Week Five
How is it already the end of week 5? How is there only 1 week to go? And why didn’t the first 3 weeks go by this quickly?
Actually I’m not sure these weeks have gone by all that fast after all. I think I’ve just gotten used to what’s going on and lowered my expectations as to how I’m going to feel.
This week has been some sort of weird hybrid between week three and week four. It hasn’t been totally terrible but it hasn’t been rainbows and sunshine like last week was either. I woke up last Saturday morning with my ear totally clogged up and we we’re supposed to be heading to Race for the Cure by 8:15. Needless to say that didn’t happen, and I’m still a little sad about it because it’s one of those obnoxious daughter things I do every year to celebrate Mom, but we will have our own Race for the Cure soon to make it up.
The ear issues continued through the weekend with no relief after trying literally everything (including standing on my head) so I wrote Dr. Spencer and she had her resident Dr. Nikolaev take a look Monday and prescribe me some steroid/antibiotic drops for an outer ear infection. By Wednesday, I had decided that the ear infection part was slightly better, however the inside of my ear was drier than the Sahara in July and felt swollen to the size of a coffee straw. So, I’m still a little wonky, but I’m praying really hard that there’s not hearing loss and it will clear up after next week.
My neck is starting to look a little ridiculous (or red-iculous) and feels much more like leather than skin and has blistered in a few spots, but thankfully it’s not terribly painful yet. Since I got the lily white Norwegian genes instead of Dad’s olive skin Italian genes, sunburns are kind of expected when I go outside so I knew this part wouldn’t bother me too much. I’ve become quite the bed buddy of your dreams though…face slathered with Glucan ointment, and propped up on 6 pillows so I stay in one place so I don’t smear my goo all over the bed. Sexy.
The worst part is definitely the taste in my mouth that makes absolutely every food taste like I’m licking the trash can, but I’m figuring out ways to help with that the best I can. Unfortunately it has limited the things I can eat a little more so I’m basically stuck with nutrient shakes and soup and some other solid food here and there, but praise the Lord I’m not restricted because my mouth and throat are torn up with sores and ulcers. That part is still very mild.
So, we have 1 week to go: 5 more treatments, 5 more times to walk down the hall half neked in a gown, 5 more times to shove that wretched mouth piece in my mouth, and 5 more times getting bolted down to the table while being hit with radiation beams. And I. Can’t. Wait. Even if I feel like junk next week, I WILL be running the halls like a fool and acting ridiculous once I crawl off that treatment table for the last time on Friday. And my promise still stands…free hugs for everyone.
Here’s to the final sprint.
A Bit of Reflection
Feeling nostalgic tonight (as usual) as I sit here on the 2nd to last Monday of treatment and the first day looking at single digit days until the finish line. Reflecting about the last year and wondering how I ever got to this place and how I never even saw it coming.
This time last year I was flying solo up to DC on a work trip where I would drive to the tiny town of Waterford, Virginia and cover the first ever Flowerstock through social media for the magazine I worked for at Hope Flower Farm. The property was gorgeous, the blooms were to die for, and the people had hearts that glimmered and glistened with gold. It was a stark contrast from the current environment at the office, and it was simply what I needed after walking with Mom through her diagnosis and treatment the prior year and lots of other life changes.
I’ve grown up a lot since then. I’ve learned to stand up and think for myself rather than just accept what others try to impress upon me. I’ve learned even more about being a wife and a friend. I’ve slowly discovered who’s here to stay in my life and who will flee when times get tough or life gets in the way. And I’ve learned to discern what things are good for me and those that I need to let go of even if it’s painful.
The rest of this last year included turning 28, celebrating Thanksgiving and Christmas with my family, a ski trip to Steamboat Springs, CO, our 2nd wedding anniversary, a new job at UAB, weddings, babies, and, of course, surgery to find out that Glanda was cancerous.
And now we’re here. 3 months since surgery and 1 day through week 5 and feeling like the last 3 months is actually 3 years worth of time. I prayed super hard before all of this started that I wouldn’t really experience the scary side-effects that many have when undergoing head and neck radiation treatment, and I think at this point I can say the Lord has been faithful through that. I’ve had my crappy days for sure, but most days I can honestly say I feel pretty good considering, and I don’t take that blessing lightly.
As week 5 starts though, I’m starting to think about the fact that grown men have cried on their last day of treatment and that my last day is coming soon. I still can’t quite grasp how my 30th treatment might bring bittersweet feelings with it, but in 9 short (treatment) days I wont have to wonder about that anymore. I won’t plead with the clock to run faster, or psych myself into thinking food actually tastes like food or anything close to food. I won’t have to hope with everything in me that I make it to the end without a feeding tube or a hospitalization. (And yes I know that’s somewhat unrealistic, but these are real fears I faced a few weeks ago.
But I do know that on October 20th as I get beamed up for the final time, I will be running through the clinic halls ringing whatever bell I can find to signify that I’m finally done and that I made it through 6 whole weeks of head and neck radiation. I will also probably hug everyone I see that day too, so be careful stepping into my path on October 20. I actually may hug you.
Lastly, I’ve thought a lot about how I started this journey…dancing. Six weeks after surgery, an old friend and I met up to dance around for a bit knowing we had both been through our share of hard times the past few months and that dance has always been the best therapy. She picked a song to signify our struggles as well as our strength, and on many days the melody and movement has carried me through and reminded me to rise up beyond the physical, beyond the emotional, and beyond the junk…and just. keep. going. Because what other choice do we have really? Time to finish strong.
Week Four
I’m not sure if it’s the fact that I stayed in bed for nearly the entire day on Saturday, that this week the number of treatments left started getting smaller than the number of treatments behind me, or that my cold and allergies finally started going away, but this week has been the best yet…And it definitely wasn’t supposed to be.
Week 3 and 4 was when things were really supposed to get ugly. Week 3 definitely lived up to that, but week 4 has been a beautiful week of energy, food, rest, and actually a little fun.
Back in May, I found out that Foy Vance was touring in the US again and coming to Nashville the week before Mom’s birthday. Last year on her birthday, I surprised her with tickets to see him at Workplay the same week as her birthday since he’s one of her favs, so why not go for round two? I called her in May, asked her if she would want to do that, and bought the tickets (obviously having NO idea that I would be right in the middle of radiation treatments).
As soon as this mess started, Mom was for sure that I wouldn’t feel like going or that going would cause me to miss treatments and put me behind, but I kept telling her that I would get it worked out and it would be just fine. The last thing I wanted to do was disappoint Mom, and I was determined to make sure she had a nice birthday adventure with her favorite (only) daughter.
Tuesday rolled around and I was having a good day for the 3rd day in a row, which hadn’t happened in weeks so we loaded up the car, drove to UAB to get my treatment, and drove straight to Nashville. Dad had booked us a hotel so we crashed there for a few hours, grabbed some dinner, and headed on to the venue, The Anchor Fellowship. Two and a half hours later, we headed back to our hotel with full hearts and this cute little picture!
Turns out, a little road trip with Mom was just what I needed. She’s driven me crazy most of my life, but the last several years through cancer (both of us), lots of conversations, working through things, and apologies, we’ve grown closer and we had an awesome trip together with lots of laughs, sweet moments, and hugs. I even caught her watching her baby girl fall asleep at bedtime. I guess it’s a Mom thing, but it was sweet.
Wednesday we drove back to UAB for treatment, headed to get our nails done, and I had both Mom and Dad over for dinner. Thursday and Friday were great too! K.T. and I had one of our best nights leading our marriage small group together with our precious couples that come learn with us each week and woke up to a breezy fall morning.
Now, Friday is here once again. My skin is pink and itchy, a few more hairs have abandoned me, my throat actually feels pretty good, and I’m still eating 3 meals a day. My 20th treatment will be finished in a few hours, I will have my 4th undertreat visit with Dr. Spencer, and another weekend lies ahead of us. While we still plan to rest, we will also participate in the Race for the Cure walk to celebrate Mom being a 2 year survivor and Sunday night we will celebrate her 65th birthday, and I’m excited!
I feel like I say it every week and I hope the weight of these words doesn’t lessen, but I’m so thankful for the recent days. It’s truly been a breath of fresh air and has given me renewed strength and endurance to carry on through the next two weeks.
I hope and pray the coming weeks bring more of the same, but if they don’t, the Lord is still good and He still gave me this week for some hope and a little pick-me-up to keep on going. I was reminded again this week that this journey is one that I’m traveling through. It’s a season, and it will be over very soon to look back on with careful reflection, gratitude, and amazement at the testimony the Lord has built for me. Thank you, Jesus!
2/3 of the way done. 20 treatments down. 10 to go. Week 5 and 6 to go! Time for the final sprint…except I’m actually going to walk because I still get tired.
Onwards and upwards!
Week Three
Lots of new developments in week 3. End of last week brought absolute fatigue and thankfully we were able to rest all weekend so I could catch up a little.
Monday I was up and ready to run 6 marathons and blew through the day like it was nothing. Tuesday it was allergies, a stopped up nose, exhaustion, and a lotttttt of tears. Wednesday I was back up and ready to go, ate 3 awesome meals, and rested a decent amount. Thursday was a lot like Tuesday. And Friday has been more like Monday was. So the roller coaster continues.
Week 3 also unveiled a few ulcers in my mouth, one behind my left tonsil and one under my tongue (which I now realize is why my tongue felt tight so tongue exercises no longer necessary) but those have gone away for the most part and just left some simple, less painful irritation. My skin is also starting to get slightly pink which is about right for this time in the process.
The least exciting part of this week was when my little hairs starting jumping to their death off of my head. Turns out chemo isn’t the only treatment that makes your hair come out, but thankfully mine is only around the field in which they are treating and it will hopefully grow back. If not, my mother jokingly assured me I would look great in her wig, Harriet, as seen below when I was harassing her this time two years ago.
The MOST important part of making it through today is that I am officially
HALF. WAY. DONE.
Praise the Lord! I can honestly say that I never, ever anticipated the emotional stress that would come with this. I would have never guessed that I would cry so many tears of frustration, or that I would be tired to the point of just having to surrender and lie down, or that I would not feel like myself at all. I thought I was way tougher and stronger than I am, but the Lord has some sort of lesson for me in this. I just have no idea what it is right now. It could be surrender since I’m super stubborn and normally push myself to unrealistic limits, think I’m invincible, and refuse to rest. Or it could be something else, but I have a feeling that I wont know until all of this is over and I look back at my journey and fall to my knees in thanks.
I do know that the Lord has carried me through each and every day. He has given me the sweetest people to check on me, love me, and encourage me, the most epic team of doctors, radiation therapists, and nurses, and the most precious husband on earth that has selflessly cleaned, cooked, ran errands, and kissed my head and told me I’m beautiful every single day…good or bad…among other things. I can’t say enough about him and the true, unconditional love he’s shown me through this. And I surely couldn’t have made it halfway without him.
So, another week down and a monumental one at that. Another 3 weeks to go but from here on out I have less days of treatment left than I have behind me and that’s a HUGE deal. People keep saying it will be over before I know it, and I guess it will.
Please continue to pray for my heart and my mind and whatever else you’re led to pray for. And please know all of them are appreciated more than you know. Knowing you all are praying is what encourages me most.
Love and hugs. Here comes week 4!
The Valleys
This post has nothing to do with our wedding, but those pictures remind me of happier days and days where I felt beautiful, healthy, and 100% like myself.
I struggled far more in the last 4 days than I care to admit, but I have to admit it or I’m not going to be able to move past this. They told me from the start that I wouldn’t notice any difference until around the end of week two. They told me that this kind of radiation is really hard. And they told me that it would be painful. As day 9 came, it started. But I wasn’t ready. I was for sure that none of that was going to happen to me. I was too young, too healthy, and too feisty to accept weakness and feeling like crap through this.
I’ve been in a funk. I’m inconsolable at times. I’m grumpy, and no matter how logical and wise the encouragement, I’m too stubborn to see past the thoughts that are swimming circles in my head. And I know better. I know that all of this is for ultimate healing. I know that each treatment is one step closer to being done. I know this is a temporary season in my life and it will be over before I know it. I know that the side effects are minimal compared to the ultimate gain of this process. And I know that I’m stronger than cancer, radiation, and anything else that could be thrown my way, but I feel so incredibly helpless through this so far.
Radiation is one of those things you have to just sit back and watch. You can’t do anything to prevent what’s coming. You definitely can’t stop the side effects once they start. And you have to understand that your body is going to crumble a little before it ever has the chance to get better. You will feel like garbage from your body working at least 2x as hard to repair the damage to bad/healthy tissue that each fraction destroys. And you will feel like the light at the end of the tunnel is a pinhole sized speck that is roughly a hundred miles away.
But it’s not. And things will get better. They will.
The further I get in this journey, the more I’m learning that this is definitely not about my physical health and that things are and will constantly be changing. Once I get used to one thing, something else is welcomed in (and I say “welcomed” lightly). One day I wake up and feel like I could conquer the world and the next day I wake up and I can’t stop crying for feeling so frustrated that I don’t feel like myself and the end feels forever away.
So all that to say that this is getting a lot harder, and I’m sure plenty of people are whispering “I told you so” behind my back and that’s ok because I’m still going to make it. I’m still going to find a way to get through each day and take one day at a time.
Because today I’m alive. The Lord woke me up again, so that means I have purpose on this earth and there is someone I’m supposed to bless today.
Week Two
Week two is coming to a close, and I’m more than thankful to have 1/3 of these treatments behind me. This week has been much easier in so many ways, but I’m noticing that the end of the week is also the hardest. The end of the week is when I start bargaining with myself about how many days are left until the weekend when I get to rest. It’s when I start feeling a little more tired, and when I somewhat start to notice new symptoms/side-effects if they’re going to show themselves.
Radiation is cumulative. Each day that I have treatment, I’m receiving approximately 2 more gy (the unit of measurement for radiation) into my neck, my cheek, and Lord knows where else, and it’s just building up in my body to kill off more and more cells while also killing off healthy, surrounding tissue. And while this season is certainly temporary, the struggle comes when I realize that I’m a spectator to physical deterioration of my own body as a result of the preventative treatment that is going to ultimately destroy any trace of this devil once and for all. It’s a surreal and helpless feeling.
Let me be clear, I’m not bad off by any means so far. I have had very little side effects and some I wouldn’t even classify as side effects. My mouth is dry, my tongue is tight which means I’m doing tongue exercises (as pictured), and I have about an hour or so a day (roughly 3-4 hours out from treatment) where I get stupid tired, and then I perk back up. I’m mainly talking about the mental and emotional struggle I face daily during this season. But as I’ve been reminded so many times throughout this…I only have to face one day at a time.
And here’s the thing. The Lord gives us our daily bread. He gives us the desires of our hearts, His promises, His unconditional Fatherly love, and rest when we need it most. But a friend reminded me this morning through a devotional that the Lord provides what we need, not what we think we need. I don’t need to feel good through all of this. I don’t need to have a good day every single day. And I don’t need to wake up every morning feeling like a ball of sunshine. But what I do need is food, shelter, love, kindness, and care. And the Lord has never faltered in providing those things for me and my family through this journey (and all the ones before). Not once. And for that I’m thankful.
So I hope I don’t ever come off like I’m complaining about what I’m facing. Are there days where I’m still terrified? Yep. Are there days where all the ones ahead feel daunting and impossible? Absolutely. But this whole radiation gig is simply a season and a rather short one at that. The Lord has given me strength to get through them all, and come out on the other side shouting this insane story from every rooftop I climb from here on out. But I will always unapologetically ask for your prayers. Prayers for peace, protection, and for cancer to be straight up scared to touch my body again. Onwards and through to week 3, 4, 5, & 6.
Week One
Week one of radiation is officially behind us: 5 days of masks, mouth pieces, gowns, beams, and white sheets covering hard plastic tables. 5 days of walking down the hall in a hospital gown (neked from the waist up) with my co-workers staring a little but mostly just carrying on with business as usual. And 5 days closer to the day when all of this will be behind us. Finally.
This week has been unexpectedly normal. I’ve stayed in bed until I absolutely had to get up for work, I’ve worked full time, danced, led our marriage small group alongside my husband, and entertained friends and family in our home. The only real difference has been that every morning around 9am, the treatment desk calls my office and squeezes me in between other patients. 15ish minutes later, I’m back in my desk working. It couldn’t actually be a better setup. No real disruption to daily life is what I wanted and that is exactly what I’ve gotten…so far.
Tuesday night as K.T. asked me how my heart was, as he often does. And of course I told him I was fine (because I am), but he kept asking about things and I kept talking and the more I talked, the more I listened to myself, and the more I realized that this is actually quite an emotional journey. All I had been focused on was the physical part and the waiting. The waiting for the side-effects to pound me and leave me exhausted, in pain, and miserable. The waiting on the days that I wouldn’t feel like doing anything and the days where I had to sleep on the other side of my head because my regular side was too raw to lay on. I never once considered that starting treatment would tug at my heart too. But waiting on the physical has does some unexpected things to the softer parts of me.
Through this first week, I’ve felt awkward. I’ve felt mortified. I’ve felt exposed. I’ve felt poked and prodded at, and I’ve most of all felt like October 20th was further away than Christmas from December 26th. On the other hand, I’ve felt taken care of. I’ve felt renewed. I’ve felt safe. I’ve felt loved, and I’ve felt even more cancer-free than I already was knowing each treatment was destroying any (if any) cancer cells that were left hanging out in my body.
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little terrified about how the next 5 weeks are going to go. Week one definitely wasn’t bad, but I cant help but feel like I have such a long way to go. I haven’t really had any side effects yet (other than my mouth being a little drier) and there’s nothing that says I will have side-effects. There are definitely folks that sail right through this with nothing other than a little bit of thick saliva. And even that can be lessened with guzzling water constantly and rinsing your mouth with some concoction of salt, soda, and water. But the fear still creeps in sometimes, and looking at the calendar is quite daunting lately.
But aside from the fear, I couldn’t be more thankful for where I am. I wouldn’t take a minute of all of this back. I wouldn’t trade any of the letdowns, the disappointments, the tears, or anything else that has come with this journey (and even the steps before that obviously led me here). Has it been fun? Nope. Not even a little, but it’s continued to make me better, stronger, braver, and healthier. It’s shown me the most special sides of my family and friends, and it’s shown me the undeniable strength, selflessness, and unconditional love of the precious man I married just 2.5 years ago.
I’m going to unapologetically beg you all again to continue to pray for us over the next 5 weeks specifically, and beyond if you’re willing. I promise to stand alongside you in believing this journey is perfect and that the Lord has wonderful things planned ahead of us. And I promise to stay strong and be brave as I navigate these new waters of being a patient as well as an employee in the same space. It’s weird. And I promise to keep my chin up and hold my head high in thanks that the Lord (and so many people) have saved my life.
Here’s to week 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6!
Game Time
I was thinking on my way to work yesterday how the weight of things had lessened a little lately. How I haven’t felt the heaviness of what’s going on as much despite all the appointments, and I’ve actually forgotten anything happened for the most part other than when I look in the mirror and see that little scar they left under my left ear.
At the same time, I have felt myself grasping at straws and searching for someone or something to occupy my time, to distract me, and fill my thoughts so the emotions don’t overtake me. I don’t say that this has been a roller coaster lightly. It’s up and down, and up and back down a little, and then back up followed by a nice, speedy plummet to the bottom.
To follow up this post, genetic testing on Thursday went fine. They sorted through my family history, told us about the implications of the ATM mutation they found in my tumor tissue, explained the followups that will ensue in the years to come starting at age 40 for breast and age 50 for pancreas, took 3 vials of blood to ship off, and sent me on my way thinking I had 2-3 weeks to rest (no appointments) until the results came back and we would know something. Quick, easy, and painless and most of all emotionless.
Since SIM I’ve also known that my 1st radiation treatment was scheduled for Monday 9/11, and they’ve been holding my spot for me until all this unknown genetic testing was sorted out. I had to wait until Dr. Yang (our vice-chair of translational sciences) and Dr. Spencer could talk through things with the genetics department, and by Friday at 3pm they had decided that I would indeed start on Monday.
So, I have 2 days to prepare myself for 6 weeks of treatment.
Earlier this week, I was excited at the thought of having a few weeks of rest and now what was originally expected is back as reality. But I’m trusting in the timing, and celebrating that this actually means I will be able to (somewhat) enjoy birthday cake since treatment will end on October 20 if all goes perfectly as planned, and I think it will, Lord willing.
I’ve finally welcomed the fact that the word “cancer” will probably haunt me the rest of my life. As hard as it’s been, I don’t think I’ve ever had the appreciation for life that I have now. I don’t think I’ve pushed myself this hard or thrown myself into things as 100% as I do these days. I have a new, different passion for people, hearing their stories, and understanding what they’re feeling and where they’re coming from. I’ve met other survivors that have given me hope and hugs, and people I already know whom have walked similar paths have given me pieces of wisdom from their journey to add to my own.
Cancer’s weird. It brings people together and it takes them away from each other. It weaves a common thread through humanity and softens the hearts of those that can find common ground where they might not have otherwise. It brings forth emotions in the emotionless and it grows you up faster than anything else I’ve known. It heals and it destroys, comforts and terrifies, awakens and puts to rest.
Sometimes I feel like I’m running out of new things to say about all this though, and that makes me sad. Something that was so heavy and so emotional and so deeply embedded in my soul just 2 months ago has become so unfortunately normal that I feel less of an urge to dump out my words in rapid fashion in hopes that someone hears my story and my cries for grace and mercy from the Lord as well as His goodness.
Please understand that the nature of this journey hasn’t changed and that I’m no less thankful at this point than I was the day I woke up from my little surgery nap to learn that Glanda was gone and my life had been saved by a scalpel and the brilliant workings of Dr. Carroll and his team. It’s just become what it is and I’ve worked extra hard to swallow any fear that gurgles up and tries to choke me.
I hope you’ll continue to follow the ride and pray alongside us with all that’s to come no matter how boring my updates may or may not be. I’ll try and change it up here and there to keep you enthralled though…see poem from yesterday as my first offering.
So, until next time here’s to pulling a Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego and being a total miracle child through radiation despite what’s normal.
Let’s do this thang.
Teenage Mutated Ninja Valerie
Things have been so up and down, that I don’t even know where to start.
Just last week we went from getting perfectly clear results from my PET scan on Tuesday morning to getting Strata test results back on Thursday, finding out there’s a mutation, not knowing what in the world that means, and only knowing a little about what that means now.
The Strata trial is a clinical research trial that takes your tumor tissue and runs genome sequencing on it. In regular people terms, it tests your DNA to see if there are any modifications/mutations that could give the doctors insight about your cancer and how to treat it going forward.
In my case, Glanda came back with what’s called an ATM mutation which affects DNA repair. No one really knows exactly what that means yet, but there are definitely a few new things to consider that might give us some answers:
- Is the mutation present in my regular tissue DNA or is it just in the tumor tissue?
- If it is in my regular tissue, is it present in both expressions or just one?
- Patients with ATM mutations, if the mutation is consistent in your regular tissue cells and is expressed in both alleles, can have a hypersensitivity to radiation due to the lack of ability to repair DNA when it is destroyed. Radiation destroys DNA so do we proceed with radiation? Or do we scrap that plan and try something else?
My current scheduled start date for radiation is next Monday 9/11, but I also have an appointment with a genetic counselor on Thursday 9/7 to test my regular tissue and figure out what’s going on in those cells.
So we don’t know whats going to happen in the following weeks. I have a mouth piece, a mask, and a nice sticker on my chest so I’m ready for radiation if that’s what they decide, and on the other hand if they decide that the ATM mutation will create too much of an adverse effect in my body if i’m irradiated then we will explore other options.
Hopefully that makes it easier to see why I said I have no idea what’s going on. But what I do know is that personalized medicine is really cool and it’s somehow given me a sense of security and protection from the Lord. I think about how if they hadn’t done Strata testing, I could have potentially just gotten standard radiation therapy and had horrendous side effects from it not knowing my DNA had a mutation. Absolute misery could have ensued and done more harm than good.
It’s neat to think about but it also makes the journey longer and more drawn out at the same time. Nothing has changed here in my condition. I’m still healthy, happy, capable, and running around acting ridiculous like normal. All this is just peeling back more and more layers of information and working to discover the best plan to make sure I remain happy, healthy, and ridiculous.
None of this means that it’s going to get any easier and I’m sure there will be even more ups and downs to follow, but we don’t have a single doubt that the Lord is guiding our steps and leading us along the path He always knew we would travel. And I get that some people might think that makes God a terrible Father for knowing we would face this and still letting it happen, but I’m growing as a woman, as a wife, as an employee in the medical field, and also as daughter of the King through this…and that’s worth more than anything to me. He is still a good, good Father.
Another day of hallelujahs. Onward and upward.
Ready, Set, Simulate
**WARNING: Images included in this post may be hard to look at due to…reality**
This journey has brought about emotions in me that seem to overwhelm me just enough that I cry. I actually hate crying, and I’m more than capable of going 6+ months at a time without shedding a single tear. I hate the feeling of tears reaching the point where they have no where to go but down my face, I hate the embarrassment of anyone asking what’s wrong, and I hate someone knowing that I was affected enough that tears were the only response I had.
But as with most things, the Lord is teaching me a lesson and He’s cleansing my soul with the emotions.
Today was simulation day. Simulation is a dress rehearsal of sorts of your actual treatment. It’s the day where they prep you for radiation, create any immobilization devices that you might need, and they do a CT scan that will be used for treatment planning. My type of treatment actually requires 2 immobilization devices: one to hold my mouth open and my tongue to the right, and all head and neck patients get a mask like I mentioned here.
I’ve clearly had my share of CT scans over the years to check up on Glanda. I’ve definitely had my share of mouth devices with braces, night guards for grinding, retainers, etc. And I knew about the masks. I’ve even SEEN the masks with my own eyes, and I knew how it worked. But I was far less ready than I thought I was, and I severely underestimated how real everything was about to get and what it would feel like for all the pieces to fit together…on me.
Everything was pretty standard to start. I had to check in at the front desk and wait in the waiting room just like any other patient, and I even got to have a conversation with a sweet older lady that asked me my name so she could add me to her prayer list… while her husband is facing his second primary cancer. Bless that woman. Soon enough, one of my coworkers called me back from the waiting room and brought me into a patient room, gave me a gown, a few instructions, and called for the nurse to come start my IV for the CT contrast.
Next, they took me into the simulation room and laid me down on the table. It looked pretty similar to a normal CT scan room except the lights were much dimmer. I immediately noticed they had Christian music playing so I shut my eyes and just took it in a minute to ease the tensions starting to rise up in me a little. I knew they were about to ask me to put that mouth piece in and I knew the mask making was coming, and there was no way that was going to be fun.
They showed me how everything looked and absolutely everything was explained to me before anything was done. But there is literally nothing that can prepare you for them stretching hot meshy goo over your entire face and shoulders while your mouth is being held open by a mouth piece and then being bolted to a table while the mask cools and hardens.
Cant move. Can’t (really) swallow. Can’t see anything but the ceiling. And cant think about anything except the fact that this is how it will be for 30 fractions of treatment over the next 6 weeks while they zap any possible remaining cancer cells out of my neck.
I held it together just long enough to get dressed and walk back down to the hall to my office and absolutely fell apart. I didn’t even see it coming. The whole situation just overwhelmed me and reminded me of that little devil, Glanda. It reminded me yet again that I had gone to sleep on July 6th giddy with excitement about finally looking ahead to feeling 100% healthy knowing she was gone, but I woke up hearing that Glanda was cancer and we weren’t quite done with her yet. And it reminded me that the hardest days haven’t yet passed but we will get through them one way or another.
Since July 6th I have realized just how much fear lives inside of me, and I don’t like it. In some moments, the fear is so suffocating that it feels like it hides my faith but in other moments it’s hard to even feel the fear because I have so much faith. It’s truly the strangest emotional balance I’ve ever experienced, but fear is still fragile and faith stands on the truth, so for each day I wake up with breath in my lungs, I find peace in the truth and the purpose laid out for me.
My mom told me this weekend as she cuddled me like a little girl, that just as with her cancer 2 years ago, someday I will look back on these times and count them as the biggest blessings. It’s hard to believe that I will ever be thankful for cancer, but I do know I’m thankful for the relationships that it has strengthened, the ones that have shown their true colors, and the way that love is poured out in hard times. So in due time we will be thankful for all of this mess. Of course, I’m thankful now that Glanda is goneda but I’m praying that there’s even more thankfulness to come. And no matter what happens or what any scan says in the future, God is still and always will be good.
Gone, Glanda, Gone 