It was the the Sunday before Christmas, and I was seated in the back of our small church. The week had already brought countless moments of sorrow, including a rather embarrassing breakdown in the mall parking lot. As the worship team began a medley of various songs featuring the subject of joy, I felt the familiar of sting of tears. "No", I thought to myself, "You're in church, it's Christmas, you're supposed to be joyful...hold it together." But I couldn't hold it in, it ached to much, the pain was too great, and big fat tears rolled down my cheeks. Communion time approached, and I willed myself to pull it together, and gather my children as we headed towards the front. Our pastor's wife was serving this morning, and she looked at me, and I knew she could see my pain. As tears filled her eyes, I once again, felt my own fall again...and there I was. Sobbing at the front of the church, for the whole room to see, to hear. I was embarrassed. I was heartbroken. I felt silly, crying up at the front, knowing some visitors were probably wondering why a woman was losing it a few days before one of the most joyful days of the year. Dear friends of my mother surrounded me, held me, prayed over me, tears mingling with mine. "We know....you lost your best friend...you can cry." I headed back to my seat, trying not to make eye contact, while my husband and friends minded the boys. And then...God spoke to me. A sweet woman from church came to me in the back, with a word for me. "God wanted me to tell you....whatever you're feeling, it's ok. It's ok to be sad".
It's ok to be sad. I felt like I was finally given permission to be sad at Christmas. That it was ok to not be looking forward to everything. I had been so proud of myself, trying so hard to be joyful, and happy, wrapping presents, making cookies with the boys. Underneath it all, I was exhausted. So tired of putting on my happy front. I feel like, as a Christian, sometimes we fall into this trap, that even when terrible things have happened, that we feel we must remain upbeat and joyful all the time, because we don't want people to think we are questioning God's goodness. But I realized, after those words given to me at church, that I've been going at it all wrong. Yes, God IS good. In fact, it's because of His goodness and love, that He gives me full permission to feel what I'm feeling, judgement free. I have freedom to feel what I need to feel, when I need to feel it.
God blessed our socks off this Christmas. I feel like, because I finally was truthful with myself, with God, that I was able to fully enjoy that day with my family. We didn't dwell on the fact that Mom wasn't there, but instead celebrated His birth with joy! The snow was a sweet surprise, wiping the slate clean that morning, and giving us time to connect over sleds and snowballs. Playing in the snow tends to make you feel young and playful, exactly what we needed.
2012 is finally coming to an end and I welcome the new year with open arms. I am looking upon this year with expectancy, with the hope of new beginnings and joy. I believe in a God that knows the desires of my heart, and I am continually praying for His favor this year. As my 31st birthday approaches quickly, I am asking Him for sweet and unexpected surprises, and thanking Him for His outpouring of blessings thus far.
To all of you who've stood by us, prayed for us, cried with us, and have walked this journey with us, I thank you. You have no idea the impact you've had on our lives. I wish you God's outpouring of blessings in your life this new year, and that you will continue to spread Mom's legacy of His joy.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Sandy Goodbyes...
The wind nipped at our noses, pulling at our hair. "Mom would have hated this" we joked. She loved the beach, but hated the cold, especially that last year. Logistics were discussed awkwardly...Do we say something? Where exactly do we "put her"? Dad, of course, said a few words with Lauren and I, while our husbands held on to the squirmy toddlers. We each held a Country Crock butter tupperware, containing small ziplock bags. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
It was low tide, the timing couldn't have been more perfect. The ocean waves had pulled back, revealing small rivers of salty water, perfect for carrying our beloved Momma out to sea. Shells were collected to commemorate our time, and we stared at the vastness of the ocean, knowing that this was exactly what she wanted.
This is still all so weird, so surreal. We are living our daily lives, but there's such a blatantly empty hole. The grief is still raw, still new. Fresh waves of tears continue to come, and most of the time I let it. Unless it's talking to the lady at Target. Then that's just awkward.
Christmas decorations have been put up at Dad's place. Lauren did a great job, fumbling around Mom's bins, trying to figure out what works, what doesn't. A new tree was put up, a bit smaller, a bit shorter. Dad gave the boys the "don't touch the tree unless Grandad is around" talk. We'll see if they listen. The house is beautiful, but it still feels like it's missing something. I don't know how Mom did it-she had the gift of taking a few (ha!) holiday decorations and creating the most inviting and comforting Christmas home...warmth, laughter. She'd take me on a tour of the decorations, showing what was different each year, and "did you see what I did with it this time?". We're trying Mom. We really are.
Mom was the gift giver. She always made sure there was a special surprise under the tree, something we didn't even know we wanted. She loved to go over the Christmas lists with me..."Can you imagine Collin's face?...oh, This is perfect for Cameron!" Mom and I had the same love language-gifts. We love to give them, and love to receive them....Christmas morning will be weird this year.
I have realized that my grief is threefold. There are moments that I grieve my Mom. The one who gave me advice, or held me when I cried. The one who continuously told me how proud she was of me. Then there are days that I mourn the loss of my best friend. My shopping partner. My fellow game player. The one I could spend hours on the phone with, even though we had just seen each other. We got silly and giggly and loud, and Dad would just shake his head. I think though, on the hardest days, I grieve the loss of Grammy. From the moment Steve and I were married, Mom dreamed of grandchildren. She witnessed the birth of Collin, and from that moment she was enraptured. She poured herself into him, and when Cameron came along, her heart continued to swell with pride and joy. She snuck them gifts and treats, and curled up on the couch with them and a good flap-book. So now, as the days continue on, and the boys grow older by the minute, I am mourning the things she's missing, and the moments they will never share. My heart breaks knowing they won't know the amazing Grammy they had, nor will any future children that Lauren and I may bring into this world.
But this is what I know. I know that I have a God who allows me to mourn. I love that He gives me these quiet moments of grief, but also continues to pour out small joys and moments of laughter. Collin giggling at the Christmas lights and taking off his pants in preparation to dance. Cameron's carefree clapping and hiding behind the blinds. My father running around with a small raccoon fleece hat on his head, much to the boys delight. It's these moments that I choose to relish in and wrap them around myself like a cozy blanket. It's my joy moments that pull me out of my cloud of grief, when I come across a card Mom wrote to me on my 30th, or I find colored bath tablets that she had given to me days before she died, "for the boys".
God is good. Really, I promise. In fact, I have never been so sure of that fact, even though I am surrounded by daily reminders of lost moments with Mom. I have two choices. I can live each day bogged down by grief and self pity and "why me". Or, I can choose to live my life the way my mom modeled it. With joy and a hunger for Jesus. And loving those around me unceasingly.
I choose joy.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
The New Normal.
So, hi. As you know, this past October has been absolutely life-changing. And not in the best of ways. I feel like a lot of you deserve a "what happened", because everything was so sudden. And maybe a bit of "how are we doing at the moment" thrown in for good measure.
October came with beautiful leaves, amazing weather, and high expectations. Mom was to receive her last chemo round, and we were hoping to finally move forward with the treatment and getting rid of that tumor. We excitedly made Dad's 60th birthday plans, we started to think about Thanksgiving and traveling to VA , and even Christmas plans were in the works, since it would be the first time in a long time that Lauren would be home for both. Mom worked a full week, and on Friday, she dozed on my couch, with Collin cuddling up and watching Sesame Street. When it was time for her and Dad to leave, I helped her down the driveway and into the van, saying, "I love you", "thanks for watching the boys". This would be the last time I'd really see her.
Saturday, Steve and I took the boys to the pumpkin patch, with strict instructions to take lots of pictures and tell Mom everything about it. We got home, and I uploaded everything, called Mom, and we went through the shots of the boys picking out pumpkins in cute matching shirts. She was tired, and had some trouble catching her breath, and we assumed it was because she was due for her transfusion on Monday. That evening, I called her one more time, and Collin jumped on the phone. "Hi!", he said. "Did you get a pumpkin Collin?" Grammy asked. "YES", he said. Then he yelled, "BYYYYYE!". He tossed the phone to me, and trotted away. This was really the first time he had talked to Mom on the phone, and it was a big deal. "Alright Mom, we're going out tonight." "Yes", she said, "Have fun, and stop thinking about me tonight, I'm fine!". "I love you Momma". "I love you Sweetie". That was it. The last thing I said to her.
8:30 that evening, I got a call from Dad saying he was following Mom up in the ambulance. She needed an emergency transfusion, she was too weak. I told him not to stay too late, to get some sleep, and call me with updates. He called throughout the evening, they were waiting for tests and Mom was just...so.....tired. Dad stayed until 3 that morning. Sunday, at 3:30, he received the call that changed our lives. Thinking it was a prank call at first, he realized that a doctor with a heavy Indian accent was saying, "Your wife is in grave condition, you need to come up now." Dad called me at 4 am. I was so confused....Lauren's phone was off, saving minutes.
At this point, you realize the importance of 4 am friends. I called my Megan in CA. I called Gwen 10 minutes away. I called Robin who had lost her mom to cancer. I begged them to pray...to pass it on to others. Steve made sure I left the house wearing a bra and clean underwear, and snacks in my purse. I was escorted upstairs at 4:30 in the morning, to the CCU, where Dad and his pastor waited. And then the doctor sat with Dad and I. Talking. Explaining. My father continued to write down the names of medication and procedures, because, when you're in shock, you go through the motions. The doctor said words like, "cardiac arrest" and"breathing tube", and I thought for sure I was on an episode of Grey's Anatomy, and that this was all a big joke. Finally, they took us to see Mom. Well, I think it was Mom. I mean, the wristband said Virginia Kiessling, but that small, frail woman, with tubes jammed down her throat, and monitors hooked up, and what felt like 5,000 bags of drugs hanging about, pumping into her body...in no way could that be Mom. Dad was out in the hallway making calls, and the doctor looked and me and kindly said, "Does your Dad understand what's going on. Do you? Do you know what I'm trying to tell you?" I knew in my heart of hearts what he was trying to tell us, but nothing was sinking it.
By 5:00 am, I was frantically making calls-my pastor, our close family friends, Mom's co-teacher...I still couldn't get ahold of my sister. My uncle arrived. By 5:30, friends were pouring in. Seriously, 5:30 in the morning, and Dad and I had a posse that would rival any rock band.
I didn't get Lauren until 7ish...it was agony. It was the worst phone call I would ever make. "Put Justin on Lauren"...I gave Justin instructions as Lauren sobbed and shook. Seriously, I never want to do that again. But I never needed her so badly. My sister. I need my sister. Give me my sister.
Hours passed...people prayed...stayed...held our hands...cried...sat with Mom...cried some more...my friends would bring me water and coffee...taking my phone out of my hands and charge it when I couldn't figure out how to do it. The afternoon came, as did the sweet nurse. Explaining to us our choices...knowing Mom's choices. Life support was not to be continued much longer. But why? What happened? What caused all this?
You know that stupid plastic stent that was inside Mom, helping the bile flow freely? It had become infected. Her white blood cell count was so low, there was no way to fight it....septic shock...liver failure...the amount of air around her organs was insane-pushing up her lungs, not allowing her to breathe. A stupid, plastic tube. Because of stupid cancer....
Dinner time we made a decision, with the doctor's help. We'd wait 24 hours, give the antibiotics a chance to work, then the next morning take Mom off life support. Dad hadn't slept for 3 days. We needed sleep. A chance to catch our breath. Dad, Lauren, and Justin stopped off at my house to give the boys hugs and love and then went home. I collapsed in bed.
At 3:30 am Dad got a call, saying it wasn't going to be long. At 4:05, after just 24 hours, Mom passed quietly in the morning. She took the decision of ending life support out of our hands. That was a gift. I called my "4am" friends again. Kevin Bennett came to my house at 5:30 am and just let me cry. Shock doesn't even begin to describe what I was feeling.
The week went by in a blur. It's very surreal to be picking out your Mother's urn. What box should we pick? Wood? Pottery? Big? Small? SERIOUSLY? Dad sat in the funeral home, proofreading her obituary. SERIOUSLY? Her wedding rings were in a small plastic jar, and Lauren and I discussed what we could wear. SERIOUSLY? Was this happening? They took us down to see Mom one last time. She was there on a stretcher, with a quilt on her. Small, frail. Gone. Her spirit, her joy, gone. A hollow shell. We said our goodbyes, and Lauren and I looked across the lawn, at our high school, bustling with kids. So weird.
More days spent going through pictures, saying thank you's to the oncology staff....i ventured into her classroom...hugged teachers...cried on her desk. The house was in a state of suspended animation. Dirty clothes...a toothbrush....Mom's stuff everywhere. My contacts stayed out for most of the week-just glasses that covered red rimmed eyes. The viewing was a thursday. We had 500 people show up...shower us with love and hugs. Still wasn't sure I was there for Mom...I'm sure she's in the bathroom, and we're really here for Gran or Gramps...People cried on us, and we didn't know who they were, because that's Mom's job-whispering in our ears who they are, and how we know them. Our apologies if we didn't see you or thank you. Everyone left, and we stood there...with Mom in a box. Dad carried her home. Put her on the table, because she likes to be the center of conversation.
We took awhile to plan the Memorial. We wanted it to be perfect-wanted it to be a celebration of Mom's life, and what God did in her, and through her. Her legacy. My Megan flew in from CA to stand with me. Mom's best friends flew in from around the country. The memorial was perfect. Amazing. If you were there, you know how it was. God's presence was so thick and heavy, it oozed over us, covering us in protective love. God is good.
I went to Megan's that night...two minutes from Dad's. We spent the night, loving on each other, pretending that Mom wasn't dead, and that Megan hadn't lost 3 babies. We drank White Russians, and sculped clay, and battled large spiders in the bathroom. It was perfect.
And now? Now our new normal begins. Every day I have to learn how to live in a world without my Mom. I will my fingers to stop dialing her, I beg my heart to stop hurting long enough for me to function. I hold my boys tight, and think about what she's going to miss in their lives. I talk to my sister, our texts fill each other's phones. I need her so badly now, I can't breathe. She needs me. I've always wanted this, our relationship to be like this...but not because of this. She's alone in Harrisburg, not sleeping, and grieving. Justin is steadfast by her side, and promises to drive her down every weekend if need be. She's baking a lot.
And Dad? Dad is trying to figure out how to live without his soul mate. His best friend. I write down tv show times and channels, because that's something Mom would know. He's cutting out coupons. I promise that my pups can spend the night with him. He eats leftovers and runs errands. He's getting a part time tutoring job and anxious to start playing music a little more for fun. He watches the boys in the afternoon, and the house is once again filled with sounds and screams of little boys. He LOVES phone calls and meal dates. Just saying.
We miss Mom. So, so much.
But I still believe this. I believe that God is a GOOD God. He's amazing actually. He loves me, and my sister, and my Daddy, so, so much. He continues to show us His goodness daily. I will never stop singing His praises.
He gives and takes away. My heart will choose to say. Blessed be His name.
Amen.
October came with beautiful leaves, amazing weather, and high expectations. Mom was to receive her last chemo round, and we were hoping to finally move forward with the treatment and getting rid of that tumor. We excitedly made Dad's 60th birthday plans, we started to think about Thanksgiving and traveling to VA , and even Christmas plans were in the works, since it would be the first time in a long time that Lauren would be home for both. Mom worked a full week, and on Friday, she dozed on my couch, with Collin cuddling up and watching Sesame Street. When it was time for her and Dad to leave, I helped her down the driveway and into the van, saying, "I love you", "thanks for watching the boys". This would be the last time I'd really see her.
Saturday, Steve and I took the boys to the pumpkin patch, with strict instructions to take lots of pictures and tell Mom everything about it. We got home, and I uploaded everything, called Mom, and we went through the shots of the boys picking out pumpkins in cute matching shirts. She was tired, and had some trouble catching her breath, and we assumed it was because she was due for her transfusion on Monday. That evening, I called her one more time, and Collin jumped on the phone. "Hi!", he said. "Did you get a pumpkin Collin?" Grammy asked. "YES", he said. Then he yelled, "BYYYYYE!". He tossed the phone to me, and trotted away. This was really the first time he had talked to Mom on the phone, and it was a big deal. "Alright Mom, we're going out tonight." "Yes", she said, "Have fun, and stop thinking about me tonight, I'm fine!". "I love you Momma". "I love you Sweetie". That was it. The last thing I said to her.
8:30 that evening, I got a call from Dad saying he was following Mom up in the ambulance. She needed an emergency transfusion, she was too weak. I told him not to stay too late, to get some sleep, and call me with updates. He called throughout the evening, they were waiting for tests and Mom was just...so.....tired. Dad stayed until 3 that morning. Sunday, at 3:30, he received the call that changed our lives. Thinking it was a prank call at first, he realized that a doctor with a heavy Indian accent was saying, "Your wife is in grave condition, you need to come up now." Dad called me at 4 am. I was so confused....Lauren's phone was off, saving minutes.
At this point, you realize the importance of 4 am friends. I called my Megan in CA. I called Gwen 10 minutes away. I called Robin who had lost her mom to cancer. I begged them to pray...to pass it on to others. Steve made sure I left the house wearing a bra and clean underwear, and snacks in my purse. I was escorted upstairs at 4:30 in the morning, to the CCU, where Dad and his pastor waited. And then the doctor sat with Dad and I. Talking. Explaining. My father continued to write down the names of medication and procedures, because, when you're in shock, you go through the motions. The doctor said words like, "cardiac arrest" and"breathing tube", and I thought for sure I was on an episode of Grey's Anatomy, and that this was all a big joke. Finally, they took us to see Mom. Well, I think it was Mom. I mean, the wristband said Virginia Kiessling, but that small, frail woman, with tubes jammed down her throat, and monitors hooked up, and what felt like 5,000 bags of drugs hanging about, pumping into her body...in no way could that be Mom. Dad was out in the hallway making calls, and the doctor looked and me and kindly said, "Does your Dad understand what's going on. Do you? Do you know what I'm trying to tell you?" I knew in my heart of hearts what he was trying to tell us, but nothing was sinking it.
By 5:00 am, I was frantically making calls-my pastor, our close family friends, Mom's co-teacher...I still couldn't get ahold of my sister. My uncle arrived. By 5:30, friends were pouring in. Seriously, 5:30 in the morning, and Dad and I had a posse that would rival any rock band.
I didn't get Lauren until 7ish...it was agony. It was the worst phone call I would ever make. "Put Justin on Lauren"...I gave Justin instructions as Lauren sobbed and shook. Seriously, I never want to do that again. But I never needed her so badly. My sister. I need my sister. Give me my sister.
Hours passed...people prayed...stayed...held our hands...cried...sat with Mom...cried some more...my friends would bring me water and coffee...taking my phone out of my hands and charge it when I couldn't figure out how to do it. The afternoon came, as did the sweet nurse. Explaining to us our choices...knowing Mom's choices. Life support was not to be continued much longer. But why? What happened? What caused all this?
You know that stupid plastic stent that was inside Mom, helping the bile flow freely? It had become infected. Her white blood cell count was so low, there was no way to fight it....septic shock...liver failure...the amount of air around her organs was insane-pushing up her lungs, not allowing her to breathe. A stupid, plastic tube. Because of stupid cancer....
Dinner time we made a decision, with the doctor's help. We'd wait 24 hours, give the antibiotics a chance to work, then the next morning take Mom off life support. Dad hadn't slept for 3 days. We needed sleep. A chance to catch our breath. Dad, Lauren, and Justin stopped off at my house to give the boys hugs and love and then went home. I collapsed in bed.
At 3:30 am Dad got a call, saying it wasn't going to be long. At 4:05, after just 24 hours, Mom passed quietly in the morning. She took the decision of ending life support out of our hands. That was a gift. I called my "4am" friends again. Kevin Bennett came to my house at 5:30 am and just let me cry. Shock doesn't even begin to describe what I was feeling.
The week went by in a blur. It's very surreal to be picking out your Mother's urn. What box should we pick? Wood? Pottery? Big? Small? SERIOUSLY? Dad sat in the funeral home, proofreading her obituary. SERIOUSLY? Her wedding rings were in a small plastic jar, and Lauren and I discussed what we could wear. SERIOUSLY? Was this happening? They took us down to see Mom one last time. She was there on a stretcher, with a quilt on her. Small, frail. Gone. Her spirit, her joy, gone. A hollow shell. We said our goodbyes, and Lauren and I looked across the lawn, at our high school, bustling with kids. So weird.
More days spent going through pictures, saying thank you's to the oncology staff....i ventured into her classroom...hugged teachers...cried on her desk. The house was in a state of suspended animation. Dirty clothes...a toothbrush....Mom's stuff everywhere. My contacts stayed out for most of the week-just glasses that covered red rimmed eyes. The viewing was a thursday. We had 500 people show up...shower us with love and hugs. Still wasn't sure I was there for Mom...I'm sure she's in the bathroom, and we're really here for Gran or Gramps...People cried on us, and we didn't know who they were, because that's Mom's job-whispering in our ears who they are, and how we know them. Our apologies if we didn't see you or thank you. Everyone left, and we stood there...with Mom in a box. Dad carried her home. Put her on the table, because she likes to be the center of conversation.
We took awhile to plan the Memorial. We wanted it to be perfect-wanted it to be a celebration of Mom's life, and what God did in her, and through her. Her legacy. My Megan flew in from CA to stand with me. Mom's best friends flew in from around the country. The memorial was perfect. Amazing. If you were there, you know how it was. God's presence was so thick and heavy, it oozed over us, covering us in protective love. God is good.
I went to Megan's that night...two minutes from Dad's. We spent the night, loving on each other, pretending that Mom wasn't dead, and that Megan hadn't lost 3 babies. We drank White Russians, and sculped clay, and battled large spiders in the bathroom. It was perfect.
And now? Now our new normal begins. Every day I have to learn how to live in a world without my Mom. I will my fingers to stop dialing her, I beg my heart to stop hurting long enough for me to function. I hold my boys tight, and think about what she's going to miss in their lives. I talk to my sister, our texts fill each other's phones. I need her so badly now, I can't breathe. She needs me. I've always wanted this, our relationship to be like this...but not because of this. She's alone in Harrisburg, not sleeping, and grieving. Justin is steadfast by her side, and promises to drive her down every weekend if need be. She's baking a lot.
And Dad? Dad is trying to figure out how to live without his soul mate. His best friend. I write down tv show times and channels, because that's something Mom would know. He's cutting out coupons. I promise that my pups can spend the night with him. He eats leftovers and runs errands. He's getting a part time tutoring job and anxious to start playing music a little more for fun. He watches the boys in the afternoon, and the house is once again filled with sounds and screams of little boys. He LOVES phone calls and meal dates. Just saying.
We miss Mom. So, so much.
But I still believe this. I believe that God is a GOOD God. He's amazing actually. He loves me, and my sister, and my Daddy, so, so much. He continues to show us His goodness daily. I will never stop singing His praises.
He gives and takes away. My heart will choose to say. Blessed be His name.
Amen.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
All About the Numbers....
Hello all, sorry it's been awhile, but we are all caught in the daily routine (well, not so much routine as craziness) of life. So here's where we are with Mom...
Mom just finished her 4th round of chemo (only two more to go!) last week. The first 3 rounds went very well, and she was able to get to work most of that time (With a blood transfusion thrown in for good measure). This 4th round has definitely hit harder this time and we're really starting to see some of the chemo effects building up. Her nausea has come with a vengeance, a hacking cough keeps attacking, and of course that constant feel of exhaustion. Her hair still continues to stay put (yay!!) and the swelling in her belly from the tumor has really diminished. She did have to take off a day last week to work through these symptoms, but that support she is receiving from coworkers and parents is wonderful. We had been waiting to hear back from her oncologist regarding her tumor count numbers and finally got news yesterday. Now remember, the tumor marker number is just an indication of what the tumor is doing-it's not concrete (the scan at the end of the chemo rounds will tell us the true story) but it does show the doctor if the chemo is working. At the beginning the numbers were going down a little bit but nothing significant. Today, the number is slightly elevated, but the doctor gave us a great explanation of why this is occurring. Remember, the cancer cells are living and they are now under attack. The cells are trying to "fight back" against the chemo, making them more active. However, other indications (lack of belly swelling) are telling us that the chemo still seems to be working. Again, we're not going to be really sure what's going on until the scan in October.
So where does this leave us? Prayer. Lots of it, never ceasing. Mom and Dad have been under attack-they're tired and vulnerable at times, so we just need to continue to cover them with prayer and hold fast to the promises that God has given us. Even though it's several weeks away, we are praying that this scan shows us that this tumor is ready to come out, so we can start to be done with this cancer and journey.
I am also asking for specific prayers for Dad-care taking is exhausting-emotionally, physically, mentally. He needs renewed strength and patience as he battles nights of little sleep, doctor's phone calls, and the loss of a fully-abled partner at the moment.
It's been such a long journey, and I know we still have far to go....thank you for surrounding our family with love and support, and continue to press in to our Father for healing and hope.
Mom just finished her 4th round of chemo (only two more to go!) last week. The first 3 rounds went very well, and she was able to get to work most of that time (With a blood transfusion thrown in for good measure). This 4th round has definitely hit harder this time and we're really starting to see some of the chemo effects building up. Her nausea has come with a vengeance, a hacking cough keeps attacking, and of course that constant feel of exhaustion. Her hair still continues to stay put (yay!!) and the swelling in her belly from the tumor has really diminished. She did have to take off a day last week to work through these symptoms, but that support she is receiving from coworkers and parents is wonderful. We had been waiting to hear back from her oncologist regarding her tumor count numbers and finally got news yesterday. Now remember, the tumor marker number is just an indication of what the tumor is doing-it's not concrete (the scan at the end of the chemo rounds will tell us the true story) but it does show the doctor if the chemo is working. At the beginning the numbers were going down a little bit but nothing significant. Today, the number is slightly elevated, but the doctor gave us a great explanation of why this is occurring. Remember, the cancer cells are living and they are now under attack. The cells are trying to "fight back" against the chemo, making them more active. However, other indications (lack of belly swelling) are telling us that the chemo still seems to be working. Again, we're not going to be really sure what's going on until the scan in October.
So where does this leave us? Prayer. Lots of it, never ceasing. Mom and Dad have been under attack-they're tired and vulnerable at times, so we just need to continue to cover them with prayer and hold fast to the promises that God has given us. Even though it's several weeks away, we are praying that this scan shows us that this tumor is ready to come out, so we can start to be done with this cancer and journey.
I am also asking for specific prayers for Dad-care taking is exhausting-emotionally, physically, mentally. He needs renewed strength and patience as he battles nights of little sleep, doctor's phone calls, and the loss of a fully-abled partner at the moment.
It's been such a long journey, and I know we still have far to go....thank you for surrounding our family with love and support, and continue to press in to our Father for healing and hope.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Back to School...
We have come to that time of the year...Mom will be headed back to school Monday (no kids yet), and I'll be headed to my school (after school care program), and Dad will become the Granddad Daycare of Awesomness. It's going to be hard to adjust back to everything, especially when we're not quite sure how Mom will be...
Her second round of chemo has been completed, and during the same week she had a stent replacement. The combination of both knocked Mom out, and she had extreme fatigue and a general feeling of "yuck", and was pretty much in bed through the weekend. However, she mustered enough energy to spend the day with us at the Science Center, and enjoy her young grandsons delight in their surroundings! Her tummy swelling has gone down considerably (from the tumor leaking), and her hair is still in tact-both of which are wonderful things! Mom's three shots a week that are for keeping white blood cell numbers up are also doing the trick!
Eating is still a difficult thing-not the act of it, but more of what to eat...nothing is appealing, but there are rare occasions she actually does what something, and that's always great! She's really been great at learning to snack throughout the day, and keep drinking lots of water =)
Morning are very rough-it's hard for Mom to get up and get going...once she's up and doing things, it's much better, but it takes a HUGE amount of energy to get out of bed. As you might realize, for a teacher, this is going to be a rather large hurdle as the school year approaches, and we're coveting all prayers for supernatural energy. Mom is super blessed to have an amazing co-teacher who is continually supporting her, giving her grace when it comes to Mom's medical needs, and is really taking the brunt of a lot of things...(We love you Denise!) We are just having faith that God knows the needs...
In general family news, Lauren and Justin are now in the Middle East, and then Nepal, doing scouting for their future missions opportunities...link here.
Collin and Cameron are now 27 and 15 months respectively, and are amazing and busy little boys. Collin will be having a speech evaluation in two weeks, as his language is a bit behind, but he's excelling in all other areas! Cameron is a walking fool, never stops moving, and has the cutest dimple/smile combination you ever did see! Pictures, as always, on facebook! August link for those who don't have facebook is here.
So Monday will come, new routines will begin, chemo will be administered, and we shall continue to press in and press on. Love to all!
Her second round of chemo has been completed, and during the same week she had a stent replacement. The combination of both knocked Mom out, and she had extreme fatigue and a general feeling of "yuck", and was pretty much in bed through the weekend. However, she mustered enough energy to spend the day with us at the Science Center, and enjoy her young grandsons delight in their surroundings! Her tummy swelling has gone down considerably (from the tumor leaking), and her hair is still in tact-both of which are wonderful things! Mom's three shots a week that are for keeping white blood cell numbers up are also doing the trick!
Eating is still a difficult thing-not the act of it, but more of what to eat...nothing is appealing, but there are rare occasions she actually does what something, and that's always great! She's really been great at learning to snack throughout the day, and keep drinking lots of water =)
Morning are very rough-it's hard for Mom to get up and get going...once she's up and doing things, it's much better, but it takes a HUGE amount of energy to get out of bed. As you might realize, for a teacher, this is going to be a rather large hurdle as the school year approaches, and we're coveting all prayers for supernatural energy. Mom is super blessed to have an amazing co-teacher who is continually supporting her, giving her grace when it comes to Mom's medical needs, and is really taking the brunt of a lot of things...(We love you Denise!) We are just having faith that God knows the needs...
In general family news, Lauren and Justin are now in the Middle East, and then Nepal, doing scouting for their future missions opportunities...link here.
Collin and Cameron are now 27 and 15 months respectively, and are amazing and busy little boys. Collin will be having a speech evaluation in two weeks, as his language is a bit behind, but he's excelling in all other areas! Cameron is a walking fool, never stops moving, and has the cutest dimple/smile combination you ever did see! Pictures, as always, on facebook! August link for those who don't have facebook is here.
So Monday will come, new routines will begin, chemo will be administered, and we shall continue to press in and press on. Love to all!
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Slight Change of Plans...
Mom went in for chemo on Monday, but they stopped about 10 minutes in...her white blood count was too low to continue. This translates into 3 shots a week to keep those numbers up, and she'll resume the chemo this coming Monday! Mom will also have a new stent put in next Friday (we try to avoid infections and hospitals at all costs, so this is done routinely). The fluid build up she's been experiencing in her abdomen is because of the tumor leaking, but the chemo should lesson this as time progresses, of which she's quite thankful for! Mom's had some really good days lately, and has been in great spirits, and able to do things like grocery shopping, Kohls shopping-ha, eating out, and other normal activities! God continues to show His favor, and we are blessed beyond measure =) (even on the bad days!)
Friday, August 3, 2012
The Quiet Death
It's funny. The second you have cancer, you are bombarded with handouts, notebooks, doctors notes, internet research, all filled with the physical symptoms, signs, and outcomes of the cancer. They tell you what your body will do, what it won't do, what to expect, and numerous other physical dilemmas. There is, however, one thing they don't tell you. They don't talk about the quiet and slow painful death of your social life. There is nothing to prepare you for the way that people will now look at you, talk to you, talk ABOUT you-it's all completely different.
Mom says in some ways, it's like she has already died. Or that she walks around with a big "C" on her chest. When a lot people look at her now, there's a new element added to their glances-the look of pity. The look of sympathy. The first question (and of course, people have every right to ask) is, "How are you feeling?". Instead of grandson talk, or chit chat, conversations involve doctors opinions, quick health updates in a nutshell, or how tired she might be feeling.
Mom is surrounded by love and support, but she's never felt more lonely. There are plenty of phone calls, but from doctors. No longer do invitations come to just "hang out", or phone calls just to "shoot the breeze".
Mom isn't dead, she just has cancer. She still likes to go out to eat, she still likes to go shopping, she still likes to play games or go swimming. Yes, she gets tired, but Mom knows when to take a break, or if she's having a bad day, she'll easily reschedule. Cancer does not define my mother. My Mom is an amazing woman filled with joy, who just happens to also have cancer. Yes, she does get chemo once a week, but even that can be made into a social outing. A friend sitting with her, playing cards, or talking and hanging out? Cancer calls for creativity, not quiet side stepping.
That's not to say that the cards or prayers aren't valued. They are an amazing source of strength, and lets us know the giant army that stands behind my Mom, and we are grateful for each and every one.
Right now, Mom is alive. She is not in a hospital bed surrounded by wires, she's not confined to a chair. And she's not dead. She is fighting, but at the same time trying to live as normal a life as possible. The greatest gift you could give to her is to give her chances to live that life. Yes, we do realize everything is different now, and our lives will never be the same. Yes, we fully understand that people will ask us questions about how Mom is no matter where we go, and we are always ok with letting you know what's going on, because we know your heart is in the right place.
But once in awhile, it might be really nice to ask Mom instead what kind of snowball she'd like to get when you meet her at the stand in 20 minutes.
Mom says in some ways, it's like she has already died. Or that she walks around with a big "C" on her chest. When a lot people look at her now, there's a new element added to their glances-the look of pity. The look of sympathy. The first question (and of course, people have every right to ask) is, "How are you feeling?". Instead of grandson talk, or chit chat, conversations involve doctors opinions, quick health updates in a nutshell, or how tired she might be feeling.
Mom is surrounded by love and support, but she's never felt more lonely. There are plenty of phone calls, but from doctors. No longer do invitations come to just "hang out", or phone calls just to "shoot the breeze".
Mom isn't dead, she just has cancer. She still likes to go out to eat, she still likes to go shopping, she still likes to play games or go swimming. Yes, she gets tired, but Mom knows when to take a break, or if she's having a bad day, she'll easily reschedule. Cancer does not define my mother. My Mom is an amazing woman filled with joy, who just happens to also have cancer. Yes, she does get chemo once a week, but even that can be made into a social outing. A friend sitting with her, playing cards, or talking and hanging out? Cancer calls for creativity, not quiet side stepping.
That's not to say that the cards or prayers aren't valued. They are an amazing source of strength, and lets us know the giant army that stands behind my Mom, and we are grateful for each and every one.
Right now, Mom is alive. She is not in a hospital bed surrounded by wires, she's not confined to a chair. And she's not dead. She is fighting, but at the same time trying to live as normal a life as possible. The greatest gift you could give to her is to give her chances to live that life. Yes, we do realize everything is different now, and our lives will never be the same. Yes, we fully understand that people will ask us questions about how Mom is no matter where we go, and we are always ok with letting you know what's going on, because we know your heart is in the right place.
But once in awhile, it might be really nice to ask Mom instead what kind of snowball she'd like to get when you meet her at the stand in 20 minutes.
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