Silence of Daffodils

I heard something on the radio yesterday that made me think. The guest speaker was Dr. Laura Schlessinger. Although I typically don't agree with all her comments, she usually provides a strong argument for adherence to basic truths. The one thing that she said was this: "We won't remember the words spoken from our enemies, but instead, the silence from our friends."

I remember how helpful people had been to me during my cancer diagnosis and treatments which began nearly five years ago. I remember receiving encouraging, out-of-the-blue cards and phone calls from friends, neighbors, or my husband's coworkers whom I'd never met before. I recall people bringing home-cooked meals to my doorstep and hearing the doorbell ring as I rested my head on pillows, feeling too nauseated at the time to even roll over in bed. I can still hear the footsteps of my kids - my cheerleaders - as they ran to the door and said "thank you" to the person standing there, and then ushered them into the kitchen and placed the dinner on the counter top. I remember the woman who offered to plant yellow daffodils along my front walkway. "They symbolize cancer and new life," she had told me as I watched her and my girls dig into the dirt and plant each bulb. I remember feeling too fatigued to kneel down and help her dig.

And I wait each spring in anticipation of seeing the first new shoots pop up through the soft dirt. And oh, how beautiful this picture of silence can be!

Yes, I remember all the kind words, both spoken and unspoken, provided to me many years ago. But as difficult as it sometimes is, I try not to focus on friends who might not have spoken much to me, or called me, during my trial. People who I would have expected to hear from, but didn't. People who, for whatever reason, didn't step up to the plate. Because focusing on those people, takes time away from my real focus: the people who blessed me in so many more ways than I can comprehend. Those are the people I'll choose to think about and remember well. I'll not dwell on the ones who were silent during the hard times. Life is too short to remember the "silence from our friends." It's just too short.

Instead, we all need to wait patiently for our own "daffodils" to bloom each season, because that is the type of silence we should try to remember.

Just Like Me

A woman called me today. She's a cancer survivor and a newly diagnosed one, as in two months ago. We've never met before, but a mutual friend of ours had given the woman my phone number, and she contacted me. "Can I talk to you? I have breast cancer," the soft voice began.

It turns out that we have a lot in common, both on the cancer front, and in our daily lives. As far as the histology is concerned (or the cell make-up), she too, is characterized as being HER-2 positive, estrogen positive, and progesterone negative, just like me. The reason I mention this fact is because the cell make-up typically dictates the course of treatment, the type and number of chemotherapy sessions, the necessity of radiation, and the overall prognosis. On the lighter side, she is my age, she has children who are about my children's ages, and she stated that prior to this diagnosis, she's never been sick a day in her life. Exercise is her antidepressant, and she watches her diet, too. Chillingly similar to my own life, I thought.

She asked a lot of good questions, most of them pertaining to the chemotherapy that she is anticipating receiving, beginning at the end of February. She'll need a port, a devise that is surgically inserted in the chest that delivers the medication to the heart. The port is necessary to preserve the veins in the forearms from the toxic affects of the chemotherapy. Similar to my treatment protocol, she will be receiving chemotherapy followed by Herceptin, for a total of 15 months of treatments.

I remember how numb I had felt when I heard that same type of information relayed to me nearly four years ago. I remember that my thoughts were a jumbled mess, and how the images of the magnitude of this disease circled around in my brain like some sort of surreal kaleidoscope: Hair loss ... vomiting ... my children's confusion ... my husband's inability to fix it ... my parents' looks of helplessness.

In a brief second, it all came flooding back to me, as if I were going through it all over again.

Today I tried with all my heart to speak to the woman in a way that empowered her. I informed her that being HER-2 positive is not the death sentence that it once was, thanks to the introduction and use of Herceptin, a fairly new drug that targets the extremely aggressive HER-2 cells. I told her that the doctors are very good at preventing and minimizing any nausea that might occur, and that she may be very fortunate and experience very little nausea. I told her that the hair loss is temporary and that it does return. Without sounding flippant, I encouraged her to take it one day at a time. I let her know that I would be more than happy to drive her to her chemotherapy treatments or doctors' appointments.

Most of all, I let her know that she was not alone, and that she would get through this. I told her that the road may seem impossibly long today, but I encouraged her to try to remember that this time in her life will not last forever. It does get better, it really does. One of the last things I said to her was that I will be praying for her. And I will.

We ended our conversation on a lighter note. Her voice sounded stronger and ready to take it all on. She was ready. I could hear it.

One day, perhaps years from now, I hope that her phone will ring, and she'll hear a quite voice on the other end saying, "Can I talk to you about your breast cancer? I've just been diagnosed, and I have some questions, if you don't mind."

After I hung up, I just sat there for a few minutes, and wiped away the lone tear that cascaded down my cheek. Completely at a loss, I wasn't sure who was more blessed by today's conversation, the woman on the other end, or me.

Waiting ... Again!

Okay, here we go again! Ten to twenty more inches of snow are predicted to fall tonight and continue on into tomorrow! School's already been cancelled for my children. Didn't we just go through this?

I know I sound like I'm complaining, and I guess that I am. Really, though, it was less than a week ago that I raced to the store, along with more than the usual number of grocery shoppers, stocked up on the essentials, and braced myself - both with my groceries in hand and with a positive attitude - for the upcoming storm.

And I did it all again today. I waited. And from where I stood in my queue, I noticed numerous other slow-moving lines as they snaked almost endlessly through the store, filled with grumpy people, waiting for their turn. Waiting for what seemed to take forever to pay for their groceries.

Suddenly, another cashier turned on her "light" above her, which signaled that her line was open for business. The woman standing in front of me noticed that I had only a handful of items. She immediately smiled to me and motioned for me to go in front of her, to that newly opened line. Imagine that! Someone actually took the time to be considerate! Her gesture was the "sun" that made me feel warm. And it was contagious. Others smiled; they seemed to be more relaxed.

Finally, I paid for and gathered up my bag of items, thanked the kind woman standing behind me once more, and made my way to the car through the blowing snow. Ironically, I realized that today it all felt oddly different from the way it had felt three days ago. Today, instead of mentally wrestling with the thoughts of being snowbound, of shoveling my sidewalk again, of making sure that we had enough milk, it hit me: This won't last.

As much as I dislike this present struggle, it all felt so strangely familiar, and almost like I was actually getting used to it. I'd done it all before, exactly three days earlier, and I'd survived it. When the storm hit last time, Brian and I cleared the driveway, one hour at a time, one shovelful at a time. Throughout the following days, the snowplows geared up and rumbled through our development, making wide sweeping passes numerous times. The sun eventually came out, and its blessed heat actually began to melt the leftover snow which covered the roads, one tiny degree at a time.

Sometimes we focus too much on the now. We want things to be back the way they were - immediately. No waiting. No patience. We've no time for that!

So here I sit, looking out my window, feeling that odd wave of familiarity washing over me as the snow continues to fall, and the sky is thick and gray, all over again.

But I rest in the idea that this storm will eventually pass, the sun will come out once more, and slowly, very slowly, I will again see the road stretched before me. And I will continue on, just as I did before. I just need to wait ... and keep waiting ... for the warmth of the sun.

This Time

A few weeks ago, I began preparing for this coming Saturday, the day when I was supposed to drive to Penn State University. Penn State is my alma mater, and my family had planned to enjoy watching my son's college swim team (Lehigh University) compete against PSU. In preparation for this event, I'd made all the necessary arrangements: the dog was going to be placed in a good home for two nights, I'd cancelled all other commitments for that particular weekend, and I'd previously purchased a cute valentine and lots of bagged candy to give to my son when we'd see him and chat together after the meet. As the last several days crept by, anticipating seeing Patrick and watching him compete from the tall bleachers inside the "nat" (the abbreviation we used to use for the natatorium, or pool) were images that I'd happily replayed in my mind several times a day. I was so ready to go!

I hadn't been back to PSU in more than 25 years, since graduation. The student life I enjoyed back then seems like a different age in my life; I am definitely a different person now than I was at that time. Lately, and in an odd sort of way, I'd found myself really looking forward to seeing Patrick compete at the school where I studied, ate, slept, (yes, even partied) walked to classes, and lived for four years.

Now, due to the predicted storm which is supposed to dump anywhere from one to two feet of the snow beginning tomorrow morning, I find myself once again preparing, preparing not to go to the swim meet. The extra milk, bread and eggs are tucked away, just in case the blizzard makes traveling impossible. My husband's already stowed several gallons of water in the garage, just in case the pump's electrical system which delivers the energy to our well (yes, we obtain our water via a deep well, as antiquated as it may sound) is frozen again we're unable to get water. Plenty of food's here. Heat's not a problem; our propane heater works fine. I think we've got it all covered.

We're as prepared for this "blizzard" as anyone can be. Normally, I'd be feeling a sense of childlike happiness, or just plain joy, in waking up to find layers upon layers of snow. This time is different. This time I really longed to see Patrick, to watch him compete, to cheer, ironically, for the "away team," (or Patrick's team), and to relish in the college memories that I have tucked away in my brain from days gone by.

Maybe the swim meet will be postponed. But the chance that it will be rescheduled to take place 0n a weekend when we're all available to travel the two-and-a-half- hour ride is slim.

So now, as I prepare for something quite different, namely this inconvenient storm, I also need to prepare myself for missing out on a weekend of memories.

This time will be different, however.

This time, as disappointed as I am in not seeing my son compete at my alma mater, I'll remember to thank God that I am here, right now, with my two daughters and my husband, and that we are all well. We're all well, and although life throws us a curve ball sometimes and it smashes our plans, I need to keep in mind that as trite as it sounds, I'm just happy to be here. Right now, and at this time, I am so very happy to be here.

So, bring on the snow. I am as so ready!

I'm Only Me

You know, sometimes life has a way of taking your breath away, but in a good way. Yesterday, I walked into the house after running a few errands and noticed the little blinking light flashing on my answering machine. I normally conclude that it signals yet another doctor's appointment, or maybe I'll hear a little girl's voice on the other end requesting a play date for one of my daughters.

No, this time the message was humbling. "Karen, I'm in charge of the women's ministry at my church, and I was wondering if you'd be willing to speak about your breast cancer journey. The event is in September, 2010. We'd love to have you come. Are you interested?"

*Beep.*

The church is located 100 miles north. It's the one our family attended seven years ago, before we relocated to our present town.

The message ended, while my feelings of insecurity and inadequacy quickly commenced. They want me to speak about breast cancer? Why me? What can I possibly offer? Surely they must be able to find a better speaker, someone who's more polished or someone who, I don't know, is famous or something! What can I possibly offer them? I'm only me!

And then the darkest of thoughts invaded my little world: September is eight months away. A lot can happen in eight months... What if there's a problem ... What if ... What if I receive that awful news in the interim that no one wants to hear ... What if there's a recurrence.... And ... What if I can't travel to give my speech, so I have to cancel at the last minute, and ...

You know, I could ruin my life by focusing on the "What ifs." Instead, I need to concentrate on the "What is..."

What is true is that today I am a breast cancer survivor. I am strong and I am a believer. I believe in Christ and his dying on the cross to save me from eternal death. What is true is that I might just have something positive to offer others, perhaps some insight that God's given me that I wouldn't have right now if I hadn't gone through this trial. No matter how small I feel my contribution is to others, it just may turn out to be a big thing to someone else. I may help only one other person at that women's conference in September, but it just may be the one person that God has already preordained for me to encourage.

Humbled. That's the only way I can describe how I'm feeling. I'm only me. But I am determined to be the best me that I can possibly be.

Whatever comes my way, with God's help, I'll get through it. I'm only me, but what a strong me I am.

Innocence

Kids are funny. No, there's a better adjective: perceptive. Kids are perceptive. Last evening while I was folding laundry (a task that has plummeted to the very bottom of my top 100 things I love to do list), my youngest asked me if I was cured of cancer. Just like that: an out-of-the-blue, knock-your-socks-off question.

"So, you're done now, right? You're cured of cancer, aren't you?" Caroline is ten years old. Her questioning eyes shown brightly in the dim evening light, and her auburn hair framed her soft cheeks in a way that reminded me of her innocence. Through her innocence, I'm able to see her childlike grin. I can almost hear her laughing at the little things that adults no longer find humorous, like silly cloud pictures, or a leaf that sticks to the hood of your jacket and you don't know that it's there. Her unassuming remarks allow me to step back - and to live in her simple little world - for a brief moment. Caroline's innocence is one of the things that keeps me going; it keeps me pressing on through the dark days, and it keeps me focused on God's purpose for my life.

Cured. There's that word again, that word that literally takes my breath away. I instantly stopped folding the towels. I took a deep breath, as if somehow the rush of air would give me more wisdom or, I don't know, maybe it would just give me a much coveted nanosecond of precious time. Time that I needed to put the right words together for soothing Caroline's questioning eyes.

"You know, there is no real cure for breast cancer," I began calmly." But I did as much as I could do by taking the medicines to keep it from coming back," I answered, not wanting to recreate thoughts of chemo, surgery, radiation, as well as the resulting hair loss, nausea and monumental fatigue that I'd experienced almost four years ago. I determined to keep those images from her mind. She was six years old at the time of my diagnosis, and she might not even remember many of those details now. At least, I'd hoped she didn't remember much of that time - not now. What good would it do for her to rehash and replay those gloomy events, the ones that I am often reminded of, sometimes on a daily basis?

The hair loss. She remembered the hair loss. Even before she mentioned it, I could see it in her eyes. We talked about the hair loss, and I told her how lucky I was to have her there with me to make me laugh during that difficult time.

"It will be four years in February since I was diagnosed. Four years! That's a pretty long time, don't you think? " I smiled and tried to sound upbeat; however, my comment hung lifelessly in the air between us.

She looked at me, thought for a moment, and followed my remark slowly with, "Wow ... it still must be scary for you."

She gets it. My ten year old gets it. And in her eyes, I see innocence slipping away. Forever.

I encouraged her by telling her that God has been so good to us all, and that He loves us and will not take us home to be with Him until He's absolutely ready to do so. He knows exactly what He is doing in our lives, and we need to put our trust solidly in Him, for He promises never to leave us. Not ever.

She continued to help me finish folding the laundry, and I told her that I was proud of her for helping me and encouraging me when I was going through cancer four years ago. Maybe, just maybe, when she thinks of that rough time in my life, she'll remember how brave she was. More importantly, I hope she remembers how faithful God is, each and every day of our lives.

Innocence is so short-lived. Kids can be so perceptive.

Stopping to Say, "You're Good."

This post may appear to be depressing at first. But please read on, for I really intend it to be inspiring.

Almost three weeks ago, my father died and we "celebrated" his life at his funeral a week later. All three of his children and all seven grandchildren rejoined with my mom to pay our respects to my dad. Cousins arrived who had traveled from other states, along with friends of my father's who I'd never met before. An old army buddy of my dad's showed up unexpectedly. And like most funerals, we wept, we talked, we hugged, and we even laughed at times when recounting funny stories during our special times with Dad in the past.

But most importantly, we stopped - literally stopped - in the midst of our daily routines to remember my dad.

There was even a slide show that displayed pictures of him from the time he was a little boy up until about four months before his death. The last picture ever taken of my dad was one of him signing my daughter's cast after she'd broken her arm. With a weak outstretched hand, he gingerly wrote, "Love you, Grandpa." To me, that picture spoke these words, "This is a good grandfather."

But one of the last conversations I had with my dad was while he was in the hospital. I was assisting him to eat. Actually, I was feeding him, an act which I am sure he never thought he'd need help doing. As I raised the spoon to his lips, I leaned over to him and said quietly, "You know that you're a good dad, don't you?" He closed his eyes, leaned his head back and whispered, "No."

My heart sank, and I'd forced myself to fight back the tears. To think that my dad felt somehow inferior, or that he'd somehow failed us as a father was too much to bear.

I again repeated what I'd said, this time with more force and determination. I was not going to let him die without him knowing that he was a GOOD dad. No one is perfect, but he was good. Very good.

My point is this: Dad may not have believed it. Because he was a humble man, he would never have admitted that he was a good dad, even in his healthy and vibrant days. But at least he heard it, and maybe they were some of the last words he heard before he slipped away.

I learned a very important lesson. I make an effort to tell those I love how good they are. "You're a good daughter, Melissa. You're a good husband. You're a good son."

There are some days when they might not believe it, but at least they've heard it. They've heard it from me.

Stop for a second, and tell those you love that they matter and that they are good people. They need to hear it; trust me, they really do.

The Gift

Life is a gift. That's the comment that I heard on my radio this morning at 6:15 AM, when my alarm went off. It's not really an alarm, but instead, the Christian radio station comes on and delivers soft music to my sleepy brain. A nice way to be awakened. Especially to these words: Life is a gift.

You know, I hear those words, and I believe them to be true, but do I truly live them? Do I see each day as the unique blessing - or the gift - that it was meant to be?

Yesterday, I had my MRI scan. I survived it, even though I'm glad that that's over with for another year (hopefully). But as I drove home from the hospital afterwards, did I really behave as if life is a gift, or was I just so glad to be out of there, that I overlooked the most important fact: I have the gift of life. And I'm well enough to drive, to shop for groceries, to shower, to run, and to do all the things that I take for granted every day. And suddenly, sitting behind the wheel of my minivan, I found myself mentally caught in that hard place between being a woman and acting like a child. I moaned about the test; I worried about it and what the results might show. Immature in my thinking, I realized that I was not unlike a young girl who doesn't understand that life really is a gift. And we're all called to use that gift to fulfill God's purpose for us.

To a large degree, we make each day what we want it to be. Sure, there are bumps in the road that trip us, and we find ourselves flat on our faces at times. Cancer did that to me. But we're strong. We get up, brush the dirt off our skinned kness, and we keep pressing on. Each day. Don't get me wrong: the scans, the monthly doctors' appointments and blood tests, and especially the agonizing wait for the results - those things are often insurmountable and can cause me to toss and turn at night.

But the bottom line is this: Each day is a new start. It might be a difficult day, or it might turn out to be one of our best. Either way, with God in control of each day, I'll rest knowing that it's His gift to me. Now it's up to me to use His gift the way He wants me to.