Baking Cookies

I know it's a bit premature to do this, but last evening my ten-year-old daughter Caroline and I made gingerbread cookies from scratch. I had recently bought a nonstick cookie pan which contains little wells of all sorts of holiday shapes, just the perfect size for making formed cookies. There's a stocking, a wreath, an angel, and many other very detailed shapes for a total of 12.

We added the ingredients one at a time, and as I opened the small container of cloves, I lifted it to my nose and savored the aroma. For a moment I was a child again, too. The cloves smelled like Christmastime. The spice reminded me of pumpkin pie, and laughter, and warm conversations that circled around countless Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners in the company of grandparents and cousins.

Caroline's questions and the burring noise of the electric mixer interrupted my thoughts and nudged me back to the task at hand. I placed the cloves container under Caroline's tiny nose, as she'd sat perched on the counter, positioning herself at just the correct height to see - and participate in - each step in the cookie-making process. Smiling, she also took a whiff of the spice. I couldn't help but think that this particular smell might also be etched into her brain for decades to come. Would she reflect on this time when she's 47 years old and baking cookies with her own daughter or son?

Flour seemed to fly everywhere, and I momentarily remembered that I'd just cleaned the kitchen earlier in the day. But I said not a word about her fumbling fingers and the mess that ensued. (Believe me, it was difficult to keep my hands to myself!) Our time together making cookies might be one of those events that remains engraved in her memory long after I'm gone, so don't spoil it by trying to keep a clean kitchen! I thought.

Finally, it was time to bake them. For Caroline, this 9-minute period seemed endless. She waited ... and waited ... and waited patiently for the oven timer to beep. Finally the seconds passed down to zero, and the long overdue "BING" sound summoned us. The whole kitchen swelled with the tantalizing aroma. After I removed the hot tray from the oven, she almost couldn't contain her excitement. We gently lifted each precious treasure from its warm little cavity. She smiled with anticipation, eager to see how the cookies turned out. And they were just perfect!

I remember vividly making cookies with my older daughter, now 13, a few years ago after I'd been through the heat of cancer. I remember praying and asking God at that time for the blessing of having many more years of making cookies with my children. It's amazing how something so simple can become so monumental in our small minds. Making cookies - no matter how messy it can get - has never felt quite the same to me after that.

God answers prayer. We never know how many more "cookie" times we'll actually have, but we do know that He has planned every day for us and that He already knows exactly how each day will "turn out." We just need to trust Him. Our lives rest ever so gently in His hands, and if we allow it, He will create within us the most perfect shape of all: the heart of Christ.

His Place

Last evening I attended a local Pink Ribbon dinner. There were more than 250 of us present, all breast cancer survivors. As I surveyed the huge dining area, instead of seeing a 'sea of pink' which typically represents breast cancer, this year's theme was Christmas in October; therefore many colors prevailed, especially glittery reds and vibrant greens.

My friend Gina and I arrived late, so woman of all ages were already seated at the tables. Some women were happily chatting with one another, while others seemed to be just sitting quietly and thinking. Still others appeared to be observing other women. Not that they were staring at one another. But you know the simple, brief looks that are shared between women as we all find ourselves somewhat plopped into chairs as we smile across the table at each other. Except for Gina, I didn't know anyone at my table. Gina is the woman I'd met three weeks ago, who I'd invited to join me for this event. We all introduced ourselves. We chatted warmly and then there seemed to be a temporary lull in the conversation. I wondered what the others were thinking about. I know what I was thinking.

"Karen, did you ever think you'd be here? Did you ever think that you'd find yourself at this place? And I'm not talking about the church. I mean this place. The cancer place. At a breast cancer dinner. As a survivor. As a mom with three kids who had breast cancer 3 and a half years ago. Every day, I still wonder when or if it will return. Two people at my table are currently undergoing treatment for recurrences. One woman said that she's been free of cancer for 19 years now. Nineteen years! Will I return to this cancer place again, or am I one of the lucky ones who'll never, ever, have to face it... again?"

I'll bet that those were some of the exact same thoughts shared by every woman in that room. In that place.

The evening represented celebrating life, blessings, and love. Gina is the survivor who amazes me because she smiles through her trials. (In fact, she's headed off to Philadelphia as I write this post today, to have her 6th dose of chemo for her 3rd - or is it her 4th? - recurrence.) At the end of the evening, as we walked to my car, she said these words to me, "You know what? I really think that this time will be my last time - my last recurrence." And she spoke with a smile. Again.

My thoughts of that place can't consume me. They can't hijack my life, or my family. Whatever comes my way, I'll handle it, with the help of God. That's the place - the only place - where I'll find my refuge and my strength! And it's not my place at all; it's His.

It's Really Quite Funny

I received a phone call yesterday from the receptionist who works at the diagnostic imaging center. She called me to say, "We'd like to schedule your routine MRI scan for this week or possibly next week."

That's strange, I thought, since I'm not due to have my next MRI until November, and in the past I was unable to schedule MRI's until the one year anniversary date or later, due to insurance coverage.

Even though I told her that I wasn't due for an MRI until November, she continued to ask me questions and I continued to answer them. Through the phone, I could faintly hear her dutifully typing the information I'd given to her. Then the old familiar question came: "When was your last period?"

"About three years ago, but I've had some slight slight spotting maybe two or three times since then," I responded.

An awkward silence ensued. There was a pause in her typing. And she broke the silence by asking, "You don't have periods?"

"No."

"Oh. So you've had a hysterectomy," she deduced confidently, albeit incorrectly.

"No. I've had chemo," I replied, trying to sound neutral, as my irritation mounted. I guess this particular piece of information wasn't noted anywhere in my records.

The typing stopped again. "So....you don't get periods anymore?" She questioned - again.

Poor girl, I thought. "No," I replied. "I don't." More silence. I got the feeling she didn't know quite how to enter this type of information on her computer screen, or as if there wasn't enough space on her data form for statements such as "no periods since having had chemo."

"So when would you like to schedule your next MRI?" she asked again, while moving on to a topic she could understand.

"November," I said for at least the second time now.

"Oh, I'm sorry, but we can't schedule the MRI until closer to the time, closer to November," she answered.

By this point I was totally perplexed. Why did she even call me at this time? I think what really bothered me was her lack of knowledge about chemo and its side effects, such as its tendency to propel many women into early, and unwanted, menopause. Am I the first person she's ever called who is menopaual at age 47 - due to chemo?!?

"How about if you call me in November then?" I asked, again trying to sound pleasant.

She agreed to do that, and the typing stopped again. We both hung up, and I wasn't sure who was more confused - me or the receptionist.

Shaking my head, I couldn't help thinking that, without a doubt, I'll be asked the same set of questions again next time I am called, including this one: "You don't get periods anymore?"

Some things never change. And it really is quite funny...

You Never Get Used to It

Today at 12:15 PM I will visit my oncologist for another follow-up appointment. It's been over three years since my diagnosis, but the appointments keep coming, and they keep reminding me that it's never really over. Every three months or so, I visit with my oncologist, or my surgeon, or the lab technician (for blood samples to be taken). In addition to those visits, I have either an MRI scan or a mammogram every six months.

You'd think that I would eventually get used to all this. But I don't think that you ever do. In fact, during my last mammogram in May, I needed to have additional "angles" assessed because the technician reported to me that the radiologist had seen something "suspicious" in the mammogram pictures. Upon hearing the words "something suspicious" my heart rate soared, my body quaked, and I felt week in the knees. The tech. didn't appear to notice my anxiety as fear crashed into me. Instead she just said dryly, "We need to take a few more pictures because the doctor thinks he sees something that we need to 'chase', but I guess you're used to that, right?"

No, you never get used to it. Not any of it. Not the scans, the blood work, the office visits, nor the waiting for the results to be known. I just faked a smile, and I could feel my palms become moist. My mind filled with images of more chemo, and more explanations to people that I'd had a recurrence. More uncertainty loomed.

I raised my arms and gripped the thin metal bar located along the side of the mammogram machine. I held my breath as instructed. I tried not to cry. The additional pictures were taken. It seemed to hurt more this time. My breast was red from the compressions of the machine; it throbbed afterwards. Finally, I left the room to sit in the radiation suite and wait for the results. Those were some of the most agonizing minutes I've ever felt.

"You're all done. They were all clear," the tech. finally reported to me. Fortunately, during that particular visit, the repeat mammogram turned out to be negative.

Almost numb, I arose and I walked into the small dressing room once again to change back into my clothes. Before I removed my gown, I instinctively grabbed a small white towel from the shelf and held it to my face. I didn't want anyone to hear my sobs of relief, combined with sobs of momentary anguish, that just erupted from my soul.

I often read several blogs from women who are going through treatments for the second or third time and I silently (almost selfishly) ask myself, "What if I'll be next? What if this day will mark the beginning of a second recurrence for me? What then? Why have I been spared from a recurrence thus far?"

No, you don't get used to it. Not ever. Over time, the thing you do get used to is the daily reminders that life is too short, too precious, to ever take for granted.

There's one more thing that I need to remind myself to get used to. And here it is: God is in complete control. He's the One I lean on, and hold on to with all my strength, while I wait for lab results to be known, or as I hear the hammering noises of the MRI scan vibrating all around me, or as I sit in the doctor's office waiting for my name to be called.

Submitting to God's will for my life is the most difficult, yet at the same time the most liberating, concept to embrace. He has all the answers and knows all the "results" already planned for my life. Although it takes getting used to, each and every day I need to lay down my burdens and fears to the only One who already knows.