaches you how to be present- really present in the moment. It points to the joy- the warm contentment- that small, seemingly simple things bring.  The scent of rain on a crisp autumn day, the taste of our favorite food, the sound of a loved one’s voice. The deep bond among survivors, the bliss of a long hot shower as you lift your arms to Heaven. The utter dependence on a merciful God, the releasing of control that was never really ours to begin with, and the trust in the hope of a Risen Savior.

Yes, ‘gratitude’…  Three simple syllables packed with so much meaning, such purpose. So this Thanksgiving, look around you- you’ll find it. It’s waiting there in the shadows ready to be brought out into the Light. Gratitude- our teacher, our friend.

“Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good; His Love endures forever.”

-1 Chronicles 16:34

 

 

The Afghan

Nov14

Red, yellow, and some warm earth tones, created with healing in mind. Delivered to my husband and brought home to me. The wife of one of Bob’s employees crafted each row with painstaking care – artful precision. Folded up and waiting on the love seat in our bedroom. I left it there as if leaving it untouched might delay the day of my surgery. Yet the calendar pages turned and without my permission the day arrived.

Coming home from the hospital, my eye acknowledged its vibrant colors. Positioning myself in my friend’s borrowed recliner, I begged sleep to come. I read a new “book-friend” into the wee hours of the night with my pink (Yes, I recognize the irony here) flashlight. Our dog, Gracie, and my Love, Bob, slumbered nearby in our bed. Their gentle rumbles of sleep comforted me. The recliner seemed to hold me together, the drains bumping against the soft fabric. I covered myself with the rainbow of colors, feeling broken and small.

My season of healing faded into a sea of acceptance. I folded the brilliant colors up and stacked them atop the love seat. The recliner made its way back to my friend’s house as my Love and I tried to navigate our way back to Normal. All the while it sat perched upon our love seat, imploring me to touch its delicate stitches. I refused to cross the chasm- if I touched the warm colors I might traverse back to my season of sickness.

Two years have passed and it is a blustery day- the kind of day that begs to be wrapped in hot tea and a rainbow of colors. I walked to our room and saw it there. I touched it. I peered into the doorway of my recovery. I tiptoed in and picked it up. I reclined on our bed for a nap, wrapping myself in its warmth. I didn’t see cancer this time. Instead I saw the afghan. The colors were beautiful and invited me to rest here for a season.

How Much Is That Doggie In the Window?

Jan9

Bob and I have 3 grown children who have soared from our nest and two canine children who keep our nest cozy and crazy. We have 2 poodles (rather… they have us) named Gracie and Cody.

Gracie is a six-year-old toy poodle.  She is the color of my one remaining dietary vice: chocolate. Cody (aka “Code Man”) is a five-year-old miniature poodle who goes well with chocolate- he is white or “vanilla” as we say at our house.

These two canine kids keep our home interesting to say the least.  But, Gracie and Cody are a source of unconditional love and unfathomable comfort as well.

I came home from the hospital following my bilateral mastectomy and immediate reconstruction after just 24 hours.  Not because I am “superwoman;” it was a decision my surgeon lobbied for-  an excellent way to avoid infection and potential loss of my implants.

With drains in tow, we drove home on July 4th- my Independence Day from breast cancer. My mind was foggy with anesthesia and pain meds as we pulled into the driveway.  Bob helped me out of the car and we opened our front door.

My parents were there from Georgia to help take care of me and our household so Bob could head back to work after the long weekend. As the doorknob turned, I heard the familiar barking and my mind woke up.

My parents carefully held Gracie and Code Man so there would be no greetings via jumping.   My canine kids looked at me quizzically as if to say, “What’s wrong, Mom?”

Our nights soon fell into a predictable routine.  I would settle into the recliner in our bedroom and Gracie would sleep on our bed with Bob.  In the morning after Bob left for work, Gracie would scoot toward the foot of the bed.  She would watch me closely.  She did not offer to get down from the bed or ask to go out.  She simply waited.  She waited while I hobbled out of the recliner.  She waited while I went to the bathroom.  Only as I prepared to gingerly walk downstairs did Gracie move.  Then she would tentatively leave our bed and follow me slowly down the stairs.  Gracie understood.  She understood that I was in pain.  She understood that I was moving slowly. She understood that my spirit felt broken. Tenderly she placed her soft head in my lap and lovingly licked my hands.  Gracie was my comforter.

We adopted Cody from my parents and he has always slept in his crate in the family room.  He feels safe there and never argues about relocating to his “den” at bedtime.  After my surgery Cody needed to master a new skill.  He had always gone outside on a leash but after my surgery, I couldn’t handle his pulling on the leash.  Not at the beginning anyway.  So, we introduced a new request: “All done.”  Cody loved the freedom of going out on his own and learned “All done” fairly quickly. He would sometimes run as fast as he could in circles until he inevitably fell over.  Cody was my clown.

Eighteen months have passed since my surgery.  The recliner now sits in the family room. Cody still goes out on his own, although he often ignores “All Done” and stays outside as long as he likes.  He is still my clown- often running in circles and then flopping down as if to say, “Can you believe I just did that?!”  Gracie is still my comforter.  She snuggles up beside me on the couch and paws at my hand until I put my arm around her.  She leans in close and looks up at me with her luminous chocolate eyes as if to say, “Hey Mom- we made it.”

How much are those doggies in the window?  Gracie and Code Man are not for sale.  You can’t buy my heartbeat.

 

 

 

 

A “Do-Over…”

Dec17

Life is a series of moments- some that take our breath away with their beauty and richness; others that leave us gasping for air with their sadness and uncertainty.  If only we had a large, life-size eraser for those moments that beg a “do-over.”  Moments we long to savor and re-live over and over again and moments that we would like to paint over with a wide, thorough brush stroke.

Breast cancer is a collage of both types of moments.  The love, prayers, and self-sacrifice of family and friends are the moments that are tender treasures.  A beautifully wrapped package from the precarious world of breast cancer diagnosis and treatment.  Operating rooms, drains, and pathology reports are the moments that we long to erase with wide, deep strokes.

With my mastectomy I had direct-to-implant reconstruction or immediate reconstruction.  Moments to savor:  waking up and looking in the mirror and seeing breasts rather than a blank canvas, hearing my surgeon say, “I don’t think you need chemo, but I want to make sure,” gazing deeply into my husband’s eyes and seeing how very much he loves me, feeling my God’s presence so deeply, so completely that it left me shaken, unable to fathom His absolute adoration of my soul.

The ultimate do-over in the breast cancer world is what the plastic surgeons gently refer to as a “revision.”  This is code for “you need to have one more surgery.”  Like almost everything in life, breast reconstruction is not a “one-stop shopping experience.”  After a few months passed, one of my new breasts settled into a lower zip code than the other.  At first, I thought it didn’t matter.  My plastic surgeon discussed a “revision” with me and explained that this surgery would be so much easier than my mastectomy, with virtually no chance of complications.  I wasn’t convinced.  I tried looking in the mirror and changing my posture ever so slightly.  Perhaps I could live with it.

I remember the day I decided it did matter.  Breast cancer had stolen the control I had over my health and my life.  I was not going to let it also control how I looked in a dress, a swimsuit, or in my birthday suit.  So, it was time for a “do-over,” a revision, another surgery.

And that opportunity to take control, to decide how I would look was one of the most glorious, breath-taking moments I have ever experienced.

So, if you are in a hard place right now- looking for a “do-over”- pick up your eraser, hold it delicately within your fingers, and take control.  Savor those moments that leave you breathless and revise those moments that leave you gasping for air –  until your breath becomes even, calm, and rhythmic…

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…

 

It’s All in the Name!

Oct30

Acronyms…. they are everywhere!  Sometimes we know what they stand for and other times- not. a. clue.  My husband was reading a text the other day from one of our adult children.  With a frustrated look on his face he asked:  What does, “NVM,” mean?  “Never mind,” I replied smugly. Suddenly I was feeling quite tech-savvy.

Acronyms exist in my work world as an early childhood educator too:  NAEYC (National Association for the Education of Young Children), ACE (Adverse Childhood Experiences), ECERS (Early Childhood Environment Rating Scale), IFSP (Individual Family Service Plan), and literally hundreds- perhaps thousands- more.

Acronyms are also prominent in the cancer world. There’s BC (breast cancer :)), AI (aromatase inhibitors- doesn’t this sound like it gets rid of nasty odors?!), AND (axillary node dissection), DCIS (ductal carcinoma in situ), FNA (fine needle aspiration), ILC (Invasive Lobular Carcinoma), IDC (Invasive Ductal Carcinoma), HT (anti-hormone therapy), NED (no evidence of disease- my personal favorite), and ICBI  (“I can’t believe it”- uttered by many a woman when newly diagnosed.)

One day as I picked up my Tamoxifen bottle I thought it would be wonderful if Tamoxifen were actually an acronym, instead of a tiny white pill designed to protect me from the possibility of a recurrence.  So, I designed my own:

T = Today

A = All

M = My

O = Outrageous

X = Anxiety (bear with me- X is a tricky letter)

I =  Insecurity

F = Fearfulness

E = Ends

N = NOW

I wonder if they could print this on the label…..

 

What Do You See?

Oct22

After the diagnosis and surgery I came home.  I came home to regroup, to heal, and to be cared for by family and friends.  I would like to tell you that I remained incredibly strong at all times.  But it was really difficult.  Waves of sadness and fear sometimes washed over me.  Some days I just couldn’t seem to shake the anxiety that a diagnosis of breast cancer brings.  But I couldn’t stay in that Pit and God wouldn’t let me.  I felt His Presence, His Touch, His Care all over me.  So how did I keep fear at bay?  In today’s post I will share one way:  What Do You See?

When fear, anxiety, and sadness came knocking and even when they weren’t quite at my doorstep yet, I did this…  I closed my eyes and visualized.  In my mind’s eye I saw Jesus’ hand reaching down to mine.  His Hand was strong.  I placed my hand in His and visualized Him pulling me out of a pit, a well so deep that I couldn’t touch the bottom.  I also visualized us walking together- usually along the beach or along a path surrounded by tall green grass and water.  I pictured myself lying down in the grass, feeling the breeze, and smelling the air.  When my thoughts seemed to be on a runaway track of “what ifs,” I saw Jesus holding me, hugging me.  That felt incredible.

I know if you are reading this, you may not have a relationship with Jesus.  You may not believe God or believe IN Him; but to push back the fear, the anxiety, the sadness you MUST see something.  You must visualize something that will pull you out of that Pit.  Choose what you see carefully- it has the power to carry you through.

Here is an excerpt from my journal from my summer of healing:

“The Pit”

Lord,

I seek Your Face, I hunger for Your Peace.

I thirst for Your Joy.

You reach down and pull me up from the Pit of my thoughts.

Take my hand, and don’t let go…

 

So… what do YOU see?

There are 31 days in October!

Oct20

Wednesday, Oct. 15:  There are 31 days in October!!

October is a long month.  It starts out fresh and crisp with the promise of changing colors, scented fall candles, and toasty fireplaces.  But, when you are a breast cancer “thriver”, October is a month where you are bombarded by commercials, TV interviews, and billboards about…you guessed it- breast cancer.  Breast Cancer Awareness Month- really trust me I AM AWARE.  Ha   Even the pizza we ordered the other night had a pink ribbon on the lid the size of Mount Rushmore.

Now, do I appreciate the fundraising dollars aimed at research?  YES!   Do I understand that people are trying to be compassionate? You betcha!  Do I value the positive energy and well-wishers’ thoughts and prayers?  ABSOLUTELY!  Do I like the month of October? Not anymore…

I wait in line at Kroger and the cute little blonde with the perkiest breasts you’ve ever seen, asks me if I’d like to contribute to the fund for breast cancer?  Hmmmm… Gee, I feel like I’ve contributed quite a bit- I mean two breasts seems like a pretty hefty contribution to me.  But, I reach in my wallet and pull out a dollar.  I smile back at her- positive there is no way she could possibly know the reason MY breasts are so perky…

I get on my Facebook page only to find a site that I previously “liked,” is now listing how to prevent breast cancer.  Well… missed the boat on that one!

So, this is my second October when pink is not simply a color anymore.  Pink tells me I am not surviving – but thriving.  Pink tells me I am here today and that’s pretty damn good.  In the words of my surgeon as she held my hand before my life was about to change in unfathomable ways: “Pink- you’ll learn to love it or you’ll learn to hate it.  It’s a choice.”

I choose love.  Pink…it’s not just a color anymore. And October- hey, I’ve got this… only 16 more days to go.   🙂