Thriving though the holidays*

*with cancer
*or any horrible, painful, awful, life-sucking disease

I get it. You are the one that "makes the holidays happen." You are the one that plans the menu, goes to the store, buys the gifts, decorates the house, attempts the crafts, plans the class parties, coordinates the Christmas picture, orders the Christmas cards, mails the cards ...
And now, as Thanksgiving is around the bend, you find yourself dealing with the following holiday joy-killer:

Fear.

I'm talking Grim Reaper Fear.  Fear-is-a-four-letter-word Fear.  Sleep-with-the-lights-on Fear.
This is my second holiday season since I was diagnosed with CML (chronic myelogenous leukemia). But by the grace of God my disease is being managed with medication. My doctors tell me my life expectancy is well past 5 years - as long as I don't become resistant to the Super Dangerous but Absolutely Necessary chemotherapy pills I take twice a day. And, as long as there are no gene mutations of this awesome cancer.
So, to me, resistance and mutations are always just around the corner.  Hovering around like in-laws or guests you know could show up at your door any second. Awesome.
What if this is my last Thanksgiving?
What if this is your last Thanksgiving?

It could be, you know. You could load up the van and head home from the grocery store and end up in a ditch. Every day, people die from things other than cancer.
Pretend, just for a minute, that this is your last holiday season. That next year, your family will look back and remember THIS year because it was your last.
What will you regret spending time on?
Who will you regret not spending time with?

Fear will try to freeze you and keep you from experiencing the Right Now. Fear will snuggle up like a lover and but then tell you nothing is worth doing and to simply give up.

My amazing pastor, Stu Hodges,  at Waters Edge Church said this:

"I just want to give you permission today to lower the expectation of you and raise the expectation of God and watch and see what might happen this holiday season."

Not a mention of Fear. Sounds more like Faith, to me.
None of us are guaranteed next Christmas.
You are too sick to do the shopping?
It's too painful to decorate the tree?
You don't have the energy to prepare the meal?
Those things don't matter. Spend your time with the people you love.
The Right Now is not about the presents. It's about being present.

A birthday and an anniversary

I'm asking that y'all keep our family in prayer this weekend.

Today (Aug. 30) would have been my husband's birthday. He would have turned 60 today. The last birthday we got to celebrate with him he turned 46.

Tomorrow (Aug. 31) is the anniversary of The Caregiver's wife, Lea's, death. She died in 2000.

We've been experiencing these days without them for 14 years now.
That's a painfully long time.

We "do death" differently in our house. We have pictures of Mike and Lea everywhere. We talk about them freely and frequently. They are very much a part of our lives and a part of our family.
Birthdays and death anniversaries and wedding anniversaries are celebrated. Over the past 14 years we have done all sorts of things to celebrate and remember Mike and Lea.
Things like:

• release balloons
• share a favorite dessert (Twinkies for Mike, blonde brownies for Lea)
• share a favorite meal 
• go to a favorite restaurant
• go to a favorite place
• do a favorite activity
• share stories
• watch home movies
• look through photo albums

It's difficult to explain and, I'm sure, difficult for others to understand, how so very much The Caregiver and I lean on each other and hold each other up. We held each other and cried early this morning. We still love, miss and ache for Mike and Lea.
If you are told, "time heals all wounds" or "you'll get over it," you've been told wrong. That's a lie. And I wouldn't want it any other way. In my mind "getting over it" equates to "forgotten."
Time passes and children grow and we continue to live.
Fourteen years later, it still hurts. Our spouses are still gone. Our children's parents are still not ever coming back. We all still cry.

Kiss your family this weekend and hold them close. XO

An itty bitty cut

I have CML.

I like to pretend I don't.  Which is silly, really. But it's the truth.
Some days, pretending I don't have cancer, blood cancer, pumping through me constantly and continually is the only way I can keep going.

Then something will happen and the CML monster will smack me in the face.
This time it was an itty bitty cut.
I don't even remember when or how it happened. It didn't bleed. There is no scab. There is no scar. But it must be there because it resulted in a nasty staph cellulitis infection in my inner forearm.
My inner forearm began to swell. Looked kind of like a bruise, really. My bracelets were suddenly tight. And it started to hurt to use my hand. Then it got very swollen. And red. And hot. And getting bigger. And hurt lots.

Hmm. That's odd, I remember thinking.
The Caregiver insisted we call the oncologist, which I knew was the right thing to do. I was so hoping it would simply go away. But, as I was reminded this week, I am immune suppressed. Things don't simply go away anymore.
One week and 28 hefty antibiotic doses later ... it's better. Not completely, but getting there.
So far, so good.
As long as I keep improving, it's a wait and see game. I'm praying the antibiotics did the trick. They interacted with my Super Dangerous but Absolutely Necessary chemotherapy pills something awful. Horrible nausea, dizzy, headache. Yuck.
It's surprising how something so small could have been the gateway to something that has been so painful and hard on my leukemic body.
We have to be ever mindful to stay guarded against the things (however itty bitty they seem) that can grow and eventually cause us so much pain.
Left untreated, they can swell and continue to try to destroy us.
Left untreated, they can ruin our very being.

Another one bites the dust

One of the great things about being a Grown Up is that there are moments, sometimes even entire spans of time, of great clarity.

This isn't one of them. 

Everything is confusing. 

Everything is a struggle.

Everything is an uphill battle. I'm walking in the proverbial snow. Barefoot.

I'm trying to do everything "right." 

Yet, I can't make sense of anything. 

Damn cancer. 

Little victories matter a great deal at this point. Anything I can measure that indicates progress is something to be celebrated. Savored.
So, today, I celebrate getting through another week of my Super Dangerous but Absolutely Necessary chemotherapy pills. Today, this giant falls face-first in the dust. 

Another week down, the rest of my life to go.