“Wake Me Up When September Ends”

My senior year of high school started off awesome. I was part of a teaching program that allowed me to leave school two hours early to teach at a nearby elementary school. I was finally connecting with friends, and the White Sox would soon clinch the title of World Series champions. 

But then September came. 

My grandpa—who had been ill most of my childhood but hospitalized for six months—passed away. For the second time in my life, I felt extreme grief, that the weight of life was crushing me.

That September marked the trajectory of how I feel about most Septembers. This old Green Day song caught my attention then. 

Summer has come and passed

The innocent can never last

Wake me up when September ends

Last year, I counted down the days until September. How many more chemotherapy sessions would I need to earn my sapphire slippers and reclaim my health? I was ecstatic for September. My daughters would have the best teachers that school year, I would be done with treatment, and I would be on my way to celebrate at the happiest place on earth. 

Quickly, no treatment turned into hypothetical situations, extra scans, and a supposedly twenty-five minute MRI that took more than two hours, requiring stopping and starting back up seven times. 

By default, I found myself humming, “Wake me up when September ends.” 

Somehow, disease has a way of silencing seasons, and here I am today. Alive and cancer free, but far from okay. It must be September. 

This summer, I poured all of my energy into my family. Shortly before school began, the panic set in. I was wiped, exhausted, and unable to keep up with daily tasks. Come to find out my hormones—or lack thereof—were waging war against my body. Between my mood swings, lack of focus, brain fog, short fuse, and exhaustion, the repercussions of cancer and treatment side effects were getting the best of my moments. 

“Wake me up when September ends.” 

So, here’s to my upcoming “megapause.” Pun definitely intended. It hurts my heart to break away from attempting to write regularly. But I’m going to use this time to rebuild the bridges cancer burned. I’m looking forward to ingraining healthy rhythms in my everyday life, cooking, resting, building deep connections, volunteering at school, and rediscovering God’s unchanging grace. 

The pastor at my hometown church recently preached on the Israelites exiting Egypt. You can find the sermon HERE. He draws attention to the condition of the Israelites’ heart being in between slavery and the promised land. They weren’t where they wanted to be. 

Are you where you want to be? 

Are you in between where you were and where you want to be? 

Like the pastor goes on to say, where are you at “For now?”

My three and a half year old, who mustered up the strength to have a different caretaker each day for two years, isn’t potty trained and his preschool won’t have him, “For now.” 

The transplant that kept Hodgkin’s Lymphoma away destroyed my reproductive system, “For now.” 

The gals I send off each day are tip-toeing their way through their new school, “For now.” 

It’s September, “For now.” 

I’m believing God is using this season of transition to continue to draw me to Himself. I naturally wouldn’t sign up for change. I think that’s why I somehow always lose my cool in September. Summer is turning to fall. Pajama days on those unplanned summer days are evolving into school-bell hustles. 

I can hear my best friend speaking over me, “Fill the gap with trust.” Easy for her to say. She lives on the delicious side of the big lake. Just like Ecclesiastes says, 

There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under the heavens: 

    a time to be born and a time to die,

    a time to plant and a time to uproot,

    a time to kill and a time to heal,

    a time to tear down and a time to build,

    a time to weep and a time to laugh,

    a time to mourn and a time to dance,

    a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,

    a time to search and a time to give up,

    a time to keep and a time to throw away,

    a time to tear and a time to mend,

    a time to be silent and a time to speak,

    a time to love and a time to hate,

    a time for war and a time for peace.

He has made everything beautiful in its time. (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8,11)

Here’s to filling the gaps of healing, hurt, and suffering with trusting God’s goodness in my life. He provided for my family when my family lost our source of income during Covid. He preserved my life when I was in between doctors diagnosing the pain I thought for sure was just in my head. His goodness showed up everywhere when my family and I gasped for air on my journey to be cured. He will indeed do it again. He is pointing me to deeper resilience in Him. 

Good fruit is coming, even in the middle of the mess. 

When I come back, I will be sharing exactly how I embraced September: “Bridging the Gap: Back to School, Warfare, Boston, and Menopause."

I am heading to Boston!

I was chosen to write an article for adolescents and young adults walking through cancer as a patient, caregiver, or medical professional. On top of the magazine publishing my article, they’ve invited me to share my piece at their magazine event in Boston. Would you be so kind as to rally around me in prayer? Drop a comment with the day and time you’ve marked me down in your calendar. I will be traveling from September 22nd through the 24th.

I’d love any Boston tips too! I’ll be one of the few not eating the coveted seafood. Fun fact about me: I don’t eat anything that swims.

Despite my “megapause,” there's gold out there. Let's find it together!

In Sickness and In Health

The day before our wedding, our pastor hosted a rehearsal to make sure the bridal party knew where to stand, and of course, he threw some commentary and advice our way. We practiced reciting our vows, and instead of saying, “For richer or for poorer,” the pastor rehearsed, “For richer or for richer.” Come our actual wedding day, I was too busy laughing my way through repeating, “For richer or for poorer,” I blew through the next vow. 

There’s no rushing, “Sickness and health.” Sickness and health comes and go, but matrimony on this earth together never fades. Marriage is exposed to all the things. Seasons, stages of life, and money don’t replace the priority of clinging to one another. During seasons of marriage bliss, thriving, transitioning, and fighting, “To have and to hold,” Tim through it all will always be worth the good and the bad. 

This week is 10 years of running the race God has marked out for us! We put this verse at the forefront of our marriage on our wedding day, and God continues to reveal His joy, peace, and purposes as we run this race together.

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.” (Hebrews 12:1-3 NIV)

Indeed, what a race it has been! Whether the years went slow, altered our lives, or we desperately wanted to get on to the next season (hi, cancer), God has been so faithful. 

Enjoy the trip down memory lane!

By no means am I a runner. Lately, I even have walking limitations for my residual back pain. Yet, I’m so glad my race isn’t over yet. I’m overjoyed that I get to keep running this race with my husband by my side. 

Happy Anniversary Tim. You’ve made our marriage all that it is today!

Heavenly Father, help Tim and I keep our eyes on you. Thank you for the mentors, friends, and community of witnesses you continue to surround us with. Thank you for sending us great people to rally and fight for us. Thank you for loving us first, so that we could extend our love to one another. Amen

They Said Florida Would Be Hot

Often, when we shared we would be traveling to Florida in July, people looked at us like we had three heads. They couldn’t understand why anyone would want to be in the Florida summer sweatbox.

I thought to myself, families experiencing cancer don’t get to choose the season of their trips. 

Believe it or not, Florida is open 365 days a year. 

To be frank, when we arrived home from Florida on that July summer day the weather in Michigan: a whopping sixty degrees and raining. So ha. Who wants to turn on the furnace in July? 

Florida represented big things for my family. Years ago we finished paying $10,000 in medical bills for my son’s birth. My sister had just moved to Florida, so my husband and I agreed to save up money towards taking a family trip to visit her and my brother-in-law. We decided anytime we wanted to go off budget we would declare “grapefruit.” That it wasn’t worth going over budget in our day to day because we wanted to get to Florida. 

Florida grapefruit ripens during that lovely biased season, spring. 

When I was diagnosed with cancer, I had a six day window to enjoy a trip with my family. While the budget for the trip didn’t matter because cancer has a way of encouraging priorities, I couldn’t wrap my head around getting all the way to Florida. I didn’t want to spend more time driving to Florida than quality time in Florida. My husband and I decided on Gatlinburg, Tennessee to make the most of our time together, pre-chemotherapy as a family. 

But Florida. But Grapefruit. 

I just wanted to see my sister and the life she was building with her husband and son. After my first installment of chemotherapy, I considered flying solo to see them, but that didn’t make sense as my pain reappeared and intensified. Doctor appointments outweighed the luxury of traveling. Surely, I thought I’d go that upcoming spring during grapefruit season, but enter a February stem cell transplant. 

Even more of a reason to travel, and cherish family time, but isolation and stem cell protocol wouldn’t welcome leaving a bubble for quite some time. 

The grapefruit may have been done for the year, but the fun was just beginning. Just over 4 months following my stem cell transplant we drove to Florida. 

It was hot. 

It was fun. 

It was a slow going kind of trip. 

Once we got to Florida, we didn’t drive all over creation. We didn’t even set morning alarms. For not having a busy trip, all the swimming and sun knocked us out. Tim and I didn’t even have a chance to play cards after the kids went to bed. We simply rested as much as we could. 

Summer update: Woah! It was a busy July. We have 3 weeks left until the girls start at their new school. We’ve pumped the brakes on potty training a kiddo that has no interest. 

We are looking forward to a slow August, slower than July that is. 

Oh, No She Didn’t

After scoping out the inside area of my elbow she flipped my hand over. Immediately, I pulled my hand out of her hand. Resistant, I declared to her, “We aren’t using my hand for the IV.”

Of course, Parnell wasn’t my nurse, and the fight to make my short visit as painless as possible was escalating. Quickly, my nurse managed to find a spot on the inside of my elbow. Lucky for her, that meant we could be friends. 

Come to find out, my IV bothered me the entire two hour visit. I don’t know if it was the tape holding it down, or the position of the IV, but it quickly became the worst part of the procedure.

It never fails the IV is the worst part. 

I can clearly remember starting the IV for a Cesarean was worse than surgery itself. Three nurses attempting to start a line five times was worse than the actual spinal and surgery. There was even a time I had a nurse completely violate my wishes when she aggressively chose where she found a vein for her to access. Yep, it was right near my hand. 

You’d think I’d become numb to the pokes, but it’s always eventful. 

My counselor says it’s because it’s the first thing that happens during a scary event. The reality of needing an open biopsy, surgery to deliver a baby, or a line added for a transplant are all marked by the opening horror of that first poke: the IV. 

In some odd way, I’m thankful for those hard experiences because they are etched in my memories. Between cancer side effects and growing children it’s hard for me to capture memories I don’t have proof of.

The small office I frequent for Interventional Radiology procedures is completely different from the cancer center I regularly visit. There is only one procedure room, so patients arrive once an hour. Unlike the cancer center, there are only a handful of employees, a parking lot versus a parking garage, and very few patients.

I was the first patient of the day. The next patient would arrive while I was undergoing my procedure. You may remember the time I fell apart getting a biopsy because the person next to me was getting her port removed. I was so happy I didn’t have to whisper the reason for my visit. I was pleasantly surprised I could share the joy of my port being removed without upsetting the patient in the bed next me. 

Sure enough, after my procedure, I overheard the next patient state she was in to get a port. Immediately, I knew she was the priority I wrote about weeks ago. The nurse went on to explain how the port would work at tomorrow’s chemotherapy infusion. My heart broke for her. 

I feel torn between two worlds: celebrating the excitement of the end of treatment and friends of mine still needing their ports.

That’s where I’m at today. I’m sad for those who aren’t able to get their port removed because they continue to need treatment. My heart breaks for the friend who’s port has become useless because the cancer overrides the treatment. And a part of me feels terrified to celebrate the end of a chapter I potentially may have to read again. 

Cancer blows, but God is so good. His goodness is always right there in the middle of the junk.

Even though, I should have had a port flush, I didn’t have to because it was being removed. Grandma is helping with the kids. My husband went above and beyond to surprise me with a treat. My nurse and I connected over her obsession with all things grocery shopping and clean eating. No complications. Good sedation to not feel a thing. No nausea. A community of believers lifting me in prayer. My village. None of the other patients knew what I was in for. My friends going through their own cancer journey are encouraging me to find hope. 

Best of all, I didn’t need stitches. Stitches are on the inside of my skin, but glue and Steri-Strips hold the outside of my skin together. This was a huge win, and not because it’s swimsuit season! Yes, the healing time will be faster. However, I have a little one who hates invasive procedures. We thought I’d have stitches again, and that stressed her out. She knew in the past that stitches meant her life would be turned upside down. I was so excited to share with her that God was blessing us by shutting the cancer book closed. 

I know Satan is attempting to orchestrate doubt and cause chaos. That when I don’t believe the cancer book is closed it’s because I’m running on Satan’s lies that I am not healed. 

Now, onto the hard work of believing I’m healed and free of the disease that broke me to pieces for almost three years. I believe God is making something really beautiful out of those pieces. 

Has your life been turned upside down? 

God is making something beautiful out of your pieces too. Somedays, you probably feel like your life is being ripped out of your hands. I hope today you can choose to allow God to continue his masterpiece in you. That the fearful, doubtful, and painful voice of Satan will not trump the goodness of God that surrounds you. 

There's gold out there. Let's find it together!

Freedom To Surrender

For those of you who have been following my journey, you may remember my friend that brought me watermelon. A year ago, Tim and the kids visited with family up north while I recovered at home from chemotherapy. My friend bursted in with her positivity and that perfectly ripe watermelon that I so needed. At that point, watermelon was the only thing I could eat. That specific day, I was missing out on all the Fourth of July fun my crew was having at the lake. 

Before I could even feel sorry for myself, I remembered the sacrifice her family made. It's hard to have a pity party for yourself when you surround yourself with people who freely give of themselves. Her family had sacrificed in huge ways when her husband was deployed to serve our country. For one year their life as a family looked so different than their norm. Yet, on 4th of July she is bringing me goodies.  

Fast forward a year, my crew is spending the holiday together. We've fought to find freedom from cancer over the past year. While I am physically in remission, surrendering my health is a continuous battle. Usually, a battle that starts with lies that I won't always be free of cancer. 

Do you ever have a battle that starts with a lie? What lies do you need freedom from?

Could it be freedom from chemo, radiation, or cancer? Did the diagnosis you received turn your life upside down? Maybe the full-term date of your pregnancy haunts you. For someone, it’s interacting with a loved one post-conflict. Loss. Anger. OCD. Addiction. Comparison. Pride. 

God loves you way more than the bottomless spiral of any lie that is holding you back from your best self. Freedom in Christ is available today!

Surrendering your life for His ways is an option today.

Not sure what that means, reach out HERE. I'd love to chat. 

Like I've said before: if I could, I would bring you a bowl of watermelon and tell you how much God loves you.

“Soon”

We are officially in summer mode. It didn’t even take a week to get here. The kids and I have snoozed most of the early part of our days away. I’ve realized that I should not make any morning plans. We all like our sleep; especially, after staying up pretty late. 

Generally, my husband and I try to keep our kids to a decent bedtime, so he and I have a chance to connect. Lately, it seems impossible to watch a show or play cards after the kids go to bed. By the time the kids go to bed, Tim goes to bed. 

Between extra fun with kids outside, or jamming their shower in because they’ve gone too long without one, Tim and I don’t really have a window to hang out at the end of the day. I blame the sky for going to sleep at 10 p.m. We are on the west edge of eastern time, so the daylight lingers. Great for summer fun, not so great to get kids off to bed. 

I know we are in summer mode because I have a list for everything. Packing lists, grocery lists, kids’ chore lists (which mysteriously went missing), goals for the day and week, and my own long term goals all of which bring me comfort. As soon as I wake up until I go to bed, my day is jammed with kids and summer fun. If I don’t keep track of my thoughts it’s as if I never had the thought. 

What can be more gratifying than crossing off an item? 

Paper lists, laminated checklists, lists on my phone, and reminders, I use it all. If there is one way cancer snuck up on me, it was being able to keep details straight. I think the number of appointments, prepping questions for appointments, and being so immersed in cancer life just had way too many moving parts. I learned to keep my lists nearby, and write it down immediately. 

We’ve been busy. Summer fun is in full swing. Little brother wants to know all the things, and do them right this second. He usually can sense what’s going on, and attempts to get involved. For example, Annie put her golf clubs in the car for golf camp, and Silas took it upon himself to load every golf ball we own into the van. 

He always needs to be in the know. Usually it means more work for me. Somehow, he manages to create a tornado by helping, or he throws a fit when he has to wait. One of the calming strategies that works for him is knowing it will happen “soon.” Toddlers have no concept of elapsed time. Between my brain being in packing mode and his little brain filtering when the fun begins, he’s been asking to do all the things “soon” all day long. 

“Soon” we'll be tackling all things summer: Vacation Bible School, cancer camp for the kids, virtual writing conference for me, my port removal, and travel. First on the list: a family road trip to Florida. Last on our summer list, Tim and I will take a trip for our ten year anniversary. 

For now, it will be much easier if I don’t forecast our plans to the little guy. Somehow, we communicate what’s going on with the girls, and he gets wind of what’s going down. At the end of the day, what’s at stake for him? Probably whether or not he will eat when he wants to and have a chance to ride his bike. 

The day he can keep a list of his own agenda will be a very good day. 

Here’s to a summer full of fun, happening very “soon!”

Leave a comment guessing where Tim and I will travel this August for our anniversary. 

That’s a Wrap

It’s wild to think the 2022-2023 school year began while I was still receiving treatment for my first go at chemotherapy. The kids entered Spanish immersion young fives and Spanish immersion second grade. I still had two rounds of treatment for my first chapter of chemo. 

Wow! Our school year consisted of three chapters of chemo, celebrating chemo was over, and grieving more biopsies and disappointing news. Plus, we ventured into a stem cell transplant and isolation from the kids for eighteen days. We even had grandma move in for seven weeks. 

What a year. We made it. While we may have been sucking air, the girls flourished!

Our school year started with a huge blessing. My second grader would have the teacher of our dreams. She essentially runs the school, knows every kid by name for the crazy pickup line, and just has all her ducks in a row. We weren’t sure we would have her, but last year’s two first grade classes combined to one amazing second grade class. 

It was common to have a new driver pickup the girls from school each day. This sounds chaotic, but our favorite second grade teacher always greeted our mystery driver with grace and patience. She pushed Elsie to do her best every single day; regardless of what was going on at home. She was our ace in the hole; the ace I knew we needed. I just didn’t realize the extent to how badly we would need her awesomeness in our kiddo’s life. 

Then, there is the Maestra herself, Annie’s teacher. She was a repeat teacher for us. Elsie had her years ago as a young fives teacher. We knew from the get go, we were in luck. She would be the reason our daughter would love school. Annie even refuses to go to kindergarten because she doesn’t want to leave her teacher. 

Annie’s teacher holds such a special place in our heart.

When I wanted the scoop at school, I went to her (even if the girls weren’t in her class). She showed up for us when Elsie gained a brother while attending her class. And how can one not cherish the teacher who was excited and presented learning goals over Zoom during a Covid outbreak. She has seen our family in all of our splendor, and she was always an excellent communicator and teacher for both of the girls. She ran a tight ship, worked above and beyond, and still made time to play tic-tac-toe with Annie whenever Annie was having a rough day. 

Highlights from this year: watching the girl’s perform at their Spring Showcase, walking the Tulip Time Parade with their classes, joining as mystery reader from isolation via Zoom, throwing up in the pickup line, and watching the kids build strong friendships.

Most of all, our girls rocked it. Tim attended a donut social with the girls before school one day. I was still in the hospital. Tim got an opportunity to check-in with the girls’ teachers. They both said the girls were doing so well it was as if there were no added stressors at home. While home life was wild during the transplant process, the girls thrived as best as they could. 

We couldn’t have made this school year a huge success without our friends that mentored our girls weekly, the cutest furry friend carpool, grandma running all over town, amazing teachers, parents of the kids’ friends that met us in our mess and provided solutions, an outgoing local library that provided endless activities to keep our little learners curious, and the man, the myth, the legend himself…Tim. 

Dad worked it out to take the girls to school every day for quite some time. He showed up for all of us: reinventing his schedule, and pulling off the entire morning routine himself. He definitely sacrificed sleep, his own time to workout, and making his schedule the way he wanted it. He saved our school year. And for those wondering, Tim totally rocks the morning hustle. Let’s just say the kids’ teachers can definitely tell when mom drops them off versus dad. It may or may not have something to do with their arrival time. 

God provided all the things and more this school year. 

I know every year will look different, and have its pros and cons. This year has been unforgettable. It’s so hard to even put to words, we won’t be returning next Fall. 

Parents of school aged kids understand the whole registering for school in advance, and for us this took place January through March. It was right in the heat of all things to prepare for transplant, transplant, and house arrest. In Michigan, we have school choice, so depending on availability, we can attend any public school. 

Our school is about twenty minutes from our house, which makes for lots of driving. My health and the distance to school were not friends this year. We knew we needed to be closer to home. God confirmed this months ago, and it’s still hard to get behind. For years we’ve tried to get into a local school, three minutes from the house. Of course, Annie’s name got picked in the lottery while I was lying in a hospital bed. 

You can continue to pray for our kids; specifically, as they transition to the local Spanish school. They continue to prove their resilience, and we are confident they will grow this upcoming year too.

God, please help me see the fruit quickly! Help me see you are doing GOOD things for us, even if it involves change. (Fun Fact: I hate change!) Captivate the girls with your moving in their lives.

Here’s to one more sleep until Summer Break! Rather, one more alarm until I get to sleep in for a few months!

Phew, I’m Not the Priority

It’s been confirmed. My appointment to get my port out is not the priority. 

Praise God. 

Join me in thanking God that my port is being removed. For this I am so grateful. Often during scanxiety, I would pray more for the moment my port would be removed rather than for the scan itself to be clear. My port removal makes the news of remission a reality.

Disclaimer: Somehow, my heart can be so happy and grieve at the same time. My friends who are newly diagnosed, and the friends in this treatment game for way too many days, my heart mourns for you. I am praying that you will have this same victory. That even if your treatment plan has turned into more treatment, you will one day soon be comforted by the same news that you're not the priority. Until then my friend, you will be the priority in my prayers. 

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I remember all too well the quick turn around to receive care from Interventional Radiology. I would receive a call from central scheduling and the next available appointment would be a few days later. Whether I was getting a bone biopsy, receiving my chemotherapy port, earning my central line for stem cell collection, or gearing up for my transplant without meds for a PICC line placement; IR saw me quickly. I was the priority.

A curtain was the only thing that physically separated us. Come to find out there was even more that divided us. The nurse was doing his rundown with the lady in the bed next to me. He asked her what she was there for and she announced, “To have my port removed.” 

Those words were etched in my heart. My cancer didn’t go away. I should have been getting my port out and I wasn’t. Instead, I was getting a bone biopsy of my hip to confirm the spots that lit up on my PET scan were actually cancer. The lingering cancer that resisted the first chapter of chemotherapy. 

Before my eyes could dry up, a nurse who claimed she could access my port versus starting an IV in my arm really stuck it to me. If the appointment couldn’t get any worse, the nurse had no clue how to start a line to my port. There was no way I was giving anyone access to my port that day. Access denied.

I highly discourage anyone receiving a PICC line to do so without sedation. For some reason, I was told sedation wasn’t necessary, but I beg to differ. The GOOD that came from that experience: the nurse held my hand the entire time I bawled my eyes out. You know, momentarily after I called her out for not wearing her mask properly…while working over a sterile field.

IR saw several of my darkest moments. Whether it be the shock of the catheter dangling across my chest, or all the rage I kept bottled up inside somehow leaked down my face. IR I loathed you then and I still do. 

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Yet, there was that one time. To prepare for the stem cell retrieval, I had a central line placed on a Friday and removed the following Friday. My nurse, one of the best I’ve ever had. Fortunately, I had him as my nurse on both of those Fridays. He did his job without a care in the world, and with a confidence that took the edge off the entire experience. 

One time he called me asking if I could arrive for the line removal early so I didn’t have to wait for the doctor to be done with a meeting. I remember feeling caught off guard because Tim was at home and he was going to come home to take me. At that particular moment Tim was in a meeting, I couldn’t get ahold of him. I took a stab at it and drove myself to and from the bedside removal of my central line. Parnell was just down to earth and painted a picture clear enough to not get overwhelmed.

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Unfortunately, the date of my port removal creates a conflict. Every twelve weeks I have to have my port accessed to keep blood from clotting. My removal appointment is a few weeks outside of that twelve week window. Of course, it’s outside the window. Why wouldn’t it be? 

For those who don’t understand how the port works, I hope this helps. Over the last fifteen months, I have had the same port under my skin, on my chest, the opposite side of my heart. This has been used solely for outpatient chemotherapy. Basically, any chemo I’ve received apart from the stem cell transplant. 

To the eye, you can see the port beveled under my skin. It’s probably the size of a dollar coin. The tubing inside the port connects to a large vein near my heart. So, when a nurse accesses it he or she has to puncture the skin on the outside of my port. It’s almost as if the poker they use to puncture the skin were a button with a large thumb tack on the back of it. The button literally clips on. Medication is pushed through tubing that connects to the button. Before IV fluids or medications run through the tubing, the nurse uses awful smelling liquids to clean out the foreign object tucked under my skin. It’s usually sensory overload for me. 

In the infusion world, chemo nurses know how to access these ports with ease because they do it to administer chemo drugs. Now, an IR nurse, not as much exposure. What ends up happening is they poke several times to catch the spot the port is in. I essentially don’t let anyone besides my chemo nurse access my chest’s device. 

If I have any chemotherapy triggers, it’s getting my port accessed. Between the smell of cleaning the skin, the smell of the liquid used to flush out the line, and the poke, I prefer using my arms to access my veins. I better message my favorite nurse to put me on her schedule. 

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Here’s to July 10th’s port removal. I told you I am not the priority. What a great day it would be if Parnell was my nurse. I do plan on being sedated regardless of what the team suggests. Most of all, when they ask what I am in for, I will remember to whisper, “To have my port removed.” 

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PS… Don’t you love that we don’t have to find things or people in this world to make us feel important. We are a priority to God. Every moment. Always!

What’s Next?

My husband’s best life skipping lines at amusement parks has come to a close. I’d say that was his favorite part of cancer. Me having medical conditions to bypass the lines was a huge highlight for him. He didn’t have to stand in lines for hours with restless children. Heck, I didn’t have to stand in lines with my husband losing his mind. 

Thankfully the side effects of a year's worth of chemotherapy have subsided, leaving me without a medical condition requiring I bypass some pretty intense lines. I praise God every time I fill out my symptom sheet at the doctor’s office. There are over forty-five side effects of cancer or chemotherapy that get monitored at each appointment. I am always in awe of the fact that I have a handful or less of mild side effects. 

My most up to date side effects of treatment and damage from cancer include: achy legs, soreness in my lower back where the tumor was evicted, gynecological issues, and fatigue. Gladly, I will wait in line for the blessing of my health. 

Next in line, my favorite part: my port is coming out. 

My port coming out really symbolizes achieving a positive outcome. This journey of: treatment, not clear, waiting, more treatment, additional biopsies, all clear has no match to not physically needing my port. July’s port removal cannot come soon enough. This will be a glorious day. Glorious. 

In addition to my port coming out, I will continue to see my physicians. Every three months for a couple of years I will see my oncologist for a physical assessment. Then, every six months for five years, I will have a CT scan. Indeed, I will graduate from PET scans and switch to CT scans as long as my body doesn’t warrant a need for radioactive tracers. I will also frequent the stem cell transplant team for follow up at the six month and one year mark. 

More complicated than my port coming out will be updating my immunizations at the end of summer. The inpatient chemo I received in February wiped out my immune system of childhood vaccinations. I am not looking for advice in the differing worlds of immunizations. This is just another tricky piece of walking through cancer that leaves me not knowing what to do, or what avenue to take. 

The news of remission doesn’t warrant life starting over. There are residual effects from the cancer and treatment. My oncologist even went on to say to not be surprised if depression comes up for me and my husband. 

The world of remission is far from sunshine and celebrations. It’s the hard work of moving forward while my friends’ ports stay in. It’s embracing medical freedom. It’s using what I experienced in my cancer journey for good. It’s finding unshaken stability in trusting God’s goodness in this fragile world. 

Celebrating from the valley

“Celebrate! Celebrate!” I read those words on social media, and I thought, that’s probably a really good idea; even if, I am terrified to celebrate.

I had big plans for the long holiday weekend. I knew I would visit family over the course of a week and a half while the girls had a few days off of school. Plus, our local zoo had been hosting a lantern festival I wanted to check out. I knew we had several fun outings scheduled close together. Surely celebrating would be attainable. 

Naturally, I built these events into our week for the sake of good news or bad news. I knew it would be hard to be home if I received bad news from my oncologist. Tim and I would just be defeated and end up taking the bad news out on each other. I would become obsessive over how clean the house was, and Tim would avoid me. I needed the distractions and company of loved ones scheduled. 

Inevitably, celebrating was a tall order. Getting the all clear and clinging for dear life at the same time don’t welcome a party. As simple as it sounded to celebrate, the world around me still remained fragile. 

Friends still have their ports. One friend still has debilitating, unexplained pain. Then there’s a dear loved one who is using all of her strength to move forward from a horrific accident. The acquaintance whose cancer turned metastatic. The father who lays alone at night after Heaven snatched the mother of his children.  

What’s the point of celebrating if there is brokenness all around me? 

To focus on celebrating myself is totally out of my comfort zone. Especially if the people next to me are hurting. I’d totally rather celebrate someone other than myself.

I am so blessed to have people celebrate me. Family surprised me with cakes, balloons, spa days, jewelry, the infamous tiramisu, and my favorite matcha latte. I’m so grateful they didn’t let the celebration slip away. So grateful. 

While I am still finding my footing in this freeing chapter of my cancer journey, my kids and hubby were totally worth celebrating. 

We celebrated them by saying “Yes” at the zoo’s lantern festival; yes to face painting, and Dippin’ Dots. We spent the long weekend boating at the cottage. Plus, a road trip to grandma and grandpa’s to hang with cousins and swim in the pool. They were the gold on the good days and the hard days. I’d celebrate them everyday if I wasn’t so easily inclined to forget all they’ve sacrificed and loved me when they themselves were terrified.

At the end of the week, I will share with you what you’ve probably been wondering, “What’s Next?” 

I can’t wait to tell you what’s around the corner and how you can be a part of it. Stay tuned for more ways on how I’m celebrating all God has done! 

Exposed

Never have I been awkwardly exposed to the point of embarrassment. At worst, my exposure level has been heightened when caught in a lie.

When I was a young girl you could find me in the basement on a beautiful day. While all my brothers and sisters were playing outside, I took advantage of the opportunity to play pretend school without feeling like a dork. I can still feel the cold air of the climate controlled basement as the sun beamed down the basement stairs. I had my classroom setup, but my mom interrupted my play. She asked me if I took checks out of her checkbook. I remember after telling her no, she went upstairs, and I went straight to my secret stash and ripped up the evidence. She caught me. 

Years ago my counselor encouraged me to expose myself to whatever makes me anxious to find myself safe and okay. I thought that seemed counterintuitive, and why the heck expose myself? Come to find out, it worked. 

I started spending money without feeling anxious that I wiped out my savings. I even remember her saying, in regards to my phobia of germs, to expose myself because no life could come from living in a bubble. She was so confident that living in a bubble would only be effective if there was an epidemic. I suppose she couldn’t forecast Covid-19 or my stem cell transplant. 

Throughout my cancer journey, I continue to ask myself, why do I continue to expose myself. I'm definitely lukewarm when it comes to making medical decisions. I’m torn between the harmful chemicals in my body and a future with my husband and kids. I’m torn between another scan that is all telling and just embracing the unknown of remission. I’m split between another radioactive scan (five PET scans in the past fourteen months) or reducing the amount of toxins I expose myself to. 

Approaching my latest PET scan revealed just that. Dancing in the dark, praising God in the storm, and finding the good that cancer brought to my life. 

I almost needed a rain jacket to absorb all the tears I had flowing at the latest PET scan. I sat there unable to shake the unsettling feeling that this was the beginning of the end. And not in a happy way: I kicked cancer in the butt. No, like I have pain in my back again, traveling down my leg, can’t sit without pain triggering the memories of being diagnosed twice, all stemming from back pain. Maybe the third time's a charm. Hopefully not. 

If being terrified of the results wasn’t enough, the exposure to radioactive tracers that would track down the cancer would prevent me from being around the kids the remainder of the day. It’s a dream to have a day to myself, right? It feels different because I don’t have the option to be with the kids. 

Scans see all the things. Well if not the whole picture, most of the picture. Am I better off than the one that has something, but remains hidden. Somehow cancer exposes all the things: my marriage in distress, mothering without patience, anxiety, fear of the future, pain and potentially the good. The good that is hidden under all the junk and just needs some digging out. 

Satan is trying to do a number. It’s not just the physical exposure I’ve been battling these past few months as I re-enter life after a stem cell transplant with germs all around me. It’s the mental exposure of waiting for my prognosis. “Should we walk out?” Tim says while waiting for the scan. “Which is worse, knowing or not knowing?”

I’m going to take my counselors advice to go against what feels safe and expose myself. There is always good in doing hard things. 

Meanwhile, I had the opportunity to enjoy a lymphatic massage this week. It was the perfect antidote to the exposure I’ve faced over the last several months, let alone years. I was wrapped with magnesium, and sat in an infrared sauna to sweat out the toxins. You will notice the garbage bag liner wrapping in the picture. Now that is some exposure I can get used to. 

Thanks for venturing over to my new home. 

I don’t write to be seen. I have enough scans and doctor appointments that highlight my insides. I write because it helps me process life. Helps me track where I’ve been and where I am going. It helps me expose the insides of me, so I can live out the good work God is going to see through completing (Philippians 1:6 NIV). Follow with email updates HERE. 

Thanks for meeting me here in this new space. My favorite part of writing is connecting with you, and creating a safe place to grow into all that God has in store to complete his very good work through you (Philippians 1:6 NIV)!

Like Christmas Morning

At my doctor’s appointment this morning, I was welcomed to an exam room within thirty minutes of my appointment time. Previously, I’ve waited up to two hours before heading back to the exam room. Tim brought me a coffee and I got to see my favorite chemo nurse. I refused to go back to the infusion center to find her, so I sent Tim. No way was I going back to the infusion center if I didn’t need chemo. Nurses are really great, she showed Tim a post it note with my name, appointment date, and time on it. She’s a gem, always checking in on me. 

I needed that burst of joy. My cancer center is located on Medical Mile. Quickly, I remembered while driving in the doom and gloom of Medical Mile. A helicopter was landing at the nearby hospital, and there was a traffic jam in the cancer center’s parking garage. Clear reminders to pray for big things for those I encounter and those I will never meet. With the utter reminder that my health is way better off than most. 

I could hear my oncologist going from exam room to exam room. As soon as I heard his voice beyond the door my stomach dropped. It was as if I was riding Millennium Force at Cedar Point reminding myself on that initial uphill climb, “I don’t do things like this.” It sounded as if he was going to enter my exam room. I remember his voice being so predominant. It was another few minutes before he actually came in. Hello nausea. 

His strong voice cried out, “NO LYMPHOMA!”

My scan was clean. My doctor even noted, it’s often that scans overshow. Sometimes, it looks like a disease and it isn’t. I thought to myself, oh dear I am so happy that it was clearly clean. 

I can’t wait to share more about what this means moving forward, but I couldn’t wait to break the news.

So today we celebrate the goodness of the Lord and his moving in my life. Thank you for celebrating with us! What a dream to publish a website and hear cancer free on the same day. 

Before you leave, be sure to follow my website. Join me on this journey of healing from cancer and embracing the gift of everyday gold. 

It would truly be an honor to receive your encouragement as I process all that cancer has brought to my life. This will be the best way to get the scoop. 

My prayer is that you will find freedom from the pain you are experiencing and embrace the good happening in your life.