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Everyone Loves A Parade…

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.

 

 

License and Registration Ma’am

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…

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

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

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.

But I’m a Black and White Girl…

When my beautiful 14-year-old niece was a little girl of about three or four, my sister,who is a rock-star mom, would ask, “Wouldn’t you like to go outside and play?”  Keep in mind they live in Georgia and the summers can be unbearably hot and humid.  My sweet niece would often reply, “I an inside girl, Momma.”   I thought that was just the cutest response.

After my surgery I waited for the pathology report to come back.  I believed that this report would “tell the tale.”  It would be a definitive, set-in-stone report that I could hang my hat on.  One evening the phone rang and our caller id told me that it was my surgeon.  I should insert here that it was 6 0’clock in the evening.  So, in my mind I thought this could be a very good sign or a very bad sign.  As it turns out, it was neither.  It was a “middle of the road” call.  Dr. Brenda felt very good about the path report and did not believe I would need chemo.  But, to be sure she wanted to send a sample of my tumor off to a lab for the ONCO DX test.  Because my tumor was estrogen and progesterone-positive, my lymph nodes were clear, and my breast cancer was considered “early stage,” I was a candidate for this test.

The ONCO DX would look at the expression of 21 genes in my tumor and provide me with a recurrence score:  low chance of recurrence, medium chance of recurrence, or a high chance of recurrence.  This is the kind of test you REALLY, REALLY want a low score on.  The lower the better.  After three weeks of waiting for the results- that’s 21 days- 21 long, arduous days, the results were in.  I was the proud owner of a low score.  I have never been so happy to score so low on a test in my life!  🙂

A few days later, I met with Dr. Brenda.  She again went over my recurrence score, and I promptly high-fived her.  She looked me in the eye and said that we both “needed to be on the same page.”  That while this was good news, in fact incredibly great news, this was no guarantee that I would not have a recurrence.  She then talked about calling in a prescription for Tamoxifen to protect me from this possibility.  My mind broke into a pseudo-sweat:  you mean this isn’t black and white- it’s GREY?!  Oh no this can’t be Dr. Brenda – you see “I’m a black and white girl.”  I always need to know the answer, research the best possible plan for- well for just about everything.

My husband and I decided to get a second opinion from a medical oncologist.  This doctor concurred with Dr. Brenda’s opinion.  Dr. Brenda had also told us that we could go to five different oncologists and potentially get five different opinions.  WHAT??!!  But, “I’m a black and white girl!”  I needed to hear the words:  “You have a low score.  This means your breast cancer is never, ever coming back.  No need for fear, anxiety, worry.  It’s black and white.  You are done with this FOREVER.”

Breast cancer helps you grow up.  It teaches you some tough lessons and this lesson was the most difficult of all.  There are no guarantees, no pat answers, no “always” or “never.”  So, this “black and white girl”  is learning to live with a brand new shade in life: GREY.  I am laying my “black and white” self down before my Lord and Savior and giving Him the canvas of my life.  He is helping me notice all the beautiful hues in the color grey.

And just as my sweet niece, Emily Caroline, is no longer “an inside girl,” I am no longer a “black and white girl” either…

 

Did you just say that?

Looking back on this last year I can remember people not really knowing what to say to me.  They certainly meant well, and I am so grateful for all the love and positive comments I received.  But here is a list of the Top 10 Things Not to Say to Someone Newly Diagnosed with Breast Cancer:

10. What do you think caused it?  (If I knew that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.)

9. How are you feeling? You look good. (I am not dying today and the shirt I am wearing has a stain on the front.  Did you miss that?)

8. How big is your tumor?  (Really- big enough- ok?)

7. You’re having both removed- wow- I could never do that.  (You’d be surprised what you’ll do when your life is threatened!)

6. God never gives you something bigger than you can handle.  (So not true- God didn’t “give me breast cancer.”  He allowed it.  And He wants me to be completely dependent on Him because He knows I can’t handle it without Him.)

5. My mother had breast cancer.  She died.  (Oh my- did you actually just say THAT to me?)

4. Are you getting nipples too?  (Wow- that seems just a tad on the personal side…..)

3. Is it in your lymph nodes?  (We don’t know that for sure yet and I’m trying not to hyper-focus on this uncertainty. )

2. Let me know if you need anything. (Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm)

1. Your new breasts will never sag- they’ll always be perky! (I love the breasts God gave me.  I nursed my three babies with them, my husband loves them, and I’m totally okay with them sagging. 🙂