Tag: cancer

When Easy Is A Lie

Two years and a lifetime ago…

It was in the middle of a vortex of cold air sweeping through the January winter, the days dark and frigid, when we got the news. The results of the biopsy were in.

It was cancer. 

Again. 

In those first minutes, we reeled even though in a strange way, we had been expecting it. And in those first weeks, we heard one sentence stated a dozen ways and we believed it:

“This is the easy cancer”. 

In a way, this is a clinically supportable thought. The sheer number of days spent in the hospital, the number of moments we walked to the edge of life and back when Chase was two and fighting brain cancer – it doesn’t even compare. And yet…

Today is the second anniversary of Chase’s second cancer – a cancer that still sits in his body, making it outlast the actual time his brain cancer sat throughout his body by a good eight months. And these two years have been heartbreaking and complicated in so many unexpected ways.

You see, the problem with the word “easy” is that it is an immeasurable concept. There is no one-size-fits-all when it comes to the complicated complexities put before each of us. And the use of those types of words always end up pushing me down and hollowing me out. 

If it was supposed to be easy and it doesn’t feel that way, then there must be something wrong with me, right? 

And then I take those wrong, hard thoughts into the day with me and I walk into the processing, the tears and the pain not only unprepared, but feeling inadequate in all ways – because it wasn’t supposed to be this way. It was supposed to be “easy”.

And perhaps that’s the true cruelty of that word – “easy” – when life isn’t (and it almost never is), then my focus invariably turns to that second phrase:

“it wasn’t supposed to be this way”. 

But very few things from the start of the world were ever supposed to be this way .

“Easy” makes us sit with our doubts.

“Easy” is ripe ground for seeds of discontentment.

“Easy” is sorrow incarnate when it comes to the table of suffering.

There is no easy. 

Dear ones, I believe with my whole heart there is only ordained.

And it’s in relinquishing the “easy” word that I find peace. …not in this life, to be sure, but in hope. 

With hope, the hard melts and reshapes. It never disappears. Life is hard and broken and will be until I see Jesus with my own eyes. But hope is the banquet at the table of suffering.

Hope is rich and beautiful even when the tears are rolling down my face and my heart is crying out “two years of this that was supposed to be easy…?!” 

Hope holds me up when I weaken.

Hope comforts me when I weep. 

Hope means purpose even in cancer … and second cancers.

So throw out the thoughts of “easy” with all its frustration and futility and “What’s wrong with me?” questions.

And hold on to hope with all of it’s “God is good even here” truths. It won’t be easy, but then again, “easy” was never a part of the story. And what a story it is…

Moment by moment.

“Why am I discouraged? Why is my heart so sad? I will put my hope in God…”

“…each day the Lord pours his unfailing love upon me.”

Psalm 43:5a, 42:8a

Weeds and Worry

There is a patch of dirt that lies under the front windows of our little blue and brick house. It borders the sidewalk that runs from the door to the driveway and in this place, beneath the shallow layer of dirt lies very old concrete. And on top of the concrete are small landscaping stones long buried. Very little grows in this small place besides weeds. The weeds come every year no matter what I do, and they drive me a little crazy, because I like things clean and neat and orderly – especially when life feels anything but… 

So each summer, sooner or later, I can be found on my hands and knees on the front walk, shoveling mulch and declaring war against new weeds. 

This summer, not so very long ago, I was in the middle of my little war, hands stiff and crusting with that dried dirt feeling, when Chase came over to me.

He was out of breath from riding his bike and he doubled over next to where I crouched, his hands on his knees, arms stiff. 

“Why are you worrying about this, Mom?”

I was not into this parenting moment, my voice pulling short like the torn roots in my hands. “Because, Chase.” 

I reached for another weed, trying not to think about how tired he sounded from a normal activity, how white his skin looked despite the warm sun that should make it rosy from exertion.

“Mom…” His small hand landed on my shoulder then. His voice too old for his body. “Mom, don’t worry about the weeds.”

I can never resist his heart to reassure, my own melting at his words even as I stubbornly fought to explain. “Chase, this is part of my job…part of how I care for our house and our family.” 

Could he not see how much I needed just one thing to be right, to go right, to line up in that moment?

He shook his head. “But Mom, sometimes there are weeds in life and it’s okay. Don’t worry about them. Just take a deep breath. It’ll be okay. Don’t worry about the weeds, Mom.”

Sometimes things aren’t the way we want them to be. The dirt patches of life feel too small, too clogged, too messy.

We toil and weep and things still crop up over …and over again.

Like weeds…

Like fear… 

Like doubt…

It’s easy to get on our hands and knees over these places; to obsess. 

But as Chase said… it’s okay, dear ones. At the end of the day, these weeds are a futility and not the ultimate focus. So weep, but don’t obsess, because there is a better rest to be had. Get up off your hands and knees and give the uprooted pieces to the One who can handle them better, best and forever …and take a deep breath. 

Do you feel His hand on your shoulder?

Moment by moment. 

“But when I am afraid, I will put my trust in You.”

Psalm 56:3 (NLT)

**On Wednesday, October 14th, Chase will be undergoing a bone marrow biopsy. Thank you for your prayers, dear ones. MbM.**

Eight Years

Ever since 2012, July 31st has been the hardest of lovely days to us because it ripped us apart and then stands to remind us every year that we are all still breathing. Because eight years ago, on July 31st, an emergency room doctor was walking into Chase’s room with tears in his eyes, speaking the words over us that changed everything:

“There’s a large mass.”

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

A few days before this strange anniversary day, Darcy and I were walking, trying to carve out a minute to ourselves, talking through the date, the memories, and how it still – even these eight years later – carves us open. [She, this sister girl child that we -perhaps foolishly in our own fear- told to stay in her bed in the dark, is a fourteen year old high school freshman and the sight of flashing lights outside her bedroom window as she curled powerless and scared still hold a vivid place in her mind.] But as Darcy and I walked, talked and processed again, Margaret pulled alongside us. She literally pulled alongside us in her car as we walked and she drove by and as we talked, friend Margaret, a wonderfully gifted photographer, smiled and said lovingly:

“We should take pictures. Eight years is a big deal and we should make it special this way.”

And so, a day later, we gathered at the local park, just Margaret, the kids, and me, and she walked them through a few minutes of life, with her words giving them grace and her camera catching them as they moved. 
There were no showers, no hair cuts, no scrubbing up and making beautiful. Chase insisted it be “Cubs theme” and we just grabbed (hopefully clean) clothes out of drawers and went with it. 

And suddenly, the shadow of late July lifted for a moment. We put aside the awful memories we experienced those eight years ago, and lived in the joy that is having eight whole years when you didn’t think you’d have any. 
The perspective changed through the lens of a camera and a moment of stolen time.

We see the heartbreak, yes. Always.
But we choose joy. 

And sometimes it takes someone pulling alongside you to catch the light a certain way and hand it to you when you need it most. 

So here’s to eight years.
I will never stop being both horrified and amazed at this life of grace we’ve been given.

“Whatever may pass and whatever lies before me… let me be singing when the evening comes.”

10,000 Reasons (Bless The Lord), Matt Redman

Thank you for walking alongside us, dear ones. 
Moment by moment. 

[Please enjoy these beautiful, candid gifts that Margaret Henry Photography gave us this week ]

Super Heroes And Scars

This last week, I had an opportunity to teach in Chase’s class. As we talked about narratives, he sat quietly, drawing his heart onto a blank sheet of paper. The story would shape into a super hero boy whose mom would not let him save the world until he cleaned his room.

“Are you saying that the world would be a safer place if you never had to clean your room again?” I asked him with a smile.

Eyebrows lifted, mischievous face in full bloom, he grinned. “Of course. It’s bad for the world when I clean.”

But then he pulled me aside and his voice was a gritty whisper of sadness as he asked me. “Do they know I have hearing loss?” This is something Chase does often. Despite it being a reality for the better part of his decade, Chase fights his hearing loss and is still tempted to treat it like a dirty secret, even when obviously wearing an aid in school. I’ve watched him feel shame about it, and frustration too. In fact, it’s one of his big three – “The H’s” – height, hair, and … hearing loss.

We remind him how brave he is. 

We remind him how hard he’s had to fight for those scars of loss and how proud we are of him.

We remind him that they are a precious part of him, but need not define all of him.

And yet, he struggles. 

Until last week.

Last week, I got to see an incredible change in Chase regarding his hearing loss. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I saw pride. 

This joy-filled confidence came about because he, as a fourth grader, got to walk into a second grade room and be physical encouragement to a new second grader who had just started wearing a hearing device and was doing a presentation on it for her class.

How brave is the precious eight year old girl who stands for such things?

And how brave is the precious ten year old boy who stands with her and says ‘You’ll be okay because I’ve done it and I’m okay too”?

After all this time, and all the affirming words and normalizing exercises, I finally saw Chase most proud when he was able to use his disadvantage to someone else’s advantage. He became most heart-full when the very scars that bother him became someone else’s encouragement.

And I hope you hear the truth underlaying this story and that you can hold it close to your own heart even today. 

Your struggles are not in vain.

Your pain is not without purpose.

Your weakness may very well be your greatest strength. 

Because, Dear Ones, when it comes to the story God has for you, the pieces that fall into place are never in error, even if we don’t see how they work together. You are in the middle of your story for a reason – “for such a time as this”. 

Moment by moment.

“God comes alongside us when we go through hard times, and before you know it, he brings us alongside someone else who is going through hard times so that we can be there for that person just as God was there for us.”

2 Corinthians 1:4 (Message)

For privacy purposes, I will not share the school where this was taken, the hearing teacher who took it, or the two other children in the original frame, both with hearing pieces wrapping their ears or devices around their necks. But I can tell you that the joy on their faces is beautiful, and I can share Chase’s smile with you as he stood alongside them.

Lessons From The Second First Anniversary

You think I would know by now that another shoe drops with each piece of news… I have debated writing this all down because it feels like I’m being a drama mama, and yet, it feels dramatic because everything is traumatic when there’s been a terminal fight. So, it’s true that Chase’s brain and spine are in the clear for now, but it was next-hospital-day news that revealed there is something growing in Chase’s thyroid. We have been told that it’s probably not a big deal, and I want to believe that with my whole heart, even though I know IT’S CHASE. All the necessary teams are getting onboard and there will be more tests and more days spent in the hospital. So it’s probably nothing. But it could be something. But we pray it’s not. Welcome to the roller coaster. The only thing we can do is buckle up and cling even more and ever more to hope in the moment by moment. ❤️

Chase Away Cancer Facebook page, January 11, 2019

It’s cancer. And the total mind-twisting news is that it’s actually a good cancer. (Yes, the term “good cancer” exists.) But it’s still another cancer and it’s somehow inconceivable to me that in nine short years, this sweet boy is facing a second battle. In this wind-knocked-out-of-us moment, there is so much to weigh us down and break us, but there is so much to be thankful for – so much blessing too. So, we choose thankfulness…and throw ourselves into the cancerous moment by moment again.

Chase Away Cancer Facebook page, January 29, 2019

It feels like I wrote these words seconds ago. I remember the pit in my stomach and the way it felt hard to breath. But it was a year ago now, and as I reflect on this crazy year of a second cancer, as we approach the second first anniversary of a diagnosis, there are three things that stay close to my heart, and so in honor of the struggle, I share them with you now. I hope you see yourself, see encouragement, and see hope in these words, for we are all in a fight of one kind or another:

  • At no point does pain reach a saturation point. In our experiences this last year, there has never been a moment when we thought, nor have we met anyone else who thought or said: “Oh, I have already experienced several years of pain and suffering, so it does not phase me as it once did. It is easier now.” Every pain is new like water on a parched ground, soaking deep and fast, and sometimes things hurt worse simply for the misplaced conviction that they should not hurt at all.
  • There is no modifier in a cancer journey. It isn’t “just” thyroid cancer, “just” stage one. There isn’t an “easy” cancer. Some are more complicated than others, some come with a higher mortality rate than others, but there is no easy cancer. Each comes with its complications, both physical and emotional. And in a disease where there is no justice, there can be no “just”. This is the broken world manifest in our broken bodies.
  • Make every moment count. I sign off every piece with the phrase ‘moment by moment’ and it stems from the edge-of-the-knife times when everything changes and the ground shifts beneath you. If I could take one thing from those first seconds of knowing, when the heart beats hard and everything in you falls and screams, it would be this: make the time count. Sometimes, I forget and am lulled, yet, how I long to keep it close even when my heart beats slow and all is well. Only the necessary. Only as needed. Always with grace. …moment by moment.

Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.

Lamentations 3:22-23
Friday, February 22, 2019 ~ one day after surgery

**On this past Tuesday evening, January 14th, Chase had another seizure, his first in six months. It was under five minutes long and he came out of it well and quickly, but he will be facing additional tests and labs, including another overnight stay in the hospital – all in the next month.**

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