I know, it sounds weird. But hear me out. You either get one of those fabulous one on one meetings with your doctor to "discuss" your results where you get the news, one of those closed door types. Or, like me, your workday gets interrupted with a life altering phone call from your doctor to let you know you have cancer. I'm not entirely sure why doctors keep talking after they say the "C" word, we're not really listening anyway. The shock sets in, you can't hear anything they're saying, the room spins, and you're mind starts going a million miles a minute. BUT..... what I'm proposing is this: Before the "C" word is dropped, you are instructed to pack your bags because you have 24 hours before you hop on an all-expenses paid flight to Hawaii (or some fabulously tropical, developed paradise). Don't worry, insurance covers everything. Congratulations, you just won! Quick have a happy hour at work that day, because you're going to Hawaii for all of your surgical and treatment needs until you "beat" this thing. Google is not allowed on the island, so no need to panic over all the stories that pop up about "your odds" of surviving. Sure, bring a journal, and your favorite flip flops. No need to stress over how you'll get to and from your zillions of doctors' appointments, infusion treatments, CT scans, chemotherapy appointments, blood draws, MRIs, surgeries, etc. It's all right there at the resort. And the food is always fabulous. Your relaxed, everyone is relaxed. Your hospital gowns are always Hawaiian flower print. Sun screen at 80 SPF (waterproof of course!) is handed out to every guest on arrival, non-scented for those on chemotherapy. You'll have plenty of time to process the insane emotional roller coaster as you marvel at the beauty God has created, breathe in His presence, and just rest in His arms. The drains in every bath tub and shower are designed to never clog as your hair begins to fall out, and the free shampoo provided is Nioxin. You don't look bad without hair, because hardly anyone has hair on the island anyway. Free concerts are given by Hillsong, Ray LaMontagne, Mozart (its a cover orchestra), and Yanni. Weather is not too hot, or too cold. Let's be honest, everyone wants to come visit you! Know anyone that will fund this? Me neither. But let me know if it happens.
Perhaps it would take the sting and trauma out of being diagnosed with cancer if we got whisked away somewhere fabulous for a while, but this is real life. We all have real families, real jobs, real friends, real churches, real commitments, and we are indeed, real people with real problems. I find that, as my speech about cancer has become so casual due to it being a huge part of my life for about a year now, to many around me it is still not casual. I try to laugh as I realize this, keep it lighthearted. Someone innocent asks me a question, I talk about cancer as the natural answer, and the room goes silent. I forget that everyone isn't used to it like I am. I feel remorse for unintentionally making them uncomfortable, and then realize how much of a "home" life with cancer has made itself in my life.
Recently, though, I did it. I finally allowed myself to grieve. I cried. I cried a lot. Straight up broke down and couldn't stop crying for a few hours. I resisted for a long time as I did not want to throw myself a pity-party, or feel sorry for myself. And on the overall, I'm extremely thankful and happy! But there is a point you reach in the journey, and I think that "point" is different for everyone, where you stop and survey the cost that cancer has had on your life. Kind of like, after a bomb goes off and the smoke clears, you now survey the damage. That is kind of how I feel. And it is all very emotional. At least right now. The illness has impacted EVERYTHING. I kept thinking of this bible verse in the midst of my tears:
The LORD Himself goes before you and will be with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid, do not be discouraged. - Deuteronomy 31:8, NIV
I'm still losing hair, which I've now been told may take another month or two to stop. I know there is the ole, "it'll grow back!" type of encouragement, but the hair will indeed take years for it to be what it once was and at times it can be difficult to feel like myself. Kind of like when I was in college and a hair dresser messed up and dyed my hair brunette once, I couldn't recognize myself in the mirror - I feel like that some times. On a further, probably more important note...and a more discouraging one at that, I got another call.
Remember the surgical biopsy I had on the same day as my last CT scan? The one the dermatological surgeon said "was nothing but a freckle?" Yea, that one. Well, turns out it wasn't "just a freckle" at all. One of the fellow surgeons at Johns Hopkins called me last Monday, with what I thought would be "benign" results and informed me that the biopsy revealed "abnormal melanocytes" in my left arm. Now, what on earth does that mean? I asked that same question. She said they aren't sure cancer has returned just yet, but there is possibility based on my lab results. Evidently, abnormal melanocytes means it could be melanoma (aka cancer) and they need to do another wide excision surgery to remove more of my left arm. Again. I cried, as I thought, "wait, cancer?! I thought I was done with that!" Immediately my mind flashed to the stats on recurrence for someone my age and what this might mean for me moving forward. Basically, whatever they remove in the next surgery - which will be September 30th at 2pm at Johns Hopkins Hospital - will be sent to a lab to be tested for cancerous cells. If the cancer has returned, they are thinking it is only at stage 1 and can be easily contained. We can hope, and pray, that either way, God will be glorified. I know I don't need to understand "why" all this is happening, I only need to trust in the Lord and know He uses everything for His good (Romans 8:28). The journey continues......
Perhaps it would take the sting and trauma out of being diagnosed with cancer if we got whisked away somewhere fabulous for a while, but this is real life. We all have real families, real jobs, real friends, real churches, real commitments, and we are indeed, real people with real problems. I find that, as my speech about cancer has become so casual due to it being a huge part of my life for about a year now, to many around me it is still not casual. I try to laugh as I realize this, keep it lighthearted. Someone innocent asks me a question, I talk about cancer as the natural answer, and the room goes silent. I forget that everyone isn't used to it like I am. I feel remorse for unintentionally making them uncomfortable, and then realize how much of a "home" life with cancer has made itself in my life.
Recently, though, I did it. I finally allowed myself to grieve. I cried. I cried a lot. Straight up broke down and couldn't stop crying for a few hours. I resisted for a long time as I did not want to throw myself a pity-party, or feel sorry for myself. And on the overall, I'm extremely thankful and happy! But there is a point you reach in the journey, and I think that "point" is different for everyone, where you stop and survey the cost that cancer has had on your life. Kind of like, after a bomb goes off and the smoke clears, you now survey the damage. That is kind of how I feel. And it is all very emotional. At least right now. The illness has impacted EVERYTHING. I kept thinking of this bible verse in the midst of my tears:
The LORD Himself goes before you and will be with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid, do not be discouraged. - Deuteronomy 31:8, NIV
I'm still losing hair, which I've now been told may take another month or two to stop. I know there is the ole, "it'll grow back!" type of encouragement, but the hair will indeed take years for it to be what it once was and at times it can be difficult to feel like myself. Kind of like when I was in college and a hair dresser messed up and dyed my hair brunette once, I couldn't recognize myself in the mirror - I feel like that some times. On a further, probably more important note...and a more discouraging one at that, I got another call.
Remember the surgical biopsy I had on the same day as my last CT scan? The one the dermatological surgeon said "was nothing but a freckle?" Yea, that one. Well, turns out it wasn't "just a freckle" at all. One of the fellow surgeons at Johns Hopkins called me last Monday, with what I thought would be "benign" results and informed me that the biopsy revealed "abnormal melanocytes" in my left arm. Now, what on earth does that mean? I asked that same question. She said they aren't sure cancer has returned just yet, but there is possibility based on my lab results. Evidently, abnormal melanocytes means it could be melanoma (aka cancer) and they need to do another wide excision surgery to remove more of my left arm. Again. I cried, as I thought, "wait, cancer?! I thought I was done with that!" Immediately my mind flashed to the stats on recurrence for someone my age and what this might mean for me moving forward. Basically, whatever they remove in the next surgery - which will be September 30th at 2pm at Johns Hopkins Hospital - will be sent to a lab to be tested for cancerous cells. If the cancer has returned, they are thinking it is only at stage 1 and can be easily contained. We can hope, and pray, that either way, God will be glorified. I know I don't need to understand "why" all this is happening, I only need to trust in the Lord and know He uses everything for His good (Romans 8:28). The journey continues......
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