Not all anniversaries are happy ones. We celebrate some anniversaries, we mourn others, and we loathe still others. Today is a hard anniversary in the Buzard house.
One year ago today, after an agonizing month of testing and waiting and speculations, Adam was officially diagnosed with cancer. The expanse between October 2, 2014 and October 2, 2015 feels far greater than a year should, and yet my memories are all so sharp.
I can call to mind where each of us sat with feet shaking to the sound of the white wall clock ticking, ticking, ticking as we waited hundreds of seconds for the oncologist to enter the room and deliver concrete news. I remember the boulder in my stomach and the tears that choked my vocal chords as phrases like, “stage 4”, “aggressive chemo”, and “we don’t have time to wait” spilled out of a stranger, who is no longer a stranger. I recall walking out of the exam room, grasping Adam’s hand tightly, and walking toward the receptionist desk to schedule chemotherapy with tears racing down my cheeks.
I remember the silent slow walk toward the park across the street from the hospital and I remember the sound of the sobs that escaped in turns from each of us over the next three hours. I remember delivering news to family and friends through texts and calls, and I can call up the sounds of our friends sobs, too.
While this year has felt like a million years, it hasn’t been a blur. The memories from this year are incredibly vivid. I remember the sounds and smells and feels on Adam’s first day of chemo, I remember blubbering in the bathroom watching Adam take control of his hair loss before chemo did, I remember the weeks of battling nausea and anxiety in supportive silence, I remember the feeling of exhausted accomplishment on the last day of chemo, and I remember the lonely cold winter. And the surgeries: Even if I tried, I will never forget the nausea-inducing surgical waiting room, the plastic pull-out sleeping chair, the whirring of the IV machine, and the countless complications.
But I have other powerfully distinct memories from this year, too. I remember the friend that came and cried with us over Chipotle on the first day of chemo. I remember the consistent presence of my sister in every surgery waiting room and in between. I recall the friends who were with us while Adam buzzed his head. I remember the meals, the gutter cleanings, the full mailbox, and the amazon wish-list delivery extravaganza. I remember the presence of Adam’s parents on all of the hardest weeks. I remember the friends who drove long distances just to sit with us because that’s what friends do. And I remember the other friends who kidnapped Adam for a 2-hour road trip against doctors (and my) wishes because laughter and friends are really good medicine.
I remember the loving text messages and the videos of our friends’ kiddos praying for Adam. I will never forget the joy and love at Adam’s chemo finish line party. I remember all the sour patch kids and chipotle gift cards and essential oils (and all the wine and chocolate that was delivered just for me).
And I remember the pervasive, goodness and faithfulness of God this year. In the silence, in the dark of long nights, in the waiting rooms, and in just the plain old waiting, God’s goodness has been evident. God’s faithfulness has been present through his people, through His quiet presence, through the miracles, and through the setbacks.
In the Old Testament, Samuel commemorates the end of a battle by raising up a large stone and naming it Ebenezer (which means stone of help) to remind him and the Israelites of God’s help and faithfulness. I don’t know if we’ll go out in search of a big rock, or if this blog post will suffice, but as I remember this awful, heavy, unbearable, unbelievable year, I will also remember beauty in the ashes and pain dotted with grace.
I went on my first short-term mission trip when I was in high school. I packed ankle length skirts and modest tops (and matching bandanas for my hair, of course) and headed to Managua, Nicaragua. In my short week there, I observed a culture very different from my own, I experienced what it felt like to be a foreigner, and I was exposed to extreme poverty. As I walked through the tents of a refugee camp that housed families who had been displaced by a devastating hurricane, I began to grasp my own privilege.
When I landed back on U.S. soil, I was simultaneously relieved and uncomfortable with the things that had previously been my normal – from meals to clothes to social norms to routines. It took me a long time to fully comprehend what was happening in my heart and mind and soul; I was somehow changed. The things that I had seen had impacted me deeply; they had begun to shift my worldview.
The tension was that while my worldview had shifted, my real-life non-mission trip world as a high-schooler hadn’t shifted. I had to return to school, to my part-time job, to friendships, and normal teenage social pressure, but my normal life didn’t feel quite so normal anymore. I had a hard time sorting through how what I had experienced and what I was thinking about fit back into everyday life.
I’ve been having a hard-time articulating how I am feeling as of late. And because we have the best people in our lives, we are getting asked how we are doing a lot these days. As I’ve been doing some emotional self-assessment, I have decided that I’m feeling a lot like 11th grade post-first mission trip Allison. I have experienced, observed, and been exposed to some incredibly heavy things this year as I have walked with my husband through cancer treatments. And now, while we’re on a break from treatments and normal life can resume (at least temporarily) I am experiencing that familiar tension. I’m not sure how what I have experienced fits in with pre-cancer life.
I’m doing a lot less “cancer-wife” activities these days and a lot more “normal-life” activities. Life is starting to look more like it used to – it just doesn’t quite feel like it used to. I know that, at least with mission trips, the fusion of new experiences with normal life does happen. Normal life shifts a bit to accommodate new world views, and world views shift a smidge to accommodate the mandatory normal and somehow, in time, there is less incongruence. But ‘in time’ is the key phrase.
And so here I am, in the middle of waiting for normal life and cancer life to fuse into something that feels normal-ish. I’m waffling between cancer-shock and acceptance that this will forever change me. So in the spirit of honesty, I’ll leave this post in the tension that I’m feeling without a nice summary or Scripture-bow on top – maybe those will come with future posts.
Sometime during the course of late night conversations sophomore year of college (which no doubt took place over greasy Dominoes pizza or handfuls of microwave popcorn), my girlfriends discovered that I had never been camping before.
That’s not entirely true. I had been sort of camping once before. My non-outdoorsy parents agreed to embark on a camping trip with family friends one summer but we bailed when the tents started buckling during a torrential downpour and we landed at a hotel.
So back to college: My gals decided that we should go on a fall camping trip to give me a proper first camping experience. The idea of camping didn’t seem awesome but the idea of missing out on time with my friends seemed less awesome, so I conceded. A few of the camping experts set to planning out supplies, meals, route, and campground while I took to planning my most outdoorsy-looking outfits (nailed it, right?).
One Friday after class, when the trip was planned out, we loaded up our old college cars and shipped off to The Gorge. I don’t remember what caused the delay; maybe someone couldn’t skip her last Friday class or we took too long packing (or posing for pictures of packing) or there was a traffic delay, but somehow we got to our parking site later than our resident camping experts had hoped and we were almost out of daylight. We loaded up our backs with big supply packs and set out on the long hike down into the gorge to our campground.
We had fewer headlamps than campers so the expert campwomen geared up, and us rookies lined up every other headlamp and kept close. Very shortly into our descent, we were in total darkness except for the light of the few headlamps. I was told to keep close, to not veer too far to the right or left (because of a drop off), and to trust my friends.
Two of the girls had grown up exploring and camping in the very woods we were slogging. They knew the path even in the dark. They wouldn’t let me and our other pals get hurt.
I trusted but I was uncomfortable. I wasn’t in control; I had no idea where I was, what was around me, and what was ahead of me. I didn’t even have charge over what I could see.
I trusted but I was fearful. No doubt my anxiety (i.e the ability to conjure up the grimmest of all possible scenarios) played out ugly scenes in my mind as we hiked in lightless silence.
I was reminded of this trip as I was reading treasured words of Amy Carmichael this week: “There can be no difficulty of travel that he does not understand. We are never alone as we penetrate the unknown. We cannot be lost there… He knoweth the way that I take… There is no darkness where He cannot find us.”
I’m feeling a lot these days like I did that dark night in the woods. I trust God, but I am uncomfortable with how little control I have. I trust God, but I am still fearful. My steps feel unsteady and I have little idea what is beside me or in front of me. I would really, really like to know what the woods look like. Walking in the dark is exhausting.
But I take solace in the knowledge that there is no darkness where He cannot find us and even more solace in the knowledge that He can see even when I cannot.
“Even the darkness will not be dark to You;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to You.” (Psalm 139:12)
We made it safely into the gorge that night and had a delicious dinner of steak and nearly raw potatoes. (Fire-roasted dinner takes time and hunger doesn’t breed patience). We set up our tents, roasted something sweet over the fire, learned how to pee in the woods, told ourselves that no bears or scary mountain people would attack us until we finally fell asleep.
When I woke up in the morning and emerged from my tent to the smell of pancakes over the fire, I couldn’t believe the view. We were deep in the heart of a beautiful valley, with autumn-toned trees decorating the canopy above. I looked up at the narrow, steep path we had trudged in the dark and thought that perhaps it was better that I hadn’t been able to see where I was walking. I thought perhaps the scary walk in the dark made the morning all the more beautiful.
Maybe one day, when this dark cancer trip ends, I will feel the same way.
My husband was diagnosed with cancer in early October just before the weather cooled. He began intense chemotherapy treatments as frost began to make intricate designs on car windows in the dark hours of early mornings. Cold days were a perfect backdrop for the chemo days. Internally things felt cool, slow, and painful, just as they did outdoors.
During the first few weeks of treatment, as my partner’s body struggled to process all the chemicals being imported into his veins, I struggled to find words. I struggled to find words in my own head, I struggled to find words with friends, and I struggled to find words for God. After awhile, I was able to surrender the notion that I needed to say things to God and I found a quiet comfort in silence.
But after days of silence, maybe even weeks, I started to wonder why God was being so incredibly silent. I knew why I was being silent, but I expected that He could find words. I’ve been taught over the years “The number one reason that we can’t hear God is that we aren’t listening.” But there was plenty of silence, plenty of listening, plenty of wanting to hear God speak. Of all the seasons in my life that I thought I needed to hear from God, this was paramount.
Yet God remained so incredibly quiet: Present, but quiet.
One day, when I found a few words, I asked God, “Why are you being so quiet?”
And an answer came. “I’m here, I’m just being silent with you. You don’t need any more noise, so I’m sitting in quiet with you. You know who I am and what I am capable of – I don’t need to remind you – so I’ll just sit here with you, instead.”
God with me, Immanuel: This revelation left me speechless in a totally different sort of wordlessness.
This winter was rather severe for the south. We had cold, ice, and snow that rivaled records. Southerners are good at hibernating in the winter but this year, we were all especially reclusive. Our bustling town was shut down for several weeks for unsavory road conditions, and all was quiet.
A quiet city was a good backdrop for my quieted prayer life. As God sat with me in mostly silence, there was a deepening trust, a deepening strength, and a deepening peace. Good things were happening deep in the soil of my soul in quiet and waiting.
“The snow-time is full of quiet secrets, too, for we are carefully keeping secrets with God about the growing things under the snow… There is no dancing with the daffodils. That comes afterwards. But there is trust.”– Amy Carmichael, Gold by Moonlight
I don’t suspect the breaking of silence had anything to do with the breaking of winter. But the timing is serendipitous. Somewhere in the ICU in the dark of night, I found my words again. Just as the daffodils are breaking through the callous soil and birds are finding their songs again, I have words for my thoughts and feels and longings and I am quite enjoying conversing with God again. Perhaps the conversations wouldn’t be so sweet had it not been for the long and quiet winter.
“Sometimes there are beautiful things that would not have been if there had not been snow.” – A.C., Gold by Moonlight
“O Thou beloved child of my desire,
Whether I lead thee through green valleys,
By still waters,
Or though fire,
Or lay thee down in silence under snow,
Though ay weather, and whatever
Cloud may gather
Wind may blow –
Wilt thou love Me? trust me? praise me?”
A.C., Gold by Moonlight
For most of the childhood years I can remember, I lived in a little white cape cod parsonage that bordered the property of the church my dad pastored. There were loads of windows in that home and bright light streamed into almost every room – except for the basement. I know that most basements are scary, but believe me when I say that this one was especially eery. Perhaps it was the dark wood paneling that accentuated the lack of natural light, or the damp basement smell that permeated the space, or the narrow poorly-lit hall that led to a haunted-house-esque closet, or perhaps it was just all the centipedes (shudder).
I don’t think I ever knew exactly what I was afraid of in that basement, I’m not sure I even let my mind wander to all of the possibilities that I was worried actually existed there. But I was, undoubtedly, afraid of that place.
As much as possible, I avoided descending into the basement by my lonesome, but avoidance was inescapable on Saturday mornings. Saturday mornings were cleaning day at the Shuey Shack and vacuuming stairs happened to be on my chore list. I have incredibly distinct memories of getting out the trusty dust-buster and trudging to the top of the basement stairs. I remember my heart rate increasing as I inched further and further down the stairs, further into the darkness, further in to the scary possibilities that I couldn’t hear sneaking up behind me because I was using a noisy vacuum.
I’m not sure when it started, but at some point during the Fear-Fest-Vacuum-Sessions, I started singing a Scripture song my mom had taught me (to the tune of row, row, row your boat so you can get the full picture) “What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee, Psa-a-a-alm 56:3“. I wore that song out on those stairs.
You know, I’m not sure that I ever got less scared to go in the basement. I don’t think the song made the dark any less scary. The song/Scripture was a reminder that God is trustworthy even when the dark is scary.
Through basement avoidance, cancer wards, and other hard places in-between, I have learned that trusting God doesn’t automatically turn dark places into light places.
As Adam heads into his 5th surgery this morning, I find myself again in the juxtaposition of faith and fear. Some Christians might argue that there is no fear in faith, and maybe that’s true. It’s not true for me. I trust God and I am afraid.
Nearly every day in February, I read Psalm 34 and as the words became more and more familiar, different themes emerged. One of those themes was that there are 2 kinds of fear:
I sought the Lord, and he answered me;
he delivered me from all my fears.
Those who look to him are radiant;
their faces are never covered with shame.
This poor man called, and the Lord heard him;
he saved him out of all his troubles.
The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him,
and he delivers them.
I am afraid of cancer and surgical complications and scans and future unknowns. And I’m also afraid at times of a God whose ways are higher than mine, Who doesn’t always answer prayers the way I wish, Who isn’t a puppet manipulated by my directions, Who allows cancer and healing and death and life.
I trust God, and I fear God.
I have (what I think are) healthy fears and I have (what I know are) unhealthy fears. I entertain worst-case-scenarios and I battle anxiety and I fight panic – not just about, but definitely including, cancer.
For those unhealthy fears, I am seeking the LORD and waiting to one-day say, “I was delivered from all my fears.” I don’t imagine healing from anxiety will happen like a flashy disappearing magic act, instead, I think it’s happening in small moments, as I choose to trust in the dark places. I imagine healing from fear will feel something like an interaction I just read about in CS Lewis’ Prince Caspian. The interaction occurs between Aslan and Susan, when Susan was feeling afraid:
“You have listened to fears, Child,” said Aslan. “Come, let me breathe on you. Forget them. Are you brave again?”
“A little, Aslan,” said Susan.
Little by little I am being delivered from fears. Maybe deliverance from fear will turn into Holy fear? For now, deliverance looks like moments of trusting God’s goodness even in the dark, scary places. For now, deliverance from fears looks like God breathing bravery into my weary soul.
I’ve been camped out in the Psalms during the last few months. The Psalms are gritty, honest, and confusing, which resonates well with my current headspace on this cancer journey. During this Psalms Campout, I keep circling back to the 34th chapter. Because I keep returning to this chapter, I decided to read it every day this month, and every few days, a line gets stuck in my head that inevitably gets me thinking.
1 I will extol the Lord at all times;
His praise will always be on my lips.
2 I will glory in the Lord;
let the afflicted hear and rejoice.
3 Glorify the Lord with me;
let us exalt His name together.
Over the last few days, I’ve been turning the phrase “let the afflicted hear and rejoice” over and over in my head.
The concept of rejoicing in the midst of trials isn’t new to me cognitively. I was a Christian kid in the late 90’s who sang with a passion that I would trade my sorrows for the joy of the Lord. I’ve heard a lot of sermons throughout my decades as a Christ-follower about praising through pain. I’ve seen bumper stickers and Pinterest prints reminding me to “Choose Joy”.
But, as I’ve said before, cancer has tested all the varied theology I’ve been taught over the years, and this week, I’ve been asking myself “What does ‘rejoice’ really mean?” Which is probably getting at the deeper question: “Am I actually rejoicing in this [affliction] cancer?” Which then tugs at another question: “Can lamenting and rejoicing coexist?”
As I’ve mulled over the word ‘rejoice’ I recalled some verses I memorized as a child:
“Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18)
“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:4-7)
Rejoice always. His praise will always be on my lips. Always – in every moment? Always – in every situation? Always – in every season?
I’ve been very intentional over the last 4 months to be honest about the awful. From the beginning of Adam’s diagnosis, I resolved to express anger, sadness, and fear without sugarcoating my feelings, or wrapping them up with a pretty faith-bow, which is part of why I’ve loved reading the Psalms so much. David, the author of most of the Psalms, was called “a man after God’s heart”, and he wrote some really honest, angry, vengeful stuff. David curses and David praises. David laments and David rejoices.
Some days, even now, rejoicing comes easy. Some days, in spite of an awful diagnosis and terrifying unknown, I remember God’s character, promises, and goodness and my soul [rather inexplicably] rejoices.
But some days, I hardly have the energy to roll out of bed, let alone set my heart on rejoicing. Some days, I don’t have words to pray, I can’t stop crying, and I’m anxious about everything. Some days, I don’t think my soul has the capacity to rejoice.
This week, as I’ve continued to ruminate over this concept of the afflicted rejoicing, I came across a new idea from Charles Spurgeon’s commentary on Psalm 34: “It is well when the soul feels its own inability adequately to glorify the LORD, and therefore, stirs up others to the gracious work.”
Glorify the Lord with me; let us exalt His name together.
So rejoicing is a communal effort?
As I think about this, another verse I’ve committed to memory comes to mind, “Rejoice with those who rejoice, mourn with those who mourn.” (Romans 12:15)
Mourning and rejoicing are tribal efforts… I like that.
I was raised in a Christian era that taught a lot about individual faith. We were taught to have “individual quiet times” and to cultivate our “personal relationships with Jesus.” We didn’t learn a lot about communal faith. With each year that passes, I become increasingly aware of the importance of and the need for communal relationships with Jesus. These past few months have been further evidence to me of the importance of that.
It’s probably no coincidence that often on my lowest days, I receive reminders of God’s faithfulness on the doorstep, or in the mailbox, or through a text. On those days, when I can’t seem to rejoice, community often reminds me of reasons to rejoice. And when I don’t have my own reasons to rejoice, community has reminded me that life, goodness, and growth are happening all around me. Our people are welcoming children into their lives, falling in love, finding healing, and creating beautiful things.
And some days, community just sits and cries with me, and acknowledges the general crappiness of things, and that’s ok, too. Even in the mist of our own pain, community has reminded me that death, sickness, and sadness are happening all around me. Our people are saying goodbye to loved ones, struggling in relationships, battling disease, and searching for purpose.
I’m thankful for the stories of others, that intersect my own, that give me reasons to rejoice, when my own storyline is sad. And I’m grateful for the stories of others, that intersect my own, that offer perspective that my sad plot twist isn’t the only sad plot twist. I’m glad to be part of a community – a great cloud of witnesses – who remind me of the faithfulness of God in every season. Lamenting and rejoicing can coexist. Perhaps they coexist best in community.
Everything in my Type-A-Self is agitated that I’m writing a New Year Post on January 25.
Perfectionist Allison is highly embarrassed to submit something 24 days late but 2015 Allison gets a late pass because, well, cancer (I can play that card, right?).
I’ve been ruminating on this post for weeks and I have what I think are coherent thoughts, and so, I’m rebelling against my own anal retentive nature and publishing this anyway. Maybe 2016 Allison will be laid-back (but probably not).
A few years ago, instead of making New Year’s Resolutions, I started picking one word that would define my year. During the year, I read books about the word, practice the word, and grow the word into my life rhythm. It’s a really beautiful, almost prophetic act that produces intentionality, reflection, and a even a new community to journey with throughout the year.
My word for 2014 was rest. I shake my head in disbelief that that was the word I chose for 2014. I was way off. There wasn’t much rest in 2014 at all. In a lot of ways, 2014 was a year of frantic, but more than that, it was a year of horrible.
If I had even the slightest inclination that I had control over anything at the start of 2014, it was squashed, stomped, and flushed (to be sure it was really dead) by the close of the calendar. Sure sure, I can find some silver linings. (While we’re talking about silver linings, can I share some insight from my storm cloud? Let the person living the storm find their own silver lining and celebrate their discovery but don’t try to find someone else’s silver lining – it’s less powerful and far less helpful). I’ve gotten way off topic.
2014 had loads of good, actually. But the second half was so shocking and awful that if we took an average of good and bad and added it all up and then divided it out, the year would still come up HORRIBLE (yes, that’s an official mathematical calculation). Give me a few years of perspective and I’ll likely rename it but right now 2014 is still too fresh.
In the last few weeks of 2014, I began to process what felt like a failure of a year of rest – a failure out of my control – but a failure nonetheless, and I started thinking about 2015. And after some thinking, I determined that 2015 didn’t need a word. I decided I was too overwhelmed to think of a word that would shape a year that was already feeling too unpredictable to predict.
I decided to let it go, and come back to the drawing board in 2016.
And just as I resolved no word for 2015, I started hearing this one word, almost in surround-sound, coming from varied and unexpected sources. I heard this word in kickboxing, in sermons, in therapy, in books, and in conversations with friends. And I started thinking, maybe this year, my word found me.
This word has actually been surfacing for months because I’m having a very hard time with this word; physically, emotionally, and even spiritually
This word is simple, elemental even. But these days, basic sounds refreshing.
This word is breathe.
The act of breathing has been nearly impossible for months. I feel as though the unexpected of 2014 punched the wind right out of me and I still can’t seem to catch my breath.
But I need to and I want to.
So 2015’s message will be simple: Breathe, Allison.
I want to feel like my whole self can breathe all the way in and all the way out. Regardless of the hard and unknown of 2015, I want to be rooted, established, unmoved, and free.
But I’m going to start with simple, mindful, and rhythmic: breathe in and breathe out.
“I bet you’re so ready for a new year,” they say with sweet sympathy.
“I’m sure you’re ready to put 2014 behind you,” they pronounce with pity.
“I have a feeling 2015 will be a better year,” they hypothesize with heart.
But I don’t quite know how to respond.
While I love the symbolism that a new year can bring, I don’t get that fresh start when the clock strikes midnight this December 31. On January 1, my husband will still have cancer, fears will still be present, days will still be hard, and unknowns will still be unknown.
And I know I’m not alone in the ‘less than fresh start to 2015 club’. This has been a hard and messy year for lots of us, hasn’t it?
This post is for all of us whose 2014’s will end in a minor key, full of dissonance, with no resolution yet composed. This one is for all of us whose pain from 2014 won’t get the memo to disappear before the ball drops. This post is for all of us who are starting 2015 with the lingering hard of 2014.
There’s no sugar coating it or silver lining for it, there’s no easier way to phrase it: This new year is going to be hard. So was last year (and for some of us, the year before that, and the one before that…) and I’m sorry. I’m sorry that we’re heading into a new year already weary, worn, and wary. But we are not defeated.
So you know what? I’m raising my polka-dotted mug of ginger tea (the calm for my anxious belly storm), I’m turning up my current favorite pump me up song, and I’m cheersing in spite of it all, nay, I’m cheersing because of it all. I’m cheersing to you fellow metaphorical mountain climbers because if there were ever worthy inspirations to toast: it’s “to the brave ones!” We are a great cloud of faithful witnesses to one another of how to walk hard roads by simply walking the hard roads: Imperfectly, sometimes begrudgingly, but ever faithfully.
Cheers to the brave ones who dare to hope when the odds are not in their favor.
Cheers to the fighters who risk getting out of bed each morning though tired bones and weary minds plot against them.
Cheers to the tender-hearted who refuse to harden that bleeding heart – who keep feeling even though feeling hurts.
Cheers to the gritty ones, who keep being thrown punches and curve balls, and whose faith deepens and widens all the more.
Cheers to the ones who know that their callings are not on hold because of their current situation, but who trust that there is purpose in their pain.
Cheers to the ones who want nothing more than to see God do a “new thing” in their circumstances but while they wait, choose to see all the “new things” God is doing in their hearts in the process.
Cheers to the ones who believe that even if their heart and flesh give way, God is the strength of their heart and their portion.
Cheers to the ones who understand that testing produces a perseverance they would have never known or understood had there been no testing.
Cheers the ones who are convinced that nothing – not death or life, not angels or demons, nothing present or future, no height or depth – can separate them from the love of God.
Cheers to 2015 friends. Though it may not be clean, new, or fresh, it’s still a year to learn, trust, grow, and be brave – and I can toast to that.
Yesterday was Adam’s last day of chemotherapy. Over the last ten weeks, Adam has had nearly 200 hours worth of chemo pumped into his body. It has been a grueling, tiring, challenging journey, and while his chapter with cancer isn’t done being written, yesterday was a turning point in the plot line.
The day seemed to creep by slower than most; for me, because of anticipation, and for Adam because of exhaustion. We watched them hook up the last bag of chemo to his IV pump and squeezed our hands together a little tighter.
I flashed back to a memory of the first day of chemo, when the first bag started dripping and the tears re-welled in my eyes. Last day tears are very different from first day tears. As the IV pump began beeping to let us know the chemo had all dripped out, an overwhelming sense of joy washed over us. We hugged the nurses who we have grown so fond of, we said goodbye to the receptionists who know us well by now, and we walked out of the chemo room.
And the sobs began.
Sobs inspired by how proud I am of my husband. Sobs of relief. Sobs because I’m tired.
We didn’t talk much on the way home. Adam is an internal processor and I wanted him to have space to take in the significance of the day. Quiet came easier for me because I was terrified that I would spill the beans about the secret waiting for him at home. I had kept this secret for a few weeks but the last few minutes felt unbearable.
Over the last few months in the chemo room, I had watched other patients announce it was their last day of treatment without much celebration or fanfare, and I decided that wouldn’t do for Adam. So I cooked up a little “Chemo Finish Line Party” at our house. I pitched the idea to a few friends and family and of course, because our people love us so well, they changed their work schedules and bus pickups to be there.
Adam and I turned onto our street and were met with an insanely joyous 15 minute party with dear ones lining our walkway to the streamer finish line. They had a medal, signs, sweatbands, and unlimited high fives. We toasted with gatorade and we hugged and then we broke up the party because chemo is exhausting.
Today I’m less chemo-sobby and more thankful for our kemosabes – for the amazing people that have been our faithful sidekicks; especially during this chapter. We are incredibly blessed by the people who are cheering us on, caring for us, and continuing to trek this with us all over the world, all over the US, and all over Nashville. We’re raising our leftover gatorade shot glasses to you this morning.
Thanks to Karen McGee and Brad Harris for the gift of pictures so we can remember this day for a long, long time.