EIGHT
During my two week post-surgery recovery period, I built this website. I told the story as it was unfolding because I was at a total loss and didn’t know what else to do. I had skipped into surgery on Thursday absolutely stoked to get this thing cut out and be done with it, and I woke up in W738 with Dr. Carroll at my bedside telling me that part of my tumor was malignant. So, I turned to live journaling to explain what was going on throughout recovery and treatment in hopes that sharing the details with y’all might help me understand and make sense of it too.
I’ve returned here many times to read my own story again, looking for perspective and words that might comfort someone that’s reached out asking for guidance through their journey or to simply find the most appropriate posts to share with a new friend that wants to know more about Glanda. Reading your own words that you don’t fully remember writing is a wild experience, but each and every time it has been insightful, nurturing, healing, and providential for me over these last 8 years, and I’m thankful. Many times, I’ve read with silent tears on my cheeks. Other times, I’ve wanted to hide knowing how broken and helpless I felt and the effect that that had on those around me. And sometimes reading my words makes me really dang proud of myself and a spark ignites again.
Looking back at year 8, I’m allowing myself to acknowledge and admire my strength. The strength I built to get up every day and face what was ahead with hope and resilience. The capacity I expanded within to mentally and emotionally sit with the scary and sit with it long enough to acknowledge how it was affecting every single aspect of my life. And the grace I poured over myself so that I might crawl out of the tunnel with new perspective and an appreciation for the blessings woven throughout. And let me be clear…none of this was easy, comfortable, or laid out before me.
I thank God every day that my journey with Glanda taught me how to value life and find purpose in the things that feel a lot more like punishment, so when the tide rushes in again in life, I’m equipped with the strength and perspective to move forward peacefully, knowing it will someday be for my good and the kingdom of heaven.
Cancer is a beast. I don’t think there’s anyone trying to cover that up. I’m certainly not, but I’m also at a point where I’m ok. Ok with what happened and where we are now. I’ve realized more and more lately that I’ve reached a stage of this journey where I no longer have anything wise or impactful to say, and while I don’t take that for granted, it also feels really weird knowing a place I came for refuge and strength is a place I feel like I’m outgrowing. I definitely still feel the impact of surgery and radiation on my body in my day-to-day, and the annual PET scan and MRI are still a little nervy, but I’m truly in a place I never thought I’d make it to so I hope seeing me here at least gives you hope. There were times early on where I searched high and low for people with a similar diagnosis to mine that were years out and doing well. It was those people that I kept top of mind when I got discouraged and those people that kept me hanging on and dreaming of these days right here. Thank you, Jesus!
I do want to share a particular milestone and some of the pictures to go with it! K.T. and I celebrated 10yrs of marriage of March 28, 2025 with a bridal photoshoot, a staycation, and a big family and friends evening to celebrate…all a surprise and planned by my darling. Back when Glanda was removed, this was a milestone we weren’t sure we’d see, so this weekend was filled so so much sweetness. Cheers to a decade of love and living out our vows!
Onward and upward
SEVEN
It’s been well over a year now since I’ve written anything of significance, aside from an Instagram comment or meaningful text here and there. Don’t ask me how. I truly have no idea. I used to find myself here so often. Helpless. Lost. Needing to be here. Needing to write it out and make sense of what didn’t when it was trapped in my head.
Seven years later, I’ve healed quite a bit (with plenty to go and discover) and I find myself with different needs. I’ve healed enough to know with resounding assurance that the Lord had great purpose in what the devil meant for evil and that sometimes the Lord allows hard times to come so we fall at His feet and He can guide us through it with his tender love and mercy for His glory.
This past year was packed full of all kinds of things. Highs, lows, and everything in between, of course, and plenty of wild. Looking back with some distance now, there is a lot of providence there, too… in the unexpected moments, in the travel opportunities that allowed us a few extra deep breaths, in the relationships that have strengthened our faith, the detours that shifted our focus, and the moments of clarity with the revelation of sovereignty.
For the sake of time (and your attention) I’ll summarize a few of the bigger moments.
Hyperbarics (Aug-Oct 2023)
Last August-October my mornings were spent at pressures equivalent to roughly 60ft “below” sea level for about 90 minutes a day, breathing 100% pressurized oxygen for 40 days locked in a clear chamber. Hyperbaric Oxygen Treatment is often used for specialized wound care, diving injuries, and other neurological impairments, and the hope in my case was that the 40 treatments would improve the lack of sensation I have in my right arm from a touch of spinal cord inflammation from radiation treatments. While no relief came there, I did have some pretty significant improvement in neck mobility and scar tissue on my treatment side. My neck feels almost the same on both sides (which honestly I thought would never happen again. IYKYK). Not to mention, I was able to work through a bit of anxiety and acknowledge that going through daily treatment of ANY kind after going through radiation, is not what I would consider fun or easy. Overall counting it as a pretty solid win though.
Side note: I finished hyperbaric therapy almost to the day that I finished radiation therapy in 2017. Pretty wild and totally unplanned. Only God.
Savannah, GA (Nov 2023)
We took a little trip together, because let’s be honest, I needed to unplug big time after 40 days of chamber swimming. So off we went to enjoy a few (rainy) days in Savannah, GA together. We had the sweetest little trip walking around hand-in-hand, eating great food, and seeing all the pretty places around an old historic town, talking about life, about God, about marriage, and all the sweetness of life. Not to mention the road trip. The Powells LOVE a good road trip together.
Almost baby (March 2024)
Yep, you read that right, and I’m not talking about pregnancy or any other “normal” method of welcoming a child into your home. I’m talking, someone out of the blue asking us if we wanted a baby…and if things had worked out as they truly seemed like they were going to, we could have had a baby in our home a month later. Like our baby to keep. To love. To call our own. Talk about a whirlwind….but the whirlwind was juuussstttt getting started.
SUDT (Samford University Dance Team) (April 2024)
For six years, I served as the coach of the dance team at Samford University, a small private Christian university here in Birmingham. I started coaching in the spring of 2018 which was roughly 6 months after I had finished radiation treatment and in a lot of ways, it saved me. Dance has been a part of my life in one way or another since I was 5 years old, and although I had never coached before, the opportunity gave me purpose and something to focus on in the absolute hardest time in my life. In April this year, my audition staff chose an absolutely stellar group of 16 talented girls to be the next team, and I fully intended to coach that team this fall. Just days after auditions ended, various things came to light about the program and the administration, and it became VERY clear that it was time for me to resign, so I did. While we know it was the right decision for us and there is no regret in that decision, it absolutely shattered me to my core to release that program and those girls and let go of what I had put so much of my heart and soul into knowing my legacy would trail behind me in whatever state it becomes. So I spent the summer working to heal my heart knowing this fall would be the first time post-treatment that I wouldn’t have a team to coach, so the impact is far more than what meets the eye, especially from Samford’s perspective. I’m facing FAR more free time than I’m used to, a new search for purpose in this season of life, a place to direct my motherly tendencies, and a lot of mental space that I didn’t know was being zapped by the ups and downs of dance team with a bunch of college girls!
Fraxel (May-Sept 2024)
There was a picture that K.T. took of me smelling a pink rose in a garden in Savannah, and all I can see when I look at it is the crepey skin on my chin from radiation scarring. My chin post-treatment has honestly always been an insecurity of mine, but I think that picture was sort of the tipping point for me. We put aside a little money and did our research, setup a consultation and landed on Fraxel laser treatment as the best option to treat the deep wrinkle situation. So, from April to September, I had 3 different sessions of Fraxel laser treatment to my whole face! Let’s just say I was unprepared for the ouchie of that situation immediately after and the sandpapery texture my skin would have the next week.
Yosemite (May 2024)
I first went to Yosemite as a little girl around the age of 5. Despite my youth, I do have some memories that have hung around with the immensity of the sights being one of them. When K.T. and I started talking about our 2024 trips, that was the first place that came to mind. I wanted to experience it all again 30 years later with a little life behind me and with big-girl eyes. We planned the trip for May with 4 full days to explore all the sights and sounds and hopefully some time of rest after a busy audition weekend. See above for how desperately we NEEDED this trip after the absolute mess that came of SUDT. Bonus, we took our next door neighbors and just had the best time hiking, talking, breathing in nature, watching people risk their lives on El Capitan, and searching for bears (which we found none of). We came home feeling slightly more alive and missing all the activity and excitement that trip brought.
Poison Ivy (May 2024)
I’ve spent my whole life playing outside, doing yard work, prancing through the woods, and rolling in the grass. Out of all of those years, not once have I been allergic to poison ivy. So when my mother says she has a garden bed in their backyard that some poison ivy has found its way through, I volunteered to go over and pull it out and dispose of it. Harmless. I was careful-ish, I wore leggings and washed my hands with dawn dish soap every so often and was careful not to touch my face with my gloveless hands. But what I didn’t consider is that the leaves were likely also touching my forearms and wiping the Alabama summer sweat off my face with my forearms was not a good decision. I woke up the next morning perfectly normal, and called my mom pretty proud that I had survived poison ivy yet again only to be told later that day by someone that it usually takes 24-48hrs for poison ivy to show up. By that night I was covered, and I mean COVERED, in rash on any possible fleshy surface that was exposed that day, despite my careful washing and invincible attitude. I think I scratched day and night for over two weeks. Thankfully it never got all slimy and weepy like some, but Lord have mercy the itching was unbearable at times. There was simply not enough calamine lotion in the world to soothe my little arms and face. Not to mention, my face was red and blistery like it was during radiation. So if you’re keeping up and counting, that’s major trigger #3 for the year. Lord have mercy!
7 years (July 2024)
While sitting on our bed swing out back one afternoon this summer, it finally hit me…Glanda lived inside my neck just as long as she has been in the trash outside of my neck. All the times that I told people that she was in there about 7yrs, it never felt that long (unless someone’s eyes bugged out when I said it). But on this side of things, 7yrs feels like an eternity most days. It has truly taken so much to get here. Before I knew what Glanda was, my days weren’t covered in fear or anxiousness or thoughts of how long I might live or what I better hurry up and do before I die. Ugh. But ever since, it has been an uphill battle of retraining my mind to understand that what was there is gone, and while, yes, my body did create unhealthy cells within, I am healthy now and the risk is generally the same before July 2017 when I was oblivious as it is now. Perspective matters. As hard as it is, it matters tremendously.
Maine (Oct 2024)
We’ve had a pretty calm Fall without all of the practices and games to attend, which meant the Powells could take a whole week in October to visit a state that we’ve been trying to get on the calendar for over two years. Mid-October, we finally got to go leaf-peeping and sunset lighthouse chasing. We flew into Boston and made our way up to Bar Harbor and back to Boston over the next week and had the BEST time seeing the Maine colors of fall for the first time and finding town after town with more character and charm than I was prepared for. I actually asked K.T. a few times to leave me in Bar Harbor for a little while and come back for me once the snow piles up and I miss Alabama because I cant get warm. But clearly, he did not comply. We are both back home and changed, once again, for the better.
Thirty- Six (Oct 2024)
Glanda came out when I was 28, and I remember so many days and so many conversations between K.T. and me in those first few years about 35 and how I wasn’t sure I would make it here. Future plans were muddled with thoughts and feelings of “yeah, if I’m still alive.” I just couldn’t understand that I might actually live to see 35, and I’m not really even sure where that came from. My prognosis was fine from the get go so I had every reason to believe that I could and would see 35 and well beyond. I never pictured myself dying, but my vision just kind of went black when I thought about what late 30s or 40s or even 50s might be like. I think cancer is just scary. Feels crazy to think back on those times now that I’m 36, healthy as can be, but it also makes me really sad to think about the state I was in during those times.
So, how do you process life you never thought you’d see? Celebrate? Jump for joy? Fall to your knees? Reflect? Cry? Yep, that one! I cried. Like a baby. It was just a lot to process, ok? I get my once every 6 months meltdown!!
Now I’ve lived a whole week or so of 36. I sort of feel like I’m starting fresh. I’m starting over with days and weeks I’ve never dreamed of before. I’m feeling a slight warmth from the light onto life that feels oddly unattached to the cancer survivor, Coach Val life that was. And i’m moving into a new chapter, rich with wisdom and perspective. I’m moving into a phase of life where I don’t worry (as much) about Glanda and the ripples that that skipping little pebble caused. I don’t constantly connect day-to-day things with the days I felt like I was living day-to-day just trying to get through the mess each day brought with it. I’m able to breathe a little deeper and admire the beauty around me a little more intently. And i’m starting to worry less and less about who likes me, who cares, or the next person I need to please. And that part of 36 kind of feels good. But I need some grace here as my eyes continue to adjust from darkness and things come into focus again. I’m alive. I’m healthy. I’m doing well. And I am worthy of the good things God has in store for me. Thank you Jesus for healing and redemption!
So, it’s been quite a year! A lot has happened and a lot hasn’t. We are still filled with hope and thankfulness that the Lord has carried us through such a journey these last 7 years. We’re still traveling and taking in the beauty of God’s creation one continental state at a time. We are not blind to the fact that we have seen Yosemite AND Maine in the same 6-month period. And we are absolutely enjoying sweetness and slowness of how the Lord is revealing his handiwork to us. (I cant believe I just said I was enjoying the slowness)
We know and believe that God never makes mistakes, as hard as that feels to swallow sometimes. And while this recent year/season still brought plenty of heartache, although a different kind than you’re used to hearing about from me here, we are starting to settle into the space and time where we FEEL the blessing of it all and not just repeatedly tell ourselves about the blessing and trust it will come. Blind faith is hard. Let me rephrase, FAITH is hard sometimes because it’s almost always blind, but what a good God He is. Always. And y’all know, I’ve had my days, weeks, and months where me and the Lord had WORDS over all of this. But don’t miss His goodness there that despite my stubborn, angry frustration through the suffering and horridness of it all, He still provided, protected, and promises the same gentle love and unconditional pursuit for my heart. Ugh.
So, welcome to what I’m going to refer to as a slightly new phase of Glanda. The one we never saw coming (literally). The one that’s fresh and new and exciting. And the one where, for the first time, I feel kind of good about where I’m at. I’m sure I’ll come up with a dumb name for this soon enough, but until then, friends….
Onward and upward.
(and because I love pictures…here are a few more unrelated to the above that I love from the last year)
Six
July 6, 2017. Six. Whole. Years.
This morning I got up and got ready for work, grabbed celebratory Starbucks on my way in, and settled into my desk for the day. July 6 is usually a day I take off work and many years we’ve gone as far as to leave Birmingham, because something about being in the city on this anniversary gives me the creeps (or used to). But today I got ready and came to work in the same place it all went down 6 years ago. Woof.
The memories from that sunny Thursday morning are as palpable today as they were then. I can smell the humid air getting out of the car to walk skip into the hospital (remember at that point, I didn’t know Glanda was malignant so I was excited). I remember taking the pic in the elevator you’ve probably seen a million times if you’re a regular around here. I remember the exact path off the elevator and every crevice of the waiting room we sat in before triage and prep. I remember snuggling up with my parents and K.T. while we waited. I remember how the dumb yellow socks they make you put on felt, ya know the ones that have treads on BOTH top and bottom which I’ll never understand. I remember all the jokes I cracked with nearly everyone I met, including telling Dr. Carroll he could send my tissue off for STRATA testing (which was a clinical trial at the time for malignant head and neck tissue) all because I had heard them talking about needing more tissue for that study in tumor board and I wanted to help. Jokes on me there, because again, we didn’t know it was malignant at that point. Bigggg facepalm on that one, but I also appreciate the irony there too.
I remember how the sun shined through wispy clouds along the window-lined corridors as they wheeled my gurney down to the OR. I remember looking around at the real life OR like I had seen on tv trying to compare and contrast the scene. I remember how cold, and scared, and neked I felt lying on that table staring up into the lights and all the faces. And I remember having a conversation like normal…until I wasn’t…while God’s grace and mercy was cradling me so that my little heart would be content before every. tiny. detail. of life changed.
July 6th shattered literally everything. Not for a single second have I looked at life through the same lens as I did those OR ceilings. I went to sleep content and woke up to chaos.
It’s no secret or surprise that these last six years have been filled with every emotion under the sun. I’ve probably said that in 87% of the posts on here. Literally I’ve experienced emotions I didn’t know existed on both ends of the spectrum. There have been some extremely humbling moments and some Old-Testament-level tests of faith that I admittedly didn’t always pass, yet I’ve also always found my way back to the feet of Jesus. The times I’ve battled bone chilling, crippling fear, knowing Jesus has a place for me in heaven, but not wanting to meet Him yet. (No offense, Jesus!) And the thoughts of my husband lying our bed alone because I’ve gone knowing he’ll never feel my embrace again continue to wreck me just as much as knowing the fragility of life and how if something ever happened to him, I could simply not go on. Sometimes it’s just too much.
So, I’ve made a habit of keeping myself busy enough to sputter along without having to spend too much time in that headspace anymore. Part of that is healthy and part of it needs work. I mean, can you blame me? It’s SCARY! But in some ways, there’s a certain comfort to it as well, and I know that’s a strange sentiment. Yet these last six years are the memories and moments that have built me and I’m actually kind of proud of that fact now. In so many ways, I didn’t understand what living was until I had to fight to live. But boy, do I get it now. And I pray I never forget it.
As my Dad said this morning, “It seems like so long ago AND it seems like it was yesterday.” There are SO many moments to reflect on, and honestly it’s not often anymore that I give myself the space to do so. But I let July 6th be the exception there now that cancer isn’t every waking thought for me anymore. Some years it feels like groundhog’s day. I wake up on July 6th and do it all over again in my head. The sights, sounds, and smells find me again. I know exactly what happened (and what didn’t), but I still sit anxiously until around that time of day that Dr. Carroll came in and told me the news (except now I can fill in the gaps of what happened while I was in surgery too). July 6th is still heavy, but it’s also sweet. And finally at six years out, I feel like it was was perfect in a way.
It was perfect, because July 6th is also the day of each year where God’s provision, His protection, His mercy, His gentleness, and His attention to detail are most evident. As I scan back through surgery day memories, the traumas of treatment, the true medical miracle of it all, and my mentally and emotionally feeble existence those first few years following, … I’m pretty sure the details could convince an atheist He exists. And in the moments life gets blurry again and I forget, He reminds me yet again.
It’s moments like seeing your surgeon at your MRI appointment that is an hour delayed and at a different location than usual. It’s messages and emails from people all over the world that somehow found this blog or my instagram that are scared and facing similar things. It’s my tiny little self being a voice on a big ole national conference stage as a patient advocate. It’s collaboration with other RadOnc professionals across the country to share the patient experience with physicians in the field. It’s July 6th and Glanda, the little demon that broke me, revived me, and gave me purpose.
MRI catch up session.
Glanda’s former home
Little life update (aside from Glanda)
The following are some of my fav pics from the last 6+ months (since its been a while since I’ve updated) We’ve traveled to NYC, Telluride, CO, and Asheville, NC. I completed year 5 of coaching the Samford University Dance Team, and year 6 at UAB with a new job as a Communications Manager in Emergency Medicine and Dermatology. I also took class with my BDT dance family and made it out alive. I can still do hard things and that makes me happy.
Infertile Myrtle
Things get a little complicated when you’re a young adult that has been through cancer treatment and are ready to grow your family. The questions and racing thoughts are bountiful, and fear rears its ferocious little head far more often than preferred. It’s been a weird, frightful, and somewhat cynical place for me over the last 4+ years. Once you realize that mortality is a real thing and you face some of the implications of what that means for your life, you start reevaluating, well, close to everything.
One of the first questions we asked Dr. Spencer in our radiation consultation appointment was whether or not anything that I had already undergone or would undergo with treatment would affect our ability to have children someday. At that point, our vision for our future was still relatively clear. We were married, knew we wanted a family someday, and we hoped that this surprise cancer situation would just be a blip on the radar. And it was. But at some point our vision blurred and fear bled into our thoughts.
“What if” basically became part of my identity during that first year post-treatment. We had been instructed to wait about a year after treatment before trying to grow our family (Growing a tumor apparently doesn’t count as family. And yes, I know my humor is a little off still) so knowing that the potential to have children was getting closer, many of our discussions centered around what that might look like.
As so many couples probably do, we started out pretty excited thinking every month was THE month that we would see those beloved two pink lines. We absolutely clung to hope in every way. Every weird feeling, every rainbow, and every prayer…it all brought immense joy and assurance that the Lord was working to fulfill His promises. And He was.
Yet 54 months later, and we are still waiting on that month and those lines. No false alarms. No miscarriages. No additional diagnoses. No babies. No sign of anything. Nothing.
At the 2ish year mark (June 2020) we decided to finally go to an infertility clinic. We underwent a full lab workups, various samples, questions, life history, tests, genetic tests, and a gazillion appointments. Yet at the end of it all, there is absolutely nothing identifiably wrong with either one of us. In fact, everything came back nearly perfect, clinically speaking.
There have been SO many days and moments over the last 5 years where I have pleaded for the Lord to answer the loud and resounding WHYYYs that have plagued me all too often. Haven’t we struggled enough already? Mom’s cancer, my cancer, the mental healing and emotional work that was necessary to do after the trauma that ensued, and now infertility?! There are many days and moments where I’m just mad and frustrated. Can’t something work in my body how it’s supposed to? How many things are going to leave me feeling broken and inadequate before there’s nothing left? Why did the Lord put being a mama on my heart if it wasn’t going to happen? If it is going to happen, why not wait until our blessing is closer to give us the desire? Why do I keep seeing visions of me holding my baby in this house and baby toys strewn across the floor? How many more people are going to tell us what wonderful parent’s we’ll be if we’re not meant to be parents at all. It’s all so disillusioning at times.
But glory. And purpose. There is always both. And it’s always good.
As I’ve also spent time in reflection over the last 5 years, the Lord’s hand and provision has been glaringly evident, which I know opposes what I described feeling above. It is, but both can and do exist simultaneously. Everywhere we look opportunity has been abundant. We have not once lacked something we needed, even when we felt like what we were given wasn’t what we thought we needed at the time. Support has been plentiful, yet so has abandonment, betrayal, and loneliness. Prayers have been offered up continually and encouragement has come from places we didn’t expect. And at times, well-meaning questions and comments were painful to respond to or hurt our feelings in reflection. But knowing and acknowledging that God’s hand is in our story doesn’t mean our feelings always reflect that acknowledgement or that situations haven’t totally sucked at times too.
In many moments, we’ve felt the depths of exhaustion and defeat. We’ve felt the frustration over how many things from cancer still affect my life from time to time, the survivor’s guilt when I am humbly reminded that my cancer journey was relatively easy compared to what some go through. Embarrassment from how the healing process hemorrhaged onto other aspects of life like friendships and relationships and how out of control that felt. Disillusionment about how life was “supposed to go” and simply…didn’t. And how many moments I spent wrapped up and paralyzed from fear, worry, and anxiety. Yet part of all that is why I’m finding myself here…on my cancer blog…almost 5 years out…talking about infertility.
Because the impact doesn’t end after surgery or after treatment. There is no separation between traumas and there is no box to package things up in, tie a bow on, and ship off to another planet (although that would be nice). We just have to choose to focus on that glory and that purpose that the suffering reveals over time. And most of all, find peace in that.
So, with each nagging question, I’m faced with a choice. Am I going to let the fear and experience circulate my thoughts and overwhelm me to the point of anxious inability to see beyond the past, or will I choose trust the perspective and faith in the God that has never once led me in the wrong direction?
1) What if it comes back?
I had cancer at 28. Generally speaking, cancer is a disease of age. If you live long enough, there is a decent chance you may be diagnosed with some sort of cancer. At an older age, you’ve lived most of your life so there is presumably less life to live or mourn the possible loss of. But yet at 28, you look at what you think is the rest of your life and realize that that very well may be cut short because you hit the cancer milestone wayyyy ahead of everyone else, and you have way more time for something to come back. This is one of the oddest realities I’ve processed yet and I’ve finally (just in in year 5) have realized that I am more at risk driving a car these days than I am for my previous cancer to take me out. Death can happen at any time, and fighting for control over that or being terrified of the outcomes of that is utterly unproductive.
2) What if I die “early” and leave my family here without me?
There are many moments that I have imagined my family surrounding my casket at my funeral and my kids having to figure out life without Mom. Or my husband crawling in bed at night…alone…knowing he will never hold me or talk to me again. Or the questions our little ones might ask in trying to understand death and disease that brings up the reality of things yet again for my husband who is also trying to understand. And it makes me absolutely sob, and it’s made me question many, many times if bringing a child into this world is worth the potential of all that.
These are incredibly morbid and hard thoughts. I know that, and I’m not attempting to cover that up. But this is what I mean (and have always meant) when I say that facing your mortality at a young age is rough. It’s really freaking hard and scary. But it’s also beautifully eye-opening to the value that humans and relationship have in life.
I want none of these things to come true. I want to snuggle my husband and my babies until I’m too old to know who or what I’m snuggling, but finding peace with the plan the Lord has for my life is the only option here. And that is also really freaking hard sometimes.
3) What if I haven’t gotten pregnant already because something else is coming for me?
My head and neck is monitored pretty closely. Since October of 2017, I have had scans at least every 6 months, if not every 3-4 months. Ain’t nothing in there getting past anyone!…But the rest of me could be totally up for debate. Thank God, for all the vaginal ultrasounds, saline ultrasounds, HSGs, and whatever else to confirm that my lady bits are also safe or I might still be thinking THAT’s why nothing is sticking! (please acknowledge my humor here too). For real though, after initially figuring out your body is capable of producing cancer cells, it’s really, really hard not to wonder when that process might unknowingly start taking place again like it did before, and what if it’s too late next time. (Thankfully, I had a PET scan at the end of June so peace has been restored here for a while)
All of these questions have led to really intimately exposing conversations between K.T. and me. We’ve cried together on many long drives where these things come up. We’ve shared perspective with one another, which thankfully tends to be drastically different than the other. We’ve discussed options and alternatives at uncomfortable depths in order to process thoughts and emotions in a “healthy” manner. And we’ve played out scenarios and what ifs to make decisions for our family. It’s an added layer to things that I would assume most couples trying to grow their families don’t experience, but here we are.
These conversations have cemented us together like nothing else. When you marry in the Christian faith, you become one flesh, and we’ve pretty much nailed that one. We’re one big ole pile of Powell flesh after all we’ve been through. Those conversations have led us to scripture and the promises of God almost every time. They have reminded us of hope and faithfulness we’ve seen thus far, and the purpose. My goodness, the purpose. They have stripped away insecurities and left us vulnerable and they’ve built back trust in a way that I didn’t expect.
At the beginning of this year, K.T. and I felt led to finally embark on the adventure of IVF. We had always felt like it wasn’t for us, but after 4.5 IUIs (Intrauterine insemination) in 2020-2021 and a decent break from infertility things, we felt the nudge to begin again.
January 11 was our first appointment with our clinic. Jan 26 we did our first set of lab work. February 9 was our first call with the genetic counsellor that would eventually be testing our embryos. We were pretty psyched. This timing put us on schedule for an end of May genetic probe completion, June egg retrieval, and an August/September transfer, which puts you at a status of PUPO or pregnant until proven otherwise.
Middle of May, K.T. came to me nervously and told me he had been thinking about our IVF plans. He felt like the Lord had laid it on his heart to dig deeper into things. I thought we were already pretty deep in things, but once we sat down and talked I quickly realized he meant something different. He wanted us to take a deeper dive into what scripture says about infertility. Now, we know that IVF isn’t in the bible (duh, hello 21st century technology) but the bible is actually pretty vocal about all things procreation.
K.T.’s a spreadsheet, practical, research person, and I’m, well, not, so he did his thing while I made a list of scriptures related to fertility to go hunt down and study. We looked for resources that might help us understand better and found ourselves buried in devotionals and sermons. We prayed for clarity and understanding and asked for the Lord to reveal answers that our hearts had been looking for and that He did.
Our first venture for the weekend was Secret Church. For most of the pandemic, we attended church online with David Platt at McClean Bible Church in DC. Secret Church is something David did when he was the Pastor here in Birmingham at Church at Brook Hills and the whole idea behind it is to study and pray like those in countries where the gospel isn’t allowed and Christians have to meet secretly for long hours to study the one bible they might have. K.T. made sure we had the materials we needed (like study guides and snacks) and scheduled 2hr sessions for us throughout the weekend (6 total hrs of teaching). Yes, it’s a lot and you better be paying attention or you’ll miss something valuable.
Also in the midst of all of this, K.T. was flipping through a men’s devotional he was given at Christmas and for whatever reason, hadn’t picked up in a while. He started was going day-by-day from January 1 looking for days that matched up with the list of scriptures I had made.
The first one that matched was January 11. The next one was February 9. The first IVF appointment and the first genetic counselling appointment. Not only did those match up with our initial appointments, but February 9th is the 40th day of the year, which also holds significance biblically.
Alright, Lord, we see you…loud and clear.
After a tough weekend, we knew. IVF wasn’t our journey anymore, and honestly I’m not sure it was ever supposed to be our journey looking back. So, we stopped. We called our doctors, cancelled our plans, and paid our bills we had stacked up. And we’ve (almost) never looked back.
A lot happened that weekend emotionally. Our decision wasn’t based on health. It didn’t come from fear or worry. It didn’t come from anyone else’s outside influence. It came from our faith in God and what we believe His Word says about life and the means of which life comes to be, specifically when labs and tests have shown no reason for us to be pursuing medical treatment. The reason for us starting IVF in the first place had very clearly become lack of patience and faith rather than treatment of a problem.
But it was more than that too. It was the possibility of having to grieve a life that we thought was ahead of us and one that we had begun to envision even more clearly…being parents. We had to understand that our decision could ultimately mean that we never have a child of our own. But it could also just mean that we could still have a child of our own naturally and it just wasn’t our time yet. Two drastically different outcomes to process and be ok with at the same time. Woof.
The weekend was heavy but nearly 4 months since that decision, the peace within us has sustained. We’ve talked many times about that weekend and everything that went into it and celebrated God’s goodness for it rather than wishing we had continued on.
While things have still been quite hard, as friends and family continue to get pregnant with free-sex babies (that’s what us infertility folks call those babies that happen without treatment 🙂 ) we’ve settled in to using our abundance of kid-free time for others in our lives. Have I thought about getting pregnant and whether this is the month or not? Have I wondered why? Have I watched the time ticking by and wondered if it will ever be our time? Have I bowed my head bummed out after seeing yet another pregnancy announcement? A million times over. Almost every single day. But I’m learning, and I’m growing slowly.
There’s purpose and there’s glory in it all. And that makes the wait worth it while we continue to pray for Baby Powell.
Someday. Maybe. Onward and upward.
Ned & Ted’s Big Adventure
I’ve always said I wanted twins. And my dreams have finally come true!….just not quite how I envisioned. In
June, I found out I have twin vocal chord nodules (which I named because duh) and they’re benign and harmless. For real this time.
Glanda fam, meet Ned and Ted. Those pokey little white bumps you see are my twins.
What some of you may or may not know is, I answer to “Coach Val in my spare time. I’ve coached the Samford University Dance Team for almost 5 years now and when auditions and Alabama’s pollen season hit at the same time this past April, my voice couldn’t hang. I totally lost my voice to the point where my husband had to announce the team at the end of the weekend because I was lucky to get a squeak out. Felt fine. Couldn’t talk.
After a week of sleep and hibernation my voice was still pretty squeaky and people were starting to ask “when is your voice coming back?” or my personal fav, “what’s wrong with your voice?”
“Oh, it’s just still gone from auditions. It’s getting better! Just not back to normal yet.”
Ok, so when we entered week 6 of no-voice-Val, my mother-in-law insisted I go get it checked. At this point I had maybe half of my voice back but some sounds and pitches still didn’t come out audibly. And looking back now, a history of head and neck cancer and no voice….probably should have sounded a few alarms, however I’m counting that particular blonde moment as a massive win because cancer and fear wasn’t my first thought.
The first week of June, I had an appointment with UAB Voice Center to get things checked out to see why my voice wasn’t returning fully. I was pretty nervous about the scope situation, as I have somehow escaped being scoped thus far, but I was assured several times that “it wasn’t that bad.” That’s a lie. It was that bad. I now have SO much respect for those H&N cancer warriors that get scoped at follow-up each time.
They first gave me the numbing spray up each nostril and had me wait several minutes for it to work. That gave me just enough time to observe everything in the room and imagine what everything was used for and where it might be going. Getting something sprayed up your nose wasn’t a great start. But unfortunately that wasnt where things being shoved up my nose stopped.
Next was a semi-taught cord with a light and a camera on the end and it was heading towards my face. I made sure to tell them that the left side (treatment side) of my nose bleeds pretty easily, so we thankfully avoided that mess, but straight up the right side it went.
“Just a little pressure here.” It approached my sinus cavity, and I would have believed you if you had told me a mack truck was navigating my nasal tissue rather than this small-ish scope. I got past that relatively quickly and I thought I was in the clear as far as the pain and nuisance goes. Hard part was over. Nope.
I swallowed. The scope hung just past my tonsils and became more evident with each adjustment. And if just sitting there wasn’t uncomfortable enough, now I had to make sounds!? We ran through the vowel sounds and up and down the pitch scales a few times mixed with a ton of swallowing (which was the worst part). My saliva is a little thicker down around the back of my throat which kept obscuring the clarity of what the scope needed to record, so swallowing was the only solution there. Poor girl holding the scope almost got punched a few times out of pure reflex, but I managed to maintain some restraint to not get kicked out of UAB’s voice center.
As I made each sound, I had to press a mic up against my throat to pick up the sound and resonance a little better. Seriously, so much multitasking but my main focus was getting that camera out of my throat ASAP because at this point tears were streaming down my face and it was getting embarrassing. I wasn’t crying. I just don’t think my body loved having the paparazzi hanging around my internal red carpet.
Finally it was over. I wiped the tears from my eyes and swallowed normally before reaching for my emotional support water cup as they introduced me officially to Ned and Ted. They’re actually so tiny, they hesitated to even call them nodules, but that’s what they went with and all I could think about was John Mayer. IYKYK.
I don’t care how big Ned and Ted were, this girl wasn’t about to consent to head and neck surgery again. Jk. I probably would have if it was necessary, but not for anything elective. So I’ve spent the better half of my summer doing voice therapy to practice using my throat muscles differently so that my vocal chords can heal.
As of last week, I’d say my voice is maybe at 90% but things have drastically improved from where I started late Spring. I’ll be scoped one more time before band camp starts on August 10, and while Ned and Ted won’t be totally gone yet (because your voice improved way before visual change is apparent), I’m hoping they have shrunk a noticeable amount! I may have always wanted twins, but these I’d like to send back! Half of my team this year has never heard my actual voice…but maybe soon!
Onward and upward!
More footage if you’re into that kind of thing:
Beneath the Treatment Mask: The Mess Mortality Makes of the Mind
In January of this year, I received an email from Sue Evans M.D., MPH. I didn’t recognize the name so I scrolled down to her email signature. I remember seeing Yale University and immediately exclaiming, “YALLEEE!?”! What?
I was for sure she had the wrong email address. But wait…she’s from Yale. People from Yale don’t make mistakes like that. I scrolled back up to make sure it was, in fact, addressed to me. It was. And her words were as follows:
“We are developing a panel for consideration for the ASTRO 2021 national meeting, in Chicago this fall. The topic is “Challenging Cases in Patient Safety”, and we are interested in having you serve as a former patient and current patient advocate on the panel. Your role would be to talk about how we might engage the patient in patient safety efforts. You would be alongside the delightful team cc’d here!”
More on this in a minute. Several weeks later, I received another email.
Subject: ASTRO 2021 Storytelling Session
“We are reaching out today to see if you would be interested in putting together a Storytelling session that is centered on highlighting the patient voice for the 2021 ASTRO Annual Meeting. This is a new format that allows ASTRO members and experts in the field to share their experiences through the art of storytelling.”
ASTRO wanted me to tell my story…to share…with everyone.
There was clearly much to do before ASTRO in Chicago in October. I had one pre-recorded video session to create from scratch somehow and one in-person panel session alongside some pretty stellar company to prepare for so I didn’t totally sound like a redneck from Alabama in front of a lot of very intelligent people. No pressure, but holy cow.
As you might imagine, much of the story surrounding this year’s ASTRO began well before we arrived in Chicago. It started early September as I sat on our front porch and scribbled down an outline for the video we would create of my story with cancer. Where do I even start? What’s the message? Who’s my audience and how will what I say (or don’t say) affect them? How do I structure everything so that anyone, especially busy radiation oncologists, would take the time to watch or care to watch? What is it about my story that makes it interesting? (My answer there was “nothing,” but I had already committed so I had to find something). I had a lot to think about before I put the first person in front of a camera.
I lined up all the interviews with those that I knew held pieces to the story that I couldn’t tell myself, and I prepared a list of questions for each interview to hopefully capture those pieces effectively. Everything seemed to be going seamlessly, and I was pumped for how it all might turn out. And then it was my turn. It was time to mentally walk through every single, tiny detail and moment of the most traumatic experience of my life that I had worked so hard to heal from. What on earth was I thinking when I said yes to that?
As I sat in the chair and faced the lens, chills ran down my spine. My neck got hot and slimy and the stabbing ache of immense fear flooded my body. I immediately jumped up and walked to the other room. Nope. Not happening. Not today.
This happened at least 3 times before I finally sat there and said something out loud, and even then, I sputtered around a while as K.T. tried to calm my nerves and ease me into some content. I had to focus on the outcome. I had to focus on the potential for someone to have better patient care through their cancer treatment because their physician heard what a patient feels and experiences on the mental and emotional side of things and be more sensitive to that. Finally, something meaningful came out.
The days of treatment and the initial year or two that followed are scary and embarrassing on so many levels and honestly days that I’ve worked hard to heal from and sort of forget. But there was something about hearing myself relive the fear and how I’ve processed various other crippling emotions that showed me how far I’ve come and how hard it really was. (I’ve never really admitted that. I’ve always just shrugged it off as something that happened and something we had no choice but to get through, but dang it was hard).
K.T. and I spent the following nights combing through over 6 hours of recorded content, learning how to use Premiere Pro, trimming possible phrases we wanted to keep, syncing audio, and piecing everything together in some sort of logically compelling manner. The Powells saw 3am more times in those two weeks than we have in nearly seven years of marriage and we literally almost killed each other due to exhaustion and drastically different ways of thinking. But we made it, and I have to say that I’m really, really proud of what we came up with. Now, to pray that it reaches the right people. (Click here to view)
Ok, Yale. Back to Yale.
Patient safety is one of those things that patients probably consider at some point in their treatment experience, however that consideration is likely passing and somewhat subconscious. But feeling safe under the care of our chosen physician is what establishes trust and what encourages us to keep pushing towards the finish line of treatment. We trust that what our doctors are doing is making a difference in our health.
When I first read through the panel ideas from Dr. Evans, I wondered how on earth I was going to provide any insight on patient safety. But as we all met and prepared for our session and went through case after case of missed or unorganized communication, I caught myself putting myself back in those patient shoes again and saying “but wait a minute, the patient probably heard that completely different. Of course, they’re panicking..” or “that’s probably a misunderstanding of what’s actually going on behind the scenes. They just need a bit more explanation.”
What we see as patients is how our care team communicates with one another, how information is transferred around from one sector of our care to another. We want to see that our care team is “boots on the ground”, trained, educated, and ready to fight every battle alongside us. We hear the information being communicated to us, and we hang on every word about our disease and treatment (because our life depends on it) , and we also have a unique ability to tell when something is off. And what is important to note is that all of these things affect our experience in some capacity. We know that communication errors WILL happen. But it’s how things are handled when those things happen that make a difference in how they’re perceived.
Thankfully the incredibly insightful Dr. Sue Evans and Dr. Sheri Weintraub had the foresight to expose some of these common communication hang-ups in the form of an ASTRO panel and enlisted a variety of voices to speak on how these hang-ups can be caught before they happen, diffused if they do, and how this might affect the patient overall.
We had 10 total cases to present from one of the following categories:
- Intradepartmental – between members of the same clinic (nurses, radiation oncologists, therapists, etc.)
- Interdepartmental – between members of clinics that work together (medical oncology, radiation oncology, surgery, etc.)
- Patient communication error – between the patient and members of their clinical care team
- Communication with disruptive patients – when patients become hard to deal with, threatening, or angry
We spent months reading through RO-ILS cases, discussing the implications of the safety errors in them, and choosing what would resonate with the largest amount of people. It was my job to step back into the shoes of a patient and think critically about how the situation or language used by my care team might have affected my trust, my experience, my doubts and fears, and my comfort level…and share that. And what an honor that was. These are the kinds of moments that remind me that going through radiation treatment at a young age with a sound mind has purpose. It has a voice, and it has opportunity.
It still takes me several reads and various other methods of verification to comprehend that my voice has a place on any kind of stage, much less one relating to radiation oncology patient care. But as long as people keep handing me the microphone, I will keep facing fears and retracing moments of grief for the sake of the future cancer patients….because it heals me too.
Every single moment of preparation and thought that went in to completing my duties at ASTRO ’21 was challenging. Things came at us out of nowhere that could have held us back and kept us home. I may be the only patient advocate that flew to a conference with my treatment side ear feeling almost just like it did at the end of treatment 4 years prior thanks to some very dry and stubborn caked on earwax covering my eardrum that ENT couldn’t get loose and a monster bug that stung my ear and swelled it up 3x its normal size. But dangit, I was getting on that plane. Thirteen hour travel day to Chicago? No big deal. We made it safely. I’ll save the rest of the drama, but you get the point.
The ASTRO conference and organization has been a steady stream of support and encouragement since my dear friend Jeff White found this article from 2018 and then my blog. To have been invited to an event of this size not once, but twice, still blows my mind. When I first attended in 2019, I was so incredibly intimidated and terrified to be in any of the presentation rooms by myself. No way I looked like a radiation oncologist. I felt so out of place, and just knew people were wondering what this little blonde girl from Alabama was doing here (and wearing heels…rookie). I almost immediately questioned why I had decided to launch myself into cancer world again like that. Why had I agreed to listen to presentation after presentation and clinical data about the exact treatment that defined the darkest and hardest days of my life. But the answer was I had a job to do. I had to give my patient perspective (which was pretty fresh at that point at just 2yrs post treatment) and I had promised to do it well.
As I landed in Chicago this year (this time with my hubs beside me) the same questions started to plague my mind. “What do you think you’re doing here? Why do you think your perspective matters over anyone else? Don’t you think that weird familiar discomfort your feeling in your ear could be another tumor? It’s probably been long enough for something to start growing back, right?”
But again. I had a job to do, and I wanted to do it well. I needed to do it well for the patients.
I don’t take these events lightly. They are pivotal moments in my journey, my healing, my identity, my confidence, and my humility. They bring be back to the sobering reality that I had cancer and there’s a lot of life left I want to live. They help me reflect back on my experience and see the progress in the field and find joy that things are improving for current and future patients. They remind me of the purpose my survival and current health has and the beauty of all the friends and radonc family that unfortunate circumstances have given me. And while so many emotions resurface, events like ASTRO give me hope while chipping off bit by bit of the fear and internal distress cancer has caused. There’s something freeing about telling people about the internal struggle that many hide very well, and them listening with a helpful heart. It makes it all feel a bit more normal when cancer feels anything but normal.
Huge thank you to all of those that have believed in me and trusted that what I have to say is relevant. You have given me courage. Thank you to those who have empowered me to speak and invited me to be a part of something far bigger than myself. You have given me strength to keep advocating when I feel like that road may be ending. Thank you to those who have listened with care and worked to understand the heart and not just the body of a patient. You give me the peace of feeling understood. And thank you to those who have loved and supported me through it all. You give
Please enjoy these scenic pics from our short outings in Chicago!
Behind the Treatment Mask: Bloopers
For every ameteur video project, there’s a whole set of bloopers that should follow. We ended up with over six hours of content to comb through and edit, so honestly it’s a little shocking that this blooper reel isn’t longer. But nonetheless, ridiculousness ensued…without further ado.
Onward & Upward
What do you do when the nest beneath you begins to give way? The short answer is you fly…
…which is fine if you’re a bird. And you have wings. And you know how to fly. Or you have instincts that fire and launch you into flight.
If none of those things apply, then you better flap like hell and hope that nest wasn’t very far off the ground.
Since July 2017 when I had my parotidectomy and woke up to a cancer diagnosis, I’ve felt very dependent on so many things and people and even places. I clung to things that were safe and familiar because everything else in my life was super scary and all too often immobilizing. There were places that healed me. There were people that were there for me as I struggled through the healing process, and the literal walls that surrounded me the majority of my days these last four years had me nestled comfortably with no plans of moving. But all successful birds have to learn to fly at some point.
Exactly 4 years since I started working in the UAB Department of Radiation Oncology, the Lord has carried me to a new nest. I’m now the Communications Specialist in the UAB Department of Neurology and the Department of Psychiatry and Behavioral Neuroscience. And my new favorite joke is that the Lord sent me to RadOnc to get my body fixed and now He’s sent me to Neuro and Psych to fix my brain) You can laugh, it’s ok…
This post isn’t just to say that I’ve moved on in my career, though. It’s a lot of things. Y’all should know by now that any time I put words on the page, there is deeper meaning than what’s immediately evident. There are countless hours of thinking and processing that takes place in my head before I ever put pen to paper. It just doesn’t come out right if I don’t get to the point of just spilling over.
I spent 2020 focusing on REST. I made myself take the time to learn new things, listen to more podcasts, read more books, take more walks, listen to new music, put the phone away, and enjoy my people and the outdoors, and just freakin take a deep breath. And all of that was so needed in my life. Pandemic forced us into much of those things, but can I tell you I think we all needed some time away. The slower pace of life and quality time with K.T. honestly helped me reclaim so many aspects of my life, my joy, and my personality that I felt like cancer robbed from me.
At the turn of this year the Lord laid the word TRUST on my heart, and I knew I would have a tough year ahead. Trust is something that had become extremely hard for me in faith post-diagnosis for obvious reasons. It has changed and challenged my faith in every way possible. I’ve often questioned how much the Lord protects His children given so many of us face horror and live nightmares through disease. Yet I’ve seen provision and grace heaped upon mercy and sovereignty beyond comprehension leaving no reason BUT to trust. And still, my heart asks “why” and searches for answers only the Lord knows because trust IS faith. There would be no need for Him if we already knew.
When the time came to apply for a new position at UAB, my heart sank and fluttered all the same. The nest was failing, and I knew I had to for my mental health. But I wasn’t ready to leave. I wasn’t planning to leave. And if I’m really honest with myself, I probably wouldn’t have ever left on my own without a driving force.
Earlier this year, I left. I flapped my little wings like hell and landed softly, tucking my feathers back in close to my sides. I glanced back at the nest and exhaled. Thank you, Lord.
Massive change happened at diagnosis, change that was wholly unwelcome and devastating. Yet the only clear path back to any sense of normalcy and healing from the intrusive trauma that ensued ultimately means that another series of changes have to take place. Changes that shake the core of who you are, what God has for you, what your body feels like as you do normal, human things, how your mind reacts to simple aches and pains, how you view life and the people surrounding you, and how long the list of insecurities gets (like you didn’t have enough already). Changes that take massive trust, the type of trust I didn’t have the strength to have at times.
But thank you, Lord.
Halfway through the year, I find myself reflecting as I often do, and nearly collapsing to my knees for being quite literally saved from things even when my trust and faith in the purpose of it all was frail. I needed to leave RadOnc. I needed the distance from seeing the places and people that helped heal me. We, no joke, picked up and moved our entire lives last summer mid-pandemic and built a house because there were too many places in that home that reminded me of cancer, among other reasons, but I needed the change to continue healing my heart. Yet somehow, I didn’t realize that RadOnc was part of that need until I glanced back.
I am beyond blessed that cancer and radiation left me with very minimal long-term physical symptoms, and sometimes I feel guilty for that. At first glance, I look like a normal 32 year old woman. But my right arm has minimal feeling due to radiation-induced inflammation in my spinal cord. My neck is tighter than a rusted lug nut on a tire. I get pretty gnarly headaches when stress builds in my neck and a theragun and flipping upside down on the inversion table is about all that will kick it. I don’t go anywhere without a drink because three salivary glands don’t always cut it like four do. My cheek sweats when I eat anything flavorful, often requiring me to dab it off mid-meal at the chance of people wondering why my napkin went to my ear like I don’t know where my mouth is. The left side of my face wears the wrinkles of an 82 year old woman that raised 7 kids on a farm in the deep south. And then there are the mental and emotional aspects associated with these things.
With each step I take to move forward, I can feel the memories and the trauma slipping away and I truly don’t know how I feel about it. Leaving RadOnc was a big one. The dream of all dreams is to not experience the haunting thoughts of cancer coming back for me every day, yet I don’t ever want to forget what changed me, grew me, connected me, and matured me. I don’t want to forget the things I have learned. I don’t want to lose the ability to relate and connect with those that also end up facing similar situations. And I’m led back to trust. Each and every step, symptom, and impact is something I have to trust that the Lord will orchestrate just as He has orchestrated all the rest.
Onward and Upward.
Rest For The Weary
Ive had words on my heart for some time now, but much like our prayers sometimes, these words have felt more like groans rather than comprehensible thoughts. The blank page is a scary thing for me these days. It was my solace in the darkest days of my life, yet it’s the place that I’m most terrified to return to now. There are feelings that live in that space that I’ve worked incredibly hard to move forward from. But if I am going to continue any progress forward (and if I’m still being stubborn about going to therapy) then I have to be brave and let my heart bleed on the page sometimes.
On January 1, 2020, I deemed this year my year of REST, and I’ve given it a pretty valiant effort, but I also knew when I decided that was my word for the year that I had a long way to go to find true rest in my soul again. The way I was coping with things had gotten me through treatment pretty well, but at 2+ years post-treatment I needed to finally accept that while I had certainly processed things the best way I knew how to, that simply wasn’t enough.
My emotional health was a disaster, and it was manifesting in all kinds of uncomfortable ways in my life. I could feel parts of me unraveling each day, leaving strands here and there with no way to ball them back up together. I was running from some things yet clinging to others, feeling misunderstood, hating that I was even in a place to need healing, and frustrated that I couldn’t just fix it. But while it was hard to realize that I still had work to do on myself, I also had to realize that it was OK for my healing to not be where I wanted it just yet. I was never taught how to cope with cancer and face mortality before 30.
Most of all, I had honestly lost a lot of trust in the Lord as I traveled further and further away from everything cancer (even though that seems counterintuitive). I remember questioning in the first few days after diagnosis how I would ever experience any kind of symptom again and not have the terrorizing fear of recurrence overtaking me. And thankfully I eventually learned how to be a normal human again that gets the sniffles and a headache every once in a while and doesn’t totally lose their shiz. But apparently in thought-training myself to switch out the negative thoughts with better ones, I actually just inadvertently trained myself to stuff the scary thoughts into a bottle with the top screwed on very, very tight.
Listen, I KNOW with everything in me that the Lord ALWAYS turns things for good for those that love Him, and I do. I KNOW that every single detail of my story is so carefully woven together into the most immaculate masterpiece of a story that people were going to stand and stare at me jaw-dropped as I told them about it. I KNOW the Lord’s hand was in every single second of every single detail from years prior to diagnosis, to meeting my husband, to forming relationships with acquaintances, to the moment Dr. Carroll came to tell me at evening rounds, to right at this very moment.
But how on earth do I come to terms with the fact that there is zero protection from cancer (or anything else) happening again…for my good or not. That’s still really scary to me.
Contrary to what I somehow believed in my early Christian years, being a child of God doesn’t give you any free passes in life. Quite the opposite actually. Suffering will come, and the purpose, every time, will be for His kingdom. I just wanted to skip the suffering part. For real. But I mean, who doesn’t? No one wants to suffer, but we all want the purpose in life and the feeling that we made a difference somehow. I just got both…suffering and purpose…pretty early on. I’ve suffered in more ways than I ever expected to at this point, and I’ve also been given a purpose that I certainly don’t feel fit for that I would never have had if not for a cancer diagnosis at 28. That’s heavy sometimes too.
As stubborn and angry as I’ve been with the Lord at times, the one thing I am more confident in than anything is that the Lord was with me (and still is) through every single tiny moment. He’s comforted me through emotional meltdowns where I absolutely pleaded for relief from what I was experiencing. He’s given me strength and braveness for conversations I never thought I would have to have with doctors, family, and friends. And He’s held my heart in his palm and whispered peace and guidance to me when I felt like throwing my hands in the air and letting everything go to hell in a handbasket since it already felt like it was heading there anyway.
He’s the reason I survived cancer. He’s the reason everything fell in to place perfectly so that I landed in the lap of the right doctors at the right time. He’s the reason people were introduced into my life that would provide words of wisdom and experience when I needed it most. He’s the reason I lost two jobs in a row only to start working in the department that would unknowingly treat me in the next six months. He’s the reason I started this blog as therapy for my own heart and the reason others found it and found solace in my words during their journeys or the journeys their loved ones were facing. And He’s the reason I am still cancer free.
The Lord did not protect me from cancer, that’s the hard, glaring truth.
But He did protect me until cancer, through cancer, and eventually to victory over cancer.
And that’s where I’m finding some rest these days. Admittedly, It’s been a very slow process to get anywhere near here and I have tremendous work to do still. But I have learned a thing or two about rest and how to foster mental rest this year in a healthier way amidst the chaos.
IT’S OK NOT TO KNOW WHY
Knowing why is the magic key of life to me. If I know why something was done or why something was said, I can fix it, I can do better, and I can make it better. Unfortunately, I still have a long list of things that I don’t know why they happened or didn’t and that will be the case for the rest of my life. The Lord didn’t give me that privilege and that much control on purpose, nor do I need it. I mean, for real, I don’t even know if its safe for me to actually know and understand why some things in my life took place…but don’t think my stubborn self won’t completely exhaust myself trying to figure it out.
Some things I won’t know the answers to until I reach the pearly gates, and those things I’ve come to terms with not knowing why…but only those. I’m still working on the rest and working to accept that I simply don’t need to know why. Things happened like they did because they were supposed to, and that has to be enough from now on. Send prayers.
PEOPLE COME AND GO, LET THEM
I spend and have spent a lot of time reflecting on friendships and relationships of all kinds. The complexity is fascinating to me, but also I love being helpful and adding value to someone’s life so I’m always processing how I can do that more effectively. I’m a fixer. I’ve seen a lot of friends come and go in my life and most of that’s been the natural fluctuation. However at some point recently I realized that many of my close friends have fallen away in the last decade that had weathered much of my formative years alongside me…and most without expressing any reason. Womp. Womp.
As I’ve grown into my 30s, I long for my friendships to be much deeper than they used to be. I need my close friends to understand me and be willing to talk about real life. I want my friends to not flinch when topics reach beyond what looks and feels good. I need them to stick around when they ask how I’m doing and I’m honest and needing a bit of wisdom. And I need them to share in the fun and light-hearted laughter of daily life with me.
It’s unrealistic to have the expectation that friends are forever. Cancer knocked out several of those for me, but I would be lying if I said I’ve found closure on my own with all of those. As you can probably guess, my instinct is to find out what happened so I don’t make the same mistakes in future friendships and that’s not realistic either.
The reality is that friends have the ability to make choices for themselves that I don’t get a say in. The choice for me has to be knowing my worth and making sure I maintain that in the friendships I keep. I have to know at the end of the day that I did the best I could, and I’m worthy of having people that love and care about me. I’m worthy of support and my own little cheering section that will pray for me, listen to me, and have my back when I need it. So I have to learn to rest my mind and find peace in my worth rather than reaching for reasons from friends that didn’t see that worth.
STAY PRESENT
My core motives in life are to find meaning and be meaningful. Often times that carries my thoughts off into la la land where I’m contemplating why trees grow like they do or what life might be like had certain events not taken place…it’s that whole butterfly effect thing Ashton Kutcher taught us about in 2004. Lots going on up there in the ole noggin always.
Social media has also created a space of comparison and reminders of people and things that we might not normally think about. There’s the normal harassment from parents about always having to have our phones attached to us too. So, while this pandemic has forced us to slow down and spend more time at home with only those close to us, I have been practicing leaving my phone behind more. It’s good for my soul to observe the beauty before me and soak it in as a memory rather than always whip my phone out to take a picture (that never does what my eyes see justice).
It’s also forced me to express myself and describe life more through words rather than always relying on a picture or something else and that’s something I needed. I’ve lost many authentic moments looking through my phone for a picture that I was reminded of in conversation when my description would have likely been sufficient.
So, I’m learning to stay in the moment and appreciate life as it is before my eyes. I’m learning to lean into the Lord again for comfort and peace and learn what it means to be a true Christian again with full trust in the Lord no matter what valley we walk through. And I’m learning to let things come and go in my life and understand that what is meant for me will find me (and stay) and what has run it’s course and is not productive any longer will go.
Onward and upward.
The Mind and The Man
“Where the mind goes, the man follows.”
That’s a quote I placed neatly into my pocket in college and have carried with me ever since. The mind is a powerful vehicle that drives us from place to place, to the past and ahead to the future, but it isn’t always as easy to steer as we’d like. Sometimes we find ourselves chasing thoughts that lead us into darkness and unhealthy situations, but equally so, our thoughts have the power to lead us to positivity, growth, and a healthier state of mind. Our mind is a rudder, and it’s truly up to us whether we anchor in still waters or whether we capsize and have to fight the current to get back in the boat.
With diagnosis, a wave of inevitable uncertainty and fear swept over me. Cancer is certainly the scariest thing I’ve faced, and honestly I may never forget how I spent the first several days post diagnosis face down in the couch absolutely pleading with God for the pathologists to have made a mistake. For the years (yes, years) to follow I felt defective. I felt betrayed by my body and by my God. I felt broken, labeled, and essentially lost as a human. I was for sure I was dying so many times it’s almost humorous now (and God bless the people in my life that listened to me absolutely spiral in those times).
While things have somewhat returned to “normal” in the sense that I don’t think as much about cancer like I used to, the Powells have been through quite a bit this year since I last posted six month ago. However, January started off quite lovely.
We celebrated the new year with friends out to dinner followed by an evening at our house cozied up on the couch just as we like it.
We had the grand opening of our UAB Proton Therapy Center at work, which means more options for my fellow Alabamians and beyond for radiation treatment. (I swore I would never sit or lay on a gantry couch ever again…but I’ve watched this place come to life from the ground up and I couldn’t resist hopping up for there for a quick picture. And besides, this gantry is way cooler-looking than the sTx that treated me.)
We had our annual ROAR Gala raising over 300K for cancer research in the UAB Department of Radiation Oncology. This is basically RadOnc prom, but always a fun to dress up for a night out with your coworkers.
Then we took a trip to Jackson Hole, WY at the end of January for our annual ski trip and adventuring. We took a sleigh ride through the elk refuge in the basin. We hit the slopes for two days. And finally, we snow-shoed 4 miles through Grand Teton National Park. And let me tell you, snow-shoeing in thin air and freezing temperatures is no joke. If anyone else other than my husband had convinced me to go on that hike I probably would have stabbed them with a ski pole for telling me that it was a good idea. It’s intense. But we made it to this sweet little spot on a lake that you couldn’t tell was a lake due to the literal feet of snow that we almost got stuck in and it made the whole experience worth it. No joke almost had to leave the hubs there…jk I would never leave him behind.
Finally, on Feb 1 we returned home to Birmingham only to unknowingly close out the last bit of normalcy we might see for the rest of 2020. We picked up our puppy kids, and quickly noticed our oldest wasn’t quite right. The next day, he was devastatingly diagnosed with terminal kidney cancer and was given literal hours to live. He was seemingly perfect when we left him just 5 days prior, but he’s our stoic buddy that wouldn’t have let us know he was hurting until he was really sick.
Five weeks later, we lost him and then sold our house. A third cancer diagnosis (my mom, me, and then Fox) since we moved to that house four years ago was more than enough for us to list the house and look towards to the next chapter of our lives. (Not to mention the places in that house that gave me PTSD from treatment.)
Sometimes it takes big changes like that to fully clear our minds and change our thinking.
As we left for the coast Thursday afternoon, the passing miles gave me the chance to sit with my thoughts. The crawling feeling of unsettlement intensified from shoulder to shoulder. I started to think about the last six months and my recent year’s past when I think about the current state of our world, through the COVID-19 pandemic, through the racial and social injustice, and the heartbreaking loss our world is experiencing every day. Our culture has developed its own kind of cancer recently, and the fear and uncertainty is palpable.
With July 6th being the 3rd anniversary of the parotidectomy that turned our world absolutely upside down, my subconscious (as well as my conscience) tends to come after me again. At this point, my thoughts no longer terrorize me about the possibility of anything coming back, and that’s dang Jesus miracle. It’s more so the heaviness of the fact that life can and WILL drastically change in an instant. I’m certain we all know that, just as much as we know that no one makes it out of this life alive, but when the actuality of uncertainty hits us head on life carries a different importance.
I’ve found myself at the beach on anniversary day twice in the last three years since surgery. I don’t like to be in Birmingham on July 6th. The beach gives me space to ponder the “whys” that I’ll never know the answer to on this side of heaven, and the beach reminds me of the faithfulness of the Lord with the waves that never cease to flow in and out as day breaks and the sun sinks into the horizon once again. The sounds of the shore drown my thoughts to a low murmur yet the staticky whir allows them to crash and tumble about just as the tiny grains of sand do.
Sometimes I walk, letting the waves splash up on my legs. Sometimes I read, trying to inspire some words to fall out on to the page again. And sometimes I just sit, staring at the immensity of the ocean and let the waves wash over my toes. This trip I did all three. The unsettling in my shoulders just wouldn’t shake off. And I couldn’t figure it out. And Lord knows I can’t stand it when I can’t figure things out.
As the sun began to set for the afternoon, K.T. came and took my hand and gently pulled me up out of my chair and walked with me hand-in-hand along the shore. He asked me what was on my heart and listened as I shared what I thought was keeping my mind busy and simply told me he understood. He’s the kind that directs my thoughts towards the blessings and reminds me that what I’m feeling and thinking is normal for what I’ve been though. And these moments are so very valuable to me. It’s the replacement and these thoughts and feeling understood that has given me strength through the storms.
February to now hasn’t been anything we thought it would be, and if we’re honest we knew it wouldn’t be despite the pandemic or anything else. That’s just not realistic. But K.T. and I have worked hard to remind each other of the love and mercy the Lord continues to pour into our lives, especially living in less than half of the square footage we had before we sold our house while we wait for ours to be built. We’ve steadied each other in times of chaos (yes, I’ve been the sane one a few times :)), and we’ve looked forward with hope as we continue to seek the Lord and the intelligence of physicians to someday bring Baby Powell home in our arms.
Reflection keeps me humble. It reminds me where I’ve been and how far I’ve come. There are still times where I get stuck in the fray of scary and negative thoughts, and I have to remind myself that just as it takes time to get to those places of fear, it also takes time to return to more positive thoughts and progress.
Reflection reminds me of the places I still need to go. And it reminds me once again that people are all that matter. Relationships need nurturing, and the hearts of others are more valuable than anything else in this whole world.
“Where the mind goes, the man follows”…I’m steering this man towards hope and heaven.
May you all be blessed in the days to come. Onward and upward to year 4 without Glanda! Praise God!
Gone, Glanda, Gone 